by Kurt Barker
“Well, it's all lies, of course.”
“Of course. What happened to her?”
“Mariposa met the same fate as the rest of the gang at the Fergus ranch. Now she lies forever 'neath the waves of the mighty river in the eternal embrace of her lover El Potro.”
Blackshot laughed. “Why, Mr. Marvin! That's a very romantic notion for a newsman who only prints the facts!”
“I know what sells papers. Got to eat and feed the boy, too, y'know!”
Blackshot turned back to the photograph and examined it further. To one side of El Potro stood a man that could only be Viking Mike; he was a great bull of a man with wild eyes and an immense blonde beard which was woven into two braids that hung down his chest. Flanking El Potro on the other side were two men standing side by side. The nearest one was short and well built, with a crooked grin and the dress of a Cherokee warrior. It was the other man that drew Blackshot's attention, however; his eyes moved over the long hair, the wide-brimmed hat, the hook where the right hand should be.
“Either this has become a popular look for fashionable gentlemen in these parts, or Gancho Chavez isn't as dead as you think,” he said.
“I tell you, it's impossible. I'm sure it was dark out there in the canyon last night; you must have seen something else.”
Blackshot stood up. “Well, I can't prove it to Herald standards, but I know what I saw. I suppose this makes me an unreliable source for your story on the trouble at the well.”
“Oh, I'll print it,” Marvin replied, shaking Blackshot's hand. “I assume you'll take no offense if I leave certain parts out, though?”
“A cool drink on a hot day can put me in a very forgiving mood. I'd best get back to my business if I want to get finished with it before the famous sheriff runs me out of town.”
Blackshot stepped back out into the remorseless sunlight and swung into the saddle. He guided the stallion in the direction of the saloon again and set off to find Buster Groom. Still he found his thoughts more occupied with Gancho Chavez and El Potro's gang than with Groom. He told himself that the matter didn't concern him, and he'd be better off concentrating on his own business, but it did no good. He traced the image of the photograph in his mind; Mariposa the naked beauty, the giant Viking Mike with his braided beard--
Suddenly another image flashed into Blackshot's mind, one that made him unconsciously pull Khamsin up short in the street; Ingrid stretched out beneath him on the table, her long blonde braid swaying on her bare back. Ingrid.... Ingrid Peters. Or perhaps, Ingrid Pedersen?
It was possible; the hair, the complexion, and they were both tall.... Was this why they were being haunted by the “ghost” of Gancho Chavez? Of course, Molly looked about as Nordic as Khamsin did, and Grace, well, who the hell knows? And none of this changed the fact that it was none of his affair. Blackshot shook his head and started once more toward the saloon. There was probably a juicy story in this for Sam Marvin, but he'd never believe it!
Chapter 11
Henley's Saloon and Dancing Hall was situated at the head of the street where it could not be missed, and even at this hour of the day many locals had not missed it. Blackshot made his way through the crowd and, starting with the bartender, began to ask around about Buster Groom. Sure enough, a few people new him as a regular at the bar, but he hadn't been in since yesterday, and no one was sure where he was staying, or who the woman was that he had come to see.
As he was leaving the saloon, Blackshot felt a hand on his arm and turned to see a bald man with a wispy beard grinning at him with a mouth missing half its teeth. “Hey, you're the guy that the sheriff told to leave town, ain'tcha?” he asked.
“Sorry, I don't give out autographs,” Blackshot said.
“I hear you was looking for Buster Groom. Whatcha gonna do when you find him? Are you gonna shoot him?”
“Are you a friend of his or is this just morbid curiosity?”
“Groom owes me money, and I need it back,” the man explained. “I can take you to where he's staying, but if you shoot him I ain't gonna see my money again.”
“I've got no plans to shoot him,” Blackshot said. “If you lead me to him I'll make sure he coughs up your money before I settle my business with him.”
“I'll take that deal. Let me fetch my nag and we'll ride 'round to see him.”
Blackshot went out to the hitching post and retrieved Khamsin, and after a few minutes the bearded man appeared from around the side of the building, a threadbare bowler hat at a jaunty angle on his bald head. He sat astride an ambling dapple gray mare that looked like its best days were long behind it.
“Buster's old lady's got a shack up in them hills outside of town,” the man lisped as he pulled alongside of Blackshot. “It's a bit of a ride, but we'll get there soon enough.”
“Fine. Lead on.”
The old gray was in no hurry, but even so they reached the edge of town in only a short time and began to ascend up a winding trail through the rocky hills. Far off in the valley came the echoing trumpet of a locomotive as it steamed across the arid landscape toward Jubilation. It made Blackshot think of train robbers and El Potro again, but this time he put it out of his mind. With any luck he would nab Groom and be out of Jubilation and well on his way back to collect the reward money before sundown, and whatever the story was with Gancho Chavez and the widows would be done as far as he was concerned.
The stony trail leveled out as they rode and soon they came to a broad, gentle slope that sat overlooking the town in the shadow of the jagged cliffs. There was patchy grass here and there, and along a deep gash that cleaved the land from the sheer wall of the canyon was a small cabin surrounded by a dilapidated wooden fence.
The bearded man stuck out a crooked finger toward the house. “In there, that's where you'll find him; him and his old lady. Remember our deal.”
“I haven't forgotten.” Blackshot rode forward toward the house, then turned to see that his riding companion had stopped at the mouth of the trail. “What are you waiting for?”
“I figured I'd let you talk to him first. I don't reckon he'll be glad to see me.”
The man's demeanor had changed and he seemed jumpy now; Blackshot didn't like it, and he started he feel a little on edge, too. “Come along, ride with me,” he said.
“I'd just as soon wait. Like I said-”
“I'd just as soon you rode with me.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I get lonely easily. Humor me.”
“Suit yourself.”
Reluctantly the gap-toothed man nudged his horse forward to fall in beside Blackshot. As they rode toward the house, Blackshot saw more signs that made him uneasy; even though the soil was dry and dusty he could make out the tracks of several horses, maybe five or six and all recent. That was a lot of activity for a little house with not a horse in sight.
Suddenly Blackshot drew the black Colt at his hip and jabbed it roughly into the side of the other man. “What the hell is going on here?” he snarled. “Come out with it fast if you want your guts to stay where they are!”
“Easy now! Take it easy there, fella!” a familiar voice called.
Blackshot looked up to see Sheriff Preston standing in the doorway of the little house with a revolver in his hand. Other movement caught his eye and he turned to see a man with a rifle trained on him stand up from behind a rocky outcropping at the cliff's edge. Another rifleman appeared from behind the house with a couple of other armed men in tow.
“You're a smart one; you figured it out before you got half way to the door,” Sheriff Preston chuckled. “Smart, but not smart enough!”
Chapter 12
“What's your game, Preston?” Blackshot growled.
“Oh, it's no game, my friend,” Sheriff Preston replied. “I'm as serious as a man can get, so don't test me. Put that gun back in its holster nice and slow.”
The gunmen had surrounded Blackshot's horse now, so he reluctantly did as the sheriff had instructed him. He noted that the two with the ri
fles wore silver badges like Preston's; his deputies, no doubt. Preston motioned to the bald man, who pulled the two Colts from Blackshot's holsters and then rode a good distance away.
“Get down off that horse and come inside,” Preston said. “It's too hot for chatting out here.”
Blackshot dismounted and followed the sheriff into the house with the armed men covering him at every step. The room that they entered made up the whole interior of the house, and was largely empty save for a chair and an old sea chest at the center of the room, along with some bedrolls laid out by the back wall. Blackshot was ushered to the chair and once he had taken it, Preston sat down on the sea chest opposite him.
“You want to tell me what this is all about, sheriff?” Blackshot inquired.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” Preston answered. “Of course, I think you know as well as I do what's at stake here, but I'm not going to bother trying to get you to admit it. Once you started working for those two bitches, you signed your own death warrant, and that's a fact!”
“Working for who? The sisters?”
“Sisters!” Preston threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Is that what they told you? Or are you still playing dumb?”
“I'm as serious as a man can get, just like you.”
The tone in Blackshot's voice made Preston stop and take notice. “Those two are no sisters,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing. “A year ago they were strangers.”
Blackshot noted that, like Sam Marvin, Preston referred to the widows as two women, not three, but he wasn't about to correct him and give him information that he didn't have. Instead he said, “One's the sister of Viking Mike Pedersen, isn't she?”
“So they told you that much, eh?”
“No, I got it straight from the Jubilation Herald.”
Preston snorted derisively. “Yeah, I heard you were talking to that old drunk Sam Marvin. What else did he tell you?”
“Just that you're a real hero. He says you took down Viking Mike and the rest of El Potro's gang; only something makes me think there's a lot more to that story that didn't make the papers.”
“Yeah, there was a lot more; a hell of a lot. Don't pretend you don't know; you wouldn't have come into town to kill me if those bitches hadn't told you the story-- unless you're just doing it for a cut of the money!”
“What kind of bullshit is this? I didn't come here to kill you!”
“Come off it! You're nothing but an opportunist and when you played the hero out at the wells last night, those two harpies got their claws into you! They sent you straight here to do me in like the backstabbing snakes that they are! Well, their old pal El Potro double-crossed me, and see where it got him! You'll join him in hell!”
“So that's what this is about; you had some dirty deal going on under the table with El Potro,” Blackshot surmised.
“Yeah, we had a nice arrangement worked out, and I held up my end of the bargain! I'd keep an eye on the trains and when there was good money or valuables on board one of 'em, I'd get the word to El Potro so he could intercept it. He'd give me a cut of what he took and we all made out pretty well, at least at first.”
“Don't tell me that your deal with El Potro went sour! What happened to honor among thieves?”
“You can keep your smart remarks to yourself!” Sheriff Preston snapped. “You're in no position to be getting on my bad side, in case you haven't noticed! Yeah, it all went south; I tipped off El Potro about a big payroll coming through on its way to the rail workers in Santa Fe. It was the biggest haul that penny-ante holdup man had ever seen, and what did he do once he got the money? He kept it all for himself and stiffed me on my cut! Thought he could head back down to Mexico with the cash and leave me sitting here with nothing! You don't cross Calvin Preston that way, no sir!”
“So what?” Blackshot said with a shrug. “You got your revenge, didn't you? They even turned you into a damn hero over it, so what are you complaining about?”
“What am I complaining about?!” Preston fumed. “The money, you fool! The fucking snake hid it all somewhere! It's enough money to live like a king and I can't get my hands on it because nobody that's still alive knows where it is-- only somebody knows! Those bitches know! They have to!”
“You're crazy, Preston. How would those girls know where El Potro hid his loot?”
“How do you think?! They were as tight with the gang as they could be! You know that the blonde one is Viking Mike's sister! After her no-good husband drank himself to death, Viking Mike would send her money regular-like! Then last year he saw that redheaded dance hall whore shaking her ass down at Henley's Saloon and he up and married the dumb bitch like the lunatic he was! He stuck her out there at the well with the sister while he was riding with El Potro! Who else would the gang stash the loot with? They're the only ones they'd trust!”
“So you're the one that sent those thugs out there to their house, right? You thought they could get the money out of the girls? A pretty clumsy plan if you ask me.”
“You don't get it!” Preston sneered. “I searched that house from top to bottom the day after we killed the gang! The whole posse went over the place from stem to stern and tore it all apart! I figured I could at least get the reward that the railroad was offering for the return of the payroll, but the money wasn't there! El Potro stashed it somewhere else, and those two whores are the only ones who know where it's hidden!”
He stood up and flipped up the latches on the sea chest. As he hefted the big trunk open he continued, “Those saddle bums weren't out there last night to find the money. I sent 'em to put a scare into those bitches, so they'd look for someone to help them out-- only you drifted in and fowled it up!”
“And who were they supposed to turn to for help? You?” Blackshot retorted. “You had to figure that they'd know you were behind the attack in the first place.”
“Yeah, of course they'd know it was me,” Preston replied. He reached into the chest and drew out a wide-brimmed hat and a long brown wig. Once he had donned them he pulled out a leather pouch that slipped over his hand, and attached to the pouch was a silver hook. “But lucky for them an old friend was going to show up and save 'em from the mean ol' sheriff!”
Chapter 13
“So it was you out there skulking in the rocks,” Blackshot said. “You really think a harebrained scheme like that was going to work?”
“Of course it would, and it still will!” Sheriff Preston gloated. “You see, when the gang started hanging out at the wells, Gancho Chavez fucked the blonde bitch a few times behind Viking Mike's back. When Mike found out, he wouldn't let Gancho stay in the house anymore. That was before Mike married the redhead and brought her out there, so the whore only saw Gancho a few times in passing, usually from a distance. As long as I deal with her and don't let the blonde see me too close until it's too late, I can pull it off like a dream.”
“You're dreaming all right.”
Preston removed the disguise and began loading the pieces into a small sack which he had taken from the chest. “I appreciate your concern for me, but you've got more pressing worries at the moment. I thought maybe the harpies had told you where the money was, but I can see now that they were just using you for a patsy. You're going to be leaving town before sunset like I told you, but leaving permanently. The fellas here will make sure of that, isn't that right?”
One of the gunmen, a tall, well-built man with shaggy black hair, grunted a laugh and said, “Yeah, keep it quiet and make sure the body don't get found. We got it.”
“Right, but remember that you need to give me and the deputies time to get back to town,” Preston replied, throwing the sack over his shoulder as he made for the door. “I don't want to be connected to this if anyone does find out.” He turned to Blackshot. “You should have known better than to go into business with women. Too late to learn that lesson now, of course.”
“Ride easy, sheriff,” Blackshot said. “I don't want you falling on that slippery trail down th
e hill and doing yourself in; I want to finish you off myself.”
“Ha! Many have tried!” As Preston left the house, the pair of deputies followed him and the bald man with the wispy beard got up and shut the door behind them. A moment later they heard the muffled thumps of a trio of trotting horses sounding through the thin walls and then fading away down the trail.
Blackshot sat back in his chair and cast an appraising eye over the four men that remained. There was the tall man who lounged against the wall by the door, then a beady-eyed man with long hair and a thick beard, who handled his rifle nervously as he lingered at the back of the room, a doughy young man with a sunburned nose, who stood in front of the back door with his right hand never leaving the butt of the pistol at his hip, and then the bald man who had Blackshot's Colts stuffed in his waistband.
Blackshot grinned at the four tense faces. “Well, what's the plan, boys? How's it going down?”
“We're waitin' like he said,” the bald man spoke up hesitantly.
“We don't gotta wait too long,” the shaggy-haired tough growled. “Ain't nobody ever comes up here anyway, so it don't make no difference to me. C'mon, get up and let's go.”
Blackshot didn't move. “Go where?”
“What do you care? It's all the same for you! Move!”
“What are we gonna do, Lucky?” the young man asked quietly.
“We'll toss 'im off the cliff,” the big man replied. “It's a big drop. Nobody gonna find him down there.”
“The horse, too?”
“The horse? Uh....” Lucky paused and glanced up at the blank faces of the others.
Blackshot laughed. “Just what circus did Preston drag you four clowns out of? Couldn't he find anybody in town with a brain, or are you the best he could do after the other lot didn't come back from the well?”
“Shut your yap! Get on your fuckin' feet or I'll plug you! I ain't that worried about keepin' it quiet if that's the way you wanna play it!”
Lucky yanked open the front door and backed through it, covering Blackshot with his rifle as he stood up from the chair. The two bearded men circled around to meet on either side of the door, and the sunburned man walked up beside Blackshot with his pistol drawn and pushed him forward with his free hand.