Then he heard hoofbeats drumming in the distance as they steadily drew closer, and he wondered what else was about to go wrong now.
* * *
The shots fell silent as Stovepipe and Wilbur galloped toward the top of the hill. Stovepipe spotted a flash of green on the ground under some trees near the crest and pointed it out to Wilbur.
“Looks like that gal’s hurt!” he called to his friend. “Check on her while I see what’s on the other side of the hill!”
“Be careful!” Wilbur responded as he veered the dun toward the sprawled shape under the trees.
Stovepipe held the reins in his left hand and the Winchester in his right as he leaned forward in his saddle and sent the Palouse charging to the top of the hill. As he reached the crest, he saw an old stone corral part of the way down the far slope. A couple of horses were in the corral, and another saddle mount was moving around skittishly nearby.
A fourth horse, a chestnut that Stovepipe didn’t recognize, was down on the ground, evidently badly wounded, judging by the way it was thrashing around feebly.
A man stood up behind the stone wall and pointed a revolver at him. Stovepipe almost jerked the rifle to his shoulder and blasted the hombre, but he recognized the man at the same time the fella realized who he was.
“Stovepipe!” Dan called.
“You all right?” Stovepipe asked him.
“Yeah, but there’s a bushwhacker around somewhere!”
“Yeah, we heard the shootin’.” Stovepipe pulled the Appaloosa around in a tight, 360-degree turn as he searched for the source of those shots.
No one else was in sight. It was possible the bushwhacker had taken off as soon as he spotted the two riders galloping up the hill toward him. Most varmints who would dry-gulch a man were back shooters who didn’t like having the odds against them, Stovepipe knew.
He rode back and forth, keeping his eyes open, but after a few minutes had to admit that the gunman was gone. He turned the Appaloosa back toward the corral, where Dan waited.
“Looks like the polecat got away,” Stovepipe reported as he reined in.
“What about Mrs. Stafford?” Dan asked anxiously.
“She might’ve been hit. Wilbur’s checkin’ on her.”
Dan climbed quickly over the gate and caught the reins of the other saddled horse. He swung up and rode hard toward the hilltop. Stovepipe was right with him.
They topped the hill and saw Wilbur kneeling beside the woman, who was sitting up now and slowly shaking her head as if she were groggy. Stovepipe and Dan rode up to them and dismounted quickly. Dan knelt on the woman’s other side and asked, “Mrs. Stafford, are you all right?”
“Yes, I . . . I think so,” the woman said. She lifted a hand to her forehead, where a scratch was bleeding a little. That appeared to be her only injury. She went on, “When I heard that first shot I rode up to the top of the hill, Dan, even though you told me not to, and spotted a man under the trees with a rifle. He must have heard me, because he turned around and snapped a shot at me. It missed, but it spooked my horse and he threw me. That . . . that’s all I really know until a minute or two ago when I came to and found this gentleman taking care of me.”
She smiled at Wilbur, who immediately blushed.
Stovepipe said, “Looks like you must’ve hit your head when your horse throwed you, ma’am. Best be careful for a day or two. Gettin’ knocked out’s a tricky business. Sometimes you can’t be sure how bad you’re really hurt.”
“That’s good advice, Mr. . . . ?”
“Stewart, ma’am. They call me Stovepipe. That redheaded runt hoverin’ over you is my pard Wilbur Coleman.”
“Dan’s told me a lot about both of you. I’m Jessica Stafford. My husband owns this ranch.”
Stovepipe pinched the brim of his hat and said, “It’s a plumb pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Just wish it was under better circumstances, that’s all.”
“You don’t know how bad it really is, Stovepipe,” Dan said. “Mrs. Stafford, I sure hate to tell you this, but—”
“It’s Henry, isn’t it?” she broke in. A look of bleak acceptance settled over her face. “Those buzzards we saw . . . it was his body attracting them, wasn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. He’s down there by that old corral.”
Jessica looked at Wilbur and said, “Please help me up.”
“Of course, ma’am,” he said.
While Wilbur was doing that, Stovepipe said, “Miz Stafford, it might be better if you was to wait here—”
“No,” she interrupted sharply. “I want to see him. I have to see him.”
With a solemn look wreathing his craggy face, Stovepipe nodded. He wasn’t going to tell a bereaved woman what she could or couldn’t do. Everybody handled tragic losses in a different way.
With Wilbur beside her, his arm linked with hers in case she stumbled on the rough ground, Jessica headed down the hill to look at the body of her dead husband.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Henry Stafford had been shot once in the back. The bullet had gone through his body and exploded out of his chest, making a fist-sized hole in the process. He was lying on his stomach, but his head was turned far enough to the side so that his face was visible. His expression was one more of surprise than pain. He’d had just about enough time to realize that something bad had happened before he died, mused Stovepipe.
Jessica made a choking sound and turned toward Wilbur, who awkwardly put his arms around her, patted her tentatively on the back, and looked like he wished he could be anywhere else right now, even facing a horde of bloodthirsty Apaches. He grimaced as he looked over Jessica’s shoulder to Stovepipe for help.
“Come on, Miz Stafford,” the lanky cowboy said. “There ain’t nothin’ you can do here. We’ll load up your husband’s body and take it back to the ranch for you.”
Jessica lifted her head from Wilbur’s shoulder, sniffled a little, and said, “You can’t. You two and Dan are hiding out from the law, remember?”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Dan. “What’s important is getting you home, where you’ll be safe.”
“Is any place in this basin safe anymore?” she asked.
None of the three men could answer that question.
“The three of you should stay here,” Jessica went on. “I can get back to the ranch with Henry’s body by myself.”
“No, that’s not going to happen,” said Dan. “With rustlers and bushwhackers roaming around and killing people at will, it’s not safe for you to ride back there by yourself. We’re coming with you, and that’s all there is to it.”
Jessica looked like she wanted to argue some more, but instead she said, “All right. It’ll be the middle of the day by the time we get there. Maybe most of the crew will be out on the range. There’s a slim chance you’ll be able to get out of sight in the house before anyone notices you.”
“Don’t worry about that, ma’am,” Wilbur told her. “You’ve, uh, got more important things to concern yourself with right now.”
“Yes. My husband is dead.” For a second Jessica looked like she might crumple into tears again, but then she squared her shoulders and held her head up higher. “And if there’s one thing I learned from being married to Henry, it’s how to be a frontier woman. I’m not going to break down again, gentlemen—and I’m not going to rest until whoever murdered my husband is brought to justice.”
Jessica walked back up into the trees while the men loaded Stafford’s body on the horse that had brought him out here. Since the chestnut Dan had been riding was dead, he would travel back to the HS Bar headquarters on Stafford’s horse with the rancher’s corpse. When the men headed up to the hilltop, they found that Jessica was already mounted and ready to go.
“You folks head on,” Stovepipe told the others. “I’ll catch up.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Dan.
“I want to take a look at the area where that bushwhacker was lurkin’.”
The others continued south while Stovepipe turned back. He rode in and out of the trees along the hilltop for several minutes, studying the ground, the trunks, and everything else he could see. Then he wheeled his Appaloosa around and trotted after his companions, who were moving at a slower pace.
As he trotted up alongside them, Dan asked, “Did you find anything?”
“Nothin’ helpful,” replied Stovepipe. He noticed that Jessica was frowning and picking at one of the sleeves of her blouse. “Are you all right, ma’am, or as all right as you can be under the circumstances, anyway?”
“Yes, I’m just . . . This blouse is ruined! It got all snagged up when I fell off my horse. And . . . and Henry always loved it . . .”
Tears welled from her eyes again and rolled down her smooth, tanned cheeks. The men rode in silence, allowing her to work through her grief. Stovepipe turned his head and stared into the distance as he tugged briefly at his right earlobe, then ran his thumbnail along the line of his jaw.
As Jessica had said, it was close to midday by the time they came in sight of the ranch headquarters. She reined in next to a brushy knoll, and the men followed suit.
“Surely it would be safe for me to go the rest of the way on my own,” she said. “You can turn back now and hide out in the hills. Dan, you and I trade horses and I’ll take Henry’s body the rest of the way.”
“I don’t know,” Dan began dubiously. “I’d like to make sure Laura’s all right.”
“She’s bound to be. She’s smart enough to have stayed out of sight in the house—”
Before Jessica could go on, hoofbeats suddenly sounded as a large group of riders surged around the knoll toward them. Jessica gasped in surprise, and Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Dan reached for their guns, only to stop as they realized that the newcomers were bristling with weapons, all pointed at the four of them.
Sheriff Frank Olsen, in the forefront of the group, bellowed, “Hold it, you varmints! I knew I’d catch up to you sooner or later. Nobody busts outta my jail and gets away with it!” He leveled the Colt in his fist at the three men and went on, “Get away from ’em, Miz Stafford. You’re safe now.”
“Sheriff, what are you—” Jessica began.
By now the posse had surrounded the four riders. Olsen frowned darkly as he exclaimed, “Good Lord! Is that—begging your pardon, ma’am—is that your husband draped over that horse?”
“Yes,” said Jessica. “Henry was murdered last night, up in the hills where that old Spanish stone corral is. But these men had nothing to do with it.”
“I don’t know about that, but they’re already in trouble for busting out of jail and Hartford still has a murder charge hanging over his head from Abel Dempsey’s killing. Now, ma’am, please . . .”
Jessica looked helplessly at Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Dan. Stovepipe told her quietly, “It’s all right, ma’am. You just need to go on inside your house and take care of ever’thing in there.”
She looked at him for a moment, then nodded, seeming to understand that he was talking about Laura Dempsey. Just because he and Wilbur and Dan had been captured, there was no need for Laura to be locked up, too. Stovepipe knew Dan wouldn’t mention that she was here at the HS Bar.
Jessica sighed and said, “All right. But don’t worry, gentlemen. I’m sure the truth will come out sooner or later.”
“I reckon you can count on that,” Stovepipe told her.
The ring of possemen parted to let Jessica through. Olsen snapped, “Hartford, get down off that horse. Warren, you take Mr. Stafford’s body and go on to the house with Mrs. Stafford.”
“Sure, Sheriff,” the deputy said as he moved his horse forward to take the reins from Dan, who dismounted and stood there.
“Ride double with Coleman,” said Olsen as he gestured with his gun toward Wilbur.
“Careful, Sheriff,” Wilbur said. “You don’t want that hogleg going off by accident.”
“If it goes off, it won’t be an accident,” Olsen said gruffly. “Now, hand over your guns, all of you.”
Dan surrendered the revolver he had taken from Brock Matthews during the jailbreak, along with the rifle he had brought from the HS Bar ranch house early that morning. Stovepipe and Wilbur handed their Winchesters to members of the posse. Then, with Dan riding behind Wilbur, they all headed toward the house.
“Oh Lord, no,” breathed Dan as they came in sight of the porch. Laura stood there with a couple of the temporary deputies flanking her.
“That’s right,” said Olsen. “We searched the house, too, and found her. Did you think we wouldn’t?”
“I was hoping you’d have the sense to know that Laura is blameless in this whole mess,” Dan said.
“I’m not so sure about that. I’ve had some time to think while we’ve been scouring the range for you fellas, and it’s pretty obvious to me now that Mrs. Dempsey was in on the whole thing with you all along. Shoot, for all I know, she’s the one who came up with the plan to murder her husband.”
Dan stared at him in horror and said, “You can’t mean that, Sheriff !”
“That would explain why she risked her neck breaking you out of jail,” Olsen went on stubbornly. “She couldn’t afford to leave you there and take a chance that you’d talk. I don’t know if we can prove that killing Dempsey was her idea, but I reckon she’s guilty of enough we can prove that she’ll spend a good number of years behind bars.”
Stovepipe could tell by the look in Dan’s eyes that the young cowboy was about to lose control. If that happened, there was no telling what he might do. He might try to tackle one of the possemen and grab a gun, and if he did, they would probably all wind up getting shot. Stovepipe knew he couldn’t get to the bottom of this mess with half a dozen holes blown through him.
“Dan,” he said with an unmistakable intensity in his voice, “you got to take it easy here. Losin’ your head ain’t gonna do anybody any good.”
“Take it easy?” Dan repeated. “Stovepipe, this badge-toting idiot is about to lock us up again!”
Olsen growled and moved his horse closer to the one carrying Wilbur and Dan.
“You’d best watch what you say, mister,” warned the sheriff. “I’m about out of patience with you, and a good pistol-whipping won’t keep you from standing trial for your crimes.”
Wilbur turned his head to look at the man riding behind him and said, “Stovepipe’s right, Dan. We’ve still got a few tricks up our sleeves.”
“Well, you’d better not try ’em,” snapped Olsen.
They had reached the house by now. Laura looked miserable as she said, “I’m sorry, Dan. There was no way I could keep them from finding me.”
“It’s not your fault,” he told her. “None of it is.”
Olsen moved his horse closer to the porch and told Laura, “You’ll need to mount up now, ma’am. We’re all on our way back to Hat Creek.”
“So you can lock us up when we get there?” she challenged him.
“So I can do my job,” Olsen said. “And yes, ma’am, that includes slamming a cell door behind each and every one of you!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was a gloomy quartet of prisoners who rode slowly toward Hat Creek with the members of the posse surrounding them. Dan and Laura both looked upset and worried. Stovepipe figured each of them was more concerned with the other, rather than with their own plight. Wilbur rode along stoically. Sheriff Frank Olsen and Deputy Warren Purdue led the group. Both of them seemed well pleased with themselves.
Being in captivity didn’t stop Stovepipe’s brain from working. His thoughts were racing as he considered all the things he had seen and heard since he and Wilbur had arrived in the Tonto Basin. There was a lot of information to sift through, but a vague picture was beginning to form in Stovepipe’s mind. All the details weren’t clear yet, though, and he still had to come up with evidence to support the nebulous theory.
After thinking for a few minutes longer, he nudged his horse ahead of the others. Several of the pos
se members immediately swung their guns toward him, and Deputy Purdue looked back over his shoulder and snarled, “Hey, there! You get back where you’re supposed to be, mister.”
“I need to talk to the sheriff,” said Stovepipe.
“Save the talkin’ for your trial—”
“I just want to ask a question,” Stovepipe insisted.
Purdue was about to berate him some more, but Sheriff Olsen half turned in the saddle and lifted a hand to silence the deputy. Olsen frowned at Stovepipe and said, “What is it you want, Stewart?”
“All right to come up alongside of you?”
“Yeah, I suppose.” Olsen drew his revolver and rested the barrel across the saddle in front of him. “Just don’t try any tricks.”
“No tricks,” Stovepipe assured Olsen as he pulled the Appaloosa up alongside the lawman. Quietly, he continued, “How come you happened to be at the HS Bar to nab us like that, Sheriff?”
“What do you mean, ‘happened to be’? I’ve been searching all over the basin ever since you varmints broke out of jail.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I’ve got a hunch somebody tipped you off to look for us today at Henry Stafford’s ranch.”
The creases on Olsen’s forehead deepened as he said, “What makes you think that?”
“I’m right, ain’t I?” asked Stovepipe, not answering the sheriff’s question.
Olsen hesitated, then asked, “What if you are?”
“We can volley questions back and forth all day, Sheriff, without accomplishin’ a durned thing.”
“All right, blast it,” snapped Olsen. “Yeah, a fella showed up in town this morning and came to the office to say he thought he’d spotted you out here. He was sure enough about it that I figured it was worth checking out.”
“The hombre was a stranger, wasn’t he?”
“How’d you know that?”
“Just a guess,” said Stovepipe. “Some fella just driftin’ through these parts, eh?”
Olsen glared at him and said, “You sound like you’re trying to get at something, Stewart. Whatever it is, spit it out.”
“Nope, just curious, is all,” said Stovepipe with a shake of his head.
The Range Detectives Page 18