The man turned to walk back the way they had come, but paused to wait for Tucker. The other men had already moved to a nearby level spot. Some began to set up their gear, what he saw now were wooden tripods with folding legs and brass contraptions atop. Others walked ahead with their own gear. Surveying the land, had to be. Maybe it was some government project? If it was a government job, from what he’d heard there wasn’t much a private landowner could do about such intrusion. Railroad? He’d be sure to ask the questions. But for now, he’d keep his mouth shut and gain what information he could.
The Englishman didn’t seem to have much interest in conversing with him wherever it was they were headed, which suited Tucker just fine. That way he could keep an eye on him. Every once in a while, Tucker glanced behind him to make sure he wasn’t being bookended into a trap of some sort. They climbed up a rise and there below him lay a bustling camp. He saw the same number of men, maybe more than the eight he’d seen back there in the woods, some of them walking in and out of a white canvas tent.
A cook fire sat at the center of the camp, several trees nearby had been felled, one of them quite large. One man straddled it, measuring and scratching his findings in a notebook. Leaned against a narrow work wagon were more and varied instruments that looked expensive to Tucker, judging from the brass fittings and implements perched atop. Near the tent were a couple of tables, their surfaces cluttered with scrolled papers. Others, unfurled, looked to be maps.
The Englishman had stopped at the top of the rise and spread his hands wide as if to present the scene to his new guest. The expression on his face was one of pride and amusement, as if to say, “Look what I have created.” “Our day camp,” he said.
“Certainly looks like you have something important going on here,” said Tucker.
“Oh, but we do, sir. We do. Of the utmost importance.”
“Mmm-hmm, and what would that be, Mr. . . .”
The man held up a finger. “All in good time, sir. First, I hope you will partake of a cup of coffee with me. I’m feeling fatigued from our morning’s exertions and would like the bracing effects of a cup of strong coffee, brewed the way American cowboys make it. Or so I have been assured anyway. You appear to be one yourself. Perhaps you will be the judge?”
Tucker regarded him a moment, then said, “Lead the way. I’ll not refuse a cup of coffee presented in so skillful a worded manner.” But I will keep a sharp eye on you, he thought as they walked down into camp.
The other men barely glanced their way, though they did part like tall grass before the Englishman. Tucker kept the reins in his hand, and stopped at the edge of the camp a few paces from the smoking campfire. “So, mind telling me what this is all about?”
The man handed him a tin cup of steaming coffee. Tucker held it by the handle, didn’t sip, just watched this boss man.
The Englishman blew across the top of the cup, then sipped and smiled. “Aaah! So good.” Then his eyes rested on Tucker’s face for the first time since they got to camp. “An explanation is in order. I am Lord Tarleton and, among other things, I am a businessman. One of my primary interests is in logging and lumbering, and this part of the West, not all that far from the coast, all things considered, is ideal for such ventures. I have been traveling this region for many months now, throughout northern California, into Oregon, and so on. The Rogue River, which courses close by here, is a large enough flowage for me to get timber to the coast, where I will render it into lumber and load it aboard fleets of schooners for points all over the world.”
Tucker sipped his coffee. “Sounds impressive.”
“Indeed, it is, it is. And that is only the beginning. Why, I have—”
“Pardon me for interrupting, but what you have is nothing. As I said before, this here land is part of the Farraday spread. And I happen to know they ain’t interested in having it logged off. Even if they were, I’ve seen your kind, mister, and what you leave behind. I’ve seen stump fields in my travels, and they ain’t pretty.”
To Tucker’s amazement, the dandy man before him nodded in agreement, a solemn look making him appear as if he’d just come out of church. “I know. I know exactly what you mean. It’s brutal, really, the way some people treat the land. I can assure you, this place”—he waved a hand at the landscape around him—“will be dealt with selectively and with respect for its natural beauty.”
“That’s good to hear, but you are missing one thing, and it’s the Farraday spread’s stamp of approval. And since they own this land, you ain’t likely to get it.”
The man smiled, and it felt mighty annoying to Tucker.
“I think that perhaps you had better talk with your cherished Farradays, ask them about a mortgage against their land on which they defaulted. Ask them about the deep debt they have accrued. Better yet, ask my friends Bentley Grissom and Granville Hart. That would be Mayor Grissom and Marshal Hart, of course.”
Before he could respond, Tucker heard a voice behind him, familiar somehow.
“So that’s where you got to . . . workin’ for that little hussy and the old man.”
He turned to see two grimy men on horseback. As he stared at them, recognition filtered to him like the forest sunlight. Of course, that’s where he’d seen them—they were the men who had killed Payton Farraday. He’d not been this close to them before, but they were the men, no doubt. He’d heard them then, from a distance, and then in town, while under the canvas tarpaulin in the back of the wagon when Emma had brought him out of Klinkhorn.
They walked their horses toward him, their pistols drawn. He’d blown it. They would take him to jail—maybe worse. Rummler and Vollo, those were their names; he’d heard enough about them from Emma and Arliss. He’d hated them before for what they’d done to the Farraday family and seeing them only deepened his hate for them.
“This here man,” said the taller, slimmer of the two—Rummler was what Tucker believed was his name—wagged the pistol at him. “Is a coldhearted murderer. He is having you on, Mr. Tarleton, Your Highness.”
“That’s a lie,” said Tucker, reaching toward his rifle.
“I’d not do that, killer man,” said Vollo, shaking his head.
“No, it ain’t a lie neither.” Rummler’s gaze never left Tucker’s face. “See, Your Highness, there was this killing just before you and your boys rode on into Klinkhorn. Funny thing, it seems this man who is trying to say that you ain’t got no right to be on this property is himself the very killer of a man by the name of Payton Farraday.”
“Again, that’s a lie. These men are the ones who shot him. I witnessed it and was jailed wrongly for it.”
All this time, the Englishman stood sipping his coffee, one arm hugged about his chest. Only his eyes moved as they flicked from Tucker to Rummler and Vollo. Finally he said, “This is all very interesting. I propose that you two escort the man to town. If he is innocent, all the better. If not, all the worse—for him anyway. For now, either way justice will prevail.”
He turned to face Tucker. “Pity our meeting couldn’t be under better circumstances, but it really is for the best.”
Rummler sneered at him. “Vollo, get his rifle off’n him and make sure you check him over for any other weapons.”
The smaller, smellier of the two wore a dirt-smeared smock that looked to be the same one he’d worn the day Tucker had first seen him. He rode close, leered down at Tucker, who tried to keep the buckskin between him and Vollo. But the horse shied and shook his head, unruly at the last. Vollo skirted the big beast, snatched the rifle from the boot, and held it up like an Apache holding up a prize scalp.
“We’ll get him to the marshal’s office, get him locked up again,” said Rummler. “Half the town wants to hang him. The other half wants to watch.”
“Don’t listen to them, Tarleton. They have no idea what they’re on about.” The entire time Tucker spoke, he backe
d up slowly, aware that there was no way he could yank the horse around fast enough. They’d shoot him where he stood just for trying. And probably get away with it too. Still, he kept talking, kept trying to postpone whatever it was that was about to happen. “I witnessed with my own eyes these two kill the very man they claim I killed.”
“Just like a killer to say such fancies, Your Highness. Now let’s go, killer man, before I lose my patience.”
Tucker looked at Tarleton, who he knew now saw him not only as a potential murderer, but as someone who was opposed to his ideas of logging off this land.
“Vollo, once he gets up into the saddle, you keep an extra-sharp eye on him.”
“Of course. It will be my pleasure to shoot him if he gets out of line.” He laughed, showing ragged, blackened, stumpy teeth, and his braying sounded wet and raw, as if a sickness had already eaten away most of his throat.
“We’ll be seeing you later in town, Your Highness, sir.” Rummler and Vollo nudged the buckskin forward.
Tucker sat his horse, pleased at least that they hadn’t tied him . . . yet. Perhaps they were afraid to get too close to him. But he knew one thing for certain—they weren’t going to bring him to town. He knew they couldn’t afford to let him live. From their point of view, he might be able somehow to convince the marshal or other townsfolk that he might be telling the truth—and that was something they didn’t want.
For several long minutes after they left, Lord Tarleton stood sipping his coffee, saying nothing. His men slowly went back to their tasks. “Reginald, Shepler.” The two gunmen emerged from either side of the clearing. “One of you follow them, let me know what you see. But don’t interrupt the proceedings unless you feel you have to. The other of you, back-trail him and see where he came from, find out what you can of this Farraday bunch. I suspect Grissom is not playing a proper game of cards with us. Anything we can learn will be of use when it comes time to dispense with him. Now go, go.” He shooed them away. “I expect a full report from each of you back in town tonight.”
“Yes, Your Lordship,” they said together.
He turned his back on them and heard them ride out of camp. The other men’s usual chatter and work noises remained subdued. They knew better than to question anything he might do or not do. They were all too well paid for that. And if by chance they did, then they would not be employed by him any longer. They might also not ever be employed anywhere else. He had allowed the barest of such hints to circulate among them. But they knew that he and his two trusted gun hands were the only ones who really knew for certain what happened to men who questioned him.
Lord Tarleton smiled as he poured himself another cup of coffee. He looked forward to seeing this newest game play out. The fat man, Grissom, was proving to be a most unworthy adversary, well out of his depth. And as for the marshal, he was merely a lazy man who wanted much more than he had without having to work for it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The three had ridden a half mile in silence, the land rising steadily, until they were well out of earshot of the surveyor’s day camp. Tucker heard nothing but the wind soughing through the tall trees.
“So, fellas, what can you tell me about those trespassers back there? It seems pretty obvious they’d been lied to by your boss, Bentley Grissom.”
As if he hadn’t heard a thing Tucker had said, Rummler spoke. “Just what in hell did you think was going to happen back there, boy? Telling that fine fancy man from England all them lies about us? Who do you think he’s going to believe? An escaped killer such as yourself, or a couple of hardworking men looking for a way to keep the peace with a whole townful of folks with violent tendencies?” Rummler’s reedy voice cackled.
Tucker glanced at Rummler, a couple of dozen feet to his left, and fixed his mind on how he might escape. Vollo appeared beside him, riding in tight. It reminded Tucker of how Emma had said the pair had crept up on her that night. He didn’t think for a minute that they were going to bring him to town. But he could stall the proceedings, maybe learn something while he looked for some way to escape.
He glanced at Vollo, took in for the first time what a foul piece of work the swarthy little man was. He looked to be wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing when he shot Payton Farraday. And that had been weeks before. Now that the wind shifted down closer to ground level, Tucker found himself just downwind of the man. His eyes watered at the man’s sour-sweat stink. Didn’t anybody ever tell him he smelled like a gut pile, baking in the sun and drawing flies?
“Look, gents. Why don’t you give me back my rifle? I’ll go on my merry way—I’m busy, you know. Lots of things to do.” He slowed the buckskin to a walk, hoping to slip behind, even a few steps. He might have stood a chance if he headed down the thickly treed slope that fell away for several hundred yards before leveling out at what looked to be a dried streambed.
“What do you think you’re doing, boy?” Rummler dropped back and drew his pistol. “You slow us down again and I am liable to open you up with this here six-shooter like a surgeon would a man’s gut. Only a surgeon has a reason to save a man’s life.” He smiled again. To his other side, Vollo let out with a rattling laugh that echoed down the slope.
Instead of riding ahead, the two killers matched his horse stride for stride and edged closer with each step. Soon they were sandwiching him, their boots rubbed his, the horses bumped and nudged one another, and Jasper thrashed and fought the tight reins.
To their right, the land leveled off and the trees thinned close up. Beyond, smooth ground, the sort of terrain on which a man might give his horse its head, maybe outrun those trailing him. It also might have been too open, too easy to take a bullet.
They were as tight as they could get now, and it was difficult for Tucker to keep an eye on both killers, just the way they wanted it.
He tried the innocent approach. “It’s plain we should be headed to town, but darn if you boys aren’t taking me somewheres else. Now, just where might that be?”
“You never mind. I got a plan and Vollo here don’t mind going along with it. It’s going to be a whole lot of fun for two of us. Unfortunately for you, you ain’t one of the two.” He howled in loud laughter and Vollo followed suit.
As close as they were, Tucker noted that Vollo wore his pistols cross-draw fashion, and had the right-side gun gripped in his left hand. A sudden thought came to Tucker and he knew it might be his only chance. With his right hand he snatched Vollo’s second pistol from the little man’s left-side holster. Not tied down, it slid easily from the holster.
Tucker drove the pistol upward, catching Vollo on the chin as hard as he could. The man’s tongue had been sticking out from between the black craggy nubs of his teeth, and Tucker caught quick sight of the severed pink end of the tongue as it spat outward.
The blow unseated the smelly little man in spectacular fashion, working even better than Tucker had anticipated. Vollo flopped backward out of his stirrups, somersaulting off the horse’s rump. A spray of blood followed the rank man from the saddle and he offered up a sick, strangled scream.
As soon as Rummler detected Tucker’s intent, the thin killer barked a string of angry oaths, and drove his right arm hard into Tucker’s gut. It felt to Tucker as though he rebroke a couple of ribs that had been on the mend. The blow forced the wind from Tucker’s lungs, but he kept on with his plan and reined the buckskin hard to the left, forcing Rummler’s horse even closer to the slope’s ragged edge.
Vollo’s horse had veered off and Tucker didn’t care where it was as long as it didn’t carry the dangerous little killer anywhere near him for a while—he had his hands full. The thrashing back and forth between the two men frenzied their horses, and they galloped faster with each second.
Rummler appeared to finally understand just what was happening and he swung his pistol wildly, catching Tucker first on the neck, again in the t
hrobbing ribs, landing a blow on the buckskin’s shoulder, anywhere his flailing arm might find purchase. All the while he yanked hard on the reins to the right in an effort to get his horse to head away from the drop-off.
But Tucker had the advantage and finally managed to drive Rummler’s horse right to the grassy edge. The horse kicked and thrashed wildly, its legs finding no purchase until it was too late. The big beast collapsed to its left side, and kept rolling. Just before he pitched over with the horse, Rummler made a desperate lunge off his saddle toward the uphill side of his faltering steed, grasping toward Tucker, hate in his eyes, spittle flecking from his leering mouth.
In those last seconds before he knew terrible things were about to happen, Tucker saw Rummler’s face drive toward him, framed by a pistol gripped in one hand, the other a dirty-nailed claw grasping for anything that might help save him. From the openmouthed look on the killer’s face, Tucker was sure that Rummler was screaming, but all he heard was his own heartbeat. It came as if hammer blows underwater. He tried to lean away from Rummler and the falling horse, away from the steep slope. Maybe if he had not been stunned by the man’s attack, he might have reacted sooner, been able to push away.
But he didn’t, and Rummler snagged Tucker’s coat front in a death grip. The sideways churning motion of the killer’s horse pulled Tucker right out of his saddle. He had Vollo’s pistol in his hand, but the momentum of his fall prevented him from clubbing the man.
Too late Tucker realized he was headed right down the treed slope with Rummler. He vaulted over the thin outlaw, tearing loose from his grasp. Time slowed as Tucker spun outward. He saw the tops of trees below and coming up fast at him, as if they were moving and not he. He heard screams and didn’t know if they were his, Rummler’s, or both. He spun again and saw fear and rage and hate all warring on Rummler’s face. The gun hand had one boot caught in a stirrup. The horse’s thrashing body began its roll, its legs now upright as if beckoning Tucker, and with each passing moment, Rummler’s body disappeared more and more beneath the rolling barrel of the horse’s body.
Ralph Compton Tucker's Reckoning (9781101607770) Page 14
