Chapter 3
Drawn into Trouble
Marty Keller stretched his arms high over his head as he came out of the hotel. Rocking back and forth on his heels, he looked up and down the street, as was his custom since he went on the bounty hunter trail, but saw nothing that gave him concern. He took a leisurely walk to the sheriff’s office, letting his breakfast settle. He felt refreshed after a long night’s sleep following his hard ride from Elko, clear across the northern border of the new state of Nevada to the even newer town of Reno, the gateway to California through the infamous Donner Pass.
He had stopped in to introduce himself to the town’s sheriff, and found to his happy surprise that he was Jesse Longabaugh, from Texas. Jesse had worked as a Texas Ranger in Dallas near where Marty had lived with his family. They renewed old acquaintances quickly.
“I remember when your family was wiped out, Marty,” Longabaugh commiserated. “I actually was on the first posse with Captain Self, when we chased the filthy bastards all the way into Injun territory.
We were all sick to our stomachs that we had to turn back at the state line. I heard you was on the trail, huntin’ fer ’em ever since. Had any luck runnin’ the fiends down?”
“Some, Jesse. I caught up with the gambler in Arkansas. Killed him at a card game. I got the Swain brothers in Bixley, Kansas, about a year after that. Had the pleasure of sendin’ ’em both straight to hell.” Marty shifted as the brutal memories of his dead family flooded his thoughts. “I’ve never found a trace of the leader, Al Hulett, and his Mex sidekick. It’s like the earth swallowed ’em up and brushed the sign away.”
Jesse Longabaugh smoothed the bristly hairs of his mustache with a forefinger and mused a moment. “Maybe they hid out in Mexico. That would explain why you ain’t seen nor heard of ’em.”
“I thought of that, Jesse, I assure you. But it doesn’t make sense. They don’t even know I’m on their trail and outlaw scum like Hulett couldn’t abide lyin’ around some adobe cantina swilling tequila for five years. He’s bound to have come back to the States to rob and steal for some more spendin’ cash. I just can’t seem to cut his trail. That’s why I hunt criminals for a livin’. It gives me more opportunity to cross their paths and meanwhile make a little spending money to keep up the hunt.”
“Well, I don’t reckon I can fault ya for that, Marty. I came in early this morning and went through all my latest wanted papers. I don’t see anything that’s likely to do ya any good. That’s not to say somethin’ won’t come in on the next stage. Since the big gold strikes around Virginia City we’ve had more’n our share of owlhoots causin’ trouble in these parts.
You’re welcome to stick around as long as you want and see what turns up.”
“Thanks, Jesse. That’s a fair offer and I think I’ll take you up on it. My horse damaged a hoof crossing the hardpan north of here. The blacksmith says he’d be better off if I didn’t ride him for a week to ten days. I wouldn’t have pushed him so hard if I had known that McNeal was gonna turn himself in to your custody as soon as he arrived in town.”
“Well, once he heard you was on his trail, I guess he decided to do something smart for a change.”
“Yeah, and cost me a thousand dollars and a month of hard ridin’.”
Jesse grinned right back. “Well, I sure do appreciate you herdin’ him my way. I guess I do owe you a meal or two in thanks. That reward money’ll come in handy, as I’m trying to save up enough to buy some land down around Carson City and start myself a little ranch.”
“I guess a reputation isn’t always a bad thing. I want you to know, Jesse, that talk about me always bringing in my man dead just isn’t true. I try and get them to surrender first. I just don’t let them get me before I get them. I still have men to kill.”
“I believe you, Marty. Remember, I knew you from before. All I ask is that you try and stay out of gun trouble while here in Reno.”
Marty grinned at his latest friend. “And I do promise you, I’ll really try and stay clear of problems when I’m not on the job. It’s bad enough when I’m after some killer. I don’t need the aggravation when I’m trying to rest up. I doubt if many folks around here know me, so I’ll stay quiet and cut a low profile.”
“Appreciate it, Marty. I’ll watch the posters that come in and let you know if I run across any that might be of interest to you.” The sheriff held out his hand, a friendly smile on his face. “Welcome to Reno, Marty. Once you’re settled in, maybe we can ride up into the hills and shoot that famous rifle of yours.”
“Anytime, Jesse. You’ll get one for yourself, once you see how far out it can touch a target.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to it. Now, however, I’d best get some work done. Why don’t we plan on sharin’ supper together, say about seven, at the Chinaman’s Café?”
“Works for me, Jesse. See you there about seven.”
Marty left the sheriff to his duties and walked toward the livery at the north end of town. He was worried about Pacer. The big gray was about done in when they had arrived yesterday evening. Marty had grown to appreciate and rely upon the faithful animal’s strength and endurance on the trail. He also had a soft spot in his heart for the Tennessee gelding, and the affection was reciprocated.
The smithy, a muscular black man with gray-streaked ringlets of dark hair tightly coiled about his head, greeted Marty with a polite nod and a welcome. “Morning, Mr. Keller. Ya come to check on yur hoss?”
“Morning. Sam, isn’t it? Yes, I have. How’s he doing this morning?” Marty continued on back to the stall where Pacer was stabled. The animal softly snickered as his master came into view. “Mornin’, Pacer. How you doing, fella?” Marty stroked the velvety nose and scratched behind Pacer’s right ear, a very satisfying and soothing spot for the horse.
“I’s brushed him down right good, Mr. Keller. I’m afeered he’s got what’s called the ‘curbs,’ on his right rear leg. Thass why he was limpin’ so when you brung ’im in lass night.”
“Damn, that’s a strain on the main ligament, isn’t it? Is it permanently disabling?”
“Nope, I’d reckon I can have him up and about in ten days or so. I’s got a poultice I larned from an Injun that use’ta live hereabouts. I’m already makin’ some up to put on this here fine animal’s leg. I reckon it’ll cost you five dollars to give him the full treatment.”
The brawny black man looked intently at Marty. A man who did not care would pass on the cure and let nature take its course, usually to the horse’s detriment. Marty did not hesitate. “Certainly. Spare no expense. Whatever it takes to get ole Pacer back on his feet.”
“Mighty fine, Mr. Keller. I knowed you was a man who likes his hoss. I’ll git started right away. Ya check in every day. I’ll feed yur hoss the best grain I got and take right good care of him, ya can count on it.”
“I know you will, Sam, and thank you. Here’s ten dollars. Give ole Pacer anything he wants or needs. I’ll make it right by you.”
“Ya can count on me, Mr. Keller.”
Marty walked out of the livery barn and paused before crossing the street. He took a mental reckoning of his available funds. He needed some new clothes and several boxes of ammunition. He also wanted enough to play cards at the local saloons. He had learned the hard way to steer clear of those games where cark slicks and high rollers dominated, but to instead play with the locals. Their stakes were lower and he gained much more useful information.
He would also need to stock up for the trail once he decided on taking up manhunting again. “I sure hate to draw any more from the bank,” he muttered to himself. Shaking his head at how much he spent, when once he and Meg had lived comfortably on fifty dollars a month, he headed for the dry goods store across the street.
By noon he had bathed, shaved, and put on new store-bought clothes. He rented a horse from Samuel and rode out of town to look over the surrounding countryside. He headed west, toward the forest-covered mountains, away from the rocky desert
from Salt Lake. During his hunt for McNeal, he had learned more about the barren wasteland than he ever wanted to.
The mountains to the west of Reno were cool and green, and for Marty the time elapsed quickly as he rode through the lush terrain. He barely made the Chinaman’s Café on time for his meal with Jesse Longabaugh. They reminisced about their days in the famed Texas Rangers and their shared memories.
Finally, Jesse put down his coffee cup and quickly glanced at his pocket watch. “Well, I’d best make my rounds. Wanna walk with me, Marty? I’ll try and keep the drunks offa ya.”
“Might not be a bad idea, Jesse. It’ll show the locals that I’m your friend and maybe they’ll think twice before they try to brace me if they find out who I am.”
They made the town tour, stopping in most of the saloons along Front Street, where Marty was introduced to the bartenders and owners. “You fellas take care of my friend Marty here,” was Longabaugh’s standard line. Only one man’s eyes widened as Marty was introduced.
“Say,” he gushed, “are you the famous man—”
Longabaugh held up his hand to stop the question. “I’d rather you didn’t say anything about that, Wil. This is just ole Marty, here to take it easy and visit an old friend. We clear on that?”
“Whatever you want, Sheriff.” The chunky bartender winked at Marty. “If I can help ya in any way, Marty, jus’ let me know.”
“Thanks, Wil. I’ll sorta be operatin’ on the quiet side for a spell, so don’t spill the beans on me.” Marty cast his gaze over the back of the saloon. Several tables were filled with cowboys, miners, and townspeople engaged in games of cards. “Well, Jesse, I guess I’ll try and get into one of the games here. See you tomorrow?”
Jesse nodded and Marty turned back to the hovering Wil, who was shamelessly eavesdropping on every word. “Wil, have you ever met up with a man who had the last two fingers of his left hand blowed off? Goes by the name of Alva Hulett?”
“Sorry, Mr. Keller. I can’t help ya.”
“Well, it was just a shot in the dark. I’d appreciate hearing from you if you ever do run up against him. Jesse’ll tell you how to get in touch with me.”
As Marty stepped away from the bar, the bartender whispered to the man in front of him, “Say, do you know who that is?”
When the customer shook his head, Wil leaned even closer and, glancing around conspiratorially, continued. “It’s the famous bounty hunter, Marty Keller, called by some the Man Killer. Let me tell you . . .” His eyes never left Marty’s back.
At the front door, Longaburger slapped Marty on the back. “Come by my office around ten. We’ll ride out to where I practice my shootin’. I’ll try out your big Sharps then, if it’s all right with you.”
“Fine by me. You probably need the practice.” He watched Jesse depart, then turned toward a table of cardplayers, all wearing the rough clothing of cowboys or miners.
Marty relaxed as much as a man in his particular profession could over the next few days. He and Sheriff Longabaugh made it a habit to ride out and shoot their weapons at various targets put up by the sheriff in a box canyon in the nearby foothills. Marty showed the sheriff how to shoot his special Sharps, with the telescopic sight and oversized barrel, that he had obtained during his period as a buffalo hunter with Bill Cody.
Marty’s luck at the low-stakes poker that he indulged himself in every opportunity at one saloon or another was somewhat better than average and it provided him with a satisfying wad of money, which he stuffed in a sock in his carpetbag under the bed in his hotel room. He repeatedly posed questions to the many men he played cards with about the outlaw Hulett, without discovering a single lead worth pursuing.
The accident happened on Friday morning as they returned to Reno from their morning target practice. Jesse was laughing and kidding with Marty, not paying much attention to the trail, even though they were following a game path around the side of a steep hillside. His horse suddenly shied at the unexpected encounter with a fat rattlesnake that had slithered up onto a flat rock right beside the trail to sun itself. As the horse stepped close, the rattler coiled up and sounded his many rattles in warning.
The startled animal threw the shocked lawman off his saddle, slicker than a wild stallion fighting his first ride. Jesse hit the edge of the path and slipped over the side, the wind knocked out of him and a burning pain in his right knee. He fell and slid for thirty feet before he jammed up against a scrub bush.
Marty was off his horse and scrambling down the rocky slope before the dust had settled. He reached the still gasping Jesse and pulled him up to a sitting position. “Damn, Jesse, that was some fall. You all right?”
“Ooh, my leg. I think I musta broke it, Marty. Danged hoss. Spooked by a little ole snake. Um, I don’t think I can walk on it. You’re gonna have to help me back up the hill.”
Marty eventually brought the injured sheriff to Reno and delivered him to the local doctor. Marty got the horses stabled and then returned to the doc’s office. He waited impatiently until the old sawbones came out of the treatment room, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt back down to his wrists.
“How’s he doin’, Doc?”
“Well, he ain’t got a broken leg. But he shore has twisted it. He won’t be walkin’ around fer a week or so.”
“Can I see him?”
“Sure. Go on in. He ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Marty entered the room, wrinkling his nose at the medicinal odor that permeated the room. “How you doin’, Jesse?”
“Hurts like the bejesus, Marty. I reckon I gone and done it now.”
“Doc says you’ll be fine in a week or so.”
“Yeah, but my deputy is outa town, deliverin’ a fugitive to Sacramento. Marty, yu’re gonna have to help me fer a spell. I want ya to swear in as a deputy.”
“Now, Jesse, I can’t take on a job like that. As soon as my horse gets well, I’m off on the trail again.”
“You can do this fer me, Marty. For old times’ sake. It’ll only be a week or so. Come on, raise yur hand. I’ll get the city council to pay ya a hundred a month, in advance. Do it, pard. I’m really needin’ ya.”
Reluctantly, Marty took the oath and found himself the newest deputy of Reno. He prowled the streets at night and haunted Jesse’s bed during the day, trying to will him to get well faster.
Word somehow spread as to his identity and the problems were few and far between. Everyone was watching to see if the deadly bounty hunter was as fast and lethal with his guns as his reputation.
Chapter 4
Outlaw Loyalty
The summons to Virginia City was not completely unexpected, but still Vern Barton tried not to show just how nervous and uneasy he was as he stepped into Ransom Stoddard’s office at the headquarters of the Virginia City Mining Consortium on the top floor over Root’s Dry Goods Emporium. Just before knocking on the door, he wiped his palms on the sides of his pants.
As usual the slender, graying Stoddard, with his icy eyes and grim countenance, was sitting behind a massive desk in the dimly lit room. While it was lavishly appointed with the very latest in furniture, with original oil paintings adorning the walls and a glassed front gun case displaying several expensive weapons, to Barton the effect was still more about money than good taste.
To add to the unnaturalness of the surroundings, an odor of malevolent evil seemed to permeate the very atmosphere. Barton swallowed and flashed a sickly smile at his master. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Stoddard?”
Stoddard made Barton wait a full minute while he shuffled papers on his desk before responding. Ransom Stoddard raised his cold, expressionless blue eyes toward Barton, looking at him as a wolf might look at a crippled jackrabbit. His voice was high pitched and as cool as his stare. “How is your campaign going to gain control of the O’Brian stage line?”
“Everything’s goin’ just fine, Mr. Stoddard. We hit their last three runs out of Virginia City, gittin’ the money they was carryin’ and wreckin’ th
eir coaches. It’s just a matter of time afore they’re completely outa business.”
Stoddard nodded his head, reminding Barton of how a rattlesnake bobs its head just before a strike. “Excellent. I want complete control of the freight business before Hearst can rebuild his production. With the coming railroad, whoever owns the freighting business will make a tidy profit from the freight concession. And that damned George Hearst will finally be out of my hair.” He toyed with a chunk of quartz laced with golden threads. It was probably worth a thousand dollars, Barton estimated, and the wealthy mine owner used it for a paperweight.
Stoddard was embroiled in a fight with George Hearst, the equally wealthy owner of the Comstock Mine, the richest in the area, as well as several others. Barton had no idea how many men had been financially ruined or killed in the two egocentric multimillionaires’ war, and did not want to ask, ever. He was content to take his money and ruin a small stage and freight operation. “Any chance you can get the contract shifted to you without all the trouble of runnin’ the O’Brians outa business?”
Stoddard’s malevolent glare sent shivers down the spine of the hardened outlaw. “I would if I could,” he snarled. “George Hearst has convinced the rest of the Mine Owners’ Association to let O’Brian have the freight concession and I have not been able to convince them otherwise, no matter what I promised. I’ll kill the SOB someday, I swear.”
“How’s he doin’ tryin’ to put out his fire in the Comstock?”
Stoddard nodded his head, a contented smirk on his face “It’s still burning and smoking like hell on earth. My engineers say he won’t be able to get back into the mine for several months. Meanwhile, I’m hiring as many of his men as I need and he’s trying to make ends meet with the production from his smaller mines. Since he hit water in the Little Bill, his production is down by over sixty percent. He’s bleeding money like a drunken sailor in port and falling fast.”
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