“Like I said, they were lowdown varmints. So, yeah, I place a lowdown value on them,” the marshal growled. “As for that jurisdictional bull crap we’ve been through a dozen times before, I wasn’t out there acting in the role of a lawman. I was out there lending a neighborly hand to Whitey Mason in order to help him protect his cattle herd from rustlers trying to pick him clean. A man has a right to protect his property, doesn’t he?”
“Of course he does.”
“And if he asks some friends and neighbors to help him, don’t they have the same right?”
“You’re playing games with the law, Burnett, and you know it. You’re supposed to uphold the law, not twist it around to suit your personal need.”
“Isn’t that what shysters like you do every day of your lives?” Burnett demanded. “Twist and manipulate the law with your fifty-dollar words and long-winded legal mumbo jumbo so that a common man can’t follow the right or wrong of half of what you spout? Well, I’m not twisting anything. I’m saying it straight out, plain and simple. If a decent, honest man needs my help against a bunch of damn crooks, then by God, I’m going to help him—jurisdiction be damned! So you might as well get it through your thick skull, Mycroft, because I’m getting sick of having this conversation and I don’t intend to waste my time with it ever again.”
“One of these days you aren’t going to have any choice,” Mycroft told him. “The days of relics like you who merely ‘keep the peace’ however they see fit are coming to an end. Nothing short of strict adherence to the letter of the law—by miscreants as well as those who wear a badge—will be tolerated.”
“When that day comes, you be sure and let me know,” Burnett said sarcastically. “Now what else is stuck in your craw that you came here to hack out? Get to it and get it over with.”
Mycroft glared at him for a long moment. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “All right. I want to have a meeting, in private, with the prisoner you’re holding back there in one of your cells. I want to make sure he understands he has the right to counsel and I’m prepared to represent him if he so chooses.”
In almost perfect unison, Luke and Burnett said a loud and firm, “No!”
Mycroft looked stunned. “What do you mean no? That’s the right of every citizen. It’s due process. You can’t refuse—”
“I can,” Luke said. “That man is my prisoner. The marshal here is doing me a favor by letting me use his lockup merely as a holding facility. But Craddock remains my responsibility and until I turn him over to the authorities in Amarillo, the only rights he has are the ones I give him. You want to talk due process, counselor?” Luke jabbed a finger at the wanted poster on the desk. “Based on the authority provided me as an enforcer of that warrant, I could have made due process for Craddock—and still can, if I choose—as simple as a bullet. Now I suggest you get out of my face without any further noise I might interpret as trying to interfere with me and the job I have to do.”
Chapter 6
Forty miles to the east and a bit south of Arapaho Springs, Sam Kelson stood smoking a cigarette on the front porch of what had once been a well-appointed ranch house. In its current condition, however, the house and surrounding grounds of the Split D ranch headquarters showed little remaining evidence of the tidy, orderly run operation it had long taken pride in being. The fine glass windows of the main house were all broken to nothing but jagged shards with tattered curtains streaming out from within like panting tongues through uneven fangs.
On the ground outside each of these windows lay scattered, mostly broken items—lamps, dishes, candle-holders, slashed couch cushions, and various brightly colored pillows—all hurled from inside. Before the front door that hung crookedly open on twisted hinges was more wreckage strewn across the width of the porch and onto the front yard. A few larger items were contained in the mix—broken dining-room chairs, a collapsed table, more lamps and dishes, an ornate cuckoo clock split open with its brightly painted little bird dangling twisted and forever stilled.
Outlying from the main house, a handful of shorthorn cattle milled and bawled nervously in a small holding pen. Just outside the fence, three of the critters lay as hastily butchered carcasses with large chunks of meat removed. In a nearby corral, twenty or so cow ponies trotted restlessly back and forth, blowing and whinnying uneasily at the scent of blood filling their nostrils.
Not far from the corral, the cookshack and bunkhouse for the ranch wranglers also showed signs of disarray. Their doors and windows stood open, too, with items from within strewn out on the ground. The only difference was the meager belongings of the punchers didn’t make for much to be tossed out.
That left the half dozen other items littering the ground between the main house and the outlying structures . . . the bodies of men lying in still, lifeless sprawls on the muddy ground.
Puddles from the previous night’s rain had collected in shallow depressions close to a couple of bodies, the water in them showing a red tint due to blood leaking from the bullet wounds that riddled the fallen men.
Sam Kelson calmly took all of this in as he drew deeply on his cigarette and then released the smoke in a long, slow plume. He was a tall man, solidly built, with large, powerful hands and a head that seemed a shade too big even for his broad shoulders. He had a strong jaw, thick brown hair that fell over his collar at the back of his neck, and deep-set brown eyes that many had commented looked perpetually sad, except for the occasions when they flashed with near-maniacal rage.
As Kelson smoked and dispassionately surveyed the wreckage and carnage around him, two men emerged from the bunkhouse and started in his direction. One was a couple of inches over six feet, rangy in build with notably bowed legs and the rolling walk of a man who’d spent years on the back of a horse. His beard-stubbled face was deeply seamed by wind and weather and he had piercing dark eyes sandwiched between crow’s-feet as sharp and permanent as if they’d been carved by a scalpel.
The second man was as many inches under six feet as his companion was over. He was sparely built with quick, precise movements, a pugnacious thrust to his chin, and alert blue eyes set under shaggy blond brows that matched the unruly thatch of hair on his head. Like Kelson, each man had a red bandanna tied around his right arm above the elbow.
As the pair trudged toward the main house, they skirted around puddles and bodies without appearing to notice much distinction between the two. In the sinking afternoon sun, they cast grotesque, writhing shadows on the ground ahead of themselves.
Upon reaching the front edge of the porch, Elmer Pride, the taller of the two men, squinted up at Kelson and said, “The boys are ready to ride as soon as you give the word, Sam. Horses saddled and pack animals all loaded and waitin’ out behind the bunkhouse.”
“How many packhorses?” Kelson asked.
“Five, all told,” the shorter man, Henry Wymer, answered. “We already had the two we’ve been traveling with since that last job, and now we’ve made an especially good haul here. Lot of good supplies to take on to our winter quarters, Sam. Appears they were stocking ahead, making their own plans for the upcoming cold months. Plenty of salt pork, flour, beans, rice, big batch of canned goods. All stuff we can put to good use.”
“Not to mention a heap of grain we found in a bin. We filled seven or eight sacks from it to take along for our horses,” Pride added.
Kelson nodded. “That was real thoughtful of old man Delmonte’s crew to have all of that on hand for us, wasn’t it? Money-wise, the skinflint old bastard didn’t have nothing but a few hundred dollars stashed in his safe. And hardly anything in the way of jewelry or fancy geegaws for his wife and daughter. Glad to hear those other goods still make this a worthwhile haul for our trouble.”
“Hell,” Wymer said, “we even found half a case of dynamite in the toolshed. Don’t know what they had in mind to use it on but they’re past having any need for it now. I had our boys load it up, too.”
Kelson arched an eyebrow. “What need you figu
re we got for it?”
“You never know.” Wymer shrugged. “Could be a time when something like that comes in handy. Maybe we should even take a few sticks along the next time we hit a town.”
“We never needed dynamite to take a town before,” Kelson pointed out. “And since we usually run into a few good citizens not liking us wherever we show up, I don’t care for the idea of having a stick of dynamite in a saddlebag that might get hit by a stray bullet.”
Wymer made a sour face. “I guess I never thought of that. Should we leave the dynamite here then?”
It was Kelson who shrugged. “Since you already got it loaded, might as well bring it along. Like you said, could come a time when it’ll be useful for something.”
“Speakin’ of things to bring along,” Pride said, “what about Delmonte’s wife and daughter? You have anything in particular in mind to do with ’em?”
Kelson’s brows pinched together. “You mean they’re still alive?”
Pride and Wymer exchanged glances.
“Well . . . yeah,” Pride said. “The boys drug ’em out to the bunkhouse last night and, you know, used ’em to pass the time whilst we was hunkered in outta the rain.”
“That’s what led to the question of what to do with ’em now,” Wymer explained. “Since we’re headed for winter quarters and figuring to lay low for a spell . . . well, some of the men were asking about maybe taking the women along. To help pass the time some more, once we get there.”
Kelson made a distasteful face. “Good God. I didn’t pay much attention while they were being dragged out, but from the glance I got, the wife looked plenty old and used up to begin with, and the daughter was so homely I can understand why the old man didn’t waste money on fancy geegaws for her. Yet that’s what the men want to keep around for company?”
“Ain’t nobody sayin’ it’s exactly what they want,” Pride said. “It’s more a case of what they got. Poor pickin’s though they may be, those Delmonte gals are better than nothing.”
Kelson chuckled dryly. “I guess I can’t argue that.” He flipped away the smoldering remains of his cigarette then added, “But consider this. What if, before settling into our winter quarters, we made a stop somewhere where the pickings are likely to be much better?”
Now it was Wymer’s turn to squint up at him. “You got something in mind. What is it?”
“Chewed on it some during the night. Decided on it a little while ago,” Kelson said. “To the west and a piece north of here is a little town by the name of Arapaho Springs. Ain’t much of a place. Normally wouldn’t be worth our time. But since we’re going to ground for the winter and it’s practically on our way, I figure why the hell not. There’s a bank and a few stores, so there’s bound to be some money for the taking. More supplies, too. And since they got next to nothing in the way of law—only one marshal last I knew—it’d be an easy grab.”
Wymer frowned. “We already got a nice pile of loot stashed away, don’t we, Sam?”
“So what? You think there’s such a thing as too much money?”
“No, of course not. I’m just thinking the men are pretty strung out. We’ve covered a lot of ground this past month, hit two other towns already and then this ranch.” Wymer shrugged. “There’s such a thing as wringing too much out of a body of men. I learned that during the war. Comes to that, they can start getting sloppy and careless and it can lead to things not going so smooth.”
“Didn’t I make it clear what a piece of cake this amounts-to-nothing place is going to be?” Kelson’s face reddened and took on an annoyed scowl. “So our boys are a little strung out. I could take Arapaho Springs with a Sunday School picnic class that didn’t get any sleep the night before. How much risk can there be in that?”
Wymer spread his hands. “You’re the leader of this outfit, Sam. You make the call. I’m just tossing in something to think about, that’s all. We’ve been riding together long enough, I thought I had that right.”
Some of the color drained from Kelson’s face almost as fast as it had appeared there. “Of course you have the right to speak your thoughts, Henry. You and Elmer both. You’re my right-hand men. Maybe I’m a little strung out, too. I guess we all are, like you said. Chalk up me snapping at you to that. But, damn it, I still think hitting this town ain’t a bad idea. For all the reasons I said. Plus, now that it’s been brought up, one more.”
One corner of Elmer Pride’s mouth lifted. “Better pickin’s for some women to take to our winter quarters.”
“There it is,” Kelson said. “Hell, ain’t I human, too? You think I wouldn’t like to have some gals around to pass the time with when we go to ground? You’ll just have to excuse me if I’m particular enough to want ’em to be a little better looking than the rump end of my horse.” He cut his eyes to Wymer. “Come on, Henry. The chance to rake in some more money and supplies and some decent looking belly-warmers for the cold months ahead—don’t you think that’s enough to motivate the men for pulling one more job?”
Wymer tried to maintain a stony expression, but after only a couple of seconds his mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “You and that persuading damn tongue of yours. You should’ve been a politician instead of an outlaw, Sam.”
“You say that like there’s a difference,” Kelson replied.
“Well, if it’s settled then let’s get to it. Let’s ride for Arapaho Springs,” Pride said. “How far is it?”
“If we ride through the night, we can hit there early in the morning before they get woke all the way up. But we can’t cover ground that fast with packhorses. So pick out two or three men—Grogan as one of them, I’d say, on account of how good he is with horses—and send them and the loaded animals on ahead to our hideout. The rest of us will take care of the Arapaho Springs job and then either meet up with them there or on the way.”
“We going to torch this place before we go?” Wymer asked.
“Why would we do any different than usual?”
“What about these women then?” Pride wanted to know.
Kelson swung a cold gaze in his direction. “Be a mighty cruel thing to leave a poor widow and her homely, ruined daughter with nothing but a burnt-out shell of a home and their dear husband and daddy and ranch hands laying dead all around them, wouldn’t you say? Seems plain enough to me it’d be a kindness to make it so they never have to live through that kind of misery and suffering.”
Chapter 7
Tom Burnett couldn’t seem to stop chuckling. “I tell you, that was a performance it was a privilege to see. Hell, I would have paid good money to watch. Mycroft actually turned purple. Purple,” he repeated for the third or fourth time. “I never knew a person’s face could take on a color like that.”
His daughter seemed less amused, though she couldn’t entirely hide a guarded smile. “It’s pretty rare for anyone to get the last word on Mycroft, that’s for sure. What I’m not so sure of, is whether it was a good idea. I think he is capable of being a very spiteful man who would relish the chance to try and get even at some point.”
“What chance is he going to have for that? Luke will be leaving tomorrow or the day after at the latest,” Burnett said. “Besides, he’s dealt with a lot more dangerous characters than Jules Mycroft looking to settle a score with him. Ain’t that right, Luke?”
Just the three of them were left in the marshal’s office. Mycroft—with a glum-looking Russell obediently in tow—had stormed out immediately following his exchange with Luke. Outside, the lengthening shadows of late afternoon were starting to reach in toward the middle of the street.
A brief smile curved Luke’s mouth, not so much over the thought of his dressing down lawyer Mycroft as for the marshal’s sudden familiarity in using his first name. He thought of the old saying The enemy of my enemy is my friend. It was clear that the animosity between Burnett and Mycroft had been simmering for a while, and the exchanges of a few minutes ago had done little to make any difference except give the marshal a temporary
ally in Luke.
“Your daughter makes a valid point all the same,” Luke said. “I may be moving on shortly, but Mycroft strikes me as the type who’s not above harboring his spiteful feelings and taking them out on somebody else if and when it becomes more convenient. And, for however long I am around, I don’t exactly need any more enemies. As you just pointed out, Marshal, I already have plenty of those.”
“Well, I wouldn’t lose no sleep having that pip-squeak as one of them,” Burnett said. “I know I sure won’t, and he’s been a thorn in my backside ever since he graced our town by hanging out his blasted shingle.” He paused long enough to let an exaggerated frown tug at his face. “And speaking of sleep, I don’t mind saying that I am damned well overdue for some. Right after I peel off these wet clothes, do some soaking in a tubful of hot water, then have me an early supper . . . providing a certain young lady is finished gallivanting all over the countryside and takes a notion to get home and fix something.”
“All right. I can take a hint,” Millie replied. “Getting you fed and put to bed will be a welcome relief from hearing you bellyache, you old grouch.”
“How would you know how much I bellyache? You’re never around.”
“Maybe there’s a connection there. Did you ever think of that?”
Luke recognized good-natured banter between two people who were obviously very fond of one another.
Millie’s expression shifted, turned more serious. “But wait a minute. What about the turn around town you usually take after supper? And won’t you be bunking here at the jail tonight, like you usually do when you have a prisoner in the lockup?”
“Not this time,” Burnett said with a shake of his head. “I’ve already arranged with Fred Packer to take care of both those things for me. He’ll make the evening rounds and then come back here to grab whatever sleep he can while keeping an eye on things until I get in come morning.”
Millie’s gaze went to Luke. “What about you, Mr. Jensen? Where are you staying tonight?”
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