“Looks like he is anyway,” Hadley agreed ruefully. “This Friede, he might have known something.”
“He knew a lot, a lot too much. You see, Sheriff, he knew who that other outlaw was. He knew the fifth man. He followed somebody to that outlaw camp and he crouched down in the mesquite and heard them planning it.”
BOWDRIE ARRANGED FOR the body to be picked up and then walked back to the hotel, where he had taken a room. In the hotel he bundled the bedding together to resemble the body of a sleeping man; then he unrolled his blankets and slept on the floor.
The gun’s report and the tinkle of falling glass awakened him. The bullet had smashed into the heaped-up clothing on the bed, then thudded into the wall. He got up carefully and eased to a position near the door. Outside somewhere a light went on and he heard an angry voice. He looked into the alley. It was dark, empty, and still.
He waited. A few people came out on the street, and he heard more complaints about drunken cowboys and disturbed sleep.
He studied the line the bullet must have taken to break the window, penetrate the heaped-up bedding, and crash into the wall. It was, he reflected, the thud of the bullet into the wall that had awakened him, almost the instant of the report.
From beside the window he studied the situation. The bullet could have come from a dark corner of the livery stable, a place where a man might wait for hours without being seen. At night there was very little activity in town. Even the saloons closed by midnight.
Pulling on his clothing, he went into the street, moving toward the livery stable. The door gaped wide. There was a lantern hanging from a nail over the door, but nobody was around. A hostler slept in the tack room at the back of the stable during the busy times.
Stepping inside the door, he glanced around. He saw no cigarette butts, although when he squatted on his heels he detected a little ash. Taking a chance, he struck a match. There was some ash and a few fragments of tobacco. He scraped them together and put them in a fold of a sheet torn from his tally book.
Standing on the corner in the shadow of the barn, he saw he was no more than fifty yards from Jim Cane’s cabin. He walked past the cabin, staying in the dust to make no sound. No light showed.
He walked past the sheriff’s office and back to the hotel, passing the tree where young Tommy Ryan had been practicing throwing his knife.
MORNING DAWNED BRIGHT and clear. Bowdrie went out into the street, feeling good. He knew the killer was both puzzled and worried.
A well-laid plan had backfired. Too many things had gone wrong, and now the killer did not know but what something else, something he had not thought of, might also have gone wrong. One way out remained. To kill Bowdrie. The Ranger knew more than he was expected to know and at any moment he might achieve a solution that would mean the collapse of all the killer’s schemes and his own arrest.
That he had been marked for death on the day he rode into town, Bowdrie was well aware. That he survived the initial shoot-out had been the first thing to go wrong. Of course, even before that, Kent Friede had spied on the outlaw camp, but of that the killer had no knowledge at the time, and that situation had been remedied. Bowdrie remained.
He walked across the dusty street to the restaurant. Every sense was alert. What happened must take place within the next few hours. His hands were never far from the butts of his pistols. When he reached the restaurant door he looked around. Jim Cane stepped out of an alley and crossed the street toward him.
Bowdrie went inside and sat down. He knew the killer. He knew just who the other outlaw was and what he had done. The difficulty was that he had no concrete evidence, only several intangible clues, things that weighed heavily with him, but nothing he could offer a jury.
Jim Cane pushed open the door and strode across to his table. “How about the bank? Hadley says it’s okay to open.”
“How about a cup of coffee?” Bowdrie suggested. Then, as Cane seated himself, he added, “Sure, you can open up, and good luck to you. However”—he leaned closer—“you might do something for me.” He went on, whispering.
Cane stared at him, then swallowed his coffee and left the café. Chick Bowdrie stirred his coffee and smiled at nothing.
Tommy Ryan came to the door and peered in; then he crossed to the table. “Mr. Bowdrie,” he said, “I got somethin’ to tell you. I seen who took my knife.”
Bowdrie glanced at him sharply. “Who have you told besides me?”
“Nobody. On’y Pa. He said—”
“Tell me later. Why don’t you sit over at that table, drink a glass of milk and eat a piece of that thick apple pie? On me.”
Sheriff Hadley entered. He was a strapping big man and as usual he walked swiftly, his gray hat pulled down, the old-fashioned mule-ear straps flapping against the sides of his boots.
He dropped into the chair across from Bowdrie. “Bowdrie, I figured it only right to talk to you first. I got to make an arrest. It’s no secret who done it. I’ve got to arrest a thief and a killer.”
“Why not leave it to me?” His thick forearms rested on the table and his black eyes met those of the sheriff. “You see, I’ve known almost from the start who the guilty man was. Things began to tie up when I first saw those bodies lyin’ on the floor in the bank. That dead outlaw? That was Nevada Pierce.”
“Pierce? You sure of that?”
“Uh-huh. You see, I sent him to prison once. And his description was in the Rangers’ Bible. Lots of descriptions there, Hadley.”
Their eyes clung. “You mean . . . you got Jim Cane’s description, too?”
“Sure. I spotted him right off. Jim used to run stock across the Rio Grande. That was four, five years ago.”
“You knowed he was a horse thief and you haven’t arrested him?”
“That’s right, Hadley. You see, we live on the edge of lawless times. Lots of men got their first stake branding unbranded cattle. It surely wasn’t theirs, but nobody else could prove a claim to it either. Afterward some other boys came along later, so to even things up, they switched brands.
“Now, maybe that’s stealin’, Hadley. By the book I guess it is. Nowadays it would surely be stealin’, for there’s no unclaimed stock runnin’ around. It all belongs to somebody. It hasn’t always been easy to decide who was a crook and who wasn’t.
“So you know what I do? I judge a man by his record. Suppose a man who’s rustled a few head in the old days goes straight after that? The country is settlin’ down now, so if a man settles down an’ behaves himself, we sort of leave him alone. If we went by the letter of the law, I could jail half the old-time cattlemen in Texas, but the letter of the law isn’t always justice. It was open range then, and two-thirds of the beef stock a man could find was maverick. If a man goes straight, we leave him alone.”
“What do you mean?” Hadley kept his voice low. “You call robbin’ banks an’ killin’ goin’ straight?”
“Not a bit of it. If Cane had robbed a bank or killed anyone, I’d have arrested him. He had nothing to do with it.”
Their eyes met across the table and Bowdrie said, “That Rangers’ Bible of ours, it carries a lot of descriptions, like I said. It has descriptions of all the crowd who used to run with Pierce.
“There was one thing always puzzled Pierce, and that was how the Rangers always managed to outguess him. What he never knew was that we were always tipped off by one of his own outfit.”
Hadley pushed his chair back, both hands on the table’s edge. “You’ve got this man spotted, Bowdrie?”
“Sure. He had a record, just like Cane, but at first I held off. Maybe I was prejudiced because of his record. It might have been Cane or Kent Friede, so I waited.”
Chick Bowdrie lifted his coffee cup and looked over it at Sheriff Hadley. “You shouldn’t have done it, Hadley. You had a nice job. People respected you.”
“With eight thousand dollars just waitin’ to be picked up? And Jim Cane to lay it on?” His tone deepened and became ugly. “An’ I’d have
made it but for you.”
“You tipped the Rangers to that Pierce holdup, didn’t you? We always wondered where the money got to. Now I know. The Rangers got him and you got the money, and now you’ve tried it again. You’re under arrest, Hadley.”
Hadley got to his feet, his hands hovering over his guns. “You make a move, Ranger, an’ you die! You hear that?”
“Sure.” Bowdrie still held his cup. “I hear.”
Hadley backed through the door and ran across the street as Bowdrie got up and tossed a silver dollar on the table. “For the kid’s grub, too,” he said.
He glanced at the boy. “It was Hadley you saw, wasn’t it?”
“Uh-huh. You lettin’ him get away?”
“No, Tommy. I just didn’t want any shooting in here. He won’t get far, Tommy. You see, I planned it this way. There isn’t a horse on the street, nor in the livery stable. Hadley won’t go far this time.”
Outside, the street was empty, yet people knew what was happening and they would be at the windows. Hadley was at his hiding place now, getting out the eight thousand dollars. Soon he would discover there was no horse in his stable, so he would rush to the street to get one.
“Only he knew where the money was, Tommy. The bank has to have it back. He’ll get it for us.”
Bowdrie walked outside and away from the front of the café.
Hadley emerged from an alley, a heavy sack in his hand, a pistol in the other. When he saw no horses tied at the hitching rails, he looked wildly about.
“Hadley, you needn’t look. There ain’t a horse within a quarter of a mile.”
“You! You set me up!”
“Of course I did. Just as you set up your partners, time after time.
“I didn’t have enough proof, Hadley. Only that there were no cigarette butts, just ashes and sometimes burned matches. You smoke a pipe, Hadley.
“Also, Pierce’s old partner was a knife-thrower, and the knife that killed Friede had to be thrown. At first I thought he’d been killed elsewhere, because nobody could have walked up behind Friede over that gravel.
“We just had a few facts, Hadley, never a full description of you, so you could have gone straight and nobody the wiser. You tied it all up nicely, Hadley, you yourself.”
Hadley’s gun came up and Bowdrie drew and fired before the gun came level. Flame stabbed from Bowdrie’s pistol and the sheriff dropped the loot and tried to bring his gun into line. Something seemed to be fogging his vision, for when he fired again, he was several feet off the target.
Blood covered his shirt. He went to his knees. “A damn Ranger!” he said. Then he cursed obscenely. “It had to be a Ranger.”
“Our job, Hadley, but you got yours in front, not in the back.”
Hadley stared up at him; then his eyes glazed and the fingers on the pistol relaxed. Bowdrie bent down and took the gun from his fingers.
People came out on the street. Some lingered, shading their eyes to see. Others came closer. Bowdrie indicated the sack. “There’s your money, Cane.”
“Thanks. I moved the horses like you said.” Then he asked, “How did you know?”
Bowdrie thumbed shells into his gun. He told Cane what he had told Hadley, then added, “It was all of it together, along with those mule-ear straps on Hadley’s boots. I saw the marks on the sand made by them when he sat talking in the outlaw camp. Some of those old-timey boots like Hadley wore had loose straps to pull on the boots. Nowadays they make them stiffer and they don’t dangle.
“I had an idea what might have made those marks, but when I saw Hadley, I knew. I had to be around town a mite to see if anybody else around was outfitted like him. Nobody was.
“All along, he had you pegged for the goat. He even rode one of your horses out there to talk to the outlaws. Hadley said he didn’t know I was in the country, but I happen to know headquarters told him I was ridin’ this way. He was the only one who could have thrown that note tipping me to the raid.”
“You’d have thought he would have been sensible enough to go straight, with a good job, and all.”
“Yeah,” Bowdrie said, smiling at Cane, “the smart ones do go straight.”
“You got time for something to eat? Mary Jane’s frying up some eggs and she makes the best griddle cakes in Texas!”
“Home cookin’! I always did have a weakness for home cookin’. Although,” Bowdrie added, “I never see much of it.”
Historical Note:
HORSEHEAD CROSSING
IN THE DAYS of westward travel the Pecos River was about one hundred feet wide and four feet deep at the Crossing’s deepest. Such figures varied somewhat according to rainfall, of course, but rain was a rarity. There was nothing to indicate the presence of a river until one was close upon it. The riverbed lay eight to ten feet below the level of the surrounding prairie, and no trees marked its course.
The Crossing was named for the skulls of horses that lay about, said to be the remains of horses stolen by the Comanches, who ran them hard in escaping from Mexico. The horses, arriving at the first water in miles, drank too much. Rip Ford, Texas Ranger, is the authority for this story.
This was the crossing used by the Butterfield Stage. It was also used by a number of cattle drives, including that of Charlie Goodnight when he blazed the Goodnight-Loving Trail. Marcy was here in 1849, when exploring the westward route for the Army, and Bartlett, when he was surveying the U.S.-Mexican border.
Off to the west is El Capitan, over eight thousand feet high, a peak of the Guadalupes that was a noted landmark for travelers.
There were thirteen graves at Horsehead Crossing, most of them the result of gun battles between cowboys over difficulties involved in making the crossing. Here, too, Hoy, with his wife, several cowhands, and a large herd, was attacked by Comanches. Several men were wounded, and the cattle stolen. The group took refuge in the ruins of the abandoned stage station, where they held off the Indians for days until rescued by a gold-hunting party led by Colonel Dalrymple.
It was hot country; it was dry country; it was a country that was hell on horses and men. Patience was limited, and tempers short. It was a wonder there were not more graves at the Horsehead Crossing.
SOUTH OF DEADWOOD
THE CHEYENNE TO Deadwood Stage was two hours late into Pole Creek Station, and George Gates, the driver, had tried to make up for lost time. Inside the coach the five passengers had been jounced up and down and side to side as the Concord thundered over the rough trail.
The girl with the golden hair and gray eyes who was sitting beside the somber young man in the black flat-crowned hat and black frock coat had been observing him surreptitiously all the way from Cheyenne.
He had a dark, Indian-like face with a deep, dimplelike scar under his cheekbone, and despite his inscrutable manner he was singularly attractive. Yet he had not spoken a word since leaving Cheyenne.
It was otherwise with the burly red-cheeked man with the walrus mustache. He had talked incessantly. His name, the girl had learned with no trouble at all, was Walter Luck.
“Luck’s my name,” he stated, “and luck’s what I got!”
The other blond was Kitty Austin, who ran a place of entertainment in Deadwood. Kitty was an artificial blond, overdressed and good-natured but thoroughly realistic in her approach to life and men. The fifth passenger had also been reticent, but it finally developed that his name was James J. Bridges.
“I want no trouble with you!” Luck bellowed. “I don’t aim to cross no bridges!” And the coach rocked with his laughter.
The golden-haired girl’s name, it developed, was Clare Marsden, but she said nothing of her purpose in going to Deadwood until Luck asked.
“You visitin’ relatives, ma’am? Deadwood ain’t no place for a girl alone.”
“No.” Her chin lifted a little, as if in defiance. “I am going to see a man. His name is Curly Starr.”
If she had struck them one simultaneous slap across their mouths they could have been no more sta
rtled. They gaped, their astonishment too real to be concealed. Luck was the first to snap out of it.
“Why, ma’am!” Luck protested. “Curly Starr’s an outlaw! He’s in jail now, just waitin’ for the law from Texas to take him back! He’s a killer, a horse thief, and a holdup man!”
“I know it,” Clare said stubbornly. “But I’ve got to see him! He’s the only one who can help me!”
She was suddenly aware that the dark young man beside her was looking at her for what she believed was the first time. He seemed about to speak when the stage rolled into the yard at Pole Creek Station and raced to a stop.
Peering out, they saw Fred Schwartz’s sign—CHOICEST WINE, LIQUOR, AND CIGARS—as the man himself came out to greet the new arrivals.
The young man in the black hat was beside her. He removed his hat gracefully and asked, “If I may make so bold? Would you sit with me at supper?”
It was the first time he had spoken and his voice was low, agreeable, and went with his smile, which had genuine charm, but came suddenly and was gone.
“Why, yes. I would like that.”
Over their coffee, with not much time left, he said, “You spoke of seein’ Curly Starr, ma’am? Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t. Only . . .” She hesitated, and then as he waited, she added, “He knows my brother, and he could help if he would. My brother is in trouble and I don’t believe he’s guilty. I think Curly Starr does know who is.”
“I see. You think he might clear your brother?”
There was little about Curly Starr he did not know. Starr, along with Doc Bentley, Ernie Joslin, Tobe Storey, and a kid called Bill Cross had held up the Cattleman’s Bank in Mustang, killing two men in the process. Billy Marsden, son of the owner of the Bar M Ranch, had been arrested and charged with the killing. It was claimed he was Bill Cross.
“I hope he will. I’ve come all the way from Texas just to talk to him.”
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