Texas Fever

by Donald Hamilton

  He cleared his throat and said, “I can’t figure it. It must be something to which our south Texas stock is immune.”

  “We don’t know what it is. But you’ve seen the result.” “Perhaps,” he said reluctantly, “I spoke a mite hastily.” The girl said coolly, “It would seem to be a habit of yours.”

  No more was said, the whole way back to town. They met the sheriff, on his Indian pony, as they came to the square. He rode up to them and eyed them rather sharply, as if surprised to see them together, but asked no questions.

  “I was setting out to look for you, McAuliffe; only I was delayed taking care of some trouble at the hotel—” “Trouble?” Jean said. “What kind of trouble, Dad?” “Nothing to concern you, Miss,” her father said. He turned back to Chuck, who hoped his face did not betray uneasy knowledge. “Son, I did the best I could for you,” the sheriff said. “Your fine and costs have been paid, and here’s the balance of your money.” He drew a cloth bag from his coat pocket, and grinned. “That Bristow—poor fellow, I feel kind of guilty now for the way I bluffed him—didn’t much like my setting a bottom price. Maybe he was figuring on paying the court judgment and no more. But it occurred to me, if his partner could afford to offer your dad three dollars a head, like you told me, Mr. Bristow might pay the county the same, so I told him I wouldn’t entertain any lower bids. Turned out, either he wasn’t much of a poker player, or he wanted those cattle mighty bad.” He held out the bag. “Here. It’s not as much as you came from Texas to get, I know, but at least it’s enough to pay your crew and get you home with something to spare.”

  Chuck took the money. He was aware that his ears were red. He didn’t look at the girl on the seat beside him. He didn’t have to look: she’d have the unbearable, triumphant, self-righteous expression of any female who’d been proved right twice in one morning. Then she stirred slightly, and he did look, and found himself mistaken again. She seemed pleased and mildly proud at this evidence of her father’s cleverness, but she had matters of more compelling interest on her mind.

  “Dad,” she said, “what is the mystery? What happened at the hotel? Why are you sorry for Mr. Bristow?”

  The sheriff hesitated, and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you’ll hear it anyway. Mrs. Bristow was found dead in her room just a short while ago.”

  Jean gasped, and put her hand to her mouth. “Dead? How terrible!” After a moment, she asked, “How did it happen?”

  “A laudanum bottle was found beside her, empty,” the sheriff said. “There’s little doubt the poor young lady took her own life. Apparently there was a quarrel last night, and Bristow struck his wife and marched out—we have this from his partner, Paine, who was lying next door drunk—but woke up long enough to hear the end of the altercation. It seems that Mrs. Bristow wasn’t happy about the footloose life they were leading, anyway. She’d been used to better things before her marriage. She’d been after her husband to settle down. Apparently, she became despondent after he left. . . .” He paused, and went on: “I have little sympathy for wife-beaters, but I can’t help feeling for the man, having to live with the memory of that last blow. I’ve sent Paine to notify him. I’d have gone myself, only I have to ride over to Colliersville to pick up a prisoner.” He held out his hand. “I’ll say good-bye, McAuliffe.”

  Chuck took the sinewy hand. “Good-bye, sir.”

  “I’ve told Joe Breen, over at the jail, to give you back your outfit’s guns when you come by.” The sheriff turned to his daughter. “I won’t be home before tomorrow night, probably.”

  “Do you have to go clear over to Colliersville, Dad? If it’s just a matter of fetching a prisoner, can’t you send—” Jean Kincaid seemed to hesitate over the name, “—can’t you send Will?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “Will’s escorting Mr. Bristow and his twelve hundred longhorns across the line, with orders not to leave before he sees them pointed west towards the army posts. . . .”

  The information, so casually delivered, sent a shock through Chuck, reminding him of the plans he’d made at his father’s grave. Things were working out just right, it seemed. The sheriff was leaving town so he wouldn’t be around to interfere. Will Reese was heading down into Indian Territory where his badge meant nothing. When the job was, finished, he’d be riding back alone.

  It'll be like shooting a duck on a millpond, Chuck remembered saying to Joe Paris. And with Reese taken care of, they could go after the cattle and Jack Keller— there was another score to be settled. It would be a tough proposition, a handful of Texas cowboys against all of Keller’s bushwhackers, but with careful planning, and surprise in their favor, they stood a chance of pulling it off.

  He should have felt a sense of pleasure and anticipation, but instead the whole proposed, violent business seemed strangely unlikely and unreal, like one of those wild notions you got in the middle of the night and laughed at in the morning. Chuck was aware that Sheriff Kincaid had ridden closer and leaned down to give his daughter a peck on the cheek. She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a hug and a kiss in return. The sheriff straightened up and cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed at having displayed so much sentimentality. He swung his pony around, threw up his hand in a farewell gesture, and rode off briskly.

  It came to Chuck that these were good and kindly people who’d gone out of their way to be friendly when they’d had every reason to dislike and mistrust him. They’d taken him into their house when he was hurt, they’d tolerated his childish sulks, they’d been civil and helpful when he’d done nothing to deserve it. And in return he’d given them only hate and suspicion and wild, unfounded accusations. Even now, he was only waiting to get his hands on some weapons before embarking on a career of murder and robbery—and the fact that the men he was planning to rob and kill had committed crimes themselves didn’t entitle him to step outside the law to deal with them.

  “Sheriff!” he heard himself call. “Just a minute!”

  Kincaid checked his pony and looked back. Chuck glanced at Jean, who interpreted his glance correctly, and sent the buggy ahead.

  “What is it, son?” the sheriff asked as they came abreast.

  Chuck drew a long breath. “There’s something you ought to know, sir,” he said. “There’s something I’d better tell you. We were going to handle it ourselves —the crew and I—but I reckon it’s more in your line of work. . . ."

  CHAPTER 26

  To Miguel Apodaca, it was a simple matter. If one was sent to watch and listen, one watched and listened. The fact that the camp one was to spy upon was located in an open place and hard to approach unseen did not change the instructions issued by Joe Paris, who, in the absence of the young patron, was in charge.

  “Keep an eye on that outfit,” Joe had said. “Find out what they’re up to. I don’t figure those cattle are bound for any army posts. In particular, keep an eye on that bearded fellow who called himself Netherton when we found him along the trail—the one whose leg the Major dug a bullet out of. He was at the auction, bold as brass, going by the name of Bristow. And keep an eye on Mister Reese, too. We don’t want to lose him.”

  The segundo seemed to overestimate the number of eyes available to one man, Miguel reflected wryly, as he wormed his way along a shallow gully towards the camp, after leaving his horse in a clump of trees at a safe distance. Well, two eyes would have to serve; he was fortunate to have that many, he thought grimly, touching the great scar on his face. He could still recall quite clearly the terror that had come to him that morning a year ago, after he had fought his way out of the river into which he had been thrown for dead, when he had found himself alone in desolate country, unarmed, sick, and half-blind. . . .

  It had been a dark, wet night when the Laughlin outfit had been ambushed, and he had seen no faces and heard no voices. There had been only the sudden crash of gunfire all about them as they returned to camp unsuspecting after checking the stampede; that, and the tearing impact of the bullet that had smashed him
from the saddle, then unconsciousness until he found himself in water, strangling, drowning. . . . Well, the old patron had taught the murderers one lesson, a few weeks back. It could hardly be a different gang; the tactics had been the same. Now they were here, it seemed, judging by the presence of this man Netherton or Bristow. Perhaps, if all went well, their education could be continued, maybe this very night. In the meantime, one could watch with the two available eyes, and listen with the two available ears.

  Miguel had never seen Netherton, since the man had remained in his wagon throughout the time it had accompanied the McAuliffe herd—only the Señorita had shown herself—but it was not hard to locate, among the figures by the fire, a tall, bearded man who favored one leg. Reese was also easy to spot by the swaggering size of him—the murderer of the old patron, with his fine new pistol at his hip. The two were standing together, talking.

  In broad daylight, it was impossible to get close enough to hear what they said, at first. Then, apparently seeking privacy, they moved away from the fire a distance. The bearded man looked around for a place to sit, to ease his leg, and limped still farther from camp, to a suitable rock where he subsided with an expression of relief. Reese remained standing above him.

  Miguel, crouching in the grass, took stock of the situation. There seemed to be no hidden sentries, and only a handful of men in the camp, plus a couple riding herd on the cattle. These latter two were too far away to be an immediate threat, although, being mounted, they would constitute a serious danger if, discovered, he should have to make a run for his horse.

  He started worming his way forward, but before he had covered more than half the distance, his cautious approach was interrupted by the arrival of a rider in camp. He recognized the thin, black-clad man who had tried to buy the herd at an outrageous price. This one paused by the fire to pour himself a cup of coffee and drink it down; then, a little unsteady on his feet—as if from drinking or hard riding or both—he made his way to where Reese and the bearded man awaited him.

  Miguel heard his first words: “I almost rode right past you, friends. I thought you’d be farther along. If I hadn’t seen the smoke of the fire. . . .” His voice dropped, and his words became indistinguishable at the distance.

  Carefully, as befitted one who had fought Comanches and Apaches and learned their silent ways, Miguel made his way through the tall grass until he was lying within twenty yards of the rock on which the bearded man was sitting. Twice, the deputy sheriff, facing him, had looked directly at him, but no Kansas farmer could see anything that was not moving violently and bright red to boot.

  The bearded man was speaking. “. . . took laudanum, eh?” he said, and chuckled. “Like any dance-hall trollop feeling sorry for herself after a couple of whiskies? Well, these high-toned wenches live on their fancy notions, and those notions don’t last long after they discover that a fist will bruise them just like anybody else. I must say, however, I didn’t figure she’d go that way quite so soon. In a way, it’s a pity. I was looking forward to . . .”

  He did not finish the sentence. Presently the black-clad man said in a noncommittal voice, “I left enough money to have her taken care of properly, but it will look strange if you don’t make an appearance at the funeral. She was supposed to be your wife.”

  “I’m not concerned with what looks strange to the good people of Jepson, Preacher,” the bearded man said. “I don’t expect to come that way again.”

  The one called Preacher shrugged. “Your choice.” He looked around. “Like I said, I expected to find you farther along. What delayed you?”

  “That’s what I want to know!” the big deputy burst out, like a man who’d been holding himself in check with difficulty. “Hell, we could have made half a dozen miles more before sundown if we’d kept on. Why are we sitting still, Mr. Keller? If the sheriff should find us here, not even across the line, he’d start wondering and asking questions.”

  The bearded man said, “I thought you’d taken care of the sheriff.”

  “Well, sure, Mr. Keller, the old fool’s supposed to be on his way to Colliersville on a legitimate errand— I got the message a couple of days ago and arranged for it to be delayed until we needed him out of the way. But he’s got a habit of popping up, which is why I’d like for us to get well into Indian Territory. . . .”

  “We’re not going into Indian Territory,” said the man who was now being called Keller. Netherton, Bristow, and now Keller, Miguel reflected; one would think the bearded one would have trouble keeping track of his own identity.

  The deputy looked shocked. “Not going. . . . What do you mean, Mr. Keller?”

  “The cattle should be rested and ready to move an hour or two after dark,” Keller said. “They won’t take kindly to being driven at night, but we’ll have the rest of the men here before then, to lend a hand. You’ll show us a trail to the north and east, Mr. Reese. . . ."

  “North and east!” Reese cried. “Why, that will take us right through the middle of . . . That wasn’t in the bargain! We were to head west along the Territory until I could show you—”

  Keller said, ignoring this: “We’ll keep moving by night so nobody’ll see the dust. You know this country; you’ll guide us. It would be awkward if we should suddenly find ourselves driving better than a thousand Texas cattle through some farmer’s vegetable patch. But I’m sure this country’s not so thickly settled you can’t get us through unseen. Pick a secluded place that we can reach before daylight, and we’ll lay over there tomorrow. Another night drive should see us out of this neighborhood and well on our way towards the railroad. And if we should be stopped by a posse or a mob of angry settlers, Mr. Reese, you’ll use your badge and your authority in our behalf.”

  “But—”

  Keller’s voice went on smoothly and relentlessly: “You’ll reassure the good citizens that these are healthy animals that have been properly inspected and legally admitted into the state. You’ll inform them that you’ll arrest any person who interferes with our legal progress. By the time they learn the truth, we’ll be miles away.” Reese’s voice held a note of panic. “But I can’t do that! I’ll be recognized! They’ll check with Sheriff Kincaid. I’ll be ruined; I’ll never be able to show my face—” Keller said, “One can’t make money without some small risk, Mr. Reese, and I’m paying you well. Pick a route by which we won’t be stopped, and the problem won’t arise.”

  “That wasn’t the agreement we made!” Reese said hotly. “I told you I knew a place to the west where I could get you around the quarantine without anybody being the wiser—”

  “To be sure,” Keller said. “I know one, too. All I have to do is drive these mangy cattle clear to Colorado. Well, I don’t intend to do that, Mr. Reese. This herd has been a jinx ever since I laid eyes on it. It’s cost me more money than it should have, not to mention a game leg and a number of dead men. Now that I’ve got it, I want to cash in on it fast, and I’m going to do it without driving clear around the state of Kansas. I’m taking these cattle directly to the railroad, and you’re showing me how!”

  The big deputy’s face was hard and ugly. His hand was close to the butt of his pistol. He said, “You never intended to drive west at all! You lied—”

  Keller nodded sadly. “It’s an unfortunate habit I have, Mr. Reese. I do prevaricate a little upon occasion. . . . Preacher!”

  The last word snapped like a command. Hiding in the grass, Miguel saw the deputy, in the act of drawing his pistol, glance quickly around—the behavior of a fool, Miguel reflected. One draws a weapon or one does not draw it, but one does not stop in the middle of the act to look around like a nervous maiden. There would have been time for a good man to make his play, but now the black-clad one, standing a little to the side, moved slightly, and a small pistol appeared in his hand.

  “Stand quite still, Mr. Reese,” Keller said. “The Preacher’s got a little slow and rusty since his gambling days, but he’s killed more than one man with those sleeve guns of his,
and you make a big target.” Keller rose deliberately from the rock, reached out, and removed the deputy’s weapon from the holster. “So. Now I think we’d better unload this for you. The men seem to have noticed nothing amiss. I don’t want to shame you before them by taking this handsome piece away from you, but you’ll find it lighter to carry without all that lead in the cylinder—”

  It happened without warning. Some signal must have been passed, but Miguel had not seen it. Now the bearded man simply turned and fired, and dirt exploded into Miguel’s face.

  “Come out of there with your hands up,” Keller snapped, “or the next bullet won’t miss. . . . Ah. I had a hunch our Texas friends wouldn’t be giving up so easily.”

  As he got to his feet resignedly, Miguel saw a bunch of riders coming across the open space behind him, well spread out. One was leading his, Miguel’s, horse. Finding it must have led them to suspect his presence, but it was still a disgraceful way to be caught, like a coyote in a trap, and he deserved what would doubtless happen to him now. The bearded one did not look like a merciful man.

  CHAPTER 27

  Having finished what he had to say, Chuck McAuliffe sat back on the buggy seat without looking at the girl beside him. It was none of her business, anyway; this was between the sheriff and him.

  Kincaid’s face was stem. “You say this man and his gang attacked your outfit and murdered your brother?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Kind of late in mentioning it, aren’t you, son?” Chuck said, “I figured maybe you had a cousin at Gettysburg.” The sheriff frowned quickly. Chuck went on, “Dad and I spoke to a sheriff near Baxter Springs about it, but it seems the fellow had a son killed at Shiloh —or maybe you call it Pittsburgh Landing. You might say he was prejudiced. Didn’t seem to consider a dead rebel of much account. Came near throwing both of us in jail for making wild accusations against respectable Yankee citizens.”