“Any trouble?” That was Forbes Dyson’s voice. Armbruster recognized it from Dyson’s announcement to begin the strongman contest earlier in the day.
The thought of that event made Armbruster’s stomach clench sickeningly for a moment. He’d had no idea that Mendoza’s plans for kidnapping Luella Tolman included murdering two men in cold blood, including the big miner who had been friendly to Armbruster in the Silver King.
Since then, Armbruster had discovered that Sanchez, known to be a crack marksman, had been the hidden rifleman, shooting the two contestants from the roof of a building down the street.
But all that was over and done with, and there was nothing Armbruster could do about it. Instead, he concentrated on the here and now.
“Everything’s been peaceful,” the guard replied to Dyson’s question. “Nobody’s been hanging around. I halfway thought some of the fellas might work themselves up into wanting to lynch that damn greaser.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Dyson said. “I have a better use for Jaime Mendoza.”
“Gonna collect the reward on him, eh?”
“Better than that.” Armbruster heard Dyson chuckle. “He’s going to help us all become rich men.”
A frown creased Armbruster’s forehead. What did Dyson mean by that?
Maybe instead of trying to rescue Mendoza, it would be better for Armbruster to wait and listen to what Forbes Dyson had in mind.
“Open the door,” Dyson said. “I’m going to talk to Mendoza.”
The guard sounded dubious as he began, “Boss, are you sure—”
“I said open the door.”
Dyson’s tone didn’t leave any room for argument.
The shadows were still thick on the left side of the smokehouse. Armbruster pressed his back to the wall and slid toward the front of the building, still concealed but able to see and hear better.
He heard the rattle of a key in a padlock, and then a match rasped into flame. Yellow light from a lantern spilled on the ground. Hinges creaked as the smokehouse door opened.
“Don’t try anything, Mendoza,” Dyson warned. “These men have shotguns, and they won’t hesitate to blow you to hell.”
From inside the smokehouse, his voice slightly muffled, Jaime Mendoza said, “Why should I care, señor? A shotgun or a hangman’s rope, I am still dead either way, no?”
“You don’t have to be dead at all,” Dyson snapped. “Just listen to me and cooperate, and you’ll not only get out of here alive, but you’ll also have some silver in your pockets . . . and that girl you tried so hard to carry off today.”
Luella! Armbruster thought. Now that he had seen her, touched her, the thought of Mendoza’s hands on her, with her completely in his power, sickened him even more than seeing those men shot down.
“Go on,” Mendoza said to Dyson.
“Tomorrow evening, during the boxing matches, Jack Bouma and the rest of my men are going to blow open the safe in George McCallum’s freight office and clean out the biggest shipment of silver ore this part of the country has ever seen. It’s been building up for weeks now. The mine owners wanted it shipped all at once, and they’ve provided plenty of guards. But those guards are going to be distracted like everyone else in town tomorrow night, so that’s when we’ll hit the safe. At the same time, some of the other businesses in town are going to be robbed, including the Silver King. Since I’ll be one of the victims, too, no one will suspect I was behind the whole thing. It’ll just look like Bouma double-crossed me.”
“An audacious plan,” Mendoza murmured, so quietly Armbruster almost couldn’t make out the words. “This is why you staged those contests to begin with?”
Dyson laughed and said, “Mostly. But I must admit, I’ve enjoyed seeing all the excitement in town, too. I want Silverhill to survive—and thrive—because I plan to own the whole place in due time, as well as all the mines in the mountains. This is just the first step in that plan.”
“You are bold, señor, and it is said that fortune favors the bold.” Armbruster could practically see Mendoza eloquently spreading his hands in the lantern light as the bandit went on, “But how does any of this enrich me?”
“Tomorrow evening,” Dyson said, “you’re going to escape from this smokehouse. When you do, make for the boxing ring that’ll be set up in the street. All the girls will be there, watching. The blast that blows open the safe will go off at the same time. You grab Miss Tolman. You’ll be an added distraction to help make sure my men get away.”
“It sounds as if this will be very dangerous for me, señor.”
“Well,” Dyson said, “a man never got his hands on anything worthwhile without taking a little risk, did he?”
“True,” Mendoza admitted. “Then, after I make my escape with the señorita, you will send my share of the payoff from the robbery to me?”
“That’s it exactly.”
“And I must trust you to do this?”
“You know the truth about what’s really going on,” Dyson said. “I can’t afford to double-cross you.”
After a couple of seconds of silence, Mendoza said, “This is true. Not only will I have the ability to expose your villainy . . . if you betray me, but I will also kill you, Señor Dyson.”
“We don’t need to resort to threats,” Dyson snapped. “We either understand each other or we don’t, Mendoza.”
“We understand each other,” the bandit chief said. “And we have a bargain.”
“Good. I wish I could offer you more comfortable accommodations in the meantime, but we have to keep up appearances.”
“Of course. Throw a little extra in my share to make up for it, eh?”
Both men laughed at that, but Dyson didn’t promise to go along with the suggestion.
“Be ready tomorrow night,” Dyson said. Then the shadows shifted as he took the lantern and left the smokehouse.
Armbruster stayed where he was, his body motionless but his thoughts whirling madly, until Dyson’s footsteps had faded into the darkness. Then he eased away from the smokehouse and hurried silently back to the spot where he had left Sanchez and the other bandits.
Sanchez reached out of the shadows and gripped his arm tightly.
“Did you talk to Jaime?” Sanchez asked in a harsh whisper.
“Yes,” Armbruster lied, “and there’s been a change of plan. Here’s what we’re supposed to do . . .”
* * *
Kenton O’Keefe wanted to light the cigar that was clamped between his teeth, but he suppressed the impulse. The smell of tobacco smoke, to say nothing of the flare of a match, might give away his presence in the darkened shed attached to the blacksmith shop.
Forbes Dyson needed to be far away from his mysterious meeting with the bandit Mendoza before O’Keefe ventured out from the shadows.
O’Keefe had been playing a hunch again when he followed Dyson from the Silver King down here to the far end of town. Dyson hadn’t been moving furtively or anything like that. O’Keefe wasn’t sure anyone with Dyson’s ego was even capable of doing anything furtively.
But something about the saloon owner’s manner had told O’Keefe that it might be worthwhile to trail him.
Since eavesdropping on that suspicious conversation between Dyson and Jack Bouma, O’Keefe had tried to figure out just what the two men were up to, but he hadn’t been able to come up with a theory. He’d followed Dyson in the hope that the man’s late-night jaunt might give him a clue.
Instead, it had only deepened the mystery. Dyson had paid a visit to Jaime Mendoza in the smokehouse. O’Keefe couldn’t think of a reason for Dyson to do that . . . unless Dyson was trying to recruit the bandit for whatever scheme he and Bouma had cooked up.
The longer O’Keefe stood in the shadows and pondered that possibility, the more likely it seemed. Mendoza would be a formidable ally, and no one would ever suspect that Dyson was working with him.
No one except Kenton O’Keefe, that is.
O’Keefe smiled in th
e darkness. He was a gambler, and if he wanted to claim a slice of whatever payoff Forbes Dyson had in the works . . .
Maybe it was time to run a bluff.
CHAPTER 35
By the next morning, Silverhill hadn’t forgotten what had happened the day before, but after a night during which no further trouble had erupted, the town seemed to have drawn a deep breath and relaxed a little.
The atmosphere on the street was fairly calm as Bo stood on the hotel porch and looked up and down, but excitement was building. The shooting contest would take place at eleven o’clock. Men were already standing around talking about it and laying bets on the outcome.
Scratch and Rance Plummer were upstairs, waiting to escort the ladies down when they were ready to eat breakfast. Bo had ventured out to get a feel for the town. He didn’t see anything wrong....
Some instinct made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, though. Like the feeling in the air before one hell of a thunderstorm breaks loose.
Forbes Dyson strolled along the boardwalk with Jack Bouma, both men looking as self-satisfied as ever. They came up to Bo, and Dyson said, “How are our special guests this morning, Creel?”
“You mean the young ladies?”
Bouma sneered and said, “He sure as hell don’t mean you, saddle tramp.”
Bo ignored that and went on, “They’re fine. I spoke briefly to each of them, and they assured me that they’re still willing to carry on, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I was more concerned with the ladies’ well-being, but I won’t deny I’m glad to hear that yesterday’s unfortunate events didn’t sour them on everything else.”
“Unfortunate events,” Bo repeated. “You mean two hombres getting gunned down and the riot that followed those killings?”
“I think it’s a stretch to call what happened a riot. People were upset and frightened and trying to get out of harm’s way, and understandably so.”
“What’s going to happen to Mendoza?”
“I’ve discussed it with the mine owners and the other leaders in the community, and we’ll continue holding him in custody until all the festivities are over. Then Jack and some of his associates will take him under heavy guard to El Paso and turn him over to the authorities there.”
“You worried about the reward, Creel?” Bouma drawled. “We’ll tell the law it was you and that other old pelican who caught him, so you can claim the blood money.”
Bo shook his head and said, “I don’t care about the reward. I just don’t want what’s left of his gang showing up to bust him out—and putting innocent folks in danger in the process.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Dyson said. “There can’t be enough of Mendoza’s gang left to stage a real raid on the town, and nothing less than that would free him. No, I think it’s more likely those bandits are south of the border by now.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Bo said. “For the town’s sake.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Dyson’s tone made it clear he didn’t really give a damn whether Bo excused him or not. “I believe I’ll go in and wait to say hello to the ladies when they come down for breakfast. I might even join them, if they’re agreeable.”
Dyson and Bouma went into the hotel. In one way, Bo was glad to see them go. Talking to those two was like trying to have a conversation with a couple of diamondback rattlesnakes.
On the other hand, it was usually better to keep a venomous serpent where you could see him . . . so you could blow the bastard’s head off if he tried to strike.
With that thought in his brain, Bo went back into the hotel, too.
* * *
The shooting contest was staged in the street, like the strongman competition had been. Thick boards with paper targets tacked to them were set up. Even though complete misses were unlikely, the street was cleared beyond the targets. Spectators lined the boardwalks as the contestants got ready to shoot.
Bo, Scratch, Rance Plummer, and the five young women were on the hotel porch, as before.
Fourteen men had signed up for this event. Some of them looked a little nervous, Bo thought. That might be because they were eager to get started and hoped they would win, but some of the nerves probably stemmed from what had happened the day before. Those shots that had struck down Seamus Donnigan and Big Dog McCreary had been like bolts out of the blue, and nobody wanted that to happen again.
Dyson had sent men to check the roofs of all the buildings along the street, since it was thought that the killer had fired from one of them. As far as Bo knew, the searchers hadn’t found anything.
Dyson got the contest under way, and the sound of gunfire and the tang of burned powder soon filled the air in Silverhill. Each round, the man farthest from the bull’s-eye was eliminated, until only five contestants were left. From that point, each round consisted of five shots, with point values assigned to the rings on the targets. The lowest score went out each time.
When only two men were left, they each shot ten rounds, taking turns between each shot. The contest was extremely close, with the last man having to hit the bull’s-eye on his last shot in order to win.
That competitor, a lanky hillbilly from the Ozarks, plunked a bullet right in the middle of the target. A thunderous cheer went up for the victor as the man thrust his rifle into the air over his head and did a little jig. His defeated rival just shook his head disgustedly.
Dyson brought the winner over to introduce him to the young women, who all smiled and nodded politely.
The man held his floppy-brimmed hat over his heart, grinned, and said with rough gallantry, “I’m shore pleased to meet you ladies, and I’m hopin’ one of yuh will see yore way clear to lettin’ me court yuh and maybe get hitched up one o’ these days.”
Now that this competition had gone off without a hitch, the town relaxed even more. The feeling in Silverhill was actually festive again.
* * *
The horse race that afternoon was another uproarious success. The course extended half a mile out of town, around a towering rock spire, and then back, with the starting line also serving as the finish line. One of the SJ cowboys won, with Rance Plummer whooping in excitement as he looked on from the hotel porch. Plummer waved his hat over his head wildly when the cowboy’s mount thundered across the finish line first.
“That youngster is a fine lad,” he told Cecilia and the others when he had recovered his composure. “I’ll have a talk with him and make sure he’s on his best behavior when you have your meetin’ with him. From what I hear, all of you are gonna have dinner together tomorrow.”
“That’s what Mr. Dyson is planning,” Cecilia said.
Rose, who had watched the young cowboy’s victory with considerable interest, asked, “If one of us gets married to him, does that mean we’d have to go back to that ranch of yours and live there, Mr. Plummer?”
“Well, the ranch ain’t exactly mine, and I reckon it’d be up to you and the lucky fella to work out where you’d live, but the SJ is a fine place, with some nice cabins for the married hands and their families. I think you’d be plumb happy there, Miss Rose.”
“Living on a ranch does sound interesting . . . Would I actually get to work with the cattle? You know, ride the range with my husband?”
Plummer frowned and said, “Well, such things ain’t normally done, but again . . . I reckon that’d be up to you and the lucky fella to figure out. I wouldn’t run off anybody who made a good hand, whether they was male . . . or female.”
Rose just nodded slowly, obviously deep in thought.
When Forbes Dyson came over to join them, Bo asked, “How’s the poker tournament coming along?” He hadn’t been back to the Silver King to check on the games.
“It’s down to four players,” Dyson replied. “All the others have busted or dropped out voluntarily. I think there’s a good chance we’ll have a winner by this evening.”
Scratch asked, “How many fellas signed up for th
e boxin’ matches?”
“Eight. Starting late this afternoon, we’ll have four bouts of three rounds each, then this evening the semifinal matches of five rounds, if it takes that many, and then the finals, which will last until one man is knocked out or can’t continue.”
“It still sounds barbaric to me,” Cecilia said.
“Some people claim that barbarism is the natural state of mankind,” Dyson told her with a smile.
“That doesn’t mean that we should aspire to it.”
“Or that we can prevent its ultimate triumph.” Dyson ticked a finger against the brim of his hat as he went on, “I need to go check on that poker game, but I’ll see you ladies later.”
As Rance Plummer watched Dyson walk toward the saloon, he said, “Y’know, I just can’t warm up to that fella.”
“Me neither,” Scratch said.
Bo didn’t say anything, but he agreed with both his old and his new friend. Forbes Dyson rubbed him the wrong way and likely always would.
* * *
Professional gamblers had no interest in winning a bride. Most drifted around too much and didn’t want the burden of having to drag a wife along with them. The professionals who had bought into this tournament had done so with the idea of cleaning up from some of the other players and then quitting while they were ahead.
One by one, that was what they had done, which meant the stakes in the final game weren’t as high as they normally were in such a situation. The departure of the professionals had sucked most of the money out of the tournament.
The men who were left were playing for the chance of marrying a beautiful young woman. There were two middle-aged businessmen, both widowers, a mine superintendent who had never been married, and a railroad engineer who had taken time off from his work to come down to Silverhill and try to get himself a wife.
The mining man appeared to be winning as Dyson checked out the game. He didn’t care who emerged as the victor. It didn’t matter. None of the contests did. The money he would make from this venture was a drop in the bucket compared to what he would clean up from the silver robbery, not to mention the loot from the rest of the raid.
Have Brides, Will Travel Page 24