Son Of a Wanted Man (1984)

by L'amour, Louis

  He crossed to the bunk and lay down, staring up into firelit darkness, and the sound of the rushing waters filled the night, and then he slept.

  And in his dreams a red-eyed man came at him, guns blazing .

  Borden Chantry glanced out the kitchen window toward the train station. When the tracks were built through town they fortunately passed within fifty yards of his home, so he could drink coffee, eat his breakfast or supper, and watch people get on and off the trains.

  Not that very many ever did. Four days out of five the train just whistled and went on through. He liked seeing the trains come in, and so did Bess. She brought coffee to the table now, and with it the old subject. “I wish you would give it serious thought, Borden. This is no place to raise a boy.” “I grew up in the west,” he replied mildly.

  “That’s different. You enjoy this life, but I want something different for Tom. I want him to go to school back east. I want him to have a fine education. I don’t want him to grow up riding after cows or wearing a gun.” He glanced toward the station again. He knew how she felt, but what could he do back east? She just didn’t understand. He had always been somebody wherever he was, but that was because all he knew was the west.

  Back east the best he could do would be to manage a livery stable or do common labor. He was a fair hand at blacksmithing but not at the kind of work he would have to do back east.

  Right now he was holding down two jobs and getting paid far them both. He was sheriff of the county and marshal of the town, and for the first time in years he was saving money. If he could work a couple of years more he could buy cows and go back to ranching. All he had now was about sixty head running on open range ant’s about thirty head of horses, five of which did not belong to him, but ran with his stock.

  “I have thought about it, Bess. How would I make a living back there? All I know is cattle and range country. I got my start hunting buffalo and went to cow punching and then ranching. Drouth and a tough banker broke me, and these folks were kind enough to give me a job as town marshal.” “You’d find something, Borden. I know you would. I just don’t want Tom growing up out here. All he does is run with that orphan McCoy boy, and he thinks about nothing but guns and horses.” “Billy’s a good boy,” Borden said. “Ever since he lost his pa a few years ago he’s been batching. You should see that cabin. Keeps it spotless. That’s a good lad, and he will do well.” “At what?” He shifted uncomfortably. This discussion occurred at least once a week, and Bess was living a dream. She wanted to go back where she’d come from, wanted Tom to grow up as her brothers had, as her father had. What she wasn’t realizing was that they would be poor. You could be poor in the west and if you worked nobody paid much attention, but back east you fell into a different class. There were things you were left out of, places you weren’t invited. At least, that was the way he heard it. He had only been east twice, for a few days each time.

  The first was when he took Bess east after they were married. He saw at a glance the-money he was earning out west wouldn’t take them far in the east.

  If he could just get started ranching again …

  well he knew he could make it. Right now, for example, the range was good. What he needed was three to five hundred head. With that kind of a start and a break on the weather he could soon build himself a herd. Back east? He would be a poor relation, and that was all. “You just wait, Bess. I’ll get back to ranching again. I’ve been thinking about those cows of Hyatt Johnson’s. He’s going to sell out, and I could pick them up if I had a little cash.

  Maybe-” ., Borden? Why did Mr. Sackett come over here to see you? Is there trouble?” He sipped his coffee. “No, not really. Just something we’re interested in. Maybe it’s a fool idea, Bess, but you recall those letters I had? The one I wrote to Fort Worth? And El Paso?

  “Well, Sackett thinks the same as I do.

  He believes most of those robberies were pulled off by one big outfit, with one man in charge.” “What kind of a man would it take to keep that many outlaws in line?” Of course, that was it. Bess, as usual, had put her finger on it. The kind of man needed to ramrod that sort of operation wouldn’t be any average sort of man, he would be something special, and he would have been noticed, and if noticed, remembered.

  Between them Sackett and he had now come up with eighteen jobs in which the robberies were pulled off with quick, neat work-nobody shot, nobody caught, no trail left. Men appeared, pulled off the robbery, and disappeared.

  Usually one or more of the men loafed around town beforehand, studying the bank, getting the layout. No strangers had been spotted that could not be accounted for.

  Yet a few days ago he’d had an idea and had written to Sackett. Whoever was ramroding that gang had been keeping his men under cover, so how about checking up on known outlaws who hadn’t been showing themselves and were not in prison?

  It had been his experience that they couldn’t stay under cover for long.. They showed up in another robbery, got into a saloon brawl, something of the kind. Most of them were the, sort who craved attention, and it was unlike them to stay out of sight for long.

  His thoughts returned to the kind of man to control such an operation, and: suddenly, he had a hunch.

  Bess, who had come up with the key question in the Joe Sackett murder when she asked how he got to town, had done it again. What kind of a man would it take to keep such. men in line? Or words to that effect. And he knew. At least, he had a hunch. That big man who had left the horses with him, the big man who might have been a big cattleman or something. He might not be the man but he was the kind of man who could do it. If anybody could.

  Borden Chantry puked out his watch, glancing at it. Barely nine o’clock. Mary Ann would be up even if the rest of her girls were sleeping. Bess wouldn’t like it but he would have to see Mary Ann, and it was best to tell her first. Somebody else certainly would mention it if he was seen going to her house. Police business occasionally called him there, and she had been a help in that murder case. Moreover, Mary Ann had been around.

  There was little she did not know about outlaws.

  He emptied his cup and got to his feet, reaching for his hat. “Bess, I’ve got to see Mary Ann.” Her face stiffened. “Is that necessary?” “Bess, you just gave me a lead when you spoke about the kind of man it would take. You’re right, as always. Remember how your question opened up that murder case? I think you’ve done it again.” “‘Then why see Mary Ann?” “That woman knows more outlaws than anybody in the country, and she’s on the grapevine. Whatever is going on, she knows.” “But will she tell you?” “Bess, this is her town, too. She has money in that bank. was Mary Ann was in the kitchen drinking coffee when he rapped on the door. “Come in,” she said, “but keep your voice down. The girls worked late last night.” He accepted the coffee she offered. Mary Ann was no longer young but she was still a beautiful woman, and during her rare appearances on the street she dressed sedately and conducted herself modestly.

  She was a shrewd, intelligent woman who listened as he laid it out for her. “What I want to know,” he said, “is who the boss man is, or the name of any other outlaw who has dropped from sight.” He paused. “And it is just possible that boss man stopped overnight here in town five or six years back. Maybe less.” She gathered her kimono a little tighter.

  “What’s happening?” “I think, among other things, the local bank. It’s just a hunch, but Tyrel Sackett thinks so, too.” “I’ve money in that bank. Most of my savings.” Chantry waited, letting her think. Most of the outlaws were known to girls such as these, and the girls moved around a good bit and talked among themselves. There was not much they did not know. “Rigger Molina,” she said.

  “I don’t know him.” “Not the boss. He hasn’t brains enough, but he’s big, tough, and very, very good with a gun.” .

  “And … ?” “Nobody has seen anything of him for two or three years. That’s unlike him. ‘The girls-were talking of it the other day with some fellow
who was in here. Molina isn’t the sort of man you can miss. “He’s big, powerful, thick arms and legs, shock of hair, broad jaw, small eyes, moves like a cat, and he swaggers. He doesn’t brag, doesn’t have to, you can look at him and you know he’s got it. The point is that he is not a man to remain unnoticed. If he had been around he would have been seen, talked about.” “Odd that I don’t know him.” “No, it isn’t. Not really. He’s out of Vernal, up in Utah. He worked in Montana, the Dakotas, and Idaho. He killed a man in Catlow Valley, up in Oregon. Some dispute over a steer. When they came after him he killed two more and wounded the sheriff. He loaded the sheriff on his horse and took him to a doctor, banged on the door, and left him. “The think was, Molina rode ten miles out of his way to get help for that sheriff. He could have let him die.” She got up. “Wait … I’ll get Daphne. She’s the new girl. was Daphne was a tall, slinky blonde who looked from the badge on Chantry’s vest to his face. “How’d a good-lookin” man like you start to wearin’ that thing?” “Lay off, Daph. He’s married, and happily.” “All the good ones are.” She sat down and lit a cigarette. “You want to know about the Rigger?

  He’s a good badman, sheriff.” “Where is he?” She drew on her cigarette. “This guy really a friend of yours, Mary Ann?” “Yes, he is.

  He will be a friend of yours, too, if you level with him.” She waited, dusted ash from her cigarette, and said, “The Rigger was nothing to me but he was to a girlfriend of mine. They saw each other reg’lar.

  Then one day he told her to take care of herself, he’d be out of circulation for a while, but when he came back he’d be loaded. “We hear that sort of talk all the time, but not from Molina. He never had to brag.

  “He said he was tying up with an outfit that would make it big, and then he went away. One of the girls I ran into said she saw him eating in a restaurant in Pioche with some tall, thin galoot. his She paused. “I hope this isn’t trouble for him. He was an all right guy. Didn’t have an enemy in the world unless it was Kerb Perrin.” “I hope he kills him,” Mary Ann said.

  “Perrin beat up one of my girls once, when I was working in Goldfield. He beat her up and he liked doing it.” She paused. “Come to think of it, I haven’t heard anything of him for a long time, either.” Borden Chantry walked back to the office, mulling it over in his mind. He might have something.

  Kim Baca, his own deputy, had been a skilled horse thief at one time, and he knew everybody on what some called the owl-hoot trail.

  He had never heard it called that himself.

  An hour later he knew much more. Kim Baca knew both Molina and Perrin, liked Molina, didn’t like Perrin. Both had dropped from sight.

  So had Colley, the Deadwood outlaw. When Bata thought about it, there were a dozen or more he could name who simply hadn’t been around. Chantry was having his supper and watching the train when he remembered the big man who had left the horses with him. He should have asked Mary Ann about him. Thinking about it, he remembered detecting a change in her face when he spoke of the man stopping over in town a few years back. She had sort of tightened her kimono, and he knew Mary Ann, somewhat. It was a gesture she made when she had an idea or made a decision. What did she know?

  He wished Sackett was here. And it took too long for a letter What was he thinking of? The telegraph) Why couldn’t he get used to the idea of the telegraph? Ever since they put the railroad in it had been here, available. He walked through the twilight to the station and wrote out his message.

  Rigger Molina-Kerb Perrin-Coney. Big man, middle-aged or older. Six three, two forty. Strong face, big hands. Deep scar below right earlobe.

  Sitting beside the fire that night Borden Chantry drew a long breath and waited, and then he spoke quietly. “Bess? If you’re set on it, I mean if you want it that much, we could try it back east.” She stopped sewing and lowered her hands to her lap.

  “I haven’t wanted it because this is my world, but for you-for you I’d do it.” He hesitated again. “One reason I haven’t wanted to go is that I don’t want you to see me a failure.

  “I’ve been enough of one so far.” He waved a hand around. “They like me here. I was a good marshal, I guess, so they elected me sheriff: I didn’t make it ranching because of the weather.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have made it, anyway. I don’t know what I’d do back east where nobody knows me and where I’ve no skills they can use.

  “The thing is, I want you to be happy, and you’ve thought about little else these past few years. When my term’s up, we’ll go.” “Borden, I-I don’t know what to say. I do want to go back. You can’t realize how much I’ve hated all this. The shooting, the killing-was “That could happen anywhere.” He brought his knee up and pulled off a boot. “This thing I’m into, the thing I’m helping Sackett with. We’ve got to finish that first.” He pulled off the other boot and got up.

  “I’m going to bed, Bess. I’m a little tired. You an’ Tom make your plans. I’ll go with you.” He carried his boots into the bedroom and put them down. Then he took off his gunbelt and hung it on the back of the chair that stood beside his sleeping place. Taking off his vest he sat down. He was being a damned fool. What could he do back east?

  Bess wanted to live in town. She was remembering how it had been for her father, who had kept a store or something. He couldn’t keep a store, and he had too little education to compete. He would be There was a rap at the door. He stood up, reaching for his gunbelt. He listened, heard Bess replying to something, then the door closed. She came into the room with a sheet of paper in her hand. “It was the telegrapher. He was going home but he brought this over, thinking it might be important.” It was from Tyrel Sackett, and it was just two words: Ben Curry.

  He knew the name.

  Borden Chantry was at his battered office desk when Kim Baca came in. Chantry glanced up at his young deputy. Baca had been one of the most skillful horse thieves in the country before he became Chantry’s deputy, and he knew the men who rode the outlaw trail and their ways.

  “Kim? What do you know about Ben Curry?” “Leave him alone,” Chantry shuffled some papers on his desk. “I may have some horses of his. If I am not mistaken he left some at the ranch a while back.” “If he did he will pick them up in his own good time. Leave him alone, Chief. He’s trouble, big trouble.” “When he picks those horses up he will be on the run. We want him, Baca.” Kim ran his fingers through his dark hair. “If the horses are here they are here for a purpose. Ben Curry doesn’t make many mistakes, and he doesn’t make any false moves.” “I think he wants our bank,” Chantry commented mildly. “He won’t do it himself, and my suggestion is stay out of the way and let him have it. You aren’t gettin’ paid to get killed.” “I’m paid to do a job, Kim. So are you.” “Yeah, I know.” Bata paused. “I’m told you could pick up an easy thousand dollars by bein’ out of town for a few days. You’re sheriff, too. You could be investigatin’ that counterfeit money that’s been showin’ up, ., “Kim, you can tell whoever passed that word along that I’m not for sale. An officer who turns crooked is worse than any thief. A thief is out to steal and is at least honest in his intentions. A police officer takes an oath to support the law.” Chantry pushed back from his desk. “If I was a judge and a crooked officer came up, before me, I’d give him the stiffest sentence the law permitted. his Kim shrugged. “I figured you’d think thataway but I was told to pass the word along.” “Let them know that I’ll be here,” Chantry said, “and I’ll be ready.” “It won’t be Ben Curry,” Kim said. “More than likely it will be Molina or Perrin or somebody new. There’s a word out that Ben’s got a new man, specially trained for the work.” “Do you have friends in that outfit?” Baca hesitated, then shrugged. “No, I can’t say I do. I never ran with a gang, you know. Worked alone. I know some of those boys, and there’s good men among “em or they wouldn’t have stayed together so long.

  The word is that the old man is lettin” go, and the boys are restless.” “Thanks, and if you hear anythi
ng, let me know.” Baca shook his head. “Since I pinned on this badge I don’t hear as much. However,” he added, “I could put it in my pocket and ride over to Denver. Down along Larimer Street I might hear something.” “Do that. Here.” Chantry held out a couple of gold coins. “I’m not carrying very much but use that. Let me know what you hear.” He paused. “Kim, Tyrel Sackett is workin’ with me on this. I think there’s going to be a lot goin’ on this spring. Something can happen wherever there’s a gold shipment, a payroll, or a bank that looks easy. “They’ve been quiet all winter, so I think they’ll be lookin’ for a big one.” Kim Baca walked outside. Well, now! A ride to Denver, all expenses paid and some money to spend!

  There were few secrets. Somebody always talked, and somebody always listened. Most of the western outlaws were known, and when they traveled they were noticed. No matter what their orders were there was always one who wanted to see an old girlfriend or stop off for a drink with old acquaintances.

  For not the first time he was glad he was no longer a wanted man. He could see what was happening.

  Chantry and Sackett were comparing notes, and if they were, others would be, and then the law would start to close in. He would have to be very, very careful. Ben Curry, or so the word was, wanted no killings during the commission of a holdup, but that was a matter of policy, and he would and had killed when pursued. His own knowledge of Ben Curry’s operation was limited to a comment here and there or a rumor. He had not thought about a pattern to the crimes until Chantry pointed it out, showing his series of clippings, reward posters, and notifications from other peace officers. There was a pattern, and a pattern meant a trail one could follow, and not all trails were tracks on the ground. Behavior patterns were difficult to eliminate, and in moments of stress one reverted to them.

  The outlaw might believe he was winning for a time, but someone-like Chantry or Sackett-somebody was carefully working out the trail. His weakness had always been horses, better horses than he could afford to buy. He loved them for their speed, their beauty, and just for themselves. He had stolen some of the finest horses in the west, but the trouble was such horses were usually known. Just a few weeks ago Chantry had taken him out to Chantry’s old ranch and pointed out a handsome bay gelding.