Lee was sick and tired of being played the fool. He was a living bullwhip about to lash out as he snapped, “Old age is no excuse for poor manners. I won’t abide disrespect.”
“Sorry, Scurlock,” Abe said, still chuckling. “But you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree if you figure I was to blame.”
Slowly Lee’s anger faded. No, he did not think that Abe would ever hurt the lawyer. It sparked a train of thought. “Tell me, did all the pocket hunters in these mountains know that Jim was fixing to represent your side in court?”
“Hardly any of ’em did. I didn’t call a meetin’ and make a public announcement, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at. I was waitin’ to see how the hearin’ turned out.” Old Abe propped himself on his crutch and shook a gnarled finger at the southerner. “Believe it or not, I don’t want a full-scale war. It wouldn’t take much to spark one. Were all the boys to learn that Kemp is tryin’ to drive us from our claims with legal shenanigans, they’d be liable to rise up and attack the Bar K in force.”
Lee regarded Howard a moment. “I reckon you’re telling the truth. But that leaves me with nothing to go on and no suspects other than the skinny miner who wanted Jim Hays and me dead.”
“What’s this?” Old Abe’s interest perked. “What skinny miner?”
“He’s been stirring up trouble, is all I know.” Lee lifted the reins to depart. It had been a mistake to storm out on Russell. He should have stayed and gotten a description of the man who paid him.
The guard holding the shotgun coughed. “Say, you wouldn’t mean that weaselly character who makes the rounds of the saloons every now and then, would you?”
Both Lee and Old Abe turned. “You know who we’re talkin’ about, Bert?” asked the latter.
“I might,” the miner said. “I’ve seen him a few times. He’s always buying drinks for the boys, and he’s forever talking about how we need to take the law into our own hands and drive Kemp from the valley.”
“He have a name?” Lee pressed.
“Not that I recollect hearing. All I can tell you is that he has short hair and smells of lilac water.” Bert scratched his chin. “Oh. And he has a heap of teeth missing.”
“How’s that?” Old Abe said.
“Four of his front teeth are gone. Two on the top, two on the bottom.”
Every nerve in Lee’s body jangled, and he stiffened as if shot. Hellfire flamed in the glare that he cast at the startled miner, whose mouth went as dry as dead grass. “Was his hair sandy? And did his chin have a cleft?”
Bert had to think. “Yep, now that you mention it. Do you know him?”
Lee knew everything. In a clear flood of crystal comprehension, he saw who was to blame for all the bloodshed. The intricate pattern unraveled, unthreading step by step to its source. He marveled at the culprit’s diabolically crafty scheme, and wondered how anyone could be so utterly ruthless, so brazenly, viciously wicked.
“What’s the matter?” Old Abe asked. “You look as if you just chugged a gallon of castor oil.”
“I have to go,” Lee declared, reining the roan around. “I’ll be in touch.” Abe called after him but he rode on, immersed in thought. Vint Evers had to be told, so they could plot how to bring the conniving demon to bay.
So preoccupied was the Tennessean that he covered more than a mile with no regard to his surroundings. He went by camp after camp, heedless of hostile glances thrown his way by many of the prospectors, not caring that more than a few patted revolvers or fondled rifles as if eager to use them. It had been the same on the way up.
Then Lee wound through a gulch that opened onto a ridge and drew rein on finding that his route was barred by three swarthy figures astride horses and a mule.
The trio were members of the pick-and-shovel fraternity. Dirty clothes, unkempt beards, and floppy hats were their trademark. In the center sat the largest, a hulk of a miner whose square jaw jutted like a spike and whose cheek swelled from a wad of chewing tobacco. Being cordial was not on their minds.
“What the hell are you doing up here, lawdog?” demanded the slab of beef. “Your jurisdiction is down yonder in town. The mountains are ours.”
“I’m on official business,” Lee said to placate them. He would avoid trouble if humanly possible.
“Maybe so,” said the spokesman. “Or maybe you’re up here scoutin’ around for the skunks who have been robbin’ us. Maybe you’re workin’ for them on the side.”
“You’re loco.”
“No, we’ve just being mighty careful,” said the human mountain.
Lee nudged the roan forward, saying, “I have no time for this nonsense. Out of my way.” He angled between the man in the middle and the miner on the right, hoping against hope they would not do anything foolish. He should have known better. A hand the size of a hog haunch gripped the roan’s bridle.
“Not so fast, lawdog. We ain’t done jawin’.”
“Oh, yes you are,” Lee said, conscious that the other two were closing in. His Colt sprang from his holster, but instead of working the hammer, he struck the hulk across the temple with the barrel, a resounding blow that would have felled most any man.
Not the human mountain. The miner swayed but did not slacken his grip. And in that moment when Lee was off balance from his swing, the other two men pounced, urging their mounts in next to the roan and grabbing at his arms.
They did not intend to kill him, or they would have resorted to their revolvers. But that was small consolation. Once unhorsed, he would be beaten within an inch of his life and left lying senseless in the dust.
But not if Lee could help it. His Colt whistled right, hissed left, and the two miners toppled from their saddles, one with a pulped ear, the other with blood gushing from lips that would be swollen the size of bananas by the next morning.
Their mountainous leader roared and lunged, wrapping arms swollen like tree trunks around the Tennessean’s chest and bearing them both to the ground.
It was like having a five-ton boulder fall on him. The breath spurted from Lee’s lungs and his body went limp. Fingers made of stone seized him by the front of his shirt and hauled him erect. A fist bearing knuckles harder than walnuts was cocked to bash him in the face. Shaking himself, he raised the Colt, determined to fire if he had to.
Someone else did. The boom of a shotgun rooted the miners in place.
Fifteen feet away sat Bert on a skittish bay. Smoke curled from his Greener. “That’ll be enough, Hickman,” he called to the human mountain. To Lee he said, “Old Abe figured something like this might happen and had me tag along.”
Lee did not have time to waste. The incident was additional proof, as if any were needed, that he must act quickly. All it would take was a tiny spark of burning hatred to ignite the whole countryside in a raging inferno of blazing lead and violent death.
Forking leather, Lee said, “Tell Abe I owe him.” With that he flew like the wind down the mountainside, the future of Diablo riding heavily on his broad shoulders.
Chapter Seventeen
Shortly past noon the next day two riders approached the Kemp ranch at a wary walk. Not a soul was in sight. The grand mansion, the brightly painted barn, the bunkhouse, all appeared to be deserted. The corral was empty save for the man-killer, Hurricane.
“What do you make of it?” Lee Scurlock asked, the heat of the sun on his back.
Vint Evers surveyed the rolling expanse of grassland. “Mighty peculiar,” he drawled. “I don’t even see any cattle.”
Lee was watching the mansion. “Maybe he found out we were coming and lit a shuck.”
“Takin’ all his cows along?” The Texan grinned. “Not likely, hoss. Who could have leaked word? I know I didn’t, and the only other person I told was Ike.”
“The only one I confided in was Allison.”
The lean lawman’s smirk widened. “Maybe I should swear your filly in, too. That way she’d be obliged to keep our secrets to herself.”
“I can’t help myself,�
�� Lee said in his defense. “When I’m with her I babble like a kid.”
“I know the feelin’. Folks call it love.”
Lee suspected that his friend was thinking of Nelly Rosell, so he adroitly changed the topic. “If my hunch is right, Kemp isn’t about to stand by and do nothing.”
“There’s no tellin’ what that varmint will do,” Vint said. “He’s the slickest sidewinder I’ve ever gone up against.”
It had been late the evening before when the Tennessean pounded up to the Texan’s shack. Vint had been deep in his cups, trying in vain to blunt his torment with liquor. The news Lee brought had the same effect as a bucket of ice water dashed over his head. It had cleared the cobwebs from his brain and left him straining like a bloodhound at a leash, eager to bring the guilty parties to justice.
But they had to take it slow. If there was one lesson Vint had learned in his years upholding the law, it was that every lawman must play his cards close to his vest, and always, always, go by the book.
“What have we here?” Lee abruptly said.
A solitary figure stood on the great front porch, observing them. The slightly stooped physique was familiar. “That’s an old Navajo who works for Kemp,” Lee revealed. “There’s also a Navajo woman who does the cooking and whatnot.”
“Must be a warrior and his wife,” Vint guessed. “But it beats me why Kemp would keep them on. From what I hear, he hates the red race with a passion.”
The Navajo might as well have been carved from wood for all the life he showed.
“Howdy,” Vint hailed as he halted near the steps and dismounted. “I’m Marshal Evers, and I’d be grateful if you’d fetch the gent you work for.”
“Him not here,” responded the Navajo.
“Where is he?” Vint asked.
The warrior raised a hand to the west. “Far.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“Soon.”
The Texan scanned the corral and the outbuildings. “Did all the hands go with him.”
Yes.”
“Every cowpoke on the spread?”
“Yes.”
Vint chuckled and winked at Lee. “This Injun has a bad case of medicine tongue.” To the Navajo, he said, “Will you do me a favor and let Kemp know that we were here, and that we’d like to talk to him as soon as he can make it to town. It’s important. Savvy?”
“You tell him,” the man stated, pointing westward again. Head high, he pivoted and walked into the mansion, closing the door quietly.
A large group of horsemen were approaching the ranch from the west. Both the Texan and the Tennessean checked their equalizers, more out of habit than necessity, since both made it a point to keep their pistols loaded at all times.
In a swirl of dust, amid the drum of hooves, the riders bore toward the corral until a man at the forefront spotted the lawmen and raised an arm. At that, they swept on past the outbuildings in a compact body. By the dust that caked their clothes and mounts, it was apparent they had ridden long and hard.
The Englishman was in the lead. To his left rode Jesse Bodine. On his right trotted a certain skinny cowboy Lee had seen before, the first time being the night Lee tangled with Morco at the Applejack.
The outfit stopped when Kemp elevated an arm. “Hello, Marshal,” he said amiably enough, though the glance he threw at Lee was coldly aloof. “Deputy Scurlock, too. To what do we owe the honor of this special visit?”
“We’re tendin’ to a legal matter,” Vint said, his hands at his sides, brushing his twin holsters. Although he was facing the Englishman, his eyes darted from hand to hand, settling most often on Jesse Bodine and the beanpole of a galoot flanking Bodine.
“Nothing serious, I trust?” Allister Kemp said.
“Would you rate murder serious?” Vint asked.
Lee Scurlock was scrutinizing the Bar K hands. Bodine was leaning on his saddle horn and yawning, not the least bit concerned. The skinny puncher, however, was as tense as barbed wire and twice as prickly, judging by the spite he could barely hide. The rest did not seem particularly interested in the proceedings, but that could be a sham on their part to throw Vint and him off guard.
“Has someone been killed?” Kemp inquired innocently.
Vint had to admire the rancher’s acting ability. “Didn’t you hear?” he said, just as innocently. “Jim Hays was shot dead, and Old Abe Howard took a slug in the leg.”
“Really? How bloody awful.”
Maddened by the cattle baron’s nonchalant attitude, Lee struggled with his chronic temper. “You’re not exactly overflowing with sympathy, mister,” he noted.
Kemp was unfazed. “Why should I be? It’s no secret that Old Abe and I despise one another. The fool mistakenly believes he is a power to be reckoned with in this valley, when he is not.” He sniffed. “As for Mr. Hays, I’m truly sorry to learn of his demise. But Diablo is a hotbed of bloodshed. A man has to have eyes in the back of his head every minute of every day.”
“That’s all you have to say?” Lee bristled, and would have pulled the smugly arrogant devil off his horse had Vint Evers not gripped his arm. “Here I thought Hays was your friend. Didn’t you have him and his daughter over to supper?”
“I’ve had many people out to visit, including you,” the Englishman said. “But speaking of lovely Allison, how is she, by the way? I’ve been meaning to pay her a visit, only I’ve been much too busy.”
“She doesn’t need you to comfort her,” Lee said, relishing the blow he was about to strike. “She has me. You see ...” Lee paused for effect, “... Allison and I are getting hitched.”
“Do tell. Well, congratulations to you both. I think it’s safe to say that you deserve each other.”
Lee’s hope of provoking Kemp fizzled. The man betrayed no hint of being the least bit upset. If anything, Kemp’s stern countenance became more haughty. That last comment Lee took as a veiled insult, and he was going to reply in kind but Vint Evers spoke.
“I’m a mite surprised to find you at the Bar K, Mr. Kemp, what with that important trial you have comin’ up soon in Phoenix.”
“It’s a hearing, not a trial,” corrected the lordly baron. “And I don’t need to attend in person. I’ve retained three of the best lawyers money can buy to represent my case. I’m positive I’ll be legally vindicated.”
“Maybe so,” Vint said, and glanced at a hand brushing dust from his chaps. “Looks as if you’ve been in the saddle a spell.”
“We’ve been busy moving all of my cattle out to my west range,” Kemp explained.
“All of em?”
“Yes, and we’re all quite bushed. So if you have a reason for being here, kindly state what it is and get on about your business. I need a shave and a bath.”
Vint shifted so he had a clear shot at the weasel, but he directed his comments at Kemp. “Fair enough. Do you know three diggers by the names of Russell, Meers, and Neff?”
“Should I?”
“Meers and Neff and some of their pards are all dead, and Russell will buy the farm directly. They were hired to kill Scurlock and Jim Hays, but they partly bobbled the job.”
“So? Are you implying, Marshal, that I’m connected to their activities?”
“Not at all,” Vint said. “I’d never accuse a man without proof.”
Kemp’s patience snapped. “Then what the bloody hell are you doing here?”
The Texan smiled. “We’re huntin’ us a gent who has lost a lot of teeth.”
Every cowhand straightened. The skinny one scowled, meeting Vint’s stare. “Do you mean me?”
“What’s your handle, mister?” Vint asked.
“Matt Rash.”
Allister Kemp displayed confusion and uncertainty for the first time. “Hold on, Evers. Everyone knows that Matt lost four front teeth a couple of years ago when Hurricane kicked him in the mouth. So what?”
“So the man who hired those miners lacked a heap of teeth, too.”
“And you suspect Matt
?”
“Could be.”
The Englishman laughed. “Marshal, you amuse me. If the only clue you have to go on is faulty dentition, then half the inhabitants of the Territory will qualify. Dental hygiene is not exactly a byword on the frontier. My lawyers will make a laughingstock of you.”
Vint did not take the gibe personally. “I’m not arrestin’ anyone . .. yet,” he said. “But I’d be obliged if Rash would come with Lee and me.”
“Where to?” Matt Rash demanded.
“To visit Russell. He can identify the hombre who paid him to kill Lee. I’d like him to get a good look at you.”
The skinny cowboy had the aspect of a wolf at bay. “What if I don’t want to go?”
“I reckon I must insist,” Vint said, flexing his fingers to accent his point. Several of the cowhands shifted and glanced at Jesse Bodine, their foreman, the man most likely to buck Vint if push came to shove. Bodine, in turn, glanced at the Englishman as if awaiting orders to cut loose.
Allister Kemp gave no such command. “I don’t want any trouble today, Marshal,” he said suavely. “If you want to take Matt along to see the digger, you have my permission.”
“What?” Matt Rash exploded.
Kemp gestured. “Go with the lawmen, Matt. I’m afraid they have every right to request that you do. But don’t worry. Everything will work out just fine.”
Rash was not so sure. Flinty as a rat at bay, he looked right and left as if debating whether to make a run for it. “I’m the one they’re accusin’. I think I should have a say.”
“If you intend to remain in my employ, you will not make this difficult,” Kemp said testily.
The outcome hung in the balance. Vint was tensed to unlimber should Rash go for his hardware. But an unexpected voice decided the issue, without bloodshed.
“Go with them, pard,” Jesse Bodine said.
The weasel looked at Bodine, his twisted face showing that inwardly he wrestled for self-control. Then he shrugged and grew calm. “Whatever you want. I just hope the two of you know what you’re doin’.”
No one else objected as the lawmen mounted, flanked the reluctant cowboy, and rode off eastward as if making for Diablo. Once the buildings were out of sight, Vint nodded at Lee and they swung to the north.
Diablo (A Piccaddilly Publishing Western Book 6) Page 19