Nightfall at Little Aces

by Ralph Cotton

  “Adios, mí amigo,” said the old Mexican. He watched the barb horse jump up into a fast trot before he’d finished speaking.

  Out in front of the tent, the ranger stepped down from his saddle and wrapped the Appaloosa’s reins loosely around the empty hitch rail next to the rail where the three horses stood. With his rifle in hand, he stepped sidelong around the tent and quietly peeped in through a raised ventilation flap. Looking around, he saw no sign of the bartender, only the two outlaws and the woman.

  Sam saw the bag of brown powder spilled out onto the bar and, knowing its powerful effect, realized the danger the woman could be in if he called the pair outside for a showdown. Taking a breath and letting it out slowly, he walked calmly to the open rear tent fly and stepped inside.

  At the bar, the two stood with their heads bowed over the brown powder as if judging how much longer the supply should last. Neither of them noticed the ranger stepping silently toward them across the soft dirt floor, his rifle up, cocked and ready. He held the Winchester aimed at Bennie Drew.

  When Tom Cat Weaver finally caught a glimpse of the ranger, it was too late and he knew it. “Damn it,” he said, seeing the badge on Sam’s chest. His reflex had been to reach for his Colt, but he caught himself, stopped, and raised his hands in submission.

  Drew, with his arm draped loosely around the young woman’s shoulders, tried to jerk her over in front of himself as a shield while he reached for his gun. But the young woman’s limp figure seemed to melt to the ground as he tried to hold on to her, her falling causing him to fumble in his attempt to arm himself.

  “Don’t try it, Drew,” the ranger warned, seeing the outlaw hang on to the woman by her limp flop-ping arm.

  The outlaw cursed as the unconscious woman slipped the rest of the way out of his grip. “Hellfire! You got me, Ranger,” he said regretfully.

  “Lean back against the bar, raise your hands away from your guns,” Sam ordered.

  Both men obeyed. Looking all around the empty tent and at the thin cigar in the ash tin, Tom Cat said, “You’ve let the real outlaw get away, Ranger.”

  “Yeah, here we are just small-time thieves,” said Drew, shaking his head at the injustice of it. “We go to jail. A big-time operator like English Collin gets off free as a bird.”

  “Ain’t you going after him, Ranger?” Tom Cat asked drunkenly. “He’s the one every lawman ought to be chasing down.”

  “You’re the two I’m after,” Sam said. He stepped forward and lifted each man’s gun from its holster respectively. “Hold them out,” he said. “You know how it works, behave yourselves I cuff your hands out front. Give me any trouble I cuff them behind you.”

  “You got us cold, Ranger,” said Drew drunkenly. “No need in us causing you any trouble.”

  “Yeah,” said Tom Cat, equally drunk. “No use in us being poor sports, is there?”

  “I’m glad you both look at it that way,” said Sam. He knew it was the whiskey and cocaine that made them suddenly turn compliant. He also realized their mood could change at any second.

  As he snapped a pair of handcuffs on each of their wrists, Drew said, “I expect you realize I’ll be out inside of a year. So will Tom Cat. All we did was rob a mine payroll, a few other places.” He shrugged, his eyes wide, red, and shiny from the cocaine.

  “You’re murderers,” Sam said flatly. “Whatever you’ve got to say, you best save it for the judge. My job is just to bring you both in. He’s the one who’ll decide whether or not you’ll hang.”

  “Oh yeah, murder,” said Tom Cat in his whiskey and cocaine stupor. “I almost forgot.”

  Three miles out of Nickels, Collin Hedgepeth brought the big silver-gray to a halt and sat for a moment, looking back toward the small town and patting the horse on its withers. “The Mexican was right about you, fellow,” he said aloud. Then he turned the horse off the main trail at a walk and disappeared effortlessly into an endless rolling terrain of thick forest.

  By late afternoon he could have emerged onto a stretch of grasslands and continued southerly, but he preferred the cover of the heavy woodlands. He made an early camp and grained and watered the barb. Then he lay down and slept until after dark. When he awakened he dined on hardtack, cold jerky, and tepid canteen water.

  Near midnight he stood up, saddled the barb, and rode quietly all the way across the dark grasslands in the cover of night. He gave no thought to Bennie Drew and Thomas Weaver. They were never a part of his people, he told himself. They would have fallen soon enough with or without the ranger catching up to them. What little time he’d worked with them he’d found them to be crude, loud, and stupid—some of the worst possible traits for men in his profession.

  Near morning, Hedgepeth stepped down from his saddle and led the barb the last few hundred yards through a valley flanked by upturned boulders and rough broken rock shelves until he spotted a dark outline of a cabin where smoke drifted lazily from a stone chimney. No sooner had he stopped and stood looking at the cabin than a voice spoke out quietly from among a spill of boulders to his left, “Keep your hands up where I can see them.”

  Hedgepeth did so in a relaxed manner. He waited until he heard the man step closer through loose gravel. “Top of the morning, to you, Cap.”

  The man, Earl Caplan, recognized Hedgepeth’s voice and said with relief, “English, you don’t know how glad I am it’s you. We’ve had detectives breathing down our necks from every direction the past two weeks.”

  Now that he knew Caplan recognized him, Hedgepeth lowered his hands and faced him. “I’ve had the same problem. Drew and Weaver won’t be with us, I’m afraid. A ranger rode into Nickels looking for them.”

  “Did he kill them?” Caplan asked.

  “I don’t know,” Hedgepeth said, as if trying to recall. “I didn’t hear any gunshots.”

  Caplan nodded. “It’s just as well, as far as I’m concerned. They never struck me as much anyway.”

  “Nor I, Earl,” said Hedgepeth, with a firm smile. He gestured a nod toward the cabin. “Now then, who have we here?”

  “Just about everybody,” said Caplan. “The only ones we’ve been waiting on is you and Memphis. We’re ready to ride.”

  “Memphis Beck isn’t here yet?” Hedgepeth seemed surprised. “Strange, I thought he left for here before I did. I hope all is well with him.”

  “Aw, you know Memphis,” said Caplan. “Nothing ever happens to him. He’ll be showing up most any time, is my guess.”

  “Yes, you’re absolutely right of course,” said Hedgepeth. “Memphis will be here. It only concerned me for a moment because he is usually so prompt.”

  PART 3

  Chapter 14

  Frank Skimmer stared in silence as Sheriff Gale stuck the brass key inside the lock and twisted it. Looking up from the key and into Skimmer’s eyes, he said to the colonel and Skimmer as well, “I hope this is not a mistake, letting you go.”

  Skimmer refused to say a word, but Gale realized what the angry gunman had running through his mind. Maybe Emma had been right; maybe he should have killed Skimmer last night while he had the opportunity. Knowing it was too late to second-guess himself now, he pulled the barred door open and stepped back, allowing the prisoner to walk out.

  “I can assure you this is not a mistake, Sheriff,” the colonel said. He led the way along the hall to the sheriff’s desk, Skimmer right behind him, followed by the sheriff. On the desk lay a stack of dollar bills that the colonel had laid down for Skimmer’s fine. “I would not be spending this kind of money on a man if I thought him untrustworthy.” He looked Skimmer up and down as he spoke, making sure the angry gunman heard him.

  Sheriff Gale watched Skimmer pick up his unloaded Colt from the desktop where the sheriff had laid it for him. Skimmer checked the gun over closely, still not saying a word. “Here’s his ammunition, Colonel,” Gale said, holding out his hand. “See to it he doesn’t get these until he’s out on the trail.”

  “Yes, I will do that,” said
the colonel, holding out his palm and receiving six rounds of.45-caliber bullets from the sheriff. “At any rate, we’ll be leaving here in a few minutes. Unless circumstances demand differently, you won’t be seeing us again.”

  “I hope that’s true,” Gale said to the colonel, but making it clear who he meant the words for as he returned Skimmer’s cold stare.

  Skimmer’s expression didn’t change, even as the colonel gave him a slight nudge toward the door.

  Once the two were outside, Gale watched from the dusty front window as Colonel Elgin, Skimmer, and the rest of the colonel’s men stood gathered at their horses, ready to mount and ride out of town.

  “He knows all about my brother, Colonel,” Skimmer said stiffly in a lowered tone just between the two of them.

  Elgin’s face reddened in anger. “You gave me your word, Frank.”

  “I know I did, Colonel, and I’m keeping it,” Skimmer replied. “But he came within a hair of telling me that my brother, Omar, is dead.” As he spoke he stepped over to his waiting horse that a gunman named Carlos Richards had brought over from the livery barn for him. “He even come close to telling me who killed him,” Skimmer added. He threw open the flap on his saddlebags and took out a pouch of ammunition.

  Seeing what he intended to do, the colonel said in a harsh tone, “Do not load that gun, Frank.” He pointed a rigid finger. “You are testing me sorely.”

  Inside the sheriff’s office, Gale saw Skimmer open the saddlebags. No sooner had he seen the colonel point at the gunman than he stepped away from the window and picked up a sawed-off shotgun from a gun rack, checked it, and made sure it was loaded. He closed it and cocked it on his way back to the window. Emma was right, it had been a mistake not killing this man, Gale thought. What it came down to was, which did he care more about, the woman or the badge?

  He pushed the question from his mind. It didn’t matter now…. He raised the shotgun and took aim through the dusty closed window. He’d gone as far as he could. Badge or no badge, woman or no woman, he wasn’t going to take a bullet from Frank Skimmer.

  At the hitch rail Pale Lee Hodges, who stood beside his horse, looked out along the street and saw the rising dust of two riders racing into town. Recognizing them, he said to the colonel and the others, “Here comes our two lost forward scouts. Reckon we ought to do them and ourselves a favor and kill them both before they get here?” A ripple of dark laughter arose from the men. All eyes, including the colonel’s and Skimmer’s, turned to Jack Strap’s and Vlaktor Blesko’s galloping horses.

  “Wait, what have we here?” the colonel asked. He craned his neck curiously, seeing the body lying across the rear of Strap’s horse.

  Upon seeing the body, Skimmer also stared closer as the two drew near. He stepped forward ahead of the colonel and the others as they brought their horses to halt. “Colonel, we shot Memphis Beck…caught him in the midst of robbing and killing this poor bastard!” Strap said quickly, not wanting to give anyone a chance to ask why it had taken them so long to get to Little Aces.

  Bloody Vlak jumped down from his saddle, quickly untied the body, and pulled it until it flopped to the ground.

  “Oh no, it’s Omar!” said Skimmer, stepping forward. His brother’s bloodless gray face stared blankly up at him.

  “Who’s Omar?” Jack Strap asked, looking back and forth in bewilderment.

  “Frank’s brother is missing,” Colonel Elgin said, stepping forward beside Skimmer. “Are you sure that’s him, Frank?” he asked, seeing the battered condition of the corpse.

  “Yeah, that’s him.” Skimmer clenched his fist at the sight of the gaping black bullet hole in Omar’s forehead. He stood trying to tie anything the sheriff had said last night to the body lying at his feet. “I don’t understand it,” he said under his breath, puzzled, shaking his head slowly.

  Looking up at Strap, Colonel Elgin asked, “You say you two rode upon Warren Beck in the midst of this heinous crime?”

  “That’s the long and short of it, Colonel,” Strap said, starting to wonder if this had been a good idea or not. “We heard the shot that killed this poor bas—” He caught himself, seeing the look on Skimmer’s face. “This poor man, that is. When we rounded the turn, he still had his smoking gun out and was going through this poor man’s pockets. It was a terrible thing to see, Colonel,” he said in a mournful tone. “Made even more so now that I know he’s kin to one of our own.” Looking at Skimmer, he took off his hat in respect.

  “Ve chasted Beck,” Vlak cut in. “I shot him. He is dead by now.”

  “The fact is we were both blazing away at Beck,” said Strap, “seeing what he’d done to this poor man. One of us shot him pretty bad. We’ll find his body up there, if we all go searching for it.”

  “It vas I vat shoot him!” Vlak said, thumbing himself hard on the chest.

  “All right, I’m not going to argue,” Strap said gallantly. “Let’s just say that we got our man, Colonel. That’s the main thing, isn’t it?” He looked all around at the watching eyes.

  Skimmer looked up pointedly at Strap. “So, you didn’t see Beck pull the trigger, you just rode up and saw—”

  “What does he want from us?” Strap asked the colonel, put out with Skimmer’s questioning him. “We heard the shot, we rode in, this man is dead, and Beck is robbing his body!”

  Sheriff Gale walked into their midst, the shotgun uncocked now, but in his right hand, ready for use if need be. He looked down at the body, stunned, and stood in silence for a moment trying to piece together what had happened. “My goodness,” he managed to say. He looked up at Skimmer, who stood staring coldly at him.

  Seeing the looks on the two men’s faces, Colonel Elgin said, “Well, fortunately we now have witnesses to Beck’s criminal behavior, Sheriff. If he’s alive I hope this means we can count on New Mexico Territory’s support now in capturing this murderer.”

  “Beck is dead!” Strap interjected.

  Ignoring Strap, Sheriff Gale said, “Yes, Colonel, this makes all the difference in the world.” He stared back down at the corpse with mixed and baffled feelings.

  Also staring at the body, the twigs and gravel rock stuck in its gray battered skin, Skimmer said, “It looks more like my poor brother has been thrown down a logging chute, or off a mountainside.”

  Out of patience, Strap said, “Damn it, we saw Beck kill your brother, Frank! We shot him in the act!” He spun toward the colonel. “Are we going to go get Beck’s body or not?”

  “Yes, we are!” the colonel said aloud. Under his breath he said, “Beck, I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch.” Having given the matter deep consideration, he realized that dead or alive, Beck being wanted for murder was a tremendous boost for him and his posse. “If he’s dead, we’ll bring him in and put his body on display and have Filo take some photographs, before going after the rest of the gang. If he’s alive, we’ll string his sorry hide up for robbery and murder!” He looked around and called out,” Filo! Do you have everything you need for photographs? Plenty of that ferric, furric, whatever you call it?”

  “Ferric salts, Colonel!” Filo Heath, a short man wearing a black suit, shiny red vest, and battered derby hat, ran forward with bulky leather satchels of various sizes strapped over his shoulders. “Yes, I’m well supplied and ready when you are!” he said, out of breath.

  “What’s the stuff you ran out of a while back?” the colonel asked.

  “Sodium thiosulfate,” Filo said quickly.

  “Yes, that stuff.” The colonel grinned at Pale Lee Hodges. “I love hearing him say that.” Then he turned back to the photographer and said solemnly, “I want some good likenesses this time, Filo, do you understand me?”

  “Explicitly, Colonel,” Heath responded to the colonel’s intimidating tone of voice.

  While the colonel spoke, Carlos Richards had stepped down from his saddle and walked over to where Frank Skimmer stood staring down at his brother’s corpse.

  “This ain’t right, Carlos,” F
rank said, still shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know what this all means, but it ain’t right. I saw something in that sheriff’s eyes. I can’t let this go.”

  “Come on, Frank, I’ll help you get your brother off the street,” Carlos said quietly.

  Memphis Beck knew he’d lost a lot of blood, but with the New Mexico hill country crawling with detectives he had no choice but to keep riding. Keeping to the shelter of woodlands, he made it to a high stand of brush across the alleyway from Emma’s house without being seen. There, he slipped down from his blood-soaked saddle and rested against the trunk of a wild mountain ash. He knew he’d have to gather his strength before attempting to cross the alleyway and climb the picket fence….

  Inside Emma’s kitchen door, Sheriff Gale stood with a mystified yet relieved look on his face, his arms outspread. “Well, Emma, you can stop worrying about Frank Skimmer. It looks like we’re going to get through this with no one the wiser!”

  “Oh? What’s happened to make you think that?” Emma asked. She looked at him, seeing the calm peaceful look on his face.

  “Two of the colonel’s men rode in a while ago carrying Omar’s body, that’s what.” He gestured with his hands for her to come into his open arms. “They found him along the trail—”

  “Oh my God!” Emma swooned and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead.

  “No, wait,” said the sheriff. “These two swear they saw Omar being murdered and robbed.”

  “They do?” Emma’s hand came down from her forehead. The same look of bemused relief came to her face.

  “Yes, they do,” said Gale, his open arms drooping a bit since she had not come to him. “Now, here’s the part that gets me.” His mystified look deepened. “They say that Omar’s murderer is none other than Warren Beck, alias, Memphis Beck!”

  Emma felt as if the room had spun in a circle. She groped and stalled for something to say. Finally, all she could come up with was “Memphis Beck who rode into the town with the ranger the other day?” It has to be a mistake, she thought.