No Finger on the Trigger (A Waxahachie Smith Western Book One)
Page 8
Ransome had continued to have mixed feelings about the man she had rescued. While she had found herself liking him for his dry sense of humor, good manners and rugged manly appearance, she was far less enamored of him refraining from supplying any information about his past, and over the indications that he made his living by skill with a gun rather than ability in working cattle. Nor was she any better pleased by the way in which he treated her. He was always respectful, but his attitude invariably implied he regarded her as a child and she considered herself to be a full grown woman.
From what the sergeant had seen of the ranch’s crew and heard about the precautions to be taken against leaving the house, he had decided the Cordobas had little need to fear further visits by Javier Fuentes. None of them were hired gun slingers, but—no matter whether Anglo or Chicano— they were tough, intensely loyal to their employer and possessed of sufficient fight savvy to be able to hold up their end in time of trouble. However, even Tom ‘Halcón Gris’ Grey had shown to anybody who knew cowhands that they did not consider Smith was suitable for complete acceptance into their circle. Although he was able to discuss the cattle business with them, his footwear in particular indicated he did not earn his living from it as they did. They had treated him politely, out of respect for Don Jose’s wishes and the part he had played in driving off the men from Rancho Miraflores, but made it clear they did not regard him as being one of them.
For his part, the sergeant had made no attempt to ask questions which might have aroused suspicions and, perhaps, lead to open hostility. He was just as incommunicative on the few occasions when a member of the crew had tried to acquire information about his past activities and future intentions as he had been with Ransome. Justified as he considered the reticence to be, even more so than in the case of the girl, it had been another barrier to him having gained acceptance by the cowhands.
Shortly after noon on the day following the unwelcome visit by the younger Fuentes, a man from Rancho Miraflores had arrived with a letter for Cordoba from his employer. Teodoro Fuentes had written to offer an explanation for the misapprehension which he claimed had arisen over the reason for Javier’s visit. He stated that it was made with a genuine intention of rendering whatever assistance might be needed as a result of the rancher’s incapacitated condition, but had been expressed badly and the situation was exacerbated when the rest of the party had grown annoyed by the less than courteous way in which they were received. There was an apology for the behavior of Coltrane and gratitude that the ‘visitor’ had shown such commendable restraint in inflicting only a minor wound. The letter had finished by saying that, as far as its author was concerned, the matter was closed and he hoped the recipient would feel the same. Replying, Cordoba had given his assurance that he too was willing to forget the incident, but regretfully must continue to ban Javier from visiting his home.
During the same afternoon, a deputy had brought a message from Sheriff Daniel Tobin. It too was addressed to Cordoba, saying that Teodoro Fuentes had visited the office and given the same explanation for the behavior of Javier and the hard-cases, declaring he had instructed all his crew to consider everybody at Rancho Mariposa in the same friendly fashion as had always been the case. The sheriff had claimed everything pointed to the older brother having been unaware of whatever the younger had planned, so was trying to avoid trouble between the two spreads; a point of view with which Cordoba had stated he was in agreement. The letter had asked that ‘Waldo Smith’ be informed a telegraph message from Cyrus Holmes in Austin had confirmed the existence of the ‘bill of sale’ and ended with a suggestion that he called in to see Tobin on his arrival at Flamingo for ‘a friendly chat’.
Referring to the request for Smith to visit the sheriff, the rancher had been relieved to discover it was neither unexpected nor a cause for annoyance. Instead, the sergeant had commented that peace officers always liked to know who was arriving in their bailiwick and, in fact, he was generally the recipient of a similar summons most places he visited. Although Ransome had clearly disapproved of the allusion to his supposed occupation of hired gun fighter, he had received a smile which suggested his shrewd and worldly host suspected something of the true situation. However, he had not offered to confirm whatever supposition Cordoba might have formed and the subject had been dropped without further discussion.
Each day, Juanita had come to attend to the sergeant’s head wound. On her visit the day before, stating she was satisfied it would be safe to do so, she had removed the stitches she had inserted to seal the gap in his scalp. Deciding he had delayed for long enough, he had stated his intention of leaving in the morning. Although Cordoba had suggested a longer stay, he said he felt he should be on his way. He explained that he intended to stop over in Flamingo for a few days, then go and find somewhere else he had never been before to see what it looked like. The explanation was accepted without question and learning that one of the hands was going into town, he had asked for a message to be taken to the sheriff telling of his intention to arrive the following afternoon. This was arranged and he was guest of honor at dinner that evening. His attempts to thank the Cordobas for their kindness had been brushed aside, as was his offer of payment, although both had clearly been appreciated.
Packing ready for moving out, Smith had decided he was as well equipped as when he had set out for Bonham County. All the clothing he had been wearing when thrown into the arroyo had been washed and, where necessary, repaired. Although his J.B. Stetson hat had not come through the accident unscathed, being of good quality, it had been restored to its previous condition with the help of one of Cordoba’s house servants skilled in the art of steaming and reshaping headgear. In fact, except for a couple of scratches on the front of his holster which a liberal application of saddle soap and boot wax could not entirely conceal, his attire gave hardly any sign of his ordeal.
‘Do you have everything you need for your journey?’ Ransome inquired.
‘Yes, thanks, ma’am,’ Smith replied, putting down his bed roll and resting his Winchester on it by the side of the stall in which his claybank gelding was standing. ‘Juanita gave me a big enough breakfast to last me until I hit town this afternoon.’
‘Will you be staying long in Flamingo?’ the girl asked, watching the sergeant stroll to where his double girthed saddle and its bridle were sharing a small wooden burro with her own and her father’s rigs. xxv
‘That depends.’
‘Upon what?’
‘What I find there,’ Smith drawled, truthfully as far as it went.
‘There isn’t much to attract anybody,’ Ransome claimed. ‘I only visit it on a Saturday to collect our mail and whatever supplies might be needed.’
‘Every Saturday,’ Smith queried, picking up the saddle and bridle.
‘It’s only rarely I miss,’ the girl replied. Seeking to give the impression she was only passing on a piece information which might be of interest, she went on, ‘There’s a dance at the schoolhouse in the evening. Anybody who’s so minded can come.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am,’ the sergeant promised, returning and opening the gate to the stall. ‘Happen I’m still around town, that is.’
‘Then you may not still be there?’ Ransome hinted, noticing the claybank showed none of the fear of its owner that had been obvious between Javier Fuentes and the black thoroughbred.
‘Could be, then again, maybe not,’ Smith drawled. Starting to prepare the gelding for travel, he went on, ‘I’ve long since learned there’s only two things certain in this world of ours. You’re born and you die. Everything ‘twixt and ‘tween, from whether you’re born rich ‘n’ handsome— which I’ve only got one—or dirt poor ‘n’ ugly and die happy or painful, it’s all just chance.’
‘I hadn’t realized you were born rich, Mr. Smith,’ the girl remarked, watching the Texan working and reluctantly deciding he was as skilled at throwing a heavy saddle on to the back of a big horse as any cowhand she had come across.
‘I think you’re almost as good looking as either of them,’ Ransome assessed. ‘Anyway, there will be a dance and I may see you at it.’
‘Yes’m,’ Smith conceded. ‘You just may at that. But I’d best warn you, I’m not the world’s best dancer. Nor even the one hundred and twelve thousand, three hundred and sixty-first, comes down to it.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ the girl promised, sounding just as sober as if she had been given information of the greatest importance and wondering why the number quoted seemed familiar.
With the saddle and bridle in place, the sergeant led his horse from the stall. He picked up and slid the Winchester into its boot and, having fastened the bed roll to the cantle, walked towards the open doors of the building with the big animal following on his heels like an enormous hound dog. Once outside, glancing around him, he decided there were any number of places he would less like to live. Then, recollecting how being engrossed in memories of another woman had almost caused his death prior to his arrival at Rancho Mariposa, he shrugged off the thought. Swinging astride the gelding’s broad back, he controlled the high spirits created by several days’ rest and good feeding with the deft ease of one long accustomed to handling such a powerful mount.
‘Well it’s time I was going,’ Smith drawled. ‘Thanks again for everything, Miss Ransome. ‘Bye now, you-all!’
‘Goodbye,’ the girl replied. Watching the sergeant as he crossed the plaza and, having removed his hat to give it a flourish directed between herself and her father seated in the wheelchair on the porch, passed through the main gate. As he disappeared from view, she shook her head and said quietly, ‘I wish I could like you as much as I know poppa does, but you’re a mystery, Mr. Smith and, with the way things are around Bonham County, I don’t like mysteries no matter how well spoken they might be.’
~*~
Riding slowly along the main street of Flamingo, towards where it opened out and formed a large central square, Waxahachie Smith studied his surroundings with a careful gaze. He did not know how long he might be staying, but was aware that upon such an assignment a knowledge of the town’s geography would prove useful and might even help him stay alive.
Shortly before the sergeant had come into view of the town, a glint of light had caught his gaze. It proved to be a signal from Sheriff Tobin, intended to attract his attention. Meeting for a discussion in the concealment of a small clump of shrub oaks, he had been told of the situation which resulted in his being sent to Bonham County. He had not added greatly to his sum of knowledge.
To help Smith form a better understanding, Tobin had sketched a map of the county on a piece of bare ground. Roughly shaped like the upper half of an octagon, with Flamingo being at the centre of the base line formed by the Rio Grande, the area was divided into four close to equal segments. The Fuentes brothers’ Rancho Miraflores held the eastern quarter bordering the river. Cordoba’s Rancho Mariposa came next, then the property owned by Sir John ‘Monocle Johnny’ Besgrove and that of Bradford ‘Brad’ Drexell extended to the border in the west. Except for the sparing of Teodoro Fuentes in the first raid, no spread had suffered more, or less, than the rest. Furthermore, when questioned by the sheriff about the extent of his injury, Doctor Otto Grantz had claimed he—the only victim to survive in any attack—had been extremely fortunate to escape with his life.
However, what had happened to the stolen cattle was a complete mystery!
Despite assistance from the sheriffs of the adjacent counties and the Guardia Rurales in Mexico, there was nothing to suggest they had been taken out of Tobin’s bailiwick. This implied to the peace officers that, after putting his own brand over those on the stolen animals, the man responsible was holding them in a remote part of his range until they could be sent away as part of otherwise legitimate herds. Nevertheless, trying to select a possible suspect had been fruitless. There was no way that any of the brands used by the four ranchers involved—Bench C, Cordoba’s Rancho Mariposa; Rafter F, T —its earlier owners also having selected an easier mark of identification than the so-called ‘skillet of snakes’, or ‘greaser madhouse’ variety generally used in Mexico—Fuentes’ Rancho Miraflores’, the Union Jack, ‘Monocle Johnny’ Besgrove; B Bar D, B-D, Brad Drexell—could be converted into another without the alteration being instantly discernible.
Tobin had said frankly that his decision for requesting outside assistance to deal with the stealing of the cattle was motivated by the conditions which prevailed in his bailiwick. Being new to the area, he had kept on the deputies employed by his predecessor. While he had no reason to doubt their honesty, all were local men and each was in some way connected with one spread or another. Experience elsewhere had taught him that he might not be able to count upon them to act with impartiality. Nor, on account of the distrust which had arisen, would the ranchers and, more particularly, their crews be likely to take kindly to an investigation by a man whose sympathies might be with another spread. Therefore, he had considered it advisable to seek the aid of a man—or men—who would be beyond such suspicions.
Admitting there had been no open hostility between the spreads as yet, with the possible exception of the visit to Rancho Mariposa—which he was inclined to believe was an ill-conceived act by Javier Fuentes rather than organized aggression—the sheriff had said there was an undercurrent of veiled animosity amongst them. Despite being of long standing, being directed mainly against Besgrove and, because of their friendship, Cordoba, that of Drexell was more latent than active. Regardless of the amiable relationship which their predecessors had always shown towards their immediate neighbor and the Englishman, although it was less amicable with the owner of the B bar D, the new occupants of Rancho Miraflores had established they had no desire to continue such a state of affairs. However, even they had taken no action beyond warning they would not tolerate trespass upon their range.
Due to the situation being so unsettled, Tobin had declared, he was concerned by the number of hired gun fighters who had started to drift into Flamingo. Although none of them had given signs of having been hired by any specific employer, he suggested that Smith—pretending to be one of their kind—might learn why they had arrived and whether this had any direct bearing upon the stealing of the cattle. Such was the course of action decided upon. To prevent any suggestion of their acquaintance becoming known, the peace officers had taken separate routes on parting and the sergeant rode slowly to allow the sheriff to reach the town before him.
While clearly a thriving and prosperous community, to Smith, the seat of Bonham County looked only marginally different from hundreds of other such towns scattered across the range country. Only those on the banks of comparable rivers offered similar facilities for paddle-wheel steamboats or other freight carrying vessels to be loaded and unloaded, but they all supplied much the same amenities elsewhere.
As was the general case, the central square was the hub of all business activities. The bank stood adjacent to the large building housing offices for the sheriff, other county officials and the jail. At its other side, with an equally solid construction giving an air of permanence and profit, was the undertaker’s. Glancing at it in passing, Smith concluded wryly it was one establishment sure to prosper regardless of how much trouble was occurring locally. Opposite them, just as sturdily built and well maintained, was the International Hotel. To the right of it, the premises where the Flamingo Herald-Tribune was published stood between the Mercantile Emporium and the Highlander Saloon. A large Spanish Mission style church, obviously long established, and a much newer white walled frame schoolhouse took up one side, being faced by assorted premises also catering for the various needs of the population and surrounding district.
Living accommodation for the citizens, predominantly a mixture of whites and Chicanos, were divided roughly into two hal
ves. The poorer section of the community straggled in the direction of the Rio Grande’s muddy banks. Uptown stood the newer residential area occupied by the more affluent members of the community, several of whom were Hispanics. Each offered means of relaxation, in the form of saloons and other places of entertainment, graded in the style best suited to the pockets of their most usual class of customers.
Taking in the sights as he went by, while everything appeared peaceable enough on the surface, Smith could understand why the sheriff had expressed concern. At least a couple of well armed men where loafing outside each of the saloons he passed. The majority were dressed after the fashion of cowhands. However, if employed at all, he knew they were extremely unlikely to be hired in such a beneficial capacity. In fact, they and those who favored other sartorial styles reminded him of wolves resting until deciding the time had come to go hunting. Their scrutiny of him was just as wary and he felt sure that none of them believed he was in the neighborhood hoping to obtain work herding cattle. Having no doubt that he could end up by finding himself in opposition against at least some of them, it was a relief to decide he had never seen any before and conclude they were ignorant of his official status.