by J. Roberts
“Come on, then,” Clint said. “We better get saddled up. You folks do what you can for these people.”
“What about the dead ones?” somebody asked.
“Take ’em to the undertaker,” Larry said. “Mr. Adams and me’ll be back soon.”
Clint and the bartender ran for the livery and saddled their horses.
“You’ve got a good animal, there,” Clint said, looking at Larry’s dun, “but he’s not going to be able to keep up with mine.”
“That don’t matter,” Larry said. “You just ride hell-bent for leather and I’ll do the best I can.”
They rode out of town and before long Eclipse had outdistanced the other man’s horse, and they left the bartender in the dust.
It was dark by the time Clint reached Tombstone. All he knew for sure was that Fred Dodge was a lawman there, so he stopped the first man he came to on Allen Street.
“Is Fred Dodge in town?”
“Deputy Dodge? Sure is. Just saw him over on the corner of Fifth, with Frank Ryan.”
“Obliged,” Clint said, and rode on for Fifth Street.
When he got there he saw two men standing on the corner talking. One of them was, indeed, Fred Dodge.
“Hey, Fred!” Clint called.
As Clint dismounted, Fred Dodge turned and looked at him in surprise.
“Clint Adams? What’re you doin’ in Tombstone, boy?” he asked.
“Right now I’m looking for you, Deputy,” Clint said. “I just rode here from Bisbee.”
“Bisbee?” Dodge said. “What were you doin’—”
“That’s not important now,” Clint said. “There’s been a hold up there. People are dead and injured.”
“Who’s dead?” the other man asked.
“This is Constable Frank Ryan, Clint,” Dodge said.
“I heard some names,” Clint said. “Tappinier, D. T. Smith . . . and a pregnant woman named Roberts.”
“Bob Roberts’s wife?” Dodge asked. “They’re friends of mine. She’s dead?”
“Yes,” Clint said. “Also Indian Joe and a man named Nolley. Might be more by now. They were hurt when I left. We’ve got to get the doctor.”
Dodge turned to Ryan.
“You get Doc Goodfellow. I’ll get the priest, and I’ll wake Charley Smith. We’ll meet at the livery and head to Bisbee.”
“Right,” Ryan said.
“The priest?” Clint asked, as Ryan ran off.
“Maybe he can do somethin’ for the folks Doc can’t help,” Dodge said. “Come on. We need to get Bob Hatch and Charley Smith.”
“Are they law?” Clint asked.
“Yeah, deputies, like me.”
“Fred, are you still—”
“We got time to catch up later, Clint,” Dodge said. “Right now we got to move fast.”
“Right,” Clint said, and followed.
SEVEN
They met up with Frank Ryan and Doc Goodfellow at the livery. They now had the priest with them, as well as the deputies, Smith and Hatch, and some other men. In the meantime, the bartender, Larry, had also gotten there.
As they saddled up, Larry said, “My horse won’t make it back.”
The man who owned the livery said he’d loan him a fresh mount.
“What about you, mister?” he asked Clint.
“Don’t worry,” Clint said. “My horse will make it.”
The doctor was older, so they hitched up his buggy for him and the priest to ride on.
They returned to Bisbee at a gallop, arrived there in the middle of the night. The town was still awake, however, waiting for them to arrive. The street was lit by the torches the townspeople were holding.
“Where are the injured?” Doc asked.
“We got ’em in the hotel lobby, Doc. Over here,” a man said.
The doctor and the priest followed.
A man approached on foot, and Dodge said, “Clint, this is Bill Daniels. He bought the saloon from me, and is also a deputy sheriff.”
“He bought the saloon?” Clint said. He was going to ask about Lily, but it wasn’t the time or place.
“Where’s Ward?” Daniels asked, asking after the sheriff.
“We couldn’t locate him, but we’re here,” Dodge said. “Me, Smith, and Hatch. We got some other men with us, including this fella who’s a friend of mine—Clint Adams.”
“Adams?” Daniels asked. “The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right,” Dodge said.
“Well, happy to have you, Adams,” Daniels said. “We’re gonna need you. Near I can find out, there was a gang of about five men.”
“Anybody know any of them?” Dodge asked.
“No.”
“Let’s ask around, boys,” Dodge said to Smith and Hatch. “Might find somebody who knows somethin’.”
“Okay, Fred,” Hatch said.
“Let’s go and look in on the injured,” Dodge said to Clint. “Maybe one of them knows something.”
Clint nodded and followed his friend.
They entered the lobby of the Copper Queen Hotel, which had been turned into a makeshift hospital. The doctor was tending to the wounds of the injured, with the assistance of a few women from town.
“I have to talk to as many as I can,” Dodge said to Clint. “I may be able to combine what little each of them knows. Meanwhile, why don’t you see to your horse, and get some rest. We’ll take a posse out at first light. If you want to come along—”
“I do,” Clint said, quickly.
“Good,” Dodge said. “I was hoping.”
“I’ll see you at first light,” Clint said.
Dodge went over to the doctor to discuss the injured, while Clint left to take Eclipse to the livery. After a few hours the big horse would be ready to go. After riding to and back from Tombstone, he wondered if he could say the same for himself.
At first light Clint was back in the lobby of the hotel. There were less injured lying on cots there. Obviously, some of them had been able to go home—or perhaps they had died.
The doctor was still there, looking haggard and tired. He had two of the townswomen still assisting him.
“Doc,” Clint said, approaching him.
The doctor looked up at him, squinted, then seemed to recognize him.
“Mr. Adams, is it?”
‘That’s right. Have you seen Deputy Dodge around?”
“Just a little while ago. I think he went down the street to find some breakfast.”
“Thanks.” Clint started away, then turned back. “Did you lose anyone during the night, Doc?”
“One,” he said, “but I was able to send a few people home.”
“Any of these folks in danger of dying?”
“No,” the man said, “I think we’re through the worst of it.”
“Okay. Thanks, Doc.”
The man nodded and went back to work.
Clint left the hotel and went in search of the place Dodge was having breakfast. He found it right down the street, as the doc had said.
EIGHT
It was a small café with about eight tables. He found Dodge sitting in the back, one of only two tables that were taken. His friend looked up at him as he approached.
“Mornin’, Clint,” Dodge said.
“Fred.”
“Sit down. Had breakfast?”
“No,” Clint said. “I thought we were leaving at first light.”
“I’ve been up all night, Clint. I needed some coffee, and somethin’ to eat. Have somethin’ and then we’ll meet the boys at the livery.”
A middle-aged waitress came over, and Clint ordered eggs, bacon, and biscuits. She poured him some coffee and then went to get his order.
“Did you get anything?” Clint asked.
“I’m afraid I did.”
“What? Somebody saw them?”
“Heard them,” Dodge said.
“Heard?”
“Yeah,” Dodge said. “Bob Hatch found a young fella who was able to imitate th
e voice of one of the men. I recognized it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, who do you think it is?”
“Fella named Jack Dowd. The problem is, this don’t seem like Dowd. He’s a mule skinner, drove a twenty-mule team for Jimmy Carr a while back and always seemed to be on the square.”
“So why would he do this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any idea who was with him?”
“No, but I was out around Rucker Canyon a few days ago on a job. On the way back I passed an old ranch house. There were some men there shoeing some horses. One of them, a big man, looked familiar to me but I couldn’t place him. Now I think it was Jack Dowd.”
“But you didn’t recognize the other men?”
“I didn’t get that good a look at them,” Dodge said. “How could I figure they’d do this a few days later?”
“You couldn’t, Fred. Don’t blame yourself.”
“I’m good at what I do, Clint,” he said, “but I missed somethin’ here.”
“I don’t think so, Fred,” Clint said. “I just think you’re being too hard on yourself.”
The waitress came back with Clint’s breakfast. The eggs were cooked perfectly, and the bacon was crisp.
“This is good,” he said.
“I used to eat breakfast here a lot when I lived here.”
“You owned the saloon, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Lily’s?”
“It wasn’t called Lily’s when I owned it.”
“You said yesterday you sold it to a man?”
Dodge nodded.
“Bill Daniels.”
“I was told that woman, Lily, owned it.”
Dodge shook his head, poured himself some more coffee.
“Bill owns it, but Lily runs it. Have you seen her?” Dodge asked.
“Yes, last night.”
“She’s somethin’, huh?”
“Seems like the men in this town are afraid of her.”
“That’s because she’s a man-eater, Clint,” Dodge said. “If you’re settin’ your hat for her you better beware.”
“I’ll remember that,” Clint said. “Right now we’ve got other things to worry about.”
They finished their breakfast, paid the bill, and walked to the livery.
“What kind of posse do we have?” Clint asked.
“My usual,” Dodge said. “Charley Smith and me, we usually ride together. I also got the best trailer in the country, Manuel. He’s part Yaqui, part Indian, and part Mexican. And then there’s Bob Hatch, Frank Ryan, Bill Daniels, Sy Bryant, and a few others.”
“Where are we going to look?”
“Might as well head for Rucker Canyon and see what we can find,” Dodge said. “After all, that’s where I saw them workin’ on their horses. That is, unless Manuel can pick up their trail right away.”
When they got to the livery, the other members of the posse were all gathered in front.
“Be right with ya,” Dodge yelled, “soon as we saddle our mounts.”
The others milled around impatiently while Clint saddled Eclipse and walked him out. Dodge came out last.
“Okay,” he shouted, “we heard they rode out headin’ north, so let’s see if Manuel can pick up their trail. Let’s ride out!”
NINE
Manuel did, indeed, pick up the robbers’ trail outside of town. They followed the trail north, toward Bisbee Canyon. As they rode along, Dodge sidled up alongside of Clint.
“See that fella up front? With the blue shirt?” he asked.
“I see him.”
“His name’s John Heath,” Dodge said. “A few weeks ago he came to town with a woman who is supposed to be his wife, opened up a saloon and dance hall.”
“What about him?”
“I don’t like ’im.”
“Why not?”
“He just don’t feel right,” Dodge said. “Never has. I don’t think he came to town to open a business.”
“You think he came to town to case it?” Clint asked. “For the gang?”
“I don’t know,” Dodge said, “but I asked Sy Bryant to keep an eye on him. He volunteered for the posse, and he don’t strike me as the volunteer type.”
“You think he’s coming along to point us in the wrong direction?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll watch him, too,” Clint said.
“Thanks.”
Dodge rode up to the head of the posse to ride alongside Manuel, who was still looking for signs. Clint put his eyes on Heath and watched him closely.
They got to Bisbee Canyon, rode in and then rode out to the north. There they all stopped while Manuel checked out the area. He dismounted and walked the ground, staring down intently, then walked to Dodge and spoke to him.
“Looks like somethin’s wrong,” Bill Daniels said to Clint.
“I think I know what it is,” Clint said.
“What?”
“Look at the ground,” Clint said. “I’m not a great tracker, but it’s full of cattle tracks. Looks like the robbers rode in among the cattle to cover their trail.”
Daniels looked down and said, “By God, you’re right. Now what?”
“Manuel is supposed to be the best,” Clint said, “and Dodge is no slouch. Somebody’ll find the trail.”
“Maybe you,” Daniels said.
“Maybe,” Clint said, although he didn’t sound so sure.
It was getting late and they decided to camp there. With over a dozen men in the posse they made two fires and got two frying pans and coffeepots going for their meal. John Heath was sitting at the fire with Sy Bryant and some of the others. Clint sat with Dodge, Daniels, Charley Smith, and Bob Hatch. All of the horses were picketed and cared for by Manuel who, Clint could tell, knew his way around horses. It showed in the way Eclipse allowed the man to handle him.
Clint walked over while Manuel was rubbing Eclipse down.
“This is a very special horse, señor,” Manuel said.
“Yes, he is.”
“Magnifico,” Manuel said.
“You handle him very well.”
Manuel, in his thirties and rail thin, grinned and showed a lot of gold.
“Horses like me, señor.”
“I can see that.”
“I only wish the wimmins, they liked me as much, eh?” Manuel laughed.
“Manuel, our problem is with the cattle tracks, isn’t it?” Clint asked.
“Sí,” Manuel said, “I tol’ Señor Dodge that the robbers hide their tracks in with the cattle.”
“Can you find them again?”
“I try, señor,” Manuel said, with a shrug.
“Dodge says you’re the best.”
Another shrug.
“I do what I can, señor.”
“Well, finish up here and come have something to eat at our fire,” Clint said.
“Gracias, señor. I will do that.”
Clint watched as Eclipse seemed to lean into Manuel’s touch, then turned and went back to the fire.
Dodge did, indeed, explain to everyone at the fire what Manuel—and Clint—had noticed. The robbers had hidden their tracks by riding into a herd of cattle.
“Tomorrow we’ll split up and try to pick up the trail again. Some of you will go with Manuel, some with me, and others with Clint, who can track pretty well.”
It was a surprise to Clint that Dodge considered him a good tracker.
“And we’ll set watches for the night by twos,” Dodge said. “I’ll go and talk to the men at the other fire.”
“I’ll go with you,” Clint offered, standing.
As they walked to the other fire Clint said, “I’ll take first watch.”
“Okay, good,” Dodge said. “I’ll put Sy Bryant with you.”
“I think I have a better idea,” Clint said.
“What’s that?”
Clint put his hand on Dodge’s arm to s
top them before they reached the other fire.
“Pair me up with Heath,” Clint said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
Fred Dodge grinned at his friend and said, “That is a good idea.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, as they started walking again, “I get one every now and then.”
TEN
Dodge introduced Clint to Heath, and then turned in with the rest of the men.
“We’re gettin’ started at first light,” Dodge said to Clint, “for real, this time.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Clint poured himself a cup of coffee from the second fire, then poured one for Heath.
“Thanks.”
“Guess this wasn’t exactly what you expected when you came to Bisbee, huh?”
“Whataya mean?”
John Heath was in his late thirties, had the soft-looking hands of a man who had never worked fence posts. Clint had noticed, however, that the man was a good rider.
“Oh, I heard that you run a saloon,” Clint said. “I was just thinking you didn’t expect to find yourself as part of a posse.”
“Hey, if I live in a town, I pitch in,” Heath said. “That means volunteerin’ for posses.”
“Well then,” Clint said, “I didn’t mean any offense. There should be more town citizens like you.”
“You’re damn right,” Heath said. “I’m gonna walk around a bit.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“You might walk over some tracks in the dark, wipe them out,” Clint said. “Manuel’s got to have something to read in the morning.”
“I know what I’m doin’, Adams,” Heath said. “I ain’t no tenderfoot.”
Heath walked off. Clint thought about following him, but it really didn’t matter. There wouldn’t be any tracks for him to trample. If there were, Manuel would have read them already.
Clint poured some more coffee and sat down by the first fire. When Heath came back he made a point of sitting at the second fire. Clint figured he wasn’t going to get any conversation out of him.
But he felt that Dodge was right. There was something wrong with Heath, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He didn’t talk like a saloon owner. His reason for being in Bisbee had nothing to do with whiskey and saloon girls.