by Phil Dunlap
Mostly he found nothing more than a few receipts for work done, a couple of bills unpaid, and five promissory notes. The only stash of money amounted to twenty-five cents in coins. The old fool wasn’t going to get rich fixin’ these beat-up shooters. Good thing I’ve been able to latch onto my own resources.
Looking around for a suitable safe place to keep his own stash, he came across a metal box that could, if needed, be padlocked. Should the need arise, of course. Ironically, it just had. He figured he’d drop in to the hardware store and pick up one of the newest locks available. He pulled out a wad from the saddlebags he’d brought in when he arrived and transferred the contents to the box. He put the box in a desk drawer, covered it with papers, and pushed the drawer closed. Seeing that his search-and-find adventure had left no evidence of his poking around, he raised the blind on the door and unlocked it, turning the OPEN sign around for all to see, in particular those who wished to avail themselves of his services. He could hardly contain a wide grin.
* * *
“There was one thing that puzzled me about our goin’ to see Pick’s mine,” Jack said, settling into a ladder-back chair and leaning against the wall.
“And what was that?”
“Pick’s two mules. They were just standin’ around, one saddled and the other with its pack rack piled high.”
“Pick wouldn’t leave his animals to fend for themselves like that. Why didn’t you tell me about this first, before whinin’ about poor Melody’s circumstances?”
“Well, I didn’t remember until just now. Besides, I looked around and didn’t see any sign that Pick had even come back after takin’ possession of Melody’s money.”
“I assume you thought to lead the poor animals back to town and deposit them at the livery. You did do that, didn’t you?”
“I unsaddled them and set ’em free. I couldn’t leave ’em tryin’ to fend for themselves with saddles and tack to contend with.”
“All right, you go down to the stage office and see if the old fool bought a ticket for some place, while I go try to round up a posse.”
“Uh, yeah, sure. You think somethin’s happened to ol’ Pick?”
“I don’t figure we’ll know unless we go look. Now, get out of here. I’m goin’ to the saloon. I hope there’s at least a few fellers that’ll still be sober and would be willin’ to search for a card-playin’ pal.”
“Good luck with that. Way I hear it, Pick Wheeler didn’t have many friends.”
Cotton frowned and pointed to the door. His message was clear.
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’, but don’t blame me if you come back empty-handed,” Jack said, shrugging his shoulders.
Cotton followed him out and headed straight for Melody’s Golden Palace of Pleasure. He had no sooner arrived than Arlo motioned him over.
“What’s going on? I’ve heard rumors that Pick Wheeler took Melody for a pile of money. That couldn’t be right, could it, Sheriff?”
“Where’d you hear these rumors, Arlo?”
“No one in particular. Mostly cowboys jawin’ about this and that. Hardly anything useful ever comes along, though. So, is it true?”
“My best advice is to not spread the rumor any farther.”
“So, you aren’t saying one way or t’other?”
“I’m just followin’ my own advice.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Nope. I’m lookin’ for some volunteers to ride out and see if we can scare up ol’ Pick. Know anyone who’s got some time on his hands and don’t know what to do with it?”
“Pick’s missing?”
“Looks that way.”
“Well, them boys at the back table are mostly talking about the woes of the world. I haven’t seen a card fall yet. Might ask them.”
“Obliged.” Cotton sauntered back to the table with four cowboys, each leaning back in his chair, more interested in sharing his thoughts on the state of affairs in New Mexico Territory than in a card game. “Howdy, boys. How’d you fellas like to take a ride into the countryside? I could use some help locatin’ one of your friends, now apparently missin’.”
“You lookin’ to deputize us, Sheriff?”
“It isn’t necessary, but if you’d feel better about goin’, I’d be willin’ to swear you in.”
All four scooted their chairs back and stood, ready to follow the sheriff’s lead. One of the cowboys spoke up.
“Who did you say we was lookin’ for, Sheriff?”
“Pick Wheeler. Does it matter?”
“Does to me,” said one of the men. He turned around and went back to sit at the table. Another followed him. Cotton was down to two volunteers, and he hadn’t even left the saloon.
By the time they reached the door, Jack was on his way over.
“Did he take the stage, Jack?”
“’Fraid not. No one at the stage office has seen hide nor hair of him in a month of Sundays.”
“Then how do you figure he left town?”
“He rode his mule and took his pack with him, too. He didn’t sell them to Melody. They weren’t part of the deal.”
“So the animals found their way back to the mine without Pick?”
“Looks like. I wonder if he stopped the stage on his way, decidin’ he didn’t want to get to Albuquerque with two mules he no longer needed, and released the critters to forage on their own,” Jack said.
“Lettin’ mules wander off on their own without takin’ the saddle and pack off, well, that don’t seem like somethin’ Pick Wheeler would do, even as nasty a character as he is,” Cotton said, rubbing his stubbly chin.
“Then, we’d better get these fellows sworn in and saddle up,” Jack said, clearly getting anxious to solve Melody’s problem so she’d get off his back. “Maybe we can figure out where all that blood came from, too.”
“What! You found blood! Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Cotton sucked in a lungful of air and let it out in disgust. He slammed through the door.
Chapter 18
Johnny and Rachael were perched on the back of the horse that had belonged to the man everyone had assumed was Rachael’s father. Johnny rode in front, with Rachael’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He liked the way she felt; her small yet firm breasts pushing against his back sent a thrill coursing through him. It introduced him to an excitement he’d not experienced before, and he hated the thought of having, at some point, to dismount and move on. He also liked the smell of her when she laid her head on his shoulder, especially when the wind blew her hair, tickling his cheek. Although he was well into his eighteenth year, his knowledge of girls had been severely stunted. There were no young girls in Whiskey Crossing. In fact, the only woman who remotely attracted him was a thirty-year-old whore who went by the name Gold-tooth Sally, for an obvious facial attribute. He never sampled her sought-after charms, mainly because he’d never had enough money to meet her price. Swamping out a saloon after closing hours and cleaning the stables, while honest, steady work, had proven only sufficient for three meals and a bed each day.
And now, good fortune had come upon him in the form of a lovely young lady who seemed to appreciate his company. His days had brightened despite the hardships they’d endured together. Coming across the very place where Rachael’s “master” was buried, and where his horse had wandered to, had also been a stroke of good fortune. They could, if they didn’t push their mount too hard, make it to a town of sufficient size for them to possibly obtain some type of short-term employment. Any money they might cobble together, they’d agreed, would be put toward stagecoach passage farther west. That was the direction Johnny figured Carp Varner was headed, at least from the few signs he’d seen up to now. Even though Rachael had only a passing and unpleasant knowledge of Varner, she sensed from Johnny’s telling of his evil exploits that he was a man who should be caught and made to pay in th
e harshest way possible for his crimes.
The riding had been easy thus far, and the air smelled fresh from a recent rain. Wildflowers dotted the landscape from here to there to everywhere—striking shades of purple lupine, yellow brittlebush, and cactus flowers, each attracting bees and birds, and unseen things as well. Cottonwoods, birch, and willows lined the several small creeks they’d crossed. Sufficient grass dotted the land that there arose no danger that the horse might starve. In discussing with Rachael their trip across western Texas, Johnny made certain he left out the part about dangers they might face, like scorpions and rattlesnakes and pumas, and all the other creatures that take full advantage of the dark of night to come out of hiding and feed on the unsuspecting. He figured she’d heard about all these things, but he wasn’t all that certain she’d spent many nights outside, under the stars, with only a blanket and a rock for a pillow.
It was a certainty they would not reach any sort of settlement before nightfall, so Johnny began scouring the horizon for someplace to make camp. Rachael, too, must have known they’d need to stop soon. If she was getting hungry, she’d know Johnny was also. He’d need sufficient light to bag something to eat, since the only food they’d brought with them was wrapped in a checkered cloth and rolled up in the saddlebags, and though Johnny hadn’t examined their stash, he suspected it mostly consisted of biscuits or bread, with maybe with some jerky thrown in. Whatever it was, he was certain the intent had been to supply them with items that would sustain them without turning bad during the long ride to civilization. Seth and his wife wouldn’t hear of their departing without something to fill their bellies the farther away they got. Rachael made a suggestion that a copse of trees off to their right might be a good place to settle for the night. It wouldn’t have taken a lot to talk the boy into getting off the horse he’d been astride for more than nine hours.
Having guided the mare between the trees to a place that looked safe and reasonably comfortable, although a little too rocky for his pleasure, Johnny dismounted, helped Rachael down, and quickly began searching the landscape for signs of wildlife. He lifted the trapdoor on the Springfield and slid in a cartridge, then snapped it shut, ready for whatever might happen by. One rabbit would do just fine, he thought. However, though he tried as hard as he could, the place they’d chosen didn’t seem to be teeming with critters eager to become someone’s dinner. He heard not one bird, and found no tracks in the sand. A thin ribbon of a spring, little more than a seep, wandered down the side of a rocky hill and through the trees, certainly not deep enough for any fish. He was puzzled by the lack of larger tracks, though. No sign of deer, horses, or cattle were to be seen along the stream’s edge. He had a sudden sense of something off-kilter. Could there be some unseen danger lurking just beyond his usually acute awareness of his surroundings?
He was now faced with a problem: Did he dare tell Rachael of his premonition or hold off and wait for whatever was going to happen, then react accordingly? No, that’s foolish, simple-minded thinking. I can’t put her in danger just waiting for an imagined threat to show itself. It would be best for us to move on, find another spot. This can’t be the only desirable place for a camp. Rachael had wandered down to the stream and was squatting at the edge, cupping her hands and splashing water on her face to rid her eyes and mouth of trail dust. She was directly beneath a substantial rock outcropping. A large ledge hung over where she drank. Whatever it was that had Johnny’s skin crawling remained elusive. But the more he scanned the landscape, the more he felt discomfited. Rachael seemed quite content, oblivious to any danger, real or otherwise. Was he simply imagining some ghostly presence? If so, why was it so pervasive and growing in intensity? He stared at the ground as he pondered the situation.
In an instant his fears came screaming into reality in the form of a tawny puma perched on the ledge jutting out immediately above where Rachael played in the gurgling stream. The large cat was poised to jump. Johnny let out a warning yell as he raised the Springfield, cocked it, and pulled the trigger. He managed to hit the animal, but not fatally. Damn! he thought. Now Rachael’s in more danger than before. Few things are more dangerous than a wounded mountain lion. He had no time to reload the rifle, so he drew his revolver and, racing toward her, began firing as quickly as he could at the animal that was now on her. The cat screamed at each hit, but in its frantic need for food, it refused to roll over and die. Finally, all six shots expended, Johnny grabbed up the rifle once more and began violently clubbing the puma in the head with it until, with blood splattered everywhere, it slunk away from the stricken girl and fell over dead. It was Johnny’s furious beating, unleashed by the sense that his dear Rachael might lose her life, that had finally brought an end to the cat’s attack.
He stood over the carcass, shaking with disbelief at what he’d done, but also harboring a strange desire to continue the fight. His adrenaline subsiding, he was suddenly aware of a groan coming from behind him. He turned to see Rachael, the sleeve of her dress shredded by the beast’s wicked claws, bleeding profusely. Her dress had almost been torn off her, and she was dazed and bewildered by the suddenness of the attack. She didn’t move except to utter a slight whimper. Terror still filled her eyes when Johnny bent down to take her in his arms. He picked her up and carried her to a wide patch of grass. Her lips were moving but nothing came out.
“Shh. Don’t speak. The cat is gone. It’s going to be okay.” The agony on his face as he looked at the deep claw marks down her arm suggested he wasn’t so sure of that. Time was of the essence. He had to stop the bleeding and clean the wounds. He gently leaned her back onto the grass and ran to his horse to secure a canteen of fresh water. What about bandages? That thought brought him a rush of panic. He tore through all the things they’d packed when leaving Rachael’s cabin for the last time. But, being as how they were afoot, carrying more than the basic necessities had been out of the question. So there was little to pick through.
When he came to her simple, cotton nightgown, he bit his lip. She had made a point of bringing it because it held some sort of fond memory for her. It was the only thing he could find now, though, that might suffice for wrapping the worst of her wounds. He would have to rip it into strips, thus rendering it forever useless as a garment. He cringed at what she might think of him for taking away something so personal and dear to her without her explicit permission, but his choice was limited to strips of nightgown or poultices of mud and leaves.
He began ripping the bottom of the gown into long pieces of clean, white cotton and wetting some of them down to wash her arm where the claws had made bloody furrows. He winced when she made a soft groan at his touch. He swallowed hard and continued washing her flesh.
No tellin’ where all those claws had been. I have to get her to a doctor, and for damn sure it can’t wait.
Chapter 19
Cotton, Jack, and the two cowboys rode out of Apache Springs in search of Pick Wheeler. They had no idea where he’d gotten off to, so they could but choose the most likely direction a man would head if he were flush with a pocket full of money and a dream of going to Chicago. Cotton’s first thought was to start at the mine, since that was where Jack had found the mules, but after some consideration, and armed with the knowledge that Pick had deliberately salted the mine with silver shavings, he doubted the man would have been foolish enough to go near the scene of his crime. Even Pick was smart enough to realize his secret would be discovered at the first turn of a shovel. His best choice would have been to head for Albuquerque, catch a stagecoach from there to Santa Fe, and then head east to the first rail station he could find, probably Las Vegas. Since Pick had spent several years deep in a dark mine shaft, though, Cotton figured it was doubtful the old highbinder had any idea of the railroad’s present-day westerly progress.
Should they detect no sign of him before he exited the county, the only thing they could do would be to turn back, since Sheriff Burke had no jurisdiction in any other county
but his own. Then he’d just have to send out telegrams to every place he could think of, to be on the lookout for a “fugitive” wanted for robbery—for that’s what it was, plain and simple. Pick Wheeler could have been no less a robber than if he’d walked up to a teller’s cage and demanded all the cash.
After two hours of steady riding, Cotton reined up at a stand of cottonwoods. He told the two cowboys to spread out, keeping each other in sight, heading in the general direction of Albuquerque. That way, if anyone saw anything indicating where Pick had gotten off to, he’d be able to signal the others. That wasn’t the only thing the sheriff wanted them to be on the lookout for. Also buzzards. That would be a sure sign of something dead. He was hoping that if they did spot any of the graceful carrion circling an area, it would prove to be nothing more than a dead rabbit or a javelina, the wild boar of the desert. But since Jack had reported seeing blood on the saddle, something violent having happened to Wheeler appeared likely. Sheriff Burke was bracing for bad news. As the cowboys rode out, Jack seemed puzzled by Cotton just sitting his saddle, making no move to join in the hunt.
“You figurin’ on sittin’ this one out, Sheriff?”
“Not exactly. Just waitin’ for the most important member of the search party. Should be here about now.”
“Who might that be?”
“What do we need more’n anything else?”
“A good tracker. Why if we . . . Aah, I get it. You sent for Henry Coyote, didn’t you?”