by Jake Logan
He began hammering away at the frame using the butt of his pistol, occasionally taking a shot or two through the front door to keep the crowd at bay. Jeter grunted when one side broke free and took a considerable hunk of adobe mud with it. Using the twisted frame as a lever, he worked away the rest of the window, then hopped up and thrust his head through. He saw the edge of the crowd, but everyone had their attention fixed on the front doors of the bank, not its side windows. They probably thought these windows were too small for escape too.
“Dumb asses,” Jeter said, dropping back to the chair. He fired a couple more times, then fumbled in his pocket and came up with a tin of lucifers. With a quick scratch of the head of one across the rough wall, he had a blazing match to work with. He dropped it into the tin, which flared into a fire so intense he had to squint. With the tin turning fiery hot, he wasted no time tossing it onto the desk where the spilled coal oil had puddled.
The sudden eruption of flame scorched his clothing. Even better, it caused confusion to pass through the crowd outside.
“Fire! They set the whole damn place on fire!”
Jeter twisted agilely and got through the window, falling headfirst into the alley beside the bank. He twisted as he fell and rolled onto his shoulders before coming to his feet. Jeter slipped his six-shooter back into its holster and brazenly slung the moneybag over his shoulder before walking out to join the crowd.
“What’s going on?” he asked a man in front of him standing on tiptoe and trying to get a better look at the flames gusting from the opened bank doors.
“Got a whole gang of robbers in there. We got ’em trapped! If they don’t burn first, we’re gonna hang ’em!”
“Good luck,” Jeter said. “I think I’ll ride on. I don’t cotton much to necktie parties.”
“Your loss,” the man said, never turning to see to whom he spoke.
Laughing, Jeter returned to the Drunk Camel, slung the moneybag over his stallion’s rump, and mounted. He considered riding past the burning bank, then turned in the other direction, giving a jaunty salute as he left San Esteban.
7
“You want me to go with you?” Amy Gerardo’s eyes were wide. Ambrose had never asked her to be his personal secretary on such a trip before. She could hardly restrain her joy. “I can be ready to go whenever you wish, sir.”
“Good, it’s what I expect from you, Miss Gerardo,” Ambrose Killian said. He paced back and forth in his trophy room, agilely missing the sharp corners on the display cases and occasionally stopping in front of a particularly toothsome item in his Jeter collection. He reached out and let his fingers brush across a buckskin shirt that had two small holes about where the wearer’s heart would be.
“He killed an Apache chief who wore this shirt. Two shots from more than fifty yards away. Using that Remington, the one he took off the lawman,” Killian said. “Jeter is a remarkable shot. None better, and I have seen the best.”
“When?” Amy asked before she could restrain herself. She knew so little about Ambrose and his background. Try as she might to unravel the reasons he was so intent on the career of one specific gunman, and not a particularly famous one, they remained closed to her. Ambrose wasn’t the sort of man who encouraged questions about himself. That lent an air of mystery to him, and made her lie awake nights wondering about his childhood and even his more recent years. She had met him only six months ago, and that had been sheer coincidence. She had been down on her luck trying to make a living on railroads, stealing tickets and food, cozying up to conductors until they took pity on her, drifting like a rudderless boat in search of an anchor.
Ambrose had given her that when he had seen her aboard a train from Galveston to San Antonio and had quizzed her at length about her background. She was glad she had studied hard and knew all the things Miss Fotheringay’s Finishing School instructors had tried to force into her insolent, rebellious young skull. Perhaps Amy hadn’t learned everything, but she had learned enough to convince Ambrose she would make a reputable, efficient secretary and general factotum.
“Recently I went to an outpost some distance away,” Ambrose said. “His name is Dalton and he might be related to those in the Doolin-Dalton gang, though that remains to be proven.”
“Why are you interested in him? Does he know Jeter?”
“I am always on the lookout for the best in everything, my dear. Les Jeter might well be the foremost criminal of this era, and I am fascinated with every aspect of his life, but what if there is another, more dangerous outlaw worthy of my attention? Wouldn’t it be fascinating to pit Dalton against Jeter and see who triumphed?”
“How do you mean, Ambrose?” Amy bit her tongue. She had called him by his first name for the first time. She had always tried to maintain the formality he obviously desired, and such an intimacy might vex him sorely. Amy put her hand to her lips and waited for what might be an eruption of anger on his part for her careless familiarity. He didn’t seem to have noticed because he was so wrapped up in his mental journey to find Dalton.
“Perhaps this Dalton can be hired to have a showdown with Jeter. Of course, he has to find him. If he can, he will have done something neither Ranger nor sheriff has done. By simply locating Jeter, this Dalton fellow will have proven his mettle.”
“But you wouldn’t—”
“I want to see Jeter’s final minutes and experience them, record them, feel them. How better to do this than to put a known gunman up against him? If Dalton is a faster draw and more accurate, I will have seen Jeter’s final instant of life. If Dalton fails, it will reinforce my opinion of Jeter and his skill with a six-gun.”
“Is this Dalton a bounty hunter?”
Killian snorted in contempt. “I have no truck with such swine. They feed off carrion rather than accomplishing anything on their own. Lawmen hardly perform their jobs for money. No, they do it for justice.”
Amy started to point out the many exceptions she had personally witnessed, but Killian rattled on.
“Dalton will be a perfect foil for what I need. Be ready to ride in a half hour. We’ll be on the trail for some time, so prepare appropriately.” Killian spun about and walked from the trophy room without a backward glance. Amy sighed and left through the door leading into the main sitting area and from there down the hall to her room. She wondered if she ought to keep a valise packed at all times for Killian’s sudden impulses like this one.
“There’s nothing here, sir,” Amy said. She craned her neck as she looked around to find whatever it was that drew Killian to this spot. Mostly desert spotted with a few larger clumps of mesquite, the entire area looked like a good place to die. “Unless there are Indians lurking.”
“This is the spot,” Killian said positively. “Dalton was last seen at a watering hole and was supposed to have encamped there.”
“How long ago?” Amy grew increasingly nervous as she listened to the soft whistle of the incessant breeze working its way over the dunes, creating new wrinkles on their windward foreheads. “Wouldn’t he water his horse and ride on?”
“He has nowhere else to go. So said my source.” Killian snapped the reins on the buckboard and drove over a rise and down the far side. The road was hardly more than a pair of ruts. This, at least, heartened Amy. Something more than a lone horseman had come this way often enough to leave the twin tracks in the desert.
“There he is,” Killian said, urging the horses to more speed. His guidance was hardly needed once they scented the water waiting for them. They trotted to the edge of the pond and began drinking. Killian let them have their fill as he jumped down and looked around. Amy hesitated, not sure if she should wait for Ambrose to help her down. She appreciated the feel of his strong hand in hers, the way he sometimes placed his free hand on her waist to guide her—but he wasn’t interested in such chivalry today. He was too caught up in his hunt for the gunman.
She climbed down on her own and pulled the horses back to keep them from bloating. The horses resisted, but sh
e had learned to handle them during the last four days when they had traveled across some of the most desolate land imaginable. Every mile had been a trial promising Apaches and sidewinders and road agents along with the heat and biting wind.
“See? See, my dear? He was here. He must have left only hours ago. The tracks are still fresh.”
“How do you know it was Dalton?”
“Who else could it be?” Killian asked with absolute certainty in his abilities. Amy felt a moment of doubt, then smiled when Killian took off his broad-brimmed hat and waved it in the air as a man trooped back over the rise, leading his horse.
“Hello!” Killian called. “Are you Dalton? I have a business proposal for you, if you are.”
Amy wasn’t sure it was good to put all his cards on the table right away. This might be someone else. For all she knew, it could be Jeter himself. She straightened at the thought, and reached up to the buckboard where Ambrose carried a rifle. It had never occurred to her before that she had no idea what Jeter looked like. She had spent hours in the trophy room looking at the artifacts left by the outlaw. She was as expert in the debris of a violent man’s life as Ambrose, but she had never seen a picture or heard more than a superficial description. She realized that Ambrose’s vivid depictions had taken away the need for more photographic representations. She felt that she knew Jeter intimately, and hadn’t ever asked what he looked like.
“Who wants to know? And do I have any business with you?”
Amy despaired at the exchange. The man had admitted to being Dalton and had gained nothing in return. These negotiations would be painfully open, she feared.
Killian went over and shook hands, then launched into a long description of crime in West Texas and how he sought Jeter.
“Hold your horses,” Dalton said, shaking his head. “I’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t? Not a stage driver in the state that’s not heard of Jeter, but I ain’t no lawman. I’m not huntin’ for him unless I got a damn good reason.”
“One thousand reasons, Mr. Dalton,” Killian said, “ought to persuade you.”
“You offerin’ a thousand dollars for his head?”
“Nothing so crude, sir. I want him brought to justice. I want a long trial that details every crime he has ever committed and reveals to me those I have no idea about.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are the perfect man to accompany me on this hunt. Your fame precedes you.”
“What’s that?”
“You are an expert gunman and a brave fellow, by accounts.”
“Well, reckon so,” Dalton said, hitching up his gun belt. “You pay me a thousand dollars just to ride around huntin’ for Jeter?”
“Something like that. As you can see, I am no expert gun handler, unlike yourself.”
“That’s a thousand right now? In advance?”
“Oh, hardly. Expenses now, the balance when we capture Jeter.”
Amy saw Dalton working over what this meant to him and how he could gull Ambrose out of his money. She left the rifle where it was and went to stand beside Ambrose to give him support. She saw from the expression on his face that he was entirely caught up in his notion of what Dalton would do when faced with Jeter in a gunfight. Nothing else mattered.
“You gotta give me some show of good faith,” Dalton said.
“You have camped here for some time,” Amy said. “You aren’t employed and don’t have much to do, except possibly to prey on stray cattle to stay alive.”
“How’d you know that?” Dalton looked sharply at her.
Amy had taken a wild shot and hit her target.
“That’s of no concern. Fifty dollars a week until we find Jeter,” she said. “That is more than fair.”
“Fifty? Well . . .” Dalton pretended to think on it, but Amy saw the greed flare in his bloodshot eyes. Fifty dollars was probably more money than he had seen at any time in the past six months. “You look like decent folks and this outlaw’s a bad customer,” Dalton said. “Sure, I’ll be glad to help you out.”
“For fifty dollars a week,” Amy added with some satisfaction.
“Word is, he’s been around these parts,” Dalton reported. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead using his sleeve. “Ain’t many willin’ to talk about him. He’s got the lot of them yellow-bellies scared.”
The small town wasn’t far from the Rio Grande and, beyond its raging torrents, Mexico. Amy thought this was a perfect spot for Les Jeter to hole up. He could conduct his illicit business along the San Antonio-El Paso road, and then slink off to hide here until the law no longer actively sought him. The mud hovel of a town might have a name, but neither she nor Dalton had heard it.
“This is a gold mine of artifacts,” Ambrose said unexpectedly. “We must locate all we can.”
“What are you lookin’ for? I kin help you out. I speak the lingo a little from time I spent over in Mexico.”
Amy said nothing about this. She’d heard more than a few hints from Dalton about how desperate a man he was, how the law wanted him, and how he was on the run from a dozen different Rangers. All of it had been a tale spun to impress her, but it had not worked. Why Ambrose had sought him out was a mystery. Dalton might have been a gunfighter of some renown, but he didn’t act it. She couldn’t help comparing him with the man she had met in San Esteban—John Slocum. Ambrose hadn’t been overly interested in having her do more than interrogate Slocum again. This trip had taken precedence over a return to San Esteban for that purpose, more’s the pity.
“Where would a man like Jeter stay while here?” Ambrose spoke to himself, walking back and forth, his keen eyes flashing from one mud hut to the next. “He wouldn’t stay in the finest place. That would be reserved for the alcalde, who must have some power over the locals.”
“Family ties, more ’n likely,” Dalton piped up. “You don’t meddle with family in these parts. And nobody gets to be head man without having family to back him up.”
“So he’d stay at a more humble dwelling. Like any of those.” Ambrose pointed, and Amy found her attention following his arm to his finger and then to the cluster of adobe houses.
“Why those?” she asked.
“Let’s ask and see,” Ambrose said. “Be alert, Mr. Dalton, for any sign of him.”
“What are we looking for, sir?” Amy moved a little closer to Ambrose when Dalton drew his six-shooter, spun the cylinder, and then slammed it back into his holster. She wasn’t afraid of the gunman, not exactly, but felt better close to Ambrose.
“We never can tell,” Killian said loftily. “We might even find Jeter himself, though I doubt it. See how peaceful the town looks? It would have a certain air of tenseness about it if a killer like Jeter were present.”
“You want me to ask around?” the gunman said.
“Go on, Mr. Dalton. See what you can uncover.”
“You lookin’ for his loot? You think he buried it here? Or left it with a partner?”
“Oh, a man like Jeter is a solitary animal. There isn’t any partner. There can’t be.”
“All right,” Dalton said, not sure what Killian said. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“How quaint,” Ambrose said when Dalton was out of earshot.
“What do you expect from a man like that?” Amy asked. “He’s going to turn on you the instant he thinks you’ll withhold his wages.”
“He’ll earn every penny. This is part of Jeter’s range. I can feel him here. Can’t you, my dear?”
Amy shook her head. All she smelled was the stench of garbage rising from the town. And all she felt was increasing uneasiness being around Dalton. The man was a real sidewinder and would strike when they least expected it. She vowed to remain alert, for Ambrose’s sake as well as her own.
“There, he’s motioning for us to join him.”
Ambrose offered her his arm, as if they were going to a fancy-dress ball. Amy tried not to look apprehensive as they made their way to the house w
here Dalton stood impatiently at the open door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he watched them advance. Amy saw the way the man’s left eye twitched. Nerves. Not a good trait in a gunfighter. This made Dalton all the more unpredictable should they find Jeter lurking here.
“What is it? Have you found where he stays when he’s in this town?” Ambrose asked.
“I can’t understand the yammerin’ all that well, but the woman says a man who might be Jeter comes through here now and then. Last time was about a month back.”
“What else did she say?” Amy asked, listening to the woman’s constant flood of Spanish. She saw how Dalton turned cagey and knew he was going to lie.
“Nothing more.”
“Except he left a few items here,” Amy said. Dalton jumped as if she had stuck him with a pin. He hadn’t expected either her or Ambrose to be able to understand Spanish. From what she could tell, Amy believed she spoke the language better than Dalton, except when it came to curses and the more lurid sexual descriptions.
“A shirt, I think she said. And a belt. Can’t say that she mentioned anything more,” Dalton said lamely.
“Señora,” Ambrose said, “allow me to offer money for the items left behind by your unwanted houseguest.”
“How’d you know she didn’t want him?” asked Dalton.
“She has children,” Amy said. “She wouldn’t want a thief and murderer like Jeter staying around them unless she had no other choice.”
“You take his things? If he comes again . . .” The woman looked distraught.
“Tell him Ambrose Killian took them and give him this.” Ambrose pulled a card from a vest pocket and handed it to the woman with a flourish and a small bow. She took the card and looked skeptically at him. “How much?”
“How much will I pay for the clothing? Let me examine it.”
The woman vanished into the house and returned a few minutes later with a shirt, belt, and pair of pants that had been expertly mended. When Ambrose looked at Amy, the woman handed them to her.
