by Ray Hogan
The horse obediently moved into place. In a calm voice, Waterhouse continued: “Like I was saying … ain’t no decent horseflesh around nowheres. Goddamned army grabbed off everything.”
Rait nodded agreement, glanced toward the barouche. The team the de Aceras was driving comprised fine examples of excellent, well-bred stock. But they’d never work out on a freighter. They’d pull their hearts out on the first hill. He saw Angela then. She stepped from her tent, paused. Her eyes caught his, locked briefly, and she turned to the carriage.
Immediately Martinez abandoned his job of hitching the team and began to strike the canvas shelter. Hernando, seemingly little worse for wear after the evening’s bout with brandy, appeared from the far side of the barouche and took up where the driver had left off.
Adam swung to Denver.
“Any problems besides that horse?”
The teamster shook his head. “Usual brawling going on. Bastards ain’t happy ’less they’re fighting. And that loose mouth of Gannon’s …”
“Long as he does his job.”
“Sure, sure. Got to admit he’s one of the best. Just that consarned yammering of his. Was there a way to sew up his goddamn …”
“Señor! Señor! El patrón … muerto! … Dead!”
Adam Rait spun at the frantic summons. Felipe, eyes wide with fright, was running toward him.
“Who’s dead?” he shouted.
“El patrón! Mister Hanover. Dead. There is blood! Much blood.”
Rait struck out across the camp at a fast run for Hanover’s tent. Teamsters, hearing the boy’s hysterical cry, rushed to follow. Reaching the shelter, Adam jerked aside the flap, entered. Kurt lay face down on his cot. A broad stain of dark, crusted blood covered his back.
“Knifed,” Denver muttered at his elbow. “Now who the hell would’ve …?”
Silence followed the teamster’s unfinished question, and then Bill Gannon pushed through the jam in front of the tent, grasped Adam by the arm.
“Ain’t hard to figure out who done it. One of them greaser friends of his’n. Using a knife, that’s their way of killing a man.”
Adam knocked his arm away angrily. He pointed to the sheathed Green River at Gannon’s belt. “You’re carrying a knife. So’s about every man here.”
“Anybody know who was with him last?” Jules Bundy, one of the relief drivers, asked.
“That gal. Seen her setting in here talking to him.”
“He was alive when she left,” Rait said. “I saw him sitting at the table alone.”
“How about that brother of her’n?”
Adam shook his head. “Dead drunk last night. Put him to bed myself.”
Kiowa Jack Green, who had done considerable Indian fighting before turning mule skinner, spoke from the tent’s entrance.
“Had me a squint ’round back. Whoever done it snuck in under the canvas. Place where it’s been cut loose.”
“Any tracks?”
“Nope. Was I asked, I’d say they’d been brushed out.”
Adam leaned against the table, eyes on the ground as he tried to think. When he last saw Hanover asleep on his cot, Angela had gone, and Hernando was in the barouche. Of course, either one could have returned later, plunged a blade into Kurt’s back—but that didn’t seem likely. If what he figured was in the de Aceras’ minds was true, Hanover dead would be of no value to them.
“What about that driver … Martinez, or whatever his name is?” Kiowa Jack Green wondered.
The same would apply to him, Adam realized. “Count him out. Couldn’t have been him.”
Bill Gannon spat. “Why? You put him to bed drunk, too?”
“I’ve got my reasons,” Rait said, reluctant for some unaccountable cause to reveal what he felt was the truth concerning the de Aceras. “If you think it’s got to be a Mexican, what about Sancho and Felipe? And the wrangler? They’re Mexicans, too.”
“Hell, it could’ve been anybody,” Joe Denver said. “Maybe even somebody we ain’t never seen that’s been dogging the train, looking for a chance. Man like Hanover’s got plenty of enemies.”
“Naw,” Bill Gannon said loudly. “Got to be one of them three. That Martinez … he’s my guess.” The teamster whirled, faced the others. “Get a rope, one of you boys. We’ll make him own up!”
Rait came around fast. Grabbing Gannon by the shirt front, he slammed him against the table. The boxes overturned, and the husky driver went down in a splintering of wood and tangle of cloth.
“Forget it,” he snarled. “Be no lynching while I’m here.”
There was a murmur of assent. Bill Gannon picked himself up slowly, went through the motions of dusting off himself. His head was lowered, but he never removed his hard glance from Adam. Moving away, he halted in the midst of the men.
“Reckon we’re overlooking something? Seen the little Mex filly sort of giving Mister Rait there the eye. Maybe him and Hanover had words.”
He got no further. Denver and a tall Virginian named Henry Fox seized him by the arms, spun him about, and shoved him at Lester.
“Get him out of here, Red,” Denver growled, “or by Jingo, we’ll string him up!”
Adam raised his hands for quiet. “Maybe there’s more of you feeling that way. I can’t prove it wasn’t. All I can do is give you my word, I didn’t.”
“Good enough for us,” Rube Waterhouse said promptly. “The question bothering me is what do we do now?”
“We keep going,” Adam replied. “Be ready to roll in thirty minutes.”
An old driver wearing a dirty strip of cloth diagonally across his face and known as One-Eye Johnson paused in the opening as the others began to drift away.
“Was just wondering … with him gone are we going to get paid all the same?”
“You’ll get paid,” Rait replied. “We’ll make delivery of the cargo.”
The teamster moved on. Joe Denver remained, his eyes on Hanover. “What’ll you do about him? Ain’t no town anywheres close, no lawman.”
“Bury him,” Rait said. He could see no other course to follow. “Have a grave dug back there in the trees and empty his pockets—put the stuff in a sack for me. I’m going to have a little talk with the de Aceras.”
“That means you think maybe they did have something to do with it?”
“I’m not sure what I think, but I’m going to ask a few questions.”
In his own mind Adam Rait was fairly well convinced that Hanover’s killer had been someone outside the train. Nothing else made sense. But he felt he should do everything possible to get to the bottom of it. Leaving the tent, he crossed to where Angela and Hernando were standing. Both watched him intently. At the rear of the carriage Martinez worked at stowing the luggage.
“You know what I’m here for,” he said in blunt English. “Know anything about it?”
Hernando wagged his head sadly. “It is unfortunate. A fine man. A friend.”
“See anybody around his tent during the night?”
“No one, señor. I … I fear I slept most soundly.”
Adam shifted his attention to Angela. “And you?”
“He was alive when I last saw him … sitting at the table. I heard nothing after I went inside my tent.”
“You leave it at any time?”
“No.”
Rait looked toward Martinez. “What about you, señor?” he called in Spanish. “Did you hear or see anyone around the tent of the one who has been slain?”
The driver made a gesture with his hands. “I did not. But then, I am one who sleeps well.”
Those were the answers he had expected, and he found it illogical to doubt them. They wouldn’t murder the man they planned to make their benefactor. The belief that it was someone from the outside strengthened—and whoever he was, he would be far from the scene by now. It was
pointless to pursue the matter further.
He started to turn away, halted as Denver came up. The teamster handed Adam a small cloth parcel containing the items removed from Hanover’s person, nodded politely to the de Aceras.
Pulling Rait aside, he said: “The little job in the woods is about done. And the wagons are ready. I hear you say we’d keep heading for Marshall?”
“Why not? About all we can do.”
“Reckon so. We get there, you can send that stuff of his’n on to his folks. Know where they live?”
“Hanover said he had no relatives.”
Denver’s eyes spread. “No folks? What’re you aiming to do with the money we’ll be collecting for the cargo?”
The question had already occurred to Adam Rait. He had crawled into his blankets that previous night no more than a wagon master working for a promised fee; he had awakened the next morning with a valuable cargo and a string of freighters on his hands. Hanover had joked about such a situation—had laughingly stated Adam would be his heir—but Rait had considered the declaration a jest. Responsibility. He had made a point of avoiding it. But he had it now—in spades. He came to a reluctant decision.
“I want to talk to the men,” he said, and started across the clearing for the wagons.
They gathered quickly, some finishing their interrupted breakfasts, some with only cups of acorn coffee, others merely watchful, dark whiskery faces solemn.
“The freight we’re hauling is worth forty thousand dollars … delivered,” he said, wasting no words on the preliminaries.
“Getting it delivered. That’s what we was hired to do,” a voice commented. “Who’s buying it?”
“The Confederate Army, bivouacked somewhere near Marshall.”
Rube Waterhouse snorted. “Hell. Confederate money ain’t no good!”
“Payment will be made in gold.”
“Now, where they going to get—?”
“All of you quit your arguing. Let the man talk,” a lanky teamster broke in angrily. “He’s trying to tell us something!”
The murmuring died. Malachi Lee said: “Go ahead, Mister Rait. What’re you getting at?”
“Just this. Hanover had no folks. He told me so. That means we’ve inherited the train … cargo and all.”
There was a complete silence, and then someone said: “You saying the forty thousand dollars is ours?”
“Looks like it, along with the wagons and livestock. All we’ve got to do is get delivery made, then we can split, equal share to every man after he’s paid the wages he’s got coming.”
A cheer went up amidst a quick babble of talk. Darby Sims did some hurried calculating, and said: “By damn. We’ll be getting better’n a thousand apiece … in gold!”
More cheers echoed in the clearing.
Bill Gannon, squatting on his heels, shook his head. “Some kind of a ringer here.” He fixed his suspicious eyes on Adam. “You sure you ain’t saying this just so’s we’ll stay on the job. Then when the payoff’s made …?”
“You’ll be there with me,” Adam said, reading the teamster’s thoughts. “You’re all part owners. If you don’t trust me, send a couple of men along when I collect.”
“That’s fair enough!” someone shouted.
“All I’m asking is that you help me get the cargo to Marshall. I figure it’s too late to do the South any good, but I could be wrong. There may be some things I don’t know …”
“We’ll get it there!”
“Then let’s get rolling!” Red Lester urged. “Sooner we do, sooner we can start counting out that gold!”
At once the meeting began to break up. Teamsters, ordinarily in no hurry to take up the leathers for a long day’s drive, now trotted to their wagons and sprang aboard.
“Rider coming!”
There was a lull in activity. Rait, preparing to mount, threw a glance down the dusty road.
It was a soldier, dressed in faded gray trousers and ragged shirt. A crushed kepi was pulled low on his head. Apparently he was a courier on his way to Marshall, or some other encampment. The Confederate spotted the train and staring men, veered his lathered horse toward the grove.
“War’s over!” he cried as he swept by. “Lee’s done surrendered. Place called Appomattox. War’s over.”
The teamsters cheered. The terrible conflict was finished. The South had lost—but the bloodshed and destruction had come to an end. There would be peace.
Peace! Blunt realization struck Adam Rait forcefully. There was no war. Therefore, there was no point in going to Marshall.
Chapter Nine
In singles, pairs, and small groups the teamsters drifted back into the center of the clearing. Elation was gone; the vine of high-flown dreams and suddenly born ambitions had withered almost before it had thrust forth its first tendril.
Adam Rait considered them in silence, noted also the rapt attention being accorded him by the de Aceras. His head came up abruptly as a thought touched him. The deal with the Confederacy was lost—but there were others.
“Well, mister, reckon this leaves us high and dry.”
It was Bill Gannon again, the self-appointed spokesman. The tone of the man’s voice rubbed at Adam’s nerves but he clung to his temper.
“I’ll be drawing what wages I’ve got coming … now.”
“Up to you,” Adam replied. There was enough money in the roll of currency found on Kurt Hanover to pay off a few of the drivers, if they insisted, but he knew he could not settle in full. “Maybe you won’t be wanting it.”
“Goddamn it. Don’t try euchring me!” Gannon flared. “War’s over. Army ain’t got no use for the rifles and cartridges now!”
“There’s Mexico.”
“Mexico! Juárez!” Joe Denver yelled, suddenly remembering. “That Escobar. He was wanting to buy!”
Rait nodded, lifted his hands to still the hubbub. Looking directly at Gannon, he spoke loudly enough for all to hear.
“You’re right. The Confederacy has no need for the cargo now, but I’m not of a mind to turn it over to the Yankees who’ll pay us nothing.”
Again he had to quiet the men. “But we’ve got another customer if you’re willing to risk your necks. It means crossing Comanche country … and there’ll be plenty of renegades fresh out of the army, looking for a stake.”
Adam paused, allowed his words to have their effect. He glanced to the de Aceras. Angela and Hernando were now inside the barouche, listening intently. She had one arm resting on the door, her eyes on him.
“I expect there’s enough of us to take care of a few renegades and Indians,” Rufus Moore drawled. “What’re you getting at?”
“Benito Juárez and his revolution,” Rait said. “That man who drove up when we were unloading … he was a Juárez agent. He wanted to buy the cargo from Hanover.”
“Sell to the Mexicans?” Gannon shouted. “Not on your tintype, mister! Wouldn’t give them the sweat offen my nose!”
“You’d rather give the guns to the Yankees? Throw away a thousand in gold?”
Gannon wagged his head. “Ain’t got no use for greasers. Got my belly full of them in forty-six when I was soldiering down there with Johnny Wool.”
“Nobody’s asking you to side with them. All you’ll have to do is drive your wagon to Juárez City.”
Gannon muttered something unintelligible, fingering the whip coiled about his shoulder.
Another teamster pushed forward. “How you know you can trust this here Juárez? I was with Zach Taylor, and I’m stringing along with Bill and what he’s saying.”
Adam shrugged. “The way I see it, we’ll have to trust him, same as we’d have to trust anybody else we made a deal with. I figure we can.”
Joe Denver said: “We could set ourselves down on this side of the Río Grande, stand pat until they bring us the gol
d.”
There was a quick shout of approval for the suggestion. Rait lifted his arms.
“What’s more, Juárez’s agent offered to make a down payment on the cargo. Don’t know how much … five, maybe ten thousand dollars. If something went wrong, we’d have that much to split.”
“Be better’n wages!”
“Dang right, and a little’s better’n nothing a-tall!”
“Well, I sure ain’t for giving nothing to the goddamn Yankees.”
“Me, neither. I vote we head for Mexico!”
“All right!” Rait had to shout to make himself heard. “Voting’s the way to decide it, but first I aim to get something straight with you.”
He paused, again looked squarely at Bill Gannon. “If we make a deal with Juárez, every man who agrees to go … goes all the way. There’ll be no backing out. That clear?”
“You won’t be fretting over me,” Lars Larsen declared. “With a thousand in gold I can start me that horse ranch I been wanting.”
“Let’s put it to a vote, then. Men who are with me, step over to this side of the clearing.”
There was a general shift, and when it was over only Bill Gannon and Henry Fox had not moved. At once, the other teamsters began to shout and harangue.
Fox waved his arms. “You jaspers don’t know what you’re voting yourselves into. You got any idea how far it is to Juárez City? Be better’n a month’s hard driving. And on them hard tails …”
“Fix yourself an extra blanket, Henry.”
“And that ain’t all. Like Rait said, there’ll be a plenty Comanches. Maybe a few Kiowas and Apaches, along with busted-out soldiers on the loose. They’ll be mean and hungry, bad as the Comanches, even worse.”
“Well, we got ourselves a pretty good little army right here,” Jeremy Haskins, a squat Missourian, said. “And plenty of guns and ammunition … was we to need them.”
“Reckon we could put us up one hell of a scrap at that,” Darby Sims commented.
Adam waited for the talk to fade. When all was quiet, he faced Fox and the scowling Bill Gannon. He needed them both—not only because they were expert teamsters, but there would be times en route when every gun would count. To believe they could move the train eight hundred miles across the hostile land unmolested was sheer nonsense.
