Strong Suspicions (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 2)

by GP Hutchinson

  “Not exactly,” Emmett said.

  “Well what then—exactly?”

  Emmett studied VanDorn’s staid features. He decided to bring Jack in on the whole story, but quickly—the marshal and his deputy could come back at any time. Emmett told Jack about his trip to the Wild Hog, about Taft walking him down here to the jailhouse at gunpoint, and about his talks with the marshal and his deputy. “And when Perry led his deputy out,” he said, “it was almost as though he wanted me to slip away somehow, so long as he didn’t get blamed for my getaway.”

  “You know how it is,” VanDorn said. “Unless the corruption’s as plain as day, no lawman ever wants to lock up another lawman.”

  “That may be part of it. What I can’t quite figure out, though, is how it is that Taft seems to have such a tight grip on the marshal’s hackamore.”

  “May not be Taft on his own. Perry’s been moanin’ about the town council, too.”

  “Then we’ll wanna look into that.”

  Li went to the door and took a peek out. When Emmett’s gaze met hers, she shook her head.

  “So what’re you plannin’ on doin’ now?” VanDorn asked.

  “First thought was to pull back to San Elizario,” Emmett said.

  “That’s no good. The marshal’s seen the hotel ledger. He knows you’ve got witnesses there—folks who’ll look after you.”

  “True. But Taft and his people don’t know that yet, do they?”

  “They shouldn’t. Not unless the marshal told ’em.”

  “He might’ve, but I doubt it.” Emmett looked at the three Winchesters locked up on a gun rack on the wall. He suddenly felt vulnerable without the weight of his own Colt in its holster. “What about the Cantina Las Flores tonight?”

  “You still up to it?”

  After Li nodded and Juanito shrugged, Emmett said, “Yep. Reckon we are.”

  The words had hardly escaped Emmett’s lips when the front door swung open.

  Li had to skip out of the way.

  An agitated Franklin Taft halted in the doorway.

  It was now late afternoon, and the interior of the marshal’s office was growing dim. Li ended up in the shadow behind the front door. She shifted her Stetson low over her eyes and slipped her hands into the pockets of her duster.

  Even with Taft silhouetted in the doorway, Emmett noted a subtle change in the saloon owner’s features.

  Taft peered at Emmett. “Every time I come down here, I expect to find you behind bars, and there you are, free as a bird.”

  Emmett folded his arms. “Well as you can plainly see, Mr. Taft, locked up or not, I haven’t flown the coop.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you should.” Taft surveyed the room. “Where’s the marshal?”

  “Not sure.” Had Emmett heard Taft right? Had he just said that maybe he should fly the coop?

  Taft’s gaze settled on VanDorn. “You must be, uh—”

  “Texas Ranger Jack VanDorn.”

  “So I have you to thank for bringing these two rips back from San Antonio.” He motioned toward Emmett and Juanito.

  “They came of their own accord,” VanDorn said flatly.

  After staring at VanDorn for a moment, the saloon owner turned his attention back to Emmett and said, “I’m dropping the charges against you and your friend here.” He tossed a nod toward Juanito.

  What? Dropping the charges? Emmett sure as blazes hadn’t seen that coming. “Not that I’m unappreciative, Mr. Taft, but this comes as something of a surprise. Mind if I ask what made you change your mind?”

  Taft held his gaze for several seconds. “After you left my place this afternoon, some folks stopped by and put in a word on your behalf.”

  “Some folks? Anybody I know?” Emmett wondered whether Marshal Perry had finally gone to the town council on his behalf.

  Taft glanced over his shoulder back out into the street. “Don’t worry yourself about who. Why don’t you just come on down to the Wild Hog, let me buy you a drink—to make amends?” He vacated the doorway and motioned toward the empty space. “Come on, bring your friends along. Let’s smooth things over.”

  Emmett eyed Li back in the shadows to the side of the door. There was no way he was going to take her into the Wild Hog—and not just because she was a woman. Taft wanted to smooth things over just like that? No, his words were right, but his tone was all wrong.

  “Mr. Taft, not two hours ago you were standing in this very spot, accusing my friend Juanito”—he gestured toward his brother-in-law—“insisting he gunned down your lookout man, Clive Mackey. Now you’re back, saying somebody came in and spoke on our behalf, so you’d like to make amends? Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for making amends. But I’ve got to know—who was it that was so all-fired persuasive?”

  After another pause, Taft shook his head. “I’ll tell you what—I wasn’t going to say this—I wanted it to be a surprise, but they’re actually waiting for you down at the saloon.” With a forced smile, he pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Some long-time friends of yours.”

  Emmett narrowed his eyes. “Who, Mr. Taft?”

  “Come on, Strong. They want it to be a surprise. Play along.”

  By now Jack VanDorn was on his feet.

  Emmett couldn’t believe this. What kind of fool did Taft take him for? “When you came in,” he said, “and I told you I hadn’t flown the coop, you said maybe I should. What’d you mean by that?”

  “Dammit,” Taft shot back. “Why do you have to be so contrary, you two-bit lawman? When I pressed charges, you resisted arrest. Now that I decide to drop charges, you question that.”

  “Pardon my wariness, Taft,” Emmett said. “But when something smells like a skunk, I’d just as soon not mess with it.”

  Even in the dim, evening light, Taft reddened visibly. The muscles in his jaws stood out. “OK, damn you. Have it your way—the charges stand.” He turned to VanDorn and puffed. “I demand that you lock up this man and his Mexican amigo there.” His gaze darted around the room. “And I don’t know who that is hiding out behind the door back there, but if he’s with these two, you ought to take my advice and lock him up, too.”

  VanDorn, arms crossed and hip cocked now, said, “Well, did they rob you, or did they not, Mr. Taft? You don’t seem to know. And on the basis of that fact, I don’t believe there’s legal grounds to lock ’em up.”

  Shaking his fist, Taft said, “Oh, they robbed me, all right. I was going to work something out with them. But now? I’ll be back, you pack of coyotes. I’ll be back in less than an hour with all the witnesses I need to make my charges stick. You just wait around and find out.”

  He gave one last burning scowl then spun and marched out, slamming the door behind him.

  Juanito raised his hands. “‘I’ll be back with witnesses.’ What the blazes is that supposed to mean? He doesn’t have any new witnesses. Maybe new liars.”

  “You’d be damn fools to go down to the Wild Hog long about now,” VanDorn said.

  Li came out from the shadows to stand beside Emmett. He rested his arm around her shoulders. “Hadn’t crossed my mind to go down there right now, Jack. Clearly some kind of trap.”

  “Be damn fools to do anything other than fall back till I can find Alonzo Perry and his deputy and catch him up on all this.”

  “You think the Cantina Las Flores is still a good bet for us?”

  VanDorn stroked his mustache. “I don’t know. I told the marshal to meet us there. Can’t be sure he didn’t tell anybody else about it.”

  “He shouldn’t have,” Emmett said.

  Juanito scooched off the deputy’s desk onto his feet. “You want to ride back to San Elizario, hermano?”

  Li looked up into Emmett’s eyes. If he read her right, this was beginning to wear on her. “Let’s get outta here,” he said. “Juanito, find a place
to lay low until half an hour past sunset. Li and I’ll do the same.” He turned to VanDorn. “Jack, we’ll see you and the marshal as planned—unless something else unexpected comes up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The lone adobe down on the banks of the Rio Grande was unremarkable except for its sad state of repair. Billy Thornhill supposed that’s exactly why Clive Mackey had chosen it.

  Only Mackey’s dead now, Billy thought as he reined in next to the ramshackle excuse for a stable. He swung down and looked over his shoulder toward the fading orange glow where the sun had set. Hard to tell whether the dust hanging in the air was his own or whether somebody was following him. Hell, could be anybody’s dust. This place ain’t all that far off the main road into El Paso.

  He took a precautionary walk around the tiny old house, pausing to poke his head in the front doorway. The flimsy door had been hanging by a single hinge last time he’d stopped by. It was now lying on the hard-packed floor. No signs that anybody had decided to nest here in the meantime.

  Having satisfied himself that he was alone, he ambled down toward the river, thinking about the rapid turn of events that afternoon. Everything had seemed fine at noon. Then Mackey got himself shot. Next thing Billy knew, Taft was asking him to be his lookout man. Seemed like taking the job was a good way to keep the cuss from suspecting anything.

  Billy cut to the right about fifteen yards shy of the riverbank and began to make his way through waist-high brush. His mind remained on the unexpected twists of the day. No sooner had he taken Taft up on his offer—hadn’t even had the chance to tell Russ Johnson about it—when the damn saloon began to fill up with folks looking for the very men he, Russ, and Mackey had tagged for the robbery.

  It would have been one thing if it had only been the two Mexicans. They were lying, of course—probably about their old grudge, as well as what they claimed to have heard at that saloon in San Antonio. Seems they just wanted to see Strong and his friend pay. And that was all right with Billy.

  Distracted momentarily, as he now had to negotiate his way through a massive patch of prickly pear cactus, Billy stepped with care, glad for the chaps and gloves he’d put on. He moved cautiously, being careful not to crush the cactus where he stepped. He was on the lookout, too, for big, fat rattlers. He’d seen a couple of them back here before and didn’t care to come down right on top of one of them.

  At last he came to a sandy clearing, maybe five feet across, in the middle of all the prickly pear. He turned in place, scanning in all directions to be sure he was unobserved before squatting to dig with his knife beneath the edge of the cactus.

  Yep, the Mexicans back at the saloon might’ve been a help, but not those damned gunslicks. Billy didn’t care one whit whether they brought back Taft’s calico, pretty though she was. Those boys were trouble, and anybody with half a brain could tell it from a mile away.

  Just as Billy’s knife cleared enough dirt and sand from around the metal box for him to lift it from its burial place, a voice behind him said, “Where you goin’ with the box, Billy?”

  Damn! How’d he let himself get so lost in thought? Hadn’t heard a thing to tell him he’d been followed.

  “Why don’t you just leave the box and your pig-sticker right where they are and stand up slow-like. And keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  Billy knew this didn’t look good. It’d take some explaining. “OK, Russ. I ain’t tryin’ nothin’ slick.” He let go of the knife, lifted his hands, and rose slowly.

  “Now turn around,” Russ said.

  When he did so, Billy saw that it wasn’t only Russ who stood there, weapon in hand. Though the light was fading fast, Billy recognized Slim Walker’s long, stringy blond hair. Walker stood a few feet beyond Russ, Winchester leveled.

  “I know this looks bad,” Billy said. “But I swear, I wasn’t gonna run off on you boys.”

  All of a sudden it occurred to Billy that Russ and Slim might’ve been the ones that shot Clive Mackey. Maybe they were in the process of thinning the herd. Maybe they’d come for the box themselves. Might want to cut him out now and run off with the takings all for themselves. Only have to make a two-way split.

  He licked his lips. His Colt was holstered. He’d never get it out before Russ and Slim cut him down. He was at their mercy, and he was at a loss for words that might persuade them.

  “If you weren’t gonna run off,” Russ said, “then exactly what were you gonna do?”

  “You know it was Mackey that buried the box here,” Billy said.

  “Yeah, and now I hear Mackey’s dead. Bullet in the head. You do that, Billy?”

  Billy’s heart pounded. “I might ask you the same thing, Russ. You, too, Slim.”

  “You denyin’ killin’ Mackey?” Slim asked.

  “I am.”

  Russ still stood there as he had been, relaxed stance, six-shooter pointed at the ground. “Who done it, then?”

  “Don’t know. Taft and the marshal went over there to have a look. I was at the Wild Hog the whole time. Willie and Miss Lindsey’ll vouch for that.” He wanted to ask Russ and Slim where they’d been that afternoon, but he feared provoking either one of them. At the moment, they had him at a disadvantage.

  “What’d Taft think?”

  “He thinks Strong’s Mexican amigo did it.”

  “Why the Mexican?”

  “’Cause Strong’s been down in the jailhouse all afternoon. Fool came walkin’ right on into the saloon just a little past noon. Wanted to talk to Taft. Taft hauled Strong’s sorry backside down to the jail at gunpoint.”

  “What d’you think?” Russ asked.

  Billy lowered his hands a notch to test Russ’s response. “Me? I’m pleased as pie that Taft still believes it’s Strong and his friends that’re to blame for the robbery. Look, can I get outta this cactus patch? It’s gettin’ dark. Why don’t we continue our visitin’ over inside the farmhouse?”

  Insects chirruped in the brush.

  Russ finally answered, “Get the box.”

  “And could you two put them barkin’ irons away?” Billy ventured. “You’re makin’ me a mite anxious.”

  “You never know, Billy,” Russ said. “Might be a snake in that cactus patch. With that box in your hands, no way you could shoot it. Might get bit.”

  With Russ having answered as he had, Billy wasn’t about to turn his back on the two of them. He pivoted and squatted sideways to his still-suspicious friends. He deliberated what to do with his knife and finally decided—gamble though it might be—to simply return it to the sheath that hung on his gun belt. Once he’d worked the box out of the ground, he stood and reversed his path through the prickly pear, no longer as concerned about leaving telltale sign.

  As they waded through the brush, Russ asked him, “If you weren’t plannin’ on takin’ the box and runnin’, why’d you come out here all alone and dig it up?”

  Billy stopped and turned. “I came to count it, all right? Mackey’s dead. Far as I know, he was the only one that’d seen the cash with his own eyes. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t puttin’ my neck on the block for an empty box.”

  “You sure that’s all?” Russ said.

  “Look, I ain’t no liar. Why don’t we just go ahead and split the money three ways right now and throw the box in the river?”

  Russ and Slim looked at one another.

  Billy drew a deep breath. “This was Mackey’s hidin’ place, not mine. Mackey’s the one that thought we needed to wait before dividin’ up the take. Mackey’s dead now.”

  “Yeah, well, Mackey may be dead, but Mackey was right.”

  “About what?”

  “About needin’ to wait till we do anything with the money.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re the witnesses, you lunkhead. We’re the ones supposed to have seen that Emmett Strong fell
a and his Mexican run off with this cash.”

  Slim finally spoke up. “And that’s about the only reason why I ain’t gonna shoot you right here and now, you back-stabbin’ traitor of a thief. We need you alive, at least till Taft makes somebody else pay for robbin’ him.”

  “That’s about it, Billy.” Russ gestured with his gun. “Now let’s head on up to the house.”

  As Billy started walking, he said, “There’s somethin’ else you boys need to know. Somethin’ that might be big.”

  “Just walk, Billy,” Russ said. “Otherwise, you might trip over your lip.”

  Billy could feel the guns pointed at him. He had to convince Russ and Slim that he was all right, that they needed him. “Somethin’s not right with this whole Emmett Strong thing.”

  Neither Russ nor Slim responded. There was only the crunch of gravel behind him.

  “Some folks have showed up at the Wild Hog—out-o’-towners.”

  “What about ’em?” It was Slim.

  “Just this afternoon, three hired guns showed up—not one, but three. And you’ll never guess who they brought in with ’em.”

  “Who? Strong?” Russ said.

  Billy was just outside the adobe farmhouse door. He turned. Russ and Slim were still behind him, still pointing their weapons at him.

  “No,” Billy said, eyeing the guns and desperately hoping he could convince his compadres that he hadn’t been out here to take the cash for himself. “They brought Geneve back with ’em.”

  Russ’s eyes showed interest. “Go on inside,” he said.

  Billy backed in. “Y’all saw Strong and his pardners take Geneve away. Now, here come these fast guns, bringin’ her back. Had to have had a run-in with Strong.”

  Russ and Slim followed Billy into the dark adobe. Blue light filtered in through two tiny windows—one at each end of the one-room house. More light fell through a hole in the thatch roof—a hole some nester had probably made to let out the smoke from his fire.