He looked out across the land and focused on the obscure buildings near the riverfront as he considered all the aspects of their situation.
“If the Cherokees won’t tell us where Charlie Killbuck lives,” he said, “maybe the white men who live near the river can help us.”
“They might,” Tom Beck said as he looked toward the river.
“If not, I think we’d better push on and start tracking Gaton and Haskins,” Ned said.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Frank Shaw said as he scratched his itching chin through the wiry hairs of his thick, gray beard. “Maybe those river rats can give us a lead on Gaton and Haskins.”
“Oh, sure, Frank,” Remington said. “And maybe while they’re at it, they’ll tell us exactly where Peter Van Hook’s ranch is. And maybe it’ll snow in hell.” The three men laughed and the tension seemed to drain away from them.
“If nothing else,” Beck said, “I know of a little place down on the river front where we can get some good smoked fish. I ate there when I came through here before.”
“What are we waiting for, then?” Shaw said. “I’m starved.”
“Maybe food will improve our moods,” Ned said. He touched his boot heel to his horse’s side and snapped the reins. As the three deputies rode through the quiet pasture land, Ned knew that they were being observed by the Cherokees. He saw the Indians in the fields stop their work and watch them pass by. The people near the adobe huts paused from their chores long enough to openly stare at the riders. And the shepherds among the flocks of white sheep looked their way.
“Tom, I thought this was the Chickasaw Nations,” he said.
“It is, just north of here,” Beck said. “Some of the Cherokees from Tahlequah immigrated down here to raise their sheep so they’d be closer to the shipping waters of the Red. I hear that some of them have drifted as far south as the Brazos.”
“Look at that odd rock formation,” Ned said, in- tempting Beck. He gestured off to his right. “It looks like a big devil’s den, if you look at it just right.”
“It’d make a good hiding place,” Frank Shaw said. “You want to check it out?”
“No, it’s too far away,” Remington said. “If Lina and her uncle were hiding there, they’d be gone before we could ride over there. Let’s just keep going.”
The dusty road, rutted with the tracks of wagon wheels, led straight to the small riverfront town. When they got there, Remington realized that there were more buildings nestled among the cottonwoods than he’d first thought. The small homes he saw were scattered out and well away from the main part of the town. Some were made from adobe, but most of them were crude shacks put together with rough, uneven slabs of wood.
As they turned onto the busy, dirt road of the small town, Ned reined his horse up in the shade of a clump of trees and looked down at the wide river.
“This place is bigger than I thought,” he said as the other two men stopped beside him.
“It’s a busy port,” Beck said.
There were three boats docked in the small harbor. One of them was nothing more than an empty hulk of a raft with wooden plank sides. Another looked like a fishing boat. The third boat was the one with all the action around it. Bare-chested dock workers, wearing bands around their heads to keep the sweat from running down into their eyes, loaded heavy bundles of the white shearings from the sheep into the boat. Loose balls of the white fleece littered the dock and the area around it where some men sat on kegs in the shade and watched the proceedings.
“That’s the ferry we’ll take to cross the river,” Beck said, indicating the empty hulk of the wooden raft. “Then we’ll have a lot of land to cover before we reach the other part of the river where another, ferry will take us across to the Red River Station.”
“And hopefully, Van Hook’s ranch,” Ned sighed. “This smells like a river town, doesn’t it?” He could smell the aroma of cooking fish, but he also smelled the dankness of the town, the stench of rotting waste and animal droppings.
“I’ve smelled worse,” Frank Shaw said.
“Where’s this smoked fish place, Tom?” Ned asked as he looked down the busy dirt road that was about a block long and lined with the weather-beaten buildings of the town.
“At the other end of the street,” Beck said.
As the trio rode along the crowded street, Remington made a mental note of everything he saw. The mercantile store, a meat market, a blacksmith’s stall, a dilapidated building called Traders Center, several nondescript, wooden structures that butted up to each other. There was even a small hotel with a wooden sign above the door that bore the name: River Front Hotel. A smaller sign to the left of the door read: Baths, 25 cents. Clean towel, 5 cents. Small clusters of the white sheep’s fleece, apparently blown up from the dock, stuck to everything.
Some of the townspeople ignored them completely. Others looked up as they rode past, and those who noticed their shiny badges, watched them with idle curiosity.
Remington took note of every face he saw, hoping for a glimpse of Paco Gaton and Norville Haskins. Tom Beck had furnished him with the description of the two men as he had gotten it from Lina Miller. Gaton was a short Mexican who carried a knife and a Colt .45. He had a moustache and an ugly scar across one cheek that Lina figured had been caused by a knife wound, Haskins was a tall man, muscular, with dark, beady eyes, an ugly pinched face, clean shaven, and long dark hair, dirty hair, Lina had said, that stuck out from his hat. Haskins was lean and had rounded shoulders, according to Lina.
“This is it,” Beck said as he pulled back on his reins and dismounted..
Ned glanced at the cafe and smelled the aroma that escaped from the black kettle that had been made into a crude fish smoker. The smoker sat in front of the cafe, off to the side.
The cafe was small and Remington could tell by looking through the windows that it was crowded. There were three tables and benches outside, in front of the cafe, and two of them were occupied. The pretty woman and two gentlemen who sat at one table had not yet been served. At the other table, a big lumbering hulk of a man sat alone and ate the fish and chunks of fried potatoes with his hands. He looked like a dock worker and wore an unbuttoned shirt that showed part of his large, well-tanned, chest.
As Ned and Frank dismounted, an elderly man wearing a stained apron emerged from the cafe. He carried a platter in one hand and long tongs in the other. He smiled when he saw them.
“Come in, come in,” said the jolly cook as he walked toward the smoker. “I’ve got fresh fish just for you.” He set the platter down on a sidebar. When he opened the smoker, a cloud of smoke and steam billowed up.
“Smells good,” Ned said. He felt suddenly weak with hunger.
The cook used the tongs to pluck some fish from the smoker and stack it on the platter, then quickly replaced the lid. He carried the platter to the lady and two gentlemen who were waiting for it, then turned and motioned for Ned and his group to come and eat.
“You can sit right here,” said the cook, motioning to the empty table, “or you can go on inside the cafe where it’s a mite cooler.”
“Is there anywhere we can water our horses first?” Remington asked.
“There shore is,” said the cook. “You just take ’em out back and hitch ’em up in the shade of the trees. I keep a watering trough out there for my customers’ horses. There’s a barrel of grain there, too, if you need it.”
“Thanks,” Remington said. “We’ll be right back.”
“Only a dollar a piece for all you can eat,” the cook beamed.
The three deputies led their horses around behind the cafe and tethered the animals to the long ropes that had been provided. They dumped some grain in three of the empty buckets they found and set them out.
“Do you think our saddlebags will be safe out here?” Remington said.
“We won’t be gone long, Ned,” Beck said. “Let’s leave them here.”
“Yeah,” said Shaw. “We can eat at the outside tab
le and keep an eye out. If anyone walks toward the back, we’ll see them.”
“Well, take your rifles with you.” Remington dug the three warrants out of his inside coat pocket and stuffed them into his pants pocket.
“What do you need those for?” Shaw asked.
“I’m not going to leave them here. I want them in my possession.” Ned looked all around and didn’t see anyone. He knew that Shaw was right. Since the cafe was the last building on the street, they would see anyone who started around toward the back.
“You ready to eat?” the cook said with a big grin as they walked back to the front. '
“Yes, we’ll eat out here in the fresh air,” Ned said. He sat down at the empty table where he could watch both the street and the side of the cafe. Tom and Frank sat on the bench across from him. From there they could look through the windows of the cafe and they could also watch the side of the building. They all set their rifles down close by their sides.
“You want fried potatoes with your fish?” the cook asked.
“Of course,” Beck said with a smile. “I never tasted potatoes as good as the way you fix them.”
“Oh, you’ve eaten here before?”
“Once; a year ago, but I’m sure you don’t remember me.”
The cook tilted his head back and looked at Tom Beck for a minute. “Can’t say as I do,” he said. “You fellows want beer?”
“No. Have you got coffee?” Remington asked.
“Yep. Black and strong,” the cook answered.
“Just the way we like it,” Remington said.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” the cook said and then went into the cafe.
Ned studied the faces of four men who emerged from the tavern across the street. They didn’t look his way as they headed down the street and none of them fit the description of the men he was searching for. He looked over at the big man at the next table. The fellow glanced briefly at Ned, as if to say he didn’t like being stared at, then continued to eat the fish with his dirty hands. He sloshed the food down with a big gulp of beer and paid no attention to the lawmen.
The cook returned to Ned’s table carrying a heavy tray. He set the tray on the table and then placed a clean plate, a linen napkin and silverware in front of each of the men. He handed each of them a steaming cup of coffee, then set a platter heaped with fried potatoes in the middle of the table. He walked over to the smoker and came back with another platter loaded with smoked fish.
“Hope you enjoy your food,” he said.
“We will,” Beck assured him.
“Are you fellows here in town on official business?” the friendly cook asked.
“Sort of,” Remington said. “Do you know any of the Indians who live near here?”
“A few of them,” the cook said. “They don’t ever eat here, but sometimes they’ll come in and buy smoked fish to take home.”
“Do you know Charlie Killbuck?” Tom Beck asked. He picked up the platter of fish, scooped a few pieces on his plate and passed it to Shaw, then helped himself to the potatoes.
“Yeah, I know Charlie Killbuck,” the cook said with a big grin. And then a worried expression came over his face. “Charlie ain’t in trouble, is he?”
“No,” said Beck. “We just want to talk to him. You know where he lives?”
“No, I wouldn’t know that,” the cook said. “The Indians come to the river front to do their business, but we don’t ever ride out to their village. It’s sort of an unwritten law around here.”
“Do you know a fellow by the name of Norville Haskins?” Remington asked as he took the platter from Shaw and slid some fish onto his plate. “He rides with a Mexican, Paco Gaton.” He glanced again at the big man at the next table. The dock worker was pouring another glass of foamy beer from a pitcher and didn’t see Ned looking his way.
The cook thought a minute. “Can’t say as I do.”
“How about a man named Peter Van Hook?” Remington said with a mouthful of fish. “This is good.”
“Thanks.” The cook scratched his chin, wrinkled his brow. “Van Hook, Van Hook. He’s a rancher, ain’t he?”
“Yes,” said Ned.
“He’s got a big spread south of the border, don’t he?”
“Yes, that’s the one,” Ned said. He continued to watch the side of the building as he ate and listened to the elderly cook.
“Yeah, he’s been in here a time or two,” the cook said with a scowl. “But, I gotta tell you, I don’t much like him.”
“Why’s that?” Beck asked. He forked a couple of chunks of fried potatoes and put them in his mouth.
“He comes in here wearin’ his fancy duds and starts demanding things I don’t have.”
“Like what?” Frank Shaw asked.
“Like beefsteak and beans and corn muffins to go with his fish. Hell, this is a smoked fish place, not a fancy restaurant. He wants beefsteak, he can go on up the street to the restaurant next to the hotel. I told him that, but he insists I trot up there and get it for him. I don’t, though, you can bet on that.”
“What does he look like?” Remington asked, still chewing.
“Like I say, he wears fancy clothes. A suit and tie, a white hat. Spit an’ polished boots. He’s got long blond hair, slicked back, parted in the middle. He’s nice-looking, I reckon, but I don’t trust a man with eyes like that.”
“What’s wrong with his eyes?” Beck asked. “Nothin’. They’re just blue and cold and empty, and they give me the creepy crawlies whenever he looks at me. It’s like I never know what he’s a-thinkin.’ I knowed a killer with eyes like that one time and it was like nobody was home back there.”
“Has he been here recently?” Ned asked.
“Naw, I ain’t seen him in a coupla weeks.”
“What’s your name?” Remington asked the cook. “Mike. Mike Madonna,” the cook said proudly. “Well, thanks, Mike. You’ve been a big help, and your fish is delicious.”
“Well, thank you, sir,” Madonna nodded. “If you need more fish or potatoes, let me know.”
“We’ve still got plenty left. Thanks.”
“If you’re gonna stick around town, I’d suggest you stay at the hotel,” Mike said. “A dollar a night and you get clean sheets.”
“Thanks,” Remington said. “After sleeping on the hard ground for a week, my weary bones could use a comfortable bed.”
“My brother owns the hotel. Tell him I sent you.”
“We’ll do that, Mike.”
The cook walked to the nearby table and collected the money from the big man who had just pushed his plate away and taken a last swill of beer. After the fellow left, Mike started to clear the table.
Remington watched the big man stroll across the street and enter the tavern. He stopped Madonna as the cook walked by with a load of dirty dishes.
“Do you know that fellow who was sitting there?” Ned nodded toward the cleared table.
Madonna glanced back at the table. “Harvey? Yeah, I know him. He eats here a coupla times a week.”
“Is he a dock worker?”
“Sometimes. When the fish aren’t biting.”
“Oh, he’s a fisherman?”
“Most of the time. If the weather’s bad, he does odd jobs around town.”
“Do you buy your fish from him?” Tom Beck said.
“Oh, no. My two sons catch all the fish I use,” Mike answered proudly. “Harvey sells his fish to the folks downstream from here.”
“Just curious,” Remington said.
“I suppose it’s the nature of your job,” Mike said as he nodded and walked away with the dirty dishes.
Remington finished eating what was on his plate and when Frank Shaw passed him the platter of fish, he waved it away.
“No, thanks. I’m full,” he said. He took a final drink of coffee, stood up and fished a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Tom Beck. “Pay Mike when you’re through eating.” He picked up his rifle.
“Where are you going?” Beck asked.
“I’m going to check on the horses. You two take your time.”
“You aren’t getting fidgety, are you, Ned?” Shaw asked.
Remington smiled. “No. We’ve been in the saddle so long, I just need to stretch my legs for a while. Go ahead and finish your meal.”
He walked around the side of the cafe. Yes, he was getting fidgety. He knew it and so did his men. He didn’t like leaving the horses and their gear unattended. Besides the extra ammunition, they didn’t carry anything of much value in their saddlebags. Food, cooking utensils, extra food, field glasses, knives, things like that. But he didn’t like the thought of anyone going through their things.
He felt relieved when he walked around back and saw all three horses back in the shade of the trees. He checked the buckets and saw that the animals had eaten their fill.
“Hello, boy,” he said as he walked up to his Missouri trotter. “Did you get enough to eat?” He patted the horse on the neck.
He saw the movement out of the corner of his eyes. Just above the saddle. He whirled his head around and saw the pistol come up over the saddle. At the same instant, the man holding the pistol popped up from behind Ned’s horse.
Remington’s heart skipped a beat. His muscles tautened.
“Are you the one who’s looking for Charlie Killbuck?” the stranger asked as he aimed the pistol at Remington’s head.
Chapter 4
Startled by the ambusher, Ned Remington froze in place. He caught his breath and felt his knees go weak. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, but on the outside, he appeared calm. There was no look of surprise on his face as he faced his attacker. There was no trembling in his hand when he removed it from his horse’s neck and held it shoulder high, fingers loosely spread. His rifle, still clutched in his left hand, was pointed toward the ground and he knew it would be awkward to swing it up and aim it at the man who had been hiding behind his horse.
The chief deputy marshal had half-way expected to find Paco Gaton or Haskins, or one of their henchmen, messing with the horses. But this stranger was an Indian, and that surprised Ned almost as much as the fact that he was there in the first place. He could only see the ambusher from the shoulders up, but it was enough for Ned to know that he was Indian, even though he was not bare-chested as the others had been. This man wore a tan shirt, open at the collar, and a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low, so that Ned could just barely see his dark eyes, the high cheekbones, the bronze color of his face and neck, the dark skin of the hand that held the pistol.
Red River Revenge (Remington Book 1) Page 3
