Trail Hand

by R. W. Stone

  That sheriff of all people should have known how crooked Peters was, but, strange as it may seem, he refused to believe a jailbird like Larry would ever be brazen enough to sell a lawman something so obviously fake. Since nobody could be that foolish, he rationalized, the machine must therefore be real. Curiously the idea of a machine falling into his hands that made real money was so ludicrous and Larry’s pitch so smooth, the sheriff was forced to believe it. He bought Loco’s sales pitch, hook, line, and sawbuck. Of course the marshal’s greed was also a contributing factor, one the con artist was glad to take advantage of.

  They never did catch Loco Larry, but eventually the sheriff ended up in his own jail after trying to spend those machine-made greenbacks. Seems the first couple of bills cranked out of the box, the ones the sheriff saw Larry Peters make, were real enough, but the rest, not surprisingly, turned out to be counterfeit.

  As far-fetched as it seems, when suddenly forced to deal with something incredible, or something outrageous, many people, like the sheriff, simply can’t handle it. Looking as misbegotten as I did, the last thing I would ever be mistaken for was a wealthy cattle baron, so that’s exactly what I decided to play.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, sweeping the dust off my chaps with my hat as if I owned the place. “Just got into town and decided to cut right to the quick. As my old uncle Zeke always says, the best businessmen are the ones who get a jump on the competition.”

  The bank manager, Mr. Alfonse Norwell, a rather timid pencil pusher, was the epitome of the company man. With his pair of wire spectacles, thinning hair, shiny brown vest, and gold watch chain he might have stepped right out of one of those new dime novels.

  The man was small-framed, he couldn’t have stood more than five foot three and had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. Loud, boisterous speech apparently was not the norm in this rather sedate establishment, and he actually shuddered when I spoke. I was counting on that effect as well as the fact that I’d caught him off guard by brushing right past his secretary and straight up to his desk. I guess you could say I gave him the old bum’s rush.

  “Yep, sold my herd in Colorado for a pretty penny and came straight on here to Californy to buy land and stock it. Rode right through without a stop and that’s a fact. Just got in…didn’t even have a chance to change. Already got my eye on a nice little ranch right near here, next to the McFarlen place I think it is. Come to think of it, maybe I’ll offer to buy him out, too.” I wasn’t giving Alfonse any time to stop and think. “Uncle Zeke always said not to fiddle-faddle around. Go right to the town banker, he’d say. They’ll have all the low-down, if anyone will. So, now, Mister Nor-well, you tell me how to go about buying this little parcel.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid that won’t do,” he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. “But our bank does have some holdings in the next county you might be interested in. Can I have my secretary bring you some coffee?”

  The act was working; he already smelled money to be had.

  “Nope, don’t think so. You know, once I got my mind set on something, I usually see it through,” I bellowed. “And I already took a fancy to that ranch.”

  “Well, you see, sir, the property I believe you are talking about is already owned by a Mister Brett Davies.”

  “So tell me…what’s his price? Everyone’s got one,” I said brashly, purposely brushing more dust off my shirt and onto his desk.

  Norwell shook his head emphatically.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Well, to be perfectly frank, I believe you will be disappointed. Of course, I can’t go into all the financial specifics, but I believe Mister Davies is currently trying to expand. In fact, I understand he is in the process of obtaining the McFarlen property next to his for himself. You see, he is a rather influential man around these parts and would be more interested in purchasing than selling.”

  For the right amount of money most bankers would sell their own mothers, yet it sounded to me like Mr. Norwell was more interested in furthering Mr. Brett Davies’s goals than in listening to any counter offers.

  “Well, you don’t get to be influential without considering all your options, right, Mister Nor-well?” I said, slapping him on the shoulder for added effect. “Now, if you’ll just direct me to the Davies ranch, I believe it’s the Four Box spread, right?” I asked.

  “Yes, that is correct,” he answered, adjusting his glasses. He seemed unusually agitated.

  “Good, as I was saying, if you’ll just point me in the right direction, I think I’ll have a chat with this Mister Brett Davies. After I brush off some of this trail dust, that is. By the way, mind if I use your name by way of introduction?”

  “Uh, certainly,” he replied nervously. “Here let me draw you a map.”

  “Mister Norwell, I certainly am obliged.” I shook his hand a little too firmly and turned to leave. “Oh, by the way,” I added with a wink, “if I close this deal, there will be something in it for you, rest assured. But in case you meet up with this Mister Davies before I get a chance to talk to him, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention our little conversation.”

  He nodded to me. “I think I understand.”

  I smiled back. “Right, no sense tipping my offer to him before I’ve had a chance to make it stick. Wouldn’t be smart business, now would it?”

  “No, of course not,” he answered, wiping his forehead with a white silk handkerchief. “Rest assured confidentiality is a trademark of our establishment.”

  “Knew it would be, Mister Norwell, knew it would be,” I said, slamming the door behind me.

  From the map Mr. Norwell had drawn, I could see why Davies was so interested in the McFarlen place. Brett Davies had bought or stolen all the adjacent lands around until they formed a horseshoe, with the McFarlen ranch smack in its center.

  The problem, however, was that the McFarlens had settled on and around the only principle source of water locally. Furthermore, his ranch was situated so as to be the first place travelers from the north and west would pass on the way to town. Someday San Gabriel would grow to attract business from Los Angeles or even from San Francisco, and it wasn’t too difficult to imagine a railroad line being laid down. Should that ever happen, the McFarlens would be as wealthy as anyone could ever want. Unless, of course, Davies had his way.

  I debated riding right out to the McFarlen Ranch to explain my situation and to enlist their help, but it occurred to me that Don Enrique might already have wired his brother-in-law about what had happened. If that were the case, McFarlen would probably blame me, too. I could be walking right into a noose.

  Wired his brother …. That thought set me to reconsidering something else Pete Evans had said. When I had grilled Evans back in the Arizona Territory, he mentioned that Davies had gotten his information by wire. Logically the telegraph office would be the next place to check out.

  For Davies to have known ahead of time a drive was even being planned, he would have to have read McFarlen’s wires from Don Enrique. Since telegraphs are supposed to be confidential, and if that were, in fact, how the rustlers learned our plan, then either someone in the Hernandez camp was sending other telegraphs directly to Davies in California, or he was somehow having private messages intercepted. The latter made more sense to me. More importantly, if true, it also made the local operator suspect.

  Even though Pete Evans had made it clear that Davies was in cahoots with someone in San Rafael, it was unlikely any of Don Enrique’s vaqueros would know Brett Davies, a gringo from California. However, if Davies was clever or powerful enough to have telegraph messages intercepted, he easily could have sent someone ahead to San Rafael either to recruit a spy or personally to wire him back. Someone like this Luke Pierce, who apparently had led the rustlers who trailed us from the start.

  That’s why I headed over to the telegraph office next. Judging by appearances, my suspicions probably weren’t too far off. The key-pad operator was a rather scrawny
fellow with a nose like a ferret. He sported long, wide sideburns and had a nervous habit of constantly tugging his left earlobe. His vest was worn to a shine, and he favored a string tie worn over a stiff-collared white shirt. In general, he seemed a very uncomfortable sort.

  I took out some cigarette paper and walked slowly up to his window where a sign read Luis B. Jacobs, Station Attendant. Acting once more as if I owned the place, I rolled a cigarette and struck a match on the sill. “Howdy,” I said. “You Jacobs?”

  “That’s right,” he answered. “What can I do for you?”

  “Davies sent me.”

  “That so? Don’t believe I know you,” he said, glancing up at the mention of Davies’s name. I leaned over the sill and blew some smoke into the room.

  “No reason you should,” I agreed, tossing away the match. “I’m new here.”

  “So what do you want?” he asked abruptly.

  “Look, bub, I’m just following orders. Davies said to check with you and see if you’ve got anything new for him.”

  “He ain’t paid me for that last bit,” Jacobs replied angrily. “This ain’t as simple as it seems, you know. I take a lot of risks.”

  That cinched it. I was on the right track.

  “Look, all I know is what I was told to do. You got a problem, take it up with Pierce,” I said. I was just playing along, sort of shooting for effect, but I’d definitely struck a nerve. His whole expression changed as he slumped back in his chair. Pierce must really be a hard one to contend with, I thought grimly.

  “All right, all right. Tell Mister Davies nothing’s come through here or gone out since that last message I gave him…the one from McFarlen.” Jacobs started sweating and tugged nervously at his ear.

  “Nothing from those mejicanos?” I asked.

  “Nah. She ain’t sent nothin’ for some time.”

  That “she” caught me by surprise.

  “She ain’t, huh? Say, by the way, now that you mentioned it, I’ve always wondered how you fellers figure out if it’s a guy or a gal talking, what with all that clicking?” I offered him some tobacco, which he refused.

  “You mean if they don’t mention it outright?” he asked.

  I just nodded.

  “Well, since there ain’t many women operators around, after a while you can tell by the sender’s touch. Now, on the other hand, if a man’s sending a message for a woman you can sometimes pick up on the kind of phraseology women use. ’Course, that only comes with my kind of experience.” He was calming down some, regaining his composure. “Just between you and me,” he added, “Iought to get more respect for what Ido.”

  “Couldn’t agree with you more.” I nodded. “Always thought this job was pretty complicated myself.”

  “Darn’ tootin’ it is,” he said boastfully.

  “And I’ll bet an expert like you could even tell if a message came from a wife talking to a husband, or say a girl talking to her uncle?”

  “Sure as hell could. For example, I know those last few messages to Davies came from a woman, and that she was usin’ the same dispatch office as the earlier ones sent by that chili-dippin’ brother-in-law of McFarlen’s down south.”

  Now I was really puzzled. Who could it be?

  “Thought I heard Pierce mention something about a daughter or niece, or something,” I said.

  “Not so’s I know,” he said, scratching his head. “But it could have been, though. See, I picked up what went on between the Mex and his greaselovin’ brother-in-law, McFarlen. The messages from the girl to Davies came later, but they didn’t have no name on them.”

  “So how’d you know they came from the same place.”

  “Easy. Same operator. Kinda like readin’ a signature.”

  I’d been lucky enough so far, and didn’t want to spoil things, so I decided to cut it short.

  “Mister Davies told me to tell you to sit tight and keep quiet. But, look, don’t talk to no one unless I tell you, and, in the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about your pay. But don’t expect too much,” I added. “Like I said, I’m new here.”

  “All right, I’ll see ya later,” he replied. Jacobs turned back to the keys as another message came in and I left with more questions than before.

  Chapter Twenty

  For the next three days I camped out in the hills north of the 4 Box Ranch, watching the goings-on from hiding. Whenever riders left the ranch, I’d follow, but inevitably they’d simply ride the fence line, or head back into town for supplies. On two separate occasions I spotted Luke Pierce riding my Morgan and had to restrain myself from repaying his favors with a head shot.

  Finally, on the fourth day, a couple of riders left early, seemingly going about their usual rounds. After about fifteen minutes, however, one of the men split away, taking a different trail from any previously used, north up into the hills.

  I followed him for two and a half hours until coming to the front of a high rock face where he’d suddenly and completely disappeared. I rode up and down the path, searching, for about twenty minutes until finally returning to the spot where I’d lost him. I sat there studying the wall, trying to spot the entrance to what had to be a hidden cañon. There were a few gaps in the wall that all ended in solid rock and several tree trunks that seemed too large to move.

  I cursed my luck and was just about to call it quits when I spotted a hawk diving down on a sparrow. Both flew at top speed straight through the trees, yet neither came back out. Not one to distrust Mother Nature, I refused to believe they’d both flown blindly into a solid wall, and a closer inspection confirmed my suspicions.

  It was a beautiful job of disguise, one so clever even old Ali Baba and his Arabs would have been proud of it. Two large clumps of trees grew in opposite curves forming an arch. The middle three trees had been hollowed out, dug up, and replaced in the same spot. From a distance the thick green cover growing down from the end trees hid the fact that the whole middle section of trees was dead.

  There was a large rope and pulley affair tied to some clusters of rock located on both sides of the wall. When tripped from a lever hidden in a notch in the wall, the balance was sprung and the rocks dropped, pulling the middle section of tree trunks up, roots and all. It was like one of those castle drawbridges Ma had described when she read to me about Arthur and Lancelot.

  Behind the door was a long passage leading out into a blind cañon. There I found green pasture, a line shack at the far end, and a herd of Spanish EH brand horses grazing contentedly.

  So far nobody had spotted me. The smart thing to do now would be to hightail it straight back to the McFarlen Ranch, and then over to the sheriff ’s. That would have been the smart thing, but instead I decided to snoop around the line shack.

  I suppose I knew, deep down, that simply recovering the herd for Don Enrique and his relatives, the McFarlens, was the important thing, and that it would be sufficient to clear my name, but I had a more personal score to settle. I wanted to be able to prove conclusively that Davies and Pierce were behind the rustling. Men had died and many other lives placed at risk because of the greed of these two men. I wasn’t about to let them get away with it.

  Sneaking around the side of the shack, I listened for a while to the three men inside. I was on foot holding my hand over the roan’s mouth to quiet him down while I eavesdropped. It never occurred to me that anyone would bother to build a back door to such a small cabin.

  “Hold it right there, mister.” The voice was deep but not nearly as commanding as the click from the hammer being pulled back on the revolver. “What are you doing here?”

  “Relax,” I replied. “I’m looking for Curly, Curly Edwards.” I turned around slowly. It was a quick gamble. His was the only name I’d overheard them use and I had to say something. “You can put it away,” I said, gesturing toward his gun. “Luke Pierce sent me to help out.”

  “We’ll see about that. Now move.” As we rounded the front, the other two cowboys came out the door. “What’s
up Jeff? Who’s this?”

  I recognized Curly’s voice. As expected, he was bald as an egg.

  “That’s what I’d like to know. Says Pierce sent him. You know him?”

  “Never saw him before. How about you, Andy?” He was addressing the cowboy I’d followed into the valley.

  “Nope. And Pierce never said nothin’ to me about expecting anyone to show up, neither.”

  “Of course not,” I answered. “I just hitched up. Been on the run and had to stay low. Came out here ’cause I used to ride with Luke a few years ago back, in West Texas.”

  They looked at each other, unsure of how to proceed. Constant reference to Pierce’s name had created some doubt in their minds, so I quickly answered their questions with enough assurance to make my story convincing.

  “Think about it. How else would I have been able to find my way in here?” I asked. “And look here,” I said, pointing to the brand on the roan. “Pierce himself picked this one out for me. Haven’t even had time to switch him over to the Four Box yet.”

  That seemed to cinch things for them, at least for the time being. They holstered their guns and the one named Andy went back into the cabin.

  “Just one question. What were you doin’ sneakin’ ’round the side of the shack?” Jeff asked. He apparently was the cautious type.

  “Like I said, I’m on the run. I don’t know you boys, so I thought I’d better check things out before knocking on a strange door. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Guess so. All right, come on in. Want some coffee?” he asked, seemingly convinced.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  After a couple of hours of small talk I got enough details out of them to learn Davies was finally planning his big raid. In spite of the loss of the herd, the McFarlens still hadn’t been convinced to sell, and Davies had run out of patience. When a person has both money and the power it brings, there comes a time when he begins to feel almost god-like. Or at least so I’ve been told. Davies apparently no longer worried about appearances or consequences. I learned the attack was planned for sometime soon, but none of the three cowpokes knew exactly when.