“We will do this,” Julio said.
“You betcha,” Wilbur said. He climbed into the saddle. Julio caught up his horse after he took the small tablet and a pencil from Brad. He mounted up on Chato, and the two rode off to the far end of the canyon.
Brad nodded in approval. They were doing it right.
He walked to his horse and pulled his rifle from its scabbard.
He sat down and held the rifle in his lap. He watched Wilbur and saw no sign that he would bolt for the timber and try to get away.
It took Julio and Wilbur the better part of two hours to go through the horse herd. When they rode up, Brad was already sitting in his saddle, his rifle back in its sheath.
“What you got, Julio?” Brad asked.
“I did not add them up. I just made the marks.”
“I checked ’em,” Wilbur said. “It’s a good tally.”
“Our horses have your brand on them, Brad,” Julio said. “All except one.”
“Good,” Brad said.
Julio handed him the tablet and pencil. There were several pages with four vertical lines and a slanted line going through those for each five head.
“Let me do the count,” Brad said, “then we’ll ride out of this valley and head for Cheyenne.”
The two men waited while Brad counted each jot of five lines. Wilbur rolled a smoke and cocked a leg around his saddle horn. Julio kept his eye on Wilbur, who didn’t seem to notice that he was under scrutiny.
“I make it three hundred and two head here,” Brad said. “I counted your marks twice, Julio.”
“That is a lot of horses,” Julio said.
“We must have seen half that number get taken out of here since we come down,” Wilbur said.
“So, maybe Killdeer’s men have already stolen about seven or eight hundred horses,” Brad said.
“I reckon,” Wilbur said.
“We could hang them for stealing just one horse. Too bad we can’t hang them eight hundred times,” Brad said.
Wilbur didn’t laugh. He rubbed a hand across his throat with a look of discomfort on his face. He snubbed out his cigarette with two fingers and let the leavings sprinkle down to the ground.
“Let’s go,” Brad said.
“The horses,” Julio said, “they will not run away?”
“Not likely,” Wilbur said. “They got graze and water here. We never had none run off.”
“There’s only one way out of here,” Brad said. “Up that road to the ridge. That’s why the Utes and Arapahos kept their horses here. And they caught wild ones that wandered down where the road is now and fed on good grass. A horse feels safe here.”
“I did, too, until you boys showed up,” Wilbur said.
“That’s the luck of the draw, Wilbur. Sooner or later, every thief and criminal gets caught.”
“I reckon that’s so,” Wilbur said.
The three rode out of the valley. Several of the horses looked up, then continued to graze. Some were drinking at the creek and a few were lying down in the shade of the pines on both sides. Three sides of the valley were ringed by steep limestone and sandstone bluffs. It was a quiet and peaceful place.
Julio and Brad flanked Wilbur, who showed no sign that he would try to escape.
As they left the road at the top of the ridge, Brad reached into his pocket and felt the soft fabric of the piece of blue flannel that had been part of Felicity’s nightgown.
It gave him comfort to stroke it every now and then.
It had become like a talisman, something a knight might carry into battle during medieval times.
And, he knew, he was riding into battle.
EIGHTEEN
Dan Jimson was still mad about what had happened to Abel in Arapaho Gulch. He was so angry that he could think of little else, and he was still shaking over the experience with the Sidewinder.
“Curly,” Canby said to him as they sat their horses in a small copse of spruce and juniper, “it ain’t the end of the world. You better get ahold of yourself and settle down. I think we shook off them detectives.”
They were not far from the creek they had ridden up for at least two miles. Then, it had dropped off into a deep ravine and they could go no farther without riding around the drop-off.
“They was sure as hell a-trackin’ us, Nels. I’ve heard tell that the feller they call Sidewinder is like a damned bulldog. He don’t give up real easy.”
“He don’t give up at all, Curly. But, we got things to do, and I think we lost ’em by ridin’ through that crick.”
“Well, we’re short a man and got us another ranch to raid.”
Canby didn’t say anything for several seconds. Instead, he filched the makings out of his shirt pocket and plucked a paper from the pack, made a trough of it in between his fingers, and poured tobacco in it. He pulled the string with its tag on it to shut the pouch, then rolled a quirley. He struck a match and lit the end until it flamed, and then drew smoke into his lungs.
“Dan,” he said as he blew a plume of bluish smoke through rounded lips, “it’s all goin’ to work out. Gene Trask is waitin’ on us at that saloon in Fort Collins, remember?”
“Yeah. He’s got us a ranch all picked out twixt there and Greeley. A lot of horses, he says.”
“I like old Gene a whole lot better’n his brother, Jack. Jack’s a sourpuss.”
Nels laughed.
“Jack’s always got somethin’ caught in his craw. His big brother is a different sort.”
“Gene? Yeah. He’s a lot smarter than Abel was. Abel just shook the wrong tree back there in the Gulch.”
“You think Gene could have outdrawn that Sidewinder?”
“I dunno. Gene’s pretty fast and he’s got a cooler head than either Jack or Abel.”
“Soon as I finish this smoke, we’ll head out for Fort Collins. We might make it by nightfall.”
“Lordy, that’s a fur piece from where we are right now.”
“Well, we’ll surely be there at the Prairie Dog Saloon by sunup. At the latest.”
“I’m still nervous about what happened in the Gulch,” Curly said.
“A shot of red-eye will tame them nerves down right quick,” Canby said.
Curly ran a wet tongue over his lips.
“I could use a shot right now, I tell you.” He held out his hand. The hand trembled until he balled it up into a fist.
Nels finished his cigarette. He pinched the burning end between his thumb and index finger then rubbed the paper and tobacco into confetti and let it all drop harmlessly to the ground.
“Let’s go,” he said and ticked his horse’s flanks with his spurs.
They rode out of the cluster of trees and headed east toward the plain. Canby marked the sun’s position in the sky and they began to descend to lower elevations along a tabletop between two low ridges.
Canby headed north when they reached a lower level, and the two men rode past Boulder without stopping. They descended to the road and headed for Fort Collins. By late afternoon, they rode into Fort Collins and headed for the Prairie Dog Saloon.
“Is Gene going to meet us here?” Curly asked.
“He has orders to look for us every day from noon until closing,” Canby said.
“Then, I guess he’ll be there.”
“I reckon.”
There were horses at the hitch rail in front of the saloon. Some of these had the U.S. brand on their hips and McClellan saddles on their backs. Soldiers walked through the town in pairs and threesomes, and people strolled in and out of shops or examined the vegetables in the outdoor bins. Canby and Jimson dismounted and wrapped their reins around the hitch rails.
Canby walked over to a blue roan that was hitched to the railing.
“This here’s Gene’s horse,” he told Curly. “So, he’s inside.”
Curly went in first. He was still shaking inside and hoped he could keep his hands still enough to hold a drink between his fingers. The light inside the small saloon was dim. No lanterns were lit, and the only light was from the front windows.
Gene saw him and rose from his table a few feet from the bar. He waved to the two men. Canby squinted to wash the brightness from his eyes and grabbed Curly by the elbow.
“There’s old Gene,” he said.
Curly saw a shadowy figure and squinted to block the light streaming in through the bat-wing doors.
“I see him,” he said.
They walked over to the table. Soldiers sat at the bar and occupied three or four tables.
“About time you boys got in,” Gene said.
Eugene Trask was a square-shouldered, lean, and wiry man in his early forties, with a small wizened face and dark hazel eyes that flickered with wedges of gold and green. His mouth was a small slash beneath an elongated nose that bore a deep black scar across the ridge. His beard was sparse on his cheeks and came to a black swirl of wiry hairs on his chin. He looked like, and was, a gunfighter, a drifter, and a cowboy whose bowed legs betrayed his calling.
“We been through a heap of shit, Gene,” Curly said. “Whilst you been swillin’ down suds ever’ day.”
“I been workin’ my ass off, Curly,” Gene said. “Scoutin’ out the ranch we’re going to hit and sizin’ up the spread. Waitin’ on you two ain’t been real easy, neither.”
“Can we get us some drinks?” Canby asked. “Curly’s still shakin’ in his boots over what happened to us up in ’Rapaho Gulch, and I’m plumb parched.”
Gene raised a hand and signaled to a wandering waiter. “You just tell Bohunk what you boys want and I’ll take care of it,” Gene said. “Goes on the Killdeer expense account.”
The waiter known as Bohunk drifted over with a tray and a towel over his arm.
“What’s your poison, boys?” he asked.
“Whiskey,” Curley said.
“Rye and a beer to chase after it,” Nels said.
“I’ll have another glass of that sour beer, Bohunk,” Gene said.
“Right away,” Bohunk said and drifted off to the bar as if he were a man of leisure disguised as a waiter.
“That Bohunk don’t seem to be in no hurry,” Curly said as he watched the waiter sidle up to the bar.
“He ain’t real fast, but he delivers the goods,” Gene said.
Canby laughed.
Curly scrunched his face up in a sour scowl.
“You boys run into some trouble?” Gene asked. “I see you don’t have Abel with you.”
“Avery’s dead,” Canby said. “We sold some horses up in ’Rapaho Gulch and were in the saloon there when three detectives come in and got Abel all riled up.”
“Detectives?”
“That’s what they said they was,” Nels said. “Leastwise that’s what we heard. Abel, he got up and braced one of ’em. This’un showed him a scrap of blue flannel and said it was cut off’n his wife’s nightgown. Said some men raped his wife and cut her throat. Abel called the man out and got hisself shot. It was so damned quick. Abel hadn’t even cleared leather, but he drawed first, or was fixin’ to. Curly and I lit a shuck real quick.”
“Who was this feller?” Gene asked.
“Don’t know his name, but I think the barkeep said he was the Sidewinder. And we heard about him all right.”
“Holy Jehoshaphat,” Gene exclaimed, “you tangled with the Sidewinder?”
“That’s what we figure,” Canby said.
“We heard a rattlesnake and it was him,” Curly said.
“That’s his trademark all right,” Gene said.
Bohunk brought their drinks and set them all together in the center of the table.
“Four bucks,” he said. “Silver, gold, or paper.”
Gene laid a five-dollar bill on the table.
“Keep the change?” Bohunk said.
“If you’re that hard up, Bohunk,” Gene said.
“I got a wife and kids.”
“You got a whore and a jenny mule, Bohunk, that’s what you got,” Gene said.
“Thank you, Mr. Trask,” Bohunk said with mock gravity and gave a little exaggerated bow. Then he answered the call from a trooper at another table.
Curly drank half of his whiskey in one swallow and wiped his lips. His eyes filled with tears as the liquor burned down his throat.
Nels swallowed a mouthful of rye and washed it down with a sip of beer.
“Well, too bad about Avery,” Gene said. “You boys ready to work?”
“What you got, Gene?” Canby asked.
“Well, it ain’t goin’ to be easy, I can tell you. There’s a spread between here and Greeley that’s got some mighty fine horseflesh. Couple of gates on the pasture where two dozen head graze. We have to go in at night and be real quiet. They got a nighthawk what makes the rounds ever’ hour checkin’ on the corrals and stables.”
“You plannin’ on catchin’ up a dozen head, Gene?”
“Them’s the onliest ones that’s easy to get.”
“You’ll have to go with us back up into the mountains. To Wild Horse Valley,” Canby said.
“Plan to. I want to see Jack. How’s he doin’?”
“He’s doin’ fine,” Curly said. “He’s right handy with them runnin’ irons.”
“There’s only one hitch to this deal,” Gene said.
He drank beer from his glass while Curly and Nels waited for the other shoe to hit the floor.
“Hitch?” Curly said.
“What hitch?” asked Nels.
“One of us has got to kill that nighthawk and stand guard at the ranch house.”
“Who’s in the house?” Nels asked.
“A man and a woman and three sons,” Gene said.
Curly sucked in a breath.
The blood drained from Canby’s face.
“We could get into a gunfight once them horses start squealin’,” Canby said. “How old are the sons?”
“They’re all growed and got hair on their chests. They all pack pistols out on the range and probably got an arsenal inside the house.”
“You picked a hell of a place to steal horses, Gene,” Canby said.
“Good horses. If we don’t make too much of a racket, we ought to get away clean. Corral’s about a quarter mile from the house.”
“So you want the nighthawk killed?” Curly asked.
“Yup, you’re goin’ to have to slit his gullet before he yells out, Curly. With that big knife of yours.”
“I don’t like it none,” Curly said.
“Me, neither,” Nels said.
“Well, that’s all we got,” Gene said. “Tonight’s the last night to do it. Old man Rafferty’s takin’ them horses to auction tomorrow.”
“I’m plumb tuckered out,” Curly said.
“We rode a fair piece today, Gene.” Nels took another swallow of rye, then downed a mouthful of beer.
“Jordan wants us to get these horses,” Gene said. “We ain’t got no choice. I figger if we go there toward mornin’ that nighthawk will be half asleep.”
“And we won’t be real woke up,” Nels said. “Damn it.”
“It’s goin’ to be a long night,” Curly said.
“Jordan says if we get these, he’ll put a little sugar in your pay next month.”
Gene smiled at both men as if he were a kindly mother to them both. He extended his arms and tapped both men on their shoulders.
“As my old man always said, boys, ‘everything’s goin’ to be all right.’”
Curly raised up a fist and shook it at Gene.
“You’re a wily bastard, Gene. Killdeer’s pet. I got to get some sleep.”
“I got
rooms waitin’ for you at the Bide-a-Wee Boardinghouse. I’ll take you there and then roust you out of your bunks a little after midnight.”
“Grub?” Nels asked.
“They got a kitchen there, Nels,” Gene said.
“You got everything figured out, don’t you, Gene?” Canby said. “Hell, we’re goin’ up against four or five men just for a measly string of horses.”
“Good horses,” Gene said and finished drinking his beer.
Dusk was settling into the town when the three men left the saloon and walked down the street to the boardinghouse. The sky over the mountains was aglow with gray clouds burnished to a high gold sheen, and golden rays flickered on the snowcapped mountains.
In the distance, a coyote yodeled, and the breeze stiffened and turned chill.
NINETEEN
Black moonless night. Faraway stars twinkled like thousands of prairie campfires. An owl hooted outside the town as three shadowy riders took to the deserted road heading east of town, the leather of their saddles creaking like unoiled door hinges. Slow and steady they rode as dark shapes of sage and cactus floated motionless on an ebony plain.
When they were out of earshot of the town, Gene halted. They could still see the few lights in the distance, but the prairie was pitch-dark.
He pulled the makings out of his pocket and started to roll a cigarette. The moon was up, but it was behind the mountains and shed no light on the plain.
“What’re we stoppin’ for?” Curly asked.
“To make sure you got your nerves calmed down, Curly,” Gene said. “You been a flibbertigibbet since I woke your sorry ass up.”
“Hell, I’m just sleepy,” Curly said. “My nerves ain’t a-janglin’.”
“Well, then mine are,” Gene said. “I need a smoke before we get to the Rafferty spread.”
“I’m just wonderin’ why in hell we got to hit this particular ranch, Gene,” Nels said. “There’s got to be easier ones we can rustle in the daylight.”
Gene struck a match and touched the flame to his quirley. He drew smoke through its wrinkled tube and let it out through his nostrils.
“Some time back, Leon Rafferty bested Jordan in a deal up in Cheyenne. It’s been ranklin’ Jordan ever since. I guess old Leon went behind Jordan’s back on some horse deal.”
Nest of Vipers (9781101613283) Page 10