“And how much is your cut, Dunne?” Tim asked.
Before Arno Dunne could answer, Jed cut in, saying to his brother, “Tim, you don’t mean it. We’re not going to do something like this. This is deliberate murder.”
“No, it’s not, Jed,” said Tim, staring at Dunne as he spoke. “It’s like Dunne said earlier—these men are there for the same reason we’ll be. Everybody knows the risk going in. Ain’t that right, Dunne?”
Dunne chuckled. “You’ve been paying more attention than I thought, Tim Faulkner. Now see if you can talk some sense to your brother, the deacon here”—he thumbed toward Jed—“and we’ve got ourselves a business arrangement.”
“You still never said how much your cut is, Dunne,” Tim persisted, without taking his eyes from Arno Dunne’s.
Dunne stalled for a second, then let out a resigned breath, saying, “Hell, you’re going to find out anyway. The pot gets cut straight down the middle every time you win, fifty to you two, fifty to me.”
“Huh-uh,” said Tim. “We’d be better off leaving you to lay here in the dirt, find this Newt Grago, and take our chances with him.”
“Easy now,” said Dunne, his smile back at work. “You’re catching on to how things work, but don’t get ahead of yourself. Grago’s men would kill you both, seeing you ride in without me or somebody to vouch for yas.”
“You get ten percent, Dunne, not a dollar more,” Tim said as Jed stood listening in disbelief.
“Huh-uh,” Arno shook his head. “Thirty or else I ride.”
“Fifteen, or you can go ahead and ride, Dunne,” said Tim.
Dunne considered it, once more scratching his jaw. “You’re getting hard to deal with, Tim Faulkner. But let’s make it twenty percent and get out of this heat.”
Tim offered a faint smile in return. “‘Okay, twenty percent every time we win.”
“What about if we lose?” Jed asked, looking back and forth between the two of them. When neither Tim nor Arno Dunne answered him, he asked again. But Tim and Arno Dunne just walked off toward the horses and Jed trotted to catch up to his brother, asking him in a lower tone as they stepped farther away from Dunne to their bays, “Do you know what you’re agreeing to, Tim? This is no different than being a paid assassin.”
Tim replied, nearly whispering, “Damn it, Jed, you saw he was about to leave. Where would that put us as far as finding these men, and possibly Danielle? Agreeing to do it don’t mean we’re going to. Just stick with me on this. Once we’re inside this bunch of outlaws, we can deal with what to do next.”
Jed let out a tight breath of relief. “Tim, you had me worried there for a second, but now that you’ve explained your reasons, I see what you mean. I’m sorry I doubted you. I should have known better than to think you’d go along with something like this.”
“Just keep that in mind, Jed,” Tim said. “No matter what I go along with, always realize that I’ve got our best interest at heart.”
“I know that, Tim. You was just so convincing it fooled me for a minute. I’m back on track now.”
“Good,” Tim said. “Now play along with things and keep quiet. Don’t be asking questions like what happens if we lose. You know as well as I do—if we lose, we’re dead.”
Chapter 11
Indian Territory, July 23, 1871
At a remote spot along a nameless creek, Danielle Strange and Duncan Grago had spent a day in the shade of a tarpaulin lean-to, where an old horse thief named Uhl Hobbs kept a fresh string of stolen horses. Hobbs had welcomed them into his camp only after recognizing Duncan Grago. While Danielle rested and grained Sundown, Duncan Grago picked out a copper-colored Spanish barb that had gone a long time without a rider on its back. Danielle and Hobbs stood at the rail of a makeshift corral and watched Duncan get the barb used to a saddle. After a moment of studying Danielle with a guarded gaze, Hobbs asked, “Don’t suppose you caught sight of any lawmen along the Red, did you?”
“Nope,” Danielle answered, keeping her attention on Duncan as he wrestled with the headstrong copper barb. Hobbs looked her up and down again, and asked, “That’s a powerfully good-looking Colt you’re carrying, Danny Duggin. Don’t expect you’d be willing to trade it out for some riding stock?”
“Not at all interested,” Danielle replied, her hand resting instinctively on the butt of her Colt. She knew Hobbs was more interested in finding out everything he could about this newcomer, Danny Duggin, than he was in trading for a gun or a horse.
“Being a trader, I always like to ask,” Hobbs said. Then after a moment of silence he asked in a bolder tone, “How come I’ve never seen you before, Danny Duggin? Dunc says you’ve been around Fort Smith, and down in Texas for a while. I go to both places quite often.”
Danielle dealt him a level stare, saying, “I guess you just weren’t looking where I was standing, Hobbs. Now if you’ve got any more questions to ask about me, get it done. You’re starting to rub against my grain.”
Hobbs jerked back a step and kept his grimy hands chest-high in a show of peace. “No offense, Mr. Duggin. You can’t blame me for being a little cautious. Hell, it ain’t even legal for me being here, let alone holding a string of horses with no paperwork on them.”
Danielle allowed a faint smile. “No offense taken, Hobbs. Dunc and I will be moving on once he gets the air out from under that saddle. Until then, you might just as well settle down and stop wondering who I am or where I’ve been. You ought to know I’m not going to tell you anything I don’t want you to know.”
Hobbs cackled across broken yellowed teeth and shook his head. “Reckon I’m just curious by nature.” He raised a crooked finger for emphasis. “But I want to tell you this, for your own good. I heard there’s a whole posse of deputies from Parker’s court getting ready to make a sweep through here. So the two of you best keep an eye turned back to your trail. Be sure and mention it to Dunc first chance you get.”
“I will. Much obliged for the information,” Danielle said, seeing Duncan Grago wrestle the barb over closer to them. “We always keep an eye on our trail.”
When Duncan had paid Hobbs for the copper barb and a Mexican saddle, he and Danielle rode on. They spent the rest of the day and part of the following morning pushing forward through tangles of brush across jagged terrain more fitting for mountain goats than horses.
Robber’s Rock, Indian Territory, July 24, 1871
Two shots from the smoking pistols echoed in the ledges and canyons surrounding Robber’s Rock. Newt Grago tossed aside a handful of beef rib bones he’d been eating and wiped his hands on a soiled bandanna. He stepped off the porch of the newly built plank shack and looked across the wide encampment of men and horses. There had to be as many as sixty or seventy men there, he estimated to himself, the thought of it making him smile. When the men had drifted in, two and three at a time over the past couple of weeks, they’d brought with them stolen cattle and Mexican horses. Two large tents had arrived a week earlier with a grifting gambler named Merlin Haas, who had come at Newt Grago’s request. Along with the tents, Haas had also brought along some gaming tables, as well as six painted ladies all the way from Austin, Texas. The atmosphere at Robber’s Rock was like that of a carnival, and that was just what Newt Grago wanted.
“Damn fine shooting,” Newt Grago said to Chancy Burke. Burke punched out the spent cartridge shell from his pistol and replaced it with a new round. He only nodded at Newt Grago and watched him walk toward the body of Curly Lyndell lying flat in the dirt. Newt Grago finished wiping his hands, wadded up the greasy bandanna, and shoved it down into his hip pocket. Looking down at the body closely, Grago sucked at a tooth and loosened a fleck of beef from it with his fingernail. Then he spat the fleck away and turned, facing the gathering of onlookers, saying loud enough for all to hear, “Boys, Curly Lyndell is deader than hell.”
Among the gathered spectators came sighs of disappointment as well as whoops and cheers for Chancy Burke. Newt Grago gave the crowd a second to spend itself
down, then he raised a stack of dollars from his lapel pocket and fanned it in the air above his head as he stepped back over to Chancy Burke.
“That means ole Chancy here has just made himself the easiest two hundred and fifty dollars he ever made in his life.” Newt Grago handed Chancy Burke the money, then turned back to the crowd, saying, “I know damn well some of you might have made just as much, or lost just as much, depending upon how you bet. But the fact is, the only way to win big here is to play big here!”
The crowd stirred, and Newt Grago raised his hands toward them. “Boys, I ain’t going to try to talk you into anything. But the man who challenges Chancy Burke and beats him gets his two hundred and fifty, plus another two hundred fifty for being the winner. I’m talking about five hundred dollars! Do I have any takers?”
While Newt Grago looked the crowd over for a show of hands and saw none, one of the women from Austin freed herself from an outlaw’s arm around her waist and slinked forward a step. She threw her hand on her hip, striking a pose as she turned and said to the crowd, “Boys, I’d shoot any one of you here for five hundred dollars. Can I get in on this?” she asked Grago.
“Haw!” Newt laughed, throwing his head back. “You get over there where you belong, Lulu. This is man’s sport.”
“Man’s sport, my Aunt Fannie’s drawers,” Lulu said sarcastically, cutting her gaze to the gathering of outlaws. “There must not be a man in the bunch. What’s the matter with you bunch of gutless coyotes?”
“Shut up, Lulu,” said a drunken voice, “or I’ll put a bullet in you for free, just to see what color your blood is. If you’ve got any, that is.”
The crowd roared its approval. Newt Grago silenced them down with his raised hands. “Like I said, nobody’s going to talk you into anything, but go have a few drinks and think it over. Chancy Burke is now the man to beat. He’ll be ready when any one of you are, right, Chancy?”
“That’s right,” said Burke, fanning his winnings with one hand while spinning his Colt down into his low-slung holster. “The sooner the better, far as I’m concerned. I came here to win. I plan on leaving with both boots full of money.”
The same drunken voice called out again to Burke from amid the crowd, “If that kid shows up who killed Scovill, Levan, and the others, you might fill your boots with something entirely different.”
The crowd roared with laughter. Chancy Burke’s face flared crimson red. “Who said that?” he shouted, stepping forward with his hand near his tied-down Colt. “I want the big-mouthed son of a bitch who said that to come forward and say it again!” His eyes scanned the crowd as the laughter settled into cold silence. “Who was it? Was that you, Blanford? You’re always shooting off your soup-hole. Come on out here and say it again!”
The crowd parted and Ollie Blanford, a tall Arkan san with a drooping red mustache, stepped forward. “It weren’t me said it, Burke. If it was, I wouldn’t be at all hesitant to saying it to your face. Now what about me always shooting off my soup-hole? I don’t recall ever speaking more than a word or two to you in my whole life. We never rode together. Why’d you single me out?” His long arm hung loose but poised, his fingertips turned slightly in toward his pistol butt.
“Because it sounded like your voice, Blanford,” said Burke.
As the two outlaws spoke, Merlin Haas had moved in beside Newt Grago. Now, seeing trouble brewing quickly between Burke and Blanford, Haas took his cigar from his mouth and said to Grago, “I best stop this before it gets too far out of hand.”
But Grago took Haas by the arm, stopping him, saying, “Naw, what’s your hurry? Let it go a minute. This might be just the thing to get this ball rolling.” He chuckled and pulled Haas back beside him.
“Hell, maybe you’re right,” Haas whispered.
Ollie Blanford responded to Chancy Burke, “It might have sounded like me, but it weren’t. As far as my bad-mouthing, I never say a damn thing I ain’t prepared to back up, with knuckle or lead either one.”
“Then let’s do her up,” Chancy Burke hissed, scraping a boot sidelong in the dirt, taking a fighting stance.
“That suits the hell out of me, boy,” Ollie Blanford replied. The crowd moved aside as Blanford’s hand slipped down slowly, removing the strip of rawhide from across his pistol hammer.
“Whoa now, boys,” said Newt Grago, seeing his opportunity to reap some benefit for himself, “let’s take a second to get the pot right. This is exactly what I was talking about. You’re going to shoot one another anyway, one of you might as well make something from it—the rest of us too.” He glanced around at the crowd for support. “If any of you want in on this, you better get over to Haas right away, before these two commence skinning leather.” He took a step back, turned to Blanford and Burke, and said to them both, “You boys can give us just a minute here, can’t you?”
“I’m ready anytime he is,” Burke said, keeping his gaze fixed on Blanford.
“Same here,” Blanford said. “I can wait a minute or two before killing him, if it’s worth five hundred dollars to me.”
“Don’t start spending that money yet, Blanford,” Burke threatened. “All you’re buying is a ticket to hell.”
“That’s the spirit, boys,” Grago said, stepping back and hurrying over to Merlin Haas. “This is all working out just fine, Haas,” he said, leaning close to Merlin Haas’s ear while the grifter counted the money being shoved at him by the excited crowd.
“It’s the craziest, wildest thing you’ve ever come up with, Grago,” Haas replied, scratching down numbers and names with a pencil stub as the wad of cash in his hand grew ever larger, “but I ain’t complaining . . . no, sir!” He shook his fistful of money.
Lulu waded in among the bettors, waving a ten-dollar bill out before her. “Ten dollars on Burke? Anybody? What do you say?”
Newt Grago grabbed her by her arm and pulled her away from the crowd. “That’s enough, Lulu, you’ve done your part. Now put your money away, settle back, and watch the show.”
Lulu lowered her voice, speaking to him. “You said to get them stirred up and keep them that way, Grago. That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
“I know, Lulu, and you’ve done a good job. Between you and that loudmouthed drunk a while ago, they’ll be at one another’s throats the rest of the day. We’ll all make a bundle on it.” While he spoke, Newt Grago took out a big double eagle coin and shoved it down the front of her tight-fitting bodice. “Relax now.”
Lulu giggled and patted the coin inside her dress. “Whatever you say, Grago, but I still don’t see what you’re going to gain, getting a bunch of your own gang killed off this way.”
“It’s makes good sense, Lulu,” said Grago. “Even the best of herds needs some careful culling now and then. I want only the fastest and the best riding with me. This is one way of making sure I get them. At the end of this, I’ll have a gang of men so tough, they’ll make the James-Younger Gang look like a bunch of pickpockets.”
“Meanwhile, you and Merlin Haas make a tidy bankroll, covering the bets and cutting a percentage of the pot, right?” she asked.
“Of course, Lulu.” Grago smiled. “Only a damn fool works for free. Me and Haas will make our money, but don’t worry—you and your girls will be well taken care of in the process.”
“That’s all that matters to me.” Lulu giggled. She shoved two fingers down into her bodice, fished out the double eagle, and flipped it, catching it sideways out of the air on its way down.
While the sun boiled white hot in the afternoon sky, Danielle and Duncan Grago crossed a stretch of land that had appeared flat from a distance. Yet, angling now toward a pair of slim rising buttes, Danielle saw that they would be moving through nothing more than a rocky maze of gulches, cut banks, and drop-offs for the next ten miles.
Once across the rugged furnace, the land leveled in between the buttes, and it was at that point that they heard the two quick pistol shots resound in the distance. Duncan only grinned, looking up among
the high ledges into the shadows the buttes, saying, “Yep, that’ll be Newt and the boys. We’ll be running into some lookouts here any minute. So let’s not make any sudden moves until they see who I am.” He squinted in the sun’s glare, his eyes scanning back and forth above them.
Danielle searched also, reminding herself of how dangerous and difficult this would have been on her own, without an insider like Duncan leading the way. The ledges along the slope of the buttes were perfect for an ambush, the land beneath them offering little protection. “Let’s hope they recognize you,” she said. “After all, you’ve been gone for a while.”
“Don’t worry, Brother Newt has them watching for me. They won’t do nothing that’ll get him down their collar.” He gigged the copper barb forward, the horse still resisting slightly but getting used to a rider on its back. Before they had traveled another mile, two more pistol shots echoed in the distance. Duncan only smiled and nodded them forward.
As they drew deeper between the two buttes, a flash of evening sunlight glinted off a rifle barrel fifty yards above them. Instinctively, Danielle’s hand went to her Colt, but a voice from behind a large rock alongside the trail called out, “Keep your hands in sight, mister,” and Danielle froze.
“It’s me, Grago,” said Duncan, turning his horse in the direction of the voice, keeping his hands in view. “Don’t shoot. This is my friend, Danny Duggin.”
“Dunc?” the voice said. “I thought that was you when we saw you crossing the scrubs. It’s me, Chester.” Danielle watched as the man stepped in view from behind the rock, a cocked rifle in his hands.
“Newt’s been wondering what took you so long getting here.”
“Chester Gibb,” Duncan said, relaxing now and letting his hands down, “it’s been a long time since I laid eyes on you. Who’s up in the rocks?”
“That’s Clet Eldridge,” said Gibb. “Me and him’s been waiting for somebody to relieve us, so’s we can get a couple drinks of whiskey. Your brother’s got quite a gathering in there. They’ve been whooping it up, sure enough.” He raised an arm to the man in the rock shadows above them and waved back and forth slowly, letting him know everything was all right.
The Shadow of a Noose Page 15
