It was true. The young, fair-haired swindler was nowhere to be seen. He had slipped away while the brief ruckus and the near-gunfight had everyone distracted.
Harding roared curses at the men who were supposed to be holding the swindler, but that did no good. Like a rat, the varmint had slipped away in the gathering darkness. No telling where he was now, but in all likelihood he was putting as much distance as he could between himself and this settlement.
“Looks like we don’t have any reason to fight anymore,” Bo observed. “If you’d locked that gent up like you should have to start with, Harding, he’d still be here. Now he’s long gone.”
“Thanks to you two,” Harding snarled. “I ought to—”
“But you won’t,” Scratch broke in as he shifted the barrels of his Remingtons significantly.
“I’ve got a dozen men here! If I give the word, you’ll both be shot to pieces!”
“Yes, but it’ll be the last word you’ll give,” Bo said.
Harding looked like he was struggling to swallow something that tasted mighty bad. But after a moment he turned and choked out to his men, “Get back to the ranch—now!”
Bo could tell that those lean, hard-faced gun-wolves didn’t want to go, but they slowly turned away and headed for their horses, which were tied at hitch rails along the street. Marshal Ralston and the other townies who had been part of the mob started to disperse as well. Harding was the last to go, and before he did, he told Bo and Scratch, “You’d better get out of this town. You’ll be sorry if you don’t.”
“Mister, we’re already sorry we stopped here,” Scratch said. “It’s a plumb unfriendly place.”
“You don’t know how unfriendly,” Harding said. He stalked off, jerking the reins of a chestnut free and swinging up into the saddle. It was a big horse. It had to be in order to carry a man of Harding’s bulk. He rode away without looking back.
Bo and Scratch didn’t holster their guns until the street was empty again. Then, as they slid their irons back into leather, Scratch asked, “Are we lightin’ a shuck like Harding said?”
“Not until I get that beer,” Bo said. “Or another one rather. I expect the first one’s warm by now.”
The storekeeper they had spoken to earlier was still on the boardwalk, and as the Texans approached, he said, “I’ll buy you that beer, fellas. It’s been a long time since anybody around here stood up to Tom Harding. Quite a show.”
“You sure you want to risk being seen associating with us?” Bo asked. “Sounded like Harding’s got a hold over you.”
“His bank’s got a lien on my store, but I’m no fool. He can’t call the note in early. I made sure of that before I signed it.” The man motioned for them to follow him into the Buffalo Bar. “Come on.”
The merchant, whose name was Gus Hobart, bought beers for all three of them and joined the Texans at a table in the corner. After he had downed a healthy swallow of the drink, he licked his lips and went on. “I admire your gumption, fellas, but it might be better if you moseyed on. Having to back down like that is going to stick in Harding’s craw. There’s no telling what he might do.”
“We ain’t made a habit o’ runnin’ from trouble,” Scratch said.
“On the other hand,” Bo said, “sometimes there’s some truth to that old saying about discretion being the better part of valor.” He took a long drink of the cold beer and sighed in satisfaction. “I’m curious, though. What did that young fella do to nearly get himself tarred and feathered?”
Hobart snorted. “That’s the worst of it. You boys were risking your hides for somebody who didn’t deserve it. He came damn close to making off with a fortune that rightfully belongs to folks around here. You see, the railroad’s talking about building a spur line up here from the main route down south.”
“Ah,” Bo said. “The railroad.” He understood perfectly well that although the coming of the iron horse had done a lot to help with the civilizing of the West, it was also responsible for a great deal of violence and chicanery in recent years.
“Yeah,” Hobart nodded. “We’d been hearing rumors about that spur for a while, and then that young fella showed up. Called himself Charles Wortham, but that was probably a lie like everything else. He claimed to be working for the railroad and said he was here to arrange for the donation of land for the right-of-way. Folks had figured that the railroad would buy the land, but the way Wortham explained it, the only way they’d build the spur was if they could acquire the right-of-way free of charge. A trade-off, he called it. Folks around here would provide the land, and the railroad would provide the prosperity. So what we had to do was transfer the deeds to the property over to him, and then he would transfer it to the railroad in one big piece. So he said.”
Bo and Scratch were both shaking their heads already. Scratch said, “Nobody believed that line o’ bull, did they?”
“I’m afraid they did,” Hobart replied with a sigh. “We were that desperate for the railroad to come in.”
“Wortham would have sold that land to the railroad and made a killing,” Bo said. “Then he’d disappear before anybody found out that he’d acquired it by underhanded means.”
“Yeah, but he hadn’t counted on Tom Harding having a friend in Santa Fe,” Hobart said. “Harding got this fella to look into the matter, and he found out that Wortham didn’t work for the railroad at all. As soon as Harding got the letter telling him that, he went after Wortham. Grabbed him in his hotel room, got the deeds out of Wortham’s carpetbag, and dragged him out in the street.” Hobart shrugged. “I reckon you know the rest.”
Scratch gave a disgusted snort. “Sounds like we really did risk our necks for a skunk who didn’t deserve it.”
“He didn’t deserve to be tarred and feathered either,” Bo said. “That could have killed him. A couple of years in prison would’ve been more appropriate.”
Hobart said, “Maybe so. I got to admit, I felt a mite queasy myself at the idea of doing that to him. Nobody from around here, though, would’ve stood up to Tom Harding to stop it.”
Bo started to tell him that until the townspeople stood up to Harding, the cattle baron would continue running roughshod over them, but he decided to save his breath. Hobart had to be aware of that, and so did everybody else in the settlement. What they did about it was up to them, and no business of his and Scratch’s.
“Any towns south of here?” he asked after taking another swig of the beer. “It’s been a while since we’ve been through these parts, but to the best of my recollection, there’s not much until you hit Santa Fe.”
Hobart shook his head. “No, that’s not true. There are several settlements between here and there. Closest one is several days’ ride, though.”
“You’re not thinkin’ of movin’ on, are you?” Scratch asked with a frown. “We were gonna stay here a few days and stock up on supplies, amongst other things.”
That had been the plan, all right. Despite looking like a parson, Bo was a highly skilled poker player, and when the Texans’ stake ran low, he could usually fatten it up in a few days just by sitting in on a few games. That was what he would have done here, if fate hadn’t intervened.
“We still have enough provisions to last us for a while,” he said. Nor were they flat broke yet, although he didn’t mention that. “It might be best if we moved on.” At Scratch’s grimace, he added, “Best for the town, that is. If Harding knows we’re still here, he’s liable to be like a bear with a hurt paw. He’ll lash out at anything that comes near him.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Scratch admitted. “I was sure lookin’ forward to sleepin’ in a real bed with a roof over my head again, though.”
Bo grinned. “We’ll find us a nice comfortable spot to camp tonight.”
Scratch just snorted.
They finished their beers, and Bo said, “We’re much obliged to you, Mr. Hobart.”
The storekeeper nodded. “I just wish we could be more hospitable to you fellas. You underst
and, though.”
“Sure,” Bo said. He and Scratch stood up, nodded their farewells, and started toward the batwings. The other men in the saloon nervously watched them leave.
As they stepped out onto the boardwalk, Scratch growled, “It’s like we got a dark cloud hangin’ over our heads, and those gents are afraid it’s gonna rain all over ’em.”
“You can’t blame them for feeling that way,” Bo said. “We’re strangers, just passing through, but they have to live here and try to get along with Harding—”
He didn’t have time to say anything else before muzzle flame spurted from the darkness of a nearby alley mouth and the roar of guns filled the night.
CHAPTER 3
Bo and Scratch reacted instinctively as bullets sang past their heads. They split up, Bo hugging the front wall of the saloon to the right, Scratch going to the left toward the street. The silver-haired Texan put one hand on the railing along the edge of the boardwalk and vaulted over it, rolling lithely as he landed in the street. He came up on one knee with both hands filled with the butts of his Remingtons.
Meanwhile, Bo crouched behind a bench that sat on the boardwalk. As the bushwhackers’ guns continued to blare from the alley, slugs chewed splinters from the arms of the bench. One of the wooden slivers stung Bo’s cheek as he lined up his Colt and squeezed the trigger. He had aimed just above one of the muzzle flashes, and as the revolver bucked against his palm, he saw another gout of flame from a gun barrel, only this one was aimed skyward as the man who pulled the trigger was driven over backward by the smashing impact of the bullet from Bo’s gun.
Scratch opened fire, too. Instead of the single precise shot that had come from Bo’s gun, Scratch set both smokepoles to roaring in a thunderous volley of death. Left, right, left, right, he squeezed off the shots, each Remington blasting in turn as the barrel of the other gun kicked upward from the recoil. Lead poured into the alley mouth. The second bushwhacker, even though he managed to get off another couple of rounds, never had a chance.
After triggering half a dozen shots in less than five seconds, Scratch held his fire. On the boardwalk, Bo straightened from his crouch and walked toward the alley, advancing slowly and cautiously with the Colt thrust out in front of him, ready to fire again if need be.
No more shots came from the alley mouth. When Bo reached the end of the boardwalk, he fished a lucifer out of his coat pocket with his left hand and snapped it into life with his thumbnail. The harsh flare of light from the match revealed two men lying motionless on the dirt, their rough range clothes splotched with spreading bloodstains. Bo recognized both men.
So did Scratch, who had holstered one gun and was using that hand to slap dust off his clothes as he came closer. He grunted and said, “The same two varmints who tried to hand us a beatin’ earlier.”
“Yeah,” Bo agreed. “Jenkins and Thomas, I think Harding called them.”
“You reckon he sent them back to kill us?”
Bo shrugged. “Could be. Or they might’ve come after us on their own, since we showed them up. You can bet Harding would say he didn’t know anything about them being here, if the law ever called him on it.” Bo’s mouth twisted. “But of course that won’t ever happen, since the only law around here is Harding’s tame star packer.”
Scratch leaned forward to take a closer look. “Both dead, ain’t they?”
“Oh, yeah. Shot through and through.” In fact, spreading blood was forming dark pools around both men.
Bo shook the match out and dropped it as boot heels rang on the boardwalk, hurrying closer. He and Scratch swung around in case they were about to be attacked again, but instead of more bushwhackers, all they saw were curious townsmen, drawn by the flurry of shots. The marshal, Ralston, was in the lead, carrying a lantern.
“What in blazes happened here?” he demanded. He held the lantern higher so that its yellow glow washed over the corpses. “My God! You’ve murdered two of Mr. Harding’s men!”
Gus Hobart, who was in the curious crowd that had emerged from the Buffalo Bar, said sharply, “Don’t even think about trying that, Ralston! Those Texans had barely stepped outside when the shooting started, and the first shots came from the alley over here. They were just defending themselves, and there are a dozen men here who will swear to it!”
Ralston regarded the storekeeper narrowly. “You better watch what you’re sayin’, Hobart. You’re liable to wind up neck-deep in trouble.”
Hobart thrust out his jaw and said, “You know I’ll go along with most anything Tom Harding wants. I’m no fool. But I’ll be damned if I’ll go along with these two men being railroaded for murder when all they were doing was defending themselves from Harding’s hired killers!”
Ralston jerked his head around, nervous as a rabbit as he looked at the townspeople surrounding him. “You’re sure that’s the way it was?” he asked.
“Damn sure,” Hobart responded. He didn’t look like a meek little storekeeper at this moment. Growing a mite of backbone seemed to have straightened him and even made him taller.
Ralston pulled at his chin. “Well, then, I, uh, I reckon I can’t hold you two,” he said to Bo and Scratch. He squared his shoulders in an attempt to regain a little dignity. “But you’re troublemakers, both of you, and I’m damn sure within my rights to tell you to get out of my town! Vamoose and don’t come back!”
Bo saw Scratch stiffening, and knew that the marshal’s words had put a burr under his partner’s saddle. Scratch was stubborn enough to argue with Ralston just on general principles. Instead, Bo put a restraining hand on Scratch’s arm and said, “As a matter of fact, Marshal, we were just about to ride out.”
“We’re still leavin’?” Scratch growled from the corner of his mouth.
“That’s right, we are,” Bo said, his voice as firm as the hand on Scratch’s arm.
After a second, Scratch gave an explosive, disgusted grunt and said, “Fine. I’m sick o’ this place anyway. It’s as unfriendly a burg as I’ve seen in all my borned days.”
As the Texans started toward their horses, Gus Hobart called after them, “You fellas take care. Keep an eye on your back trail, if you know what I mean.”
Bo knew exactly what the storekeeper meant. Harding might not let this lie, even after the deaths of two of his men. That might make him even more determined to exact vengeance on the two drifters who had dared to defy him.
But there was no point in borrowing trouble. Plenty of it came to a man naturally.
Bo rode a rangy dun with a dark stripe down its back, an ugly, nasty-tempered brute that didn’t look like much…but it was a horse that could and would run all day if you asked it to. Scratch’s mount, in keeping with his dandified nature, was a big, handsome bay, the sort of animal that impressed the ladies. But Scratch’s horse, unlike some that were pretty, had just as much sand and grit as Bo’s more unprepossessing mount.
The Texans untied the reins of both animals now from the hitch rail where they had left them upon arriving in the settlement. They had intended to just have a quick drink and then tend to the horses’ needs, stabling them and seeing to it that they were unsaddled, rubbed down, and properly grained and watered, before finding lodging for the night themselves.
Things hadn’t worked out that way, though, and as Bo and Scratch swung up into their saddles, Scratch said, “I sure hate to take these big fellas back out on the trail tonight. They deserve better.”
“Folks don’t always get what they deserve, for good or bad,” Bo said, “and I reckon that applies to horses, too.”
They rode out, heading south. The main street of the town became a narrow road, little more than a path. A wagon could negotiate it, but the driver would have to be careful. The horses had no trouble following it, though.
Around them rose the thickly timbered hills of northern New Mexico Territory. The tang of pine and juniper and sage perfumed the air. Mountains loomed in the distance to both east and west, dark and mysterious in the night. What se
emed like at least a million stars glittered in the heavens overhead, casting a silvery illumination over the landscape. A sliver of moon floated in the sky as well. It was a beautiful scene, although the sharp contrast between light and dark gave it a weird, otherworldly aspect as well.
“You think Harding’s gonna come after us?” Scratch asked when they had put a couple of miles between them and the settlement.
“No telling,” Bo said. “He struck me as just arrogant enough, and just mean enough, to do pretty much anything.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I never did like that sort. Thinks he’s better’n ever’body else and likes to be the big boss o’ everything.”
Bo smiled. “You never did care for anybody who thought he was the boss. Reckon that’s why you never spent much time working for wages.”
“Huh,” Scratch said. “I could say the same thing o’ you, Bo Creel. Neither one of us was cut out for toilin’ like regular folks.”
“That’s probably one good reason why we’ve wrapped up in our bedrolls hungry and without a roof over our heads so many nights.”
“And you wouldn’t’a had it any other way. You ain’t foolin’ me.”
“I wouldn’t even try, not after all these years,” Bo declared.
They rode on, and as usual, their keen frontiersmen’s senses were fully at work. Their eyes never stopped roving over the starlit landscape around them, and their ears were wide-open for the sound of hoofbeats pursuing them.
The night was quiet and peaceful, though, and the only sounds were the normal scurrying through the brush of nocturnal creatures, the swish of air as an owl swooped by in search of prey, and the faintly distant, long-drawn-out barking cry of a coyote.
Tom Harding probably knew by now that the Texans had killed two of his men; the cattle baron no doubt had cronies in town who would have ridden out to his ranch immediately to deliver the news to him. If Harding intended to come after Bo and Scratch, though, it appeared he wasn’t going to do it tonight.
Sidewinders#2 Massacre At Whiskey Flats Page 2