The Alamosa Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Well, let’s do it, Sheriff,” Shardeen said.

  “You don’t want this, Shardeen.”

  Shardeen smiled, an arrogant little smile. “Yeah, I do want it,” he said.

  Jim saw the sheriff lick his lips nervously, then look around the room.

  “Any of you fellas willin’ to sign on as my deputy?” he asked.

  No one volunteered. In fact, several men who considered themselves too close to any possible action got up and moved away. Only Jim remained at his table.

  “You?” the sheriff called hopefully to Jim. “You want to sign on?”

  “Sorry, Sheriff. This just isn’t any of my business,” Jim replied.

  “Yeah,” the sheriff said. Again, he licked his lips. “Can’t say I blame you.”

  “Looks like you’re on your own, Sheriff,” Shardeen said. “It’s still not too late for you to walk away.”

  “No, I . . . I can’t do that,” the sheriff said. He held his hand out toward his deputy. “Er nesto, you better stay out of this. Your wife just had a baby.”

  “I’m no’ goin’ let you face this hombre alone, Senor Martin,” the deputy said. His swarthy face was bathed with sweat, though it wasn’t that hot right now.

  Jim turned his attention back to Sheriff Martin. The lawman was so nervous that he telegraphed when he was going to make his move by the narrowing of the corners of his eyes, the glint of light in his pupils, then the resignation. Martin lost the contest even before it began.

  The sheriff started for his gun.

  The arrogant smile never left Shardeen’s face. He was snake fast. He had his pistol out and cocked, before Martin could clear his holster. When Martin saw how badly beaten he was, he let go of his pistol, and it slid back into the holster. At that moment Shardeen fired, his gun spitting a finger of flame six inches long.

  “Bastardo!” the deputy yelled as he pulled his own gun.

  Shardeen’s gun roared a second time. Ernesto, like Sheriff Martin, was unable to get off a shot. A large cloud of smoke billowed up from Shardeen’s gun. As the smoke drifted to the ceiling Shardeen stood there, the smoking gun in his hand, the arrogant smile still on his face. The sheriff and his deputy were dead on the floor.

  Jim heard footsteps running upstairs, and when he saw Shardeen whip his gun around, Jim drew his gun behind Shardeen’s back. Shardeen heard the deadly click of sear on cylinder as the hammer came back on Jim’s gun. He looked around to see that Jim had the drop on him.

  “Mister, you already dealt yourself out of this. Have you gone crazy?” Shardeen asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Jim answered. “But that’s my cousin up there. I wouldn’t take it too kindly to see you shoot him.”

  “You shoulda stayed out of it,” Shardeen said in a grating voice. From the look on his face, it was obvious that Shardeen was thinking about calling Jim’s bluff.

  Jim smiled at Shardeen, an icy smile that told the gunman he wasn’t afraid.

  “You’re thinking about trying me, aren’t you?” Jim asked in a voice that was calm as if he were calling a bluff in a poker game. “Well, go ahead. You’re pretty fast. You might beat me.”

  “Why don’t you put your gun away?” Shardeen asked. “We’ll do this fair and square.”

  “No, I have a better idea. I think I’ll just kill you and get it over with.”

  “No!” Shardeen shouted in sudden fear. It was the kind of fear he instilled in others and everyone in the saloon watched in morbid fascination as the drama played out before them.

  “Get out of here,” Jim said.

  Shardeen’s face curled into a vicious sneer as he slipped his pistol back into its holster.

  “We may run into each other again,” Shardeen warned. “When the odds are more even.”

  “Could be,” Jim admitted.

  “I’ll be lookin’ forward to it,” Shardeen said. Backing carefully across the floor, he put his hand behind him, feeling for the beaded strings. Once he found them, he slipped through them, then was gone.

  Ten miles out of Santa Fe, a heavy, booming thunder rolled over the gray veils of rain and the ominous black clouds that crowded the hills. Though it had not yet reached them, the storm was moving quickly, and Barry Riggsbee and Tennessee Tuttle took ponchos from their saddlebags, shook them out, then slipped them on to be prepared for the impending downpour.

  Barry was about five foot eight, ash-blond, young in years, but with the hard face and the seasoned blue eyes of someone who had seen more than his share of hard times. Tennessee was six foot one, with broad shoulders and dark hair. Having found no work in Santa Fe, the two were about to leave for Texas when a telegram from Jim Robison arrived telling them of some job riding for Clay Allison.

  “Tennessee, we need to find us some place to get!” Barry called.

  “Take a look over there,” Tennessee called back. “Looks like a line shack.”

  “Looks deserted, though.”

  “All the better,” Tennessee insisted.

  The line shack was a good two miles away and the rain broke about halfway there. They prodded the horses into a trot and covered the last mile in short order. A lean-to extended from the side of the shack, and the two cowboys put their horses under the makeshift shelter before they went inside.

  The door was padlocked from the outside, proof, if proof was needed, that the shack was empty. Tennessee jerked on the padlock to make certain that it was really locked.

  It was.

  “So what do we do now?” Barry asked.

  Tennessee thought for no more than a moment, then he rammed his shoulder into the door. With a wrenching sound, the hasp tore loose.

  “Hated to do that,” Tennessee said. “But it serves ’em right for being so mean as to lock a place like this. They had to know that from time to time someone might need it for shelter.”

  “That’s probably why they locked it,” Barry said. “To keep people like us out.”

  “Yeah? Well, then I’m glad I broke in.” With Tennessee leading the way, the two men stepped inside.

  A dim, watery light filtered through dirty windows, barely pushing back the shadows. It was cold and damp and the air of the little deserted shack was redolent with the sour odor of being closed up for a while. But the stale smell of woodsmoke from fires long extinguished still lingered.

  “Wonder if there’s anything in the possibles drawer?” Barry asked, as he started rifling through the cabinet.

  “You know there ain’t goin’ to be,” Tennessee said. “Whoever wintered here done just what we done. They stayed until the last drop of coffee was drunk and the last bean was et.”

  “Ha! They left some matches!” Barry said, triumphantly holding up a box. “Leastwise, we can get us a fire goin’.”

  Half an hour later, with the rain coming down hard outside and a wood fire snapping in the little potbellied stove inside, Barry Riggsbee and Tennessee Tuttle drank the last of their coffee and chewed on a piece of jerky.

  “Well, now, all things told, I’d say we’re livin’ in high cotton,” Tennessee said as he pulled his boots off and held his feet toward the stove. “We got a roof to keep the rain off, and a fire to drive out the cold.”

  “A beer would be nice,” Barry said.

  Tennessee snorted what might have been a laugh. “A beer?”

  “Yeah. I mean, let’s keep this in perspective. Being inside by a warm fire is nicer than being outside in the rain. But it lacks a hell of a lot in being tall cotton.”

  “Damn, you’d bitch if you got hung with a new rope,” Tennessee said with a laugh.

  Barry was quiet for a moment, then he asked, very solemnly, “Tennessee, you ever see a man get hung?”

  “Uh, no, not really,” Tennessee answered. “I was in a crowd once when they hung someone, but he was on the other side of the fence from me so I didn’t really get to see anything. How ’bout you?”

  “I saw a man lynched once,” Barry answered. “It wasn’t a pretty sig
ht.” Unconsciously, he pulled his collar away from his neck. He cleared his throat, then changed subjects. “I bet it’s two more days before we make El Paso. If our food lasts that long.”

  “We don’t have to worry none about our food lastin’. More’n likely I’ll still be chewin’ on this same piece of jerky,” Tennessee said, holding up the piece of withered meat. Both men laughed.

  “Wonder what ranch this is?” Barry asked as he looked around the little cabin.

  “Not much tellin’. ’Bout the only thing for sure it, it prob’ly had as big a cow die-up as any of the other ranches did. Else there’d still be cowboys here,” Tennessee replied.

  “I’ll say this for ’em—the cowboys that worked here had a good place to winter in. I’ve seen lot worse line shacks.”

  “That’s true. We’ve wintered in worse ourselves,” Tennessee said.

  Barry let his eyes sweep slowly around the little cabin.

  “Hey, there’s a newspaper,” he said, pointing to a shelf over one of the bunks.

  “It’s prob’ly old.”

  “What difference does that make? I haven’t even seen a newspaper in a month of Sundays. No matter how old it is it’ll be news to me.” Barry retrieved the paper. “It’s dated March third, 1886. What’s today’s date?”

  “Damn if I know,” Tennessee answered. “I think it’s 1886, though.”

  “From the cold rain, I’d make it late March or early April,” Barry said. “So the paper isn’t all that old.” He read for a moment, then whistled softly. “Well, imagine that.”

  “What?”

  “Out in California they’re loading oranges onto trains and sending them all the way to New York to sell.”

  “Yeah? We live in amazin’ times, don’t we?” Tennessee replied.

  “I reckon we do.”

  “What else does it say?”

  “There’s a story in here about the big snow-storm. They’re callin’ it the ‘Blizzard of 1886.’ ”

  “What’s it say?”

  “It’ started on January sixth, and they’re calling it the worst blizzard in history. Temperature dropped from sixty-five degrees to fifteen below zero in less than two hours.”

  “That’s right. It did do that,” Tennessee said. “I recollect I was down to the south pond and was warm enough that I was thinkin’ about how nice and cool the water looked. Then the snow hit and I wasn’t sure I would be able to find my way back to the bunkhouse. Then again, it wasn’t that much better in the bunkhouse. The snow blew in through the cracks around the windows and between the boards so that by the next morning it was six inches deep on the floor.”

  Barry looked up from the paper. “Well, we weren’t alone. According to this paper, no part of the western plains was spared,” he said. Then he began to read the article aloud. “From Montana to Texas, ranchers lost upward of sixty to ninety percent of their cattle. Many cattlemen abandoned their ranches without any attempt to round up or rebuild their herds. It is estimated that twenty million cattle died.’ ”

  Barry was quiet for a moment.

  “What are you readin’ now?” Tennessee asked.

  Barry looked up from the paper with a sympathetic expression on his face. “It says lots of cowboys died, too, froze to death while they was trying to save the herd. They died for twenty dollars and found, workin’ on ranches that was owned by folks who live back east somewhere. I doubt the ranch owners even knew the names of the cowboys who died for them.”

  “Yeah, well, at least Mr. Brookline knew Cal’s name.”

  “That ain’t the same thing. Mr. Brookline didn’t own Trailback, if you recall. It was owned by some folks in England, and you can bet they didn’t know Cal’s name.”

  “That’s true. But at least we come through it alive.”

  “I suppose we did, but when you get down to it, we aren’t much better off than Cal and the others who died. We’re nearly out of food, we don’t have two pennies between us, and we can’t get work anywhere.”

  Tennessee snorted. “Find somethin’ else to read. Don’t that paper have any good news in it?”

  “I’ll read the humor column,” Barry suggested. He read for a moment, then chuckled.

  “What is it?”

  Again, Barry read aloud:

  A missionary traveled to a far-off land where he encountered cannibals. Inquiring about Reverend Smith, his predecessor, the missionary was informed that the Reverend Mr. Smith was no longer among the living.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” the missionary says. “And did you not find him to be a tender-hearted man?”

  “Yes,” the cannibal chief answered, smiling, as he picked his sharpened teeth. “His heart was very tender. So was his liver.”

  Both men laughed. Then Barry put the paper down. He tapped his vest pocket, where the wire they had received from Jim was neatly folded. “You think that telegram we got was real? You think Frankie and Jim really have a job for us down in El Paso?”

  “Well, they’re pretty good boys,” Tennessee replied. “And it ain’t cheap to send a wire, so don’t reckon they would get in touch with us if they didn’t have something lined up.”

  “Yes, but the question is, what?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it matters. What if they’re planning on something that we want no part of?”

  “What could there possibly be that we wouldn’t want anything to do with?”

  “Robbing a bank maybe? Or a stagecoach. Or a train.”

  Tennessee rubbed his chin. “If it was, would you be game for it?”

  “Is that what it is?” Barry asked.

  Tennessee shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I’m not saying it is. I was just wondering how you would feel about something like that.”

  Barry sighed. “Tell the truth, Tennessee, I’m not sure how I feel about it. I mean it’s not something I ever gave much thought to before. But right now, with no money, no work, and nobody hiring, I can see how a fella might ride a crooked path. I know I wouldn’t want to rob any person. I figure they’re just like me, trying to stay alive. But a bank, a stagecoach, a train? Well, that wouldn’t be exactly like you’re taking money from any individual now, would it?”

  “Maybe not, but stealing is stealing, no matter who you’re doing it to. Besides which, once you start down that path it doesn’t take a whole lot to wind up like one of those fellas we were just talking about.”

  “Getting hung, you mean?” Barry asked.

  Tennessee nodded. “Yeah.”

  Barry snorted. “Well, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t saying I was going to do it, or even that I would do it. I was mostly just talking, that’s all.”

  “Maybe Jim and Frankie have something honest lined up for us,” Tennessee suggested.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Barry said. He walked over to one of the bunks, then stretched out in it. “I guess we’ll be finding out in another couple days. Right now, I plan to take advantage of this bunk.”

  “Yeah,” Tennessee said, crawling into one of the other bunks. “Me, too.”

  Chapter 5

  When Chad Taylor awoke, he had no idea where he was. He knew he wasn’t in the bunkhouse. When he felt the woman stir beside him, he remembered. He, his brother, Hank, and their pals Ken Keene, Gene Curry, and Eddie Quick were heading for El Paso in response to a telegram they had received from Jim Robison and Frankie Ford. The telegram offered employment, which the five cowboys had been without since the big winter freeze.

  With their newfound fortune, gained through the horse race, the boys were almost ready to forget El Paso, or at least delay getting there while they celebrated with, as Eddie put it, “wine, women, and song.” Then, with a laugh, he had added, “But for my token, you can leave out the song.”

  That was how Chad happened to wake up in a bed with a woman who was at least ten to fifteen years older than his own eighteen years. Because she was sleeping with her mouth open and a small string of spittle dribbling down
her chin, Chad could see that she was missing a couple of teeth, while a third was broken. He wondered what there was about her that had attracted him last night. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, but her looks didn’t improve. Surely the woman he had paid his two dollars to was younger and better-looking than this woman. Perhaps the one he had brought upstairs slipped away during the night and her place was taken by this creature.

  His musing was interrupted by a loud and insistent pounding on the door. He heard his brother, Hank, shouting at him.

  “Chad! Chad, you still in there? Wake up and get out here. Someone’s done stole our poke!”

  Springing out of bed, vaguely aware that the woman beside him was now stirring, Chad hurried into his clothes, then bolted out the door, carrying his boots and still buttoning his fly as he confronted his brother. “Are you sure?”

  Gene, Ken, and Eddie were in the hall with Hank, looking as agitated as he was.

  “Eddie, he’s teasing, isn’t he?” Chad asked as he pulled on first one boot, then the other.

  Eddie shook his head. “No, kid, he ain’t. I’m the one discovered it. I got restless this morning and went down to the livery to check on our horses, and got no farther than one foot in the door when the liveryman told me we had been robbed. So I turned right around and come back here for you fellas.”

  “Come on,” Gene said. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

  The five young men raced down the stairs, their boots clomping noisily on the steps. Then they ran out of the saloon and up the street toward the stable. Chad’s head was spinning by the time they got there.

  The liveryman was standing in the doorway, obviously expecting them and looking defensive. “I can’t tell any of you no more than I already told this fella,” he said, indicating Eddie.

  “Well, you ain’t told us,” Hank said. “So tell it again.”

  “Like I said,” the liveryman began, “I come in here this morning and seen stuff scattered all over the ground—carpetbags, bedrolls, saddlebags. When I seen that, I knew someone had broke in last night and went through ever’ one’s belongin’s.”