The Long Hitch

by Michael Zimmer

  The image at his side was easier to look at. Dulce Kavanaugh stood just a shade over five feet tall, although with her thick, coppery hair piled high, she looked, in silhouette, about the same height as Walt. She had an oval face that was fair of complexion and freckles on her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were the exact same shade of green as an emerald Buck had once seen in a Denver jewelry shop, right down to the sparkle when she laughed, and her heavy black dress did little to hide the full, compact figure beneath it.

  Jock claimed Dulce took after her mother, who had passed away several years ago, leaving Dulce an only child.

  After securing his horses to a street-side post, Jock climbed the steps in his gimping hitch and they all went inside. They walked single file through the big front room where clerks labored over invoices and order forms, and into his private office in back. With the door firmly latched behind them, the mood seemed to change abruptly.

  Buck moved to a window overlooking the wagon yard and leaned against the sill, folding his arms almost defiantly across his chest. Hank and Walt staked their claims to a pair of ladder-back chairs in front of Jock’s desk, and Dulce headed for the sideboard where her father was pouring drinks from a decanter of bourbon. “I’ll do that,” she said, stepping between him and an engraved silver tray filled with matching shot glasses.

  Jock acquiesced without argument and limped over to the cushioned chair behind his desk. He looked tired, and Buck knew from Dulce that his injured hip had been paining him more than usual recently. Dulce passed out the drinks, and no one looked surprised when she included one for herself.

  “Gentlemen, Dulce,” Jock said solemnly. “I won’t stand, but I will offer a toast.” He lifted his glass. “To Mason Campbell, one of the best wagon masters to ever captain a train.”

  “Here, here,” Hank and Walt echoed in unison. Dulce glanced at Buck, but he kept his eyes averted. After an obligatory sip, he set his drink on the sill beside him. Looking up, he met Jock’s gaze across the room.

  “I knew Mase a good many years,” Jock said, his voice roughened by either the bourbon or emotion. “He thought highly of you, Buck.”

  “I felt the same way about him,” Buck replied, but he was thinking: Uhn-uh, let’s not do this. Let’s just get on with why I’m here.

  Jock nodded as if reading his thoughts and set his glass on the desk. “What are your plans?” he asked the younger man.

  “I intend to find Mase’s killer.”

  “The law is attempting to do that even as we speak,” Walt reminded him.

  “The law around here is a fat-bellied old fart who couldn’t find an egg in a hen house,” Buck shot back.

  Jock’s brows twitched in surprise. “I wouldn’t be too quick to dismiss Sam Dunbar,” he said, then, after a pause, added almost warily: “You realize there’s more involved here than a disagreement over cards, don’t you?”

  Buck nodded. He knew. He just hadn’t been sure anyone else did. “Tom Ashley’s a liar,” he stated flatly, causing both Walt and Hank to look up. Tom Ashley was one of the two bartenders who had been working at the International the night of Mase’s murder, but Buck didn’t believe the story he’d told Dunbar, especially the part about Mase showing up drunk and looking for trouble.

  “How much did Mase tell you about our next run to Montana?” Jock asked tentatively.

  “He told me about a cargo you’d have to get through in a hurry, once it got here, but most of Corinne knows that much.”

  Jock smiled. “You’re probably right. Nevertheless, I’d asked Mase to keep the details under his hat, and it sounds as if he did.”

  “What are you driving at, Mister Kavanaugh?”

  “I’m attempting to explain a deal that I’ve been working on since last summer, but I’m not sure where to start. Let me tell you the whole story, so you’ll understand why I’m going to ask you to give up your search for Mase’s killer.…” He quickly held up a hand to stave off Buck’s objection. “Hear me out. Maybe I can shed some light on this for you.”

  Buck leaned back against the sill and refolded his arms, his muscles thrumming like telegraph wires.

  Jock sighed, as if sensing an uphill battle. “Bannock Mining Corporation is a subsidiary of a larger combine out of Philadelphia,” he began. “I’m told it has interests around the world … mining in Africa and Brazil, sugar in the Caribbean, tea and silk from the Orient. Nothing of any real consequence to us, other than that it underscores how, even though the Bannock company itself is relatively small, it has powerful backing.

  “BMC has committed itself to building a stamp mill near Virginia City, and they’ve hired the Box K to transport part of their machinery north from Corinne. We’ve hauled for BMC before and never had any complaints, but there’s a catch this time. Several, in fact. There’s also a carrot at the end of the stick. BMC wants to affiliate itself with a reputable freighting firm, and the outfit that meets their demands will be awarded an exclusive three-year contract to handle all of their mountain freight, with an option for renewal at the end of that time.”

  Buck remained silent, but he knew what a deal like that could mean to the Box K.

  “It could wipe away every debt I have,” Jock said. “It could solidify the Box K for years to come and double its size. And it goes without saying that it would also benefit several key employees in this firm. I’ll make no bones about it, gentlemen, I want that contract. Unfortunately, so do others, and they may be wanting it more than I’d anticipated, if Mase’s death is connected to it in the way I think it might be.”

  Buck stiffened. “Are you saying another outfit killed Mase for the Bannock contract?”

  “I’m not saying anything,” Jock replied evenly. “I have no proof, just a gut feeling that I’ve learned to trust over the years.” After a pause, he added: “I want Mase’s killer as much as you do, but I won’t let my desire for revenge cloud my judgment or threaten the future of this company.”

  “I’m still listening,” Buck replied tautly.

  “Good. I mentioned several catches, but the largest by far is that we’ll be competing for this contract with another firm.”

  “Crowley and Luce,” Walt Jepson supplied, his scowl clearly expressing his opinion of the company and its founders. He glanced at Jock as if for permission to elaborate, then went on at his employer’s nod. “Bannock Mining, like most Eastern companies with interests in southwestern Montana, is being deluged with false information from the Utah Northern about its new terminus in Franklin.”

  He meant the Utah Northern Railroad and the town of Franklin, in southeast Idaho Territory, Buck knew. The Utah Northern had finished laying track that far just last fall, and was attempting to lure freighters and businesses alike away from Corinne by emphasizing its more northerly location.

  “What Crowley and Luce’s agents in Philadelphia aren’t saying is that the Utah Northern is a narrow-gauge railroad,” Hank Miller contributed. “It has to be if it’s going to negotiate the narrow cañons and mountain passes they claim they eventually will.”

  “But a narrow-gauge track can’t handle the larger boxcars of the Union Pacific and Central Pacific lines,” Walt continued. “That means cargo shipped through Franklin has to be offloaded at the Utah Northern’s depot in Ogden, then reloaded onto narrow-gauge cars before they can even begin their journey to Franklin. That’s additional handling, which translates into additional charges, plus two more days in transit for most orders.” He sniffed self-righteously. “Any sane man can see that such a delay completely negates Franklin’s advantage in location.”

  “Not to mention that road north of Franklin.” Hank said. “That Marsh Valley route will bury a freighter in wet weather. Some years, it’s almost June before it’s dry enough to support heavy traffic.”

  “I’m sure Buck is already aware of Franklin’s drawbacks and advantages,” Jock interrupted, “and the Marsh Valley route can be overcome with the right financial backing. The question BMC has to be asking itself i
s whether that more northerly location will compensate for the loss of time in switching their shipments onto narrow-gauge cars. In my opinion, it won’t, but that’s something only a season of freighting will tell us for sure.”

  He looked at Buck. “On the other hand, we could have an idea of what that answer might be within the next few weeks, depending on how well the Box K performs.” After a pause: “Mase was supposed to captain that train.”

  “I know.”

  “I was counting on him to get it through ahead of Crowley and Luce.”

  “They’re shipping at the same time?”

  Jock nodded. “I mentioned that we’re carrying only part of the components BMC will need for its mill. C and L will handle the rest … a similar shipment of nearly equal tonnage … and I’ve been assured, as fair a split of the larger pieces as the Bannock Corporation could manage. Everything is to come west on the same train, and the clock will start ticking for both companies as soon as the U.P.’s locomotive crosses the Utah line.” He grimaced. “A race between the Box K and C and L, but not, as I said, without catches.”

  “There’s more?”

  “A few. Rules of the contest, so to speak. In an attempt to evaluate each firm fairly, neither party will be allowed to take any unusual advantages. That means no double teaming, no driving an extra remuda along to switch teams along the way, no extra wagons to lighten loads, no additional hands. In addition, we’ll be required to fulfill any outstanding contracts at the same time. That means, day after tomorrow, thirteen outfits totaling twenty-six wagons will roll north for Montana. Eight of those wagons will be hauling BMC’s equipment. The other eighteen will carry merchandise already contracted for from our usual customers in Virginia City. I don’t have twenty-six wagons in Corinne right now, but since I’ve hired independents in the past, BMC has given me the go-ahead to do so again. But in order to assure compliance with the rest of their rules, they’re sending a representative along with each train … one with us, one with Crowley and Luce.”

  Buck frowned. “With how much authority?”

  “Absolutely none,” Jock returned bluntly. “As much as I want this contract, I won’t jeopardize either my reputation or the company’s by assigning jurisdiction to anyone outside of the firm. Whoever they send will come along strictly as an observer.”

  Buck nodded. He understood Jock’s position and respected it, but there was another matter they had yet to discuss. “Why are you telling me this, Mister Kavanaugh?”

  “I suspect you already know the answer to that. I trusted Mase implicitly. He and I spoke on more than one occasion about you someday captaining a Box K train, when the business grew large enough to support three caravans. He was convinced you were up to the task and I agreed.”

  Buck looked away, staring out the wavy glass panes in the rear door to the wagon yard. Right now, Kavanaugh Freight kept two mule trains on the road throughout the freighting season. The second unit was commanded by Lew Walker, an old Santa Fe Trail wagon boss who had worked with both Jock and Mase on the plains, before following Jock over the mountains to Utah. Lew was on his way to Montana with an outfit now and, barring bad weather or some other calamity, should be somewhere along the Snake River in Idaho Territory.

  “There’s no one else who can do it, Buck,” Jock said quietly. “Drivers can be found, but a competent wagon boss, someone who knows the road, who’s been over it as many times as you have, who I trusty that would be impossible to find on such short notice. Plus, you’ve got a history with the company. You know the drivers, and they know and respect you. You’ve been up and down that trail with the majority of them the last four years.”

  “They’ll follow you, Buck,” Hank added confidently. “I’ve already talked to some of them and they all agreed, no hesitation.”

  “I can’t do it,” Jock said, without having to remind them of his maimed hip, “and Hank and Walt don’t have the trail experience. If you don’t do it, I’m afraid Crowley and Luce will win this race, and I’d hate to see that happen.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Mister Kavanaugh, and that you think I’m capable of the job, but you haven’t said yet why I should ignore Mase’s killer.”

  “Buck, right now we don’t have a clue who his killer is. What did Ashley say? That Mase got into an argument with a big man with long, greasy hair? That describes a hundred men walking Corinne’s streets right now, and there’s no guarantee that even if we did find him, that he was the one who pulled the trigger. It could have been anyone. I will say this. I’m don’t know if Crowley and Luce are behind Mase’s death, but I think they’re capable of it. For the kind of money we’re talking about, I think they could hire a man to pull the trigger.”

  Buck remained silent, contemplating Jock’s offer as well the possibility that Herb Crowley and Anton Luce might be involved in murder. The ticking of the wall clock above Jock’s desk seemed to grow abnormally loud.

  After a while, Jock steepled his fingers above his watch fob. “I’ve said all I’m going to, Buck. Think about it, and if you want the job.…”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Jock blinked rapidly, taken aback by the swiftness of Buck’s decision. Walt and Hank exchanged elated glances. But there was no joy in Buck’s expression, no pride of promotion, just the same grim determination to see his promise to Mase fulfilled.

  “If you’re right about Crowley and Luce, then maybe the reason Mase’s killer hasn’t been found is that he’s already somewhere up the trail, waiting for us. If that’s the case and it starts looking like the Box K might beat C and L, maybe that’ll flush him out.”

  A look of concern crossed Jock’s face. “This train isn’t bait, Buck. Our future depends on you getting it through to Montana in one piece, ahead of the competition.”

  “That’s what I intend to do,” Buck said, but, even as he uttered the words, he was thinking that, whether Jock wanted it or not, the Box K could very well turn out to be bait for a killer, or any number of killers. And with nearly half a mile of mules and wagons stretched out along the road, it would be a hard target to miss.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The sudden whirring of pigeons in the rafters brought Nick Kelso surging to his feet. Wrapping his fingers around the walnut grips of his revolver, he moved cautiously to the front of the stall. After waiting in the abandoned Ogden livery for more than an hour, his attention had started to wander; it came snapping back now keen as a razor.

  In the vertical bars of twilight that slanted between the boards of the livery’s front wall, he could see a cloud of barn dust littered with small, downy feathers floating toward the floor. The birds were little more than chunky silhouettes, cooing nervously as they treaded the rafter closest to the front wall. Nick couldn’t tell what had disturbed them. It could have been a snake or a rat or.…

  There was a sharp, metallic pop as the iron latch on the front door was knocked free of its rusty catch. With a drawn-out creak, the door swung open. Nick’s fingers tightened on his revolver. At first he couldn’t make out anything, but, as the figure moved closer, he caught the distinctive odor of licorice, and recalled it from his last meeting with this man—the little chunks of black candy kept in a paper bag in his coat pocket, his teeth stained as if from rot.

  “That’s far enough!” Nick barked, stepping into the center aisle.

  “Sacre bleu!” the man with the licorice exclaimed. “Nicholas, that is you?”

  “Did you bring the gold?”

  “Yes … two hundred dollars.”

  “In coin?”

  “Oui, in coin.” The stocky, well-dressed Frenchman pulled a leather poke from his coat pocket and held it away from his body so that Nick could see it.

  “Put it on the floor, then back away,” Nick instructed.

  “You do not trust me?”

  “Do what you’re told, LeBry.”

  Baptiste LeBry opened his fingers and the poke dropped heavily, striking the hard-packed dirt floor with a dull ching. “Three
hundred dollars you have now been paid. Our deal is completed, no?”

  Nick didn’t even try to suppress the grin that warped the lower portion of his face. What did he care who’d actually killed Mason Campbell, as long as the wagon master was dead and Nick Kelso was the one paid for it? “Yep, our dealing’s done. Now back away.”

  He waited until LeBry had moved off about ten paces, then went forward to pick up the sack of coins. He hefted it in his left hand a few times, as if gauging its weight, then cast LeBry a suspicious glance. “You ain’t holding out on me, are you, Frenchy?”

  “Non, monsieur, it is there. All of it.”

  “It’d better be.”

  “There could be more.” LeBry spoke in the manner of a parent, encouraging a child to finish his spinach with the promise of rock candy afterward. “You are interested?”

  Nick hesitated, wary of a double-cross. Had he underestimated this stubby Frenchman with the oily smile? No, he decided, LeBry couldn’t know what had happened that night in Corinne. Only Arlen Fleck and the whore, Sally Hayes, knew what actually occurred at the alley’s mouth, and they wouldn’t talk. Slipping the coins into his pocket, he said: “Who do yo want killed?”

  “Sacre, no one! We did not want Campbell killed.”

  “You wanted him stopped/5 Nick said harshly. “Well, he’s stopped. Don’t go hollering innocent now.”

  “Stopped, oui, but not murdered. Too much killing makes men nervous, Nicholas. They wonder why. The law wonders. Eastern investors wonder. Even my own people ask why.”

  “That’s your problem, LeBry, not mine.”