“Edwards’ Place?”
“Yeah,” Pate replied. “That’s what we call that settlement where you got me. The feller that owns the saloon is named Edwards. I don’t know his first name.”
“Well, we’re going to Paso Cruz for your two pards,” Hawkins said.
Pate sighed. “Yeah, shit. I figgered that afore you said so.” He assumed a worried expression. “Now, Cap’n, you got to do right by me.”
“I won’t let the Indians hurt you,” Hawkins promised.
“You can do better’n that, Cap’n. How about turning me loose.”
“That won’t happen. Don’t forget you’re under arrest, Pate,” Hawkins said. “I’m going to bring you in to the Fed’ral authorities. But before you end up behind bars, it won’t be easy for you. You’ll be riding a lot before this is all over with.”
Ludlow was worried. “We shall have to guard him, sir.”
Pate looked nervously at Ludlow. “You want me shot, don’t you? Just so’s y’all won’t have to watch me.”
“Of course I don’t,” Ludlow insisted.
“I heard that blacksmith back there at Edwards’ Place call you Dangerous Dooley,” Pate said.
“That’s an exaggeration,” Ludlow Dooley insisted.
“Oh, yeah? Well, I seen you kill Jim Miller when he drawed. I don’t want to be shot down. I ain’t got no murder charges against me and you can’t hang or shoot a man for robbing a damn train.”
Ludlow’s eyes opened wide and an expression of sadness spread across his features. “The man I killed was named Jim Miller?”
“Yeah,” Pate answered. “He wasn’t in on the robbery though. He just happened to be at Edwards’ Place when y’all arrested me. He’s originally from around Sawyer. At least his wife and young’uns live there.”
Tears formed in Ludlow’s eyes. “He—he had—had a family?”
“Yeah,” Pete answered. “Three or four kids, I reckon. Him and me rode together a couple of years back on some bank jobs in Arkansas.”
“Why’d he want to shoot me?” Hawkins asked. “Was he such a good pal that he didn’t want you taken away?”
Pate shook his head. “No. Jim Miller just never could abide the law no matter what form it came in.”
“How old are his children?” Ludlow asked.
“I don’t know—”
Hawkins interrupted. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Dooley. The man was a professional criminal. And he was prob’ly a rotten father and husband.”
“Oh, no,” Pate said. “He was crazy about his family. Why he was even true to his wife. Jim Miller wouldn’t dally with no whores or nothing. Always got presents for his kids when he went home and ever’thing.”
“Oh, God!” Ludlow moaned.
Hawkins smirked. “I’ve never known an outlaw to be such an angel.”
“All I know is what I heard,” Pate insisted.
Hawkins stood up and dropped the remnants of his cigar into the fire. “We’re gonna turn in. A long ride is in store for us tomorrow.” He nudged the prisoner with his boot. “I’m gonna put cuffs and leg irons on you, Pate. And if you try to get away I’m gonna let those Indians cut your Achilles tendons.”
“What the hell are them things?” Pate asked
“Those cords on the back of your ankle,” Hawkins explained. “And if they’re cut, they don’t heal. You’ll be a cripple for the rest of your life.” He looked at Pate’s horse. “You ain’t got a bedroll with you, huh?”
“Nope. I stashed my gear in the back of the saloon while my horse was being took care of.”
“Well, your saddle and saddle blanket are gonna be the only bedding you’ll enjoy as long as you’re with us,” Hawkins said. “See to ’em.”
Pate went to his horse and unsaddled the animal. He made as comfortable a bed as possible, then submitted to being shackled and handcuffed. He settled down without uttering a word.
Hawkins gestured to Ludlow. “Come with me, Mr. Dooley. I want to talk with you.”
The two army officers walked away from the fire and farther down the ravine into the darkness. Hawkins stopped. “You want a cigar?”
“I don’t use tobacco, thank you, sir.”
“I have a pint bottle in my saddle bag,” Hawkins said. “Want a snort?”
“I don’t use alcohol either, sir.”
“If you stay in the army, you soon will,” Hawkins promised him as he lit a fresh cigar. “But I didn’t drag you away to offer you a drink anyhow. Tomorrow when you get up, don’t put on any military clothing. You and me are going to dress as civilians. I’m even gonna wear Pate’s holster and belt. You can shove your revolver in your waist band.”
“Yes, sir. Why?”
“Because tomorrow you and me are riding into Paso Cruz and getting them two pals of Pate’s,” Hawkins replied with the cigar clenched between his teeth.
“That’d be Arlo Capman and Tim Dickson.”
“I imagine we’ll have us a whole bunch of prisoners before this patrol is over. And that payroll too. It’s a damn good thing we got a full issue of restraints from the Fort Lone Wolf quartermaster.”
“Why don’t we just go to Bitterwaters and get them all at once?”
“Because that’d mean we’d take on the gang all at once too,” Hawkins explained. “After we get Capman and Dickson we can wring some more information out of the them and go after two or three more. We’ll learn something from them and police up a coupla more, and so on.”
“Yes, sir. That makes sense.”
“You’ve got something to celebrate, don’t you, Mr. Dooley?”
“What’s that, sir?”
“I’ll bet a year’s pay that you’re the first in your West Point class to fire a gun in anger.”
“I suppose I am,” Ludlow said. “I hadn’t thought of it.”
“Well think of this. There’ll be more killing, Mr. Dooley.”
“I understand, sir.”
“No you don’t,” Hawkins countered. “What I mean is that it’ll work both ways. In fact, the situations we’re facing can easily put us into the dangerous position of having to kill or be killed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shot or be shot.”
Ludlow nodded.
“Get them or they’ll get you,” Hawkins went on.
“I understand perfectly, sir,” Ludlow said.
Hawkins’ eyes could be seen in the glow of the cigar as he took a drag. They were penetrating and cold. “My problem is being able to trust you to shoot again if you have to.”
Ludlow was silent for several long moments before speaking. “It was bad enough when the man I killed was a nonentity, sir.”
“What the hell is a nonentity?”
“That means I didn’t know anything about him,” Ludlow made clear. “He was a nobody. But now I know he was a devoted husband and father.”
“The West point motto is Duty, Honor, Country. Right?”
“Yes, sir, it certainly is. I believe we touched on that briefly in another conversation.”
“It was you duty to shoot Jim Miller, wasn’t it?” Hawkins inquired. “I mean the son of a bitch was about to put a bullet in your commanding officer.”
“Yes, sir. It was my duty now that you mention it.”
“And doesn’t honor demand you protect a fellow officer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And isn’t that good for your country?” Hawkins continued.
“I get your point, sir. And putting into that context makes it all sound simple. But I still feel bad about it.”
“I’m worrying about depending on you, Mr. Dooley. You tell me this minute. This very godamn minute! If you have to kill again, can you do it?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not sorry, I am,” Hawkins said hotly. “Because I got no choice but to go in harm’s way with you. As we’ll be doing in Paso Cruz tomorrow.”
“What about the scouts, sir?”
“It would be hard to be undercover with a uniformed Indian scout walking beside us, Mr. Dooley. If things get hot, and you hesitate for even a second, one or both of us could be dead.”
“I’ll do my best,” Ludlow promised.
“If your best isn’t good enough, then you’ll have another first to celebrate,” Hawkins growled. “You’ll be the first in your class to die in battle.” He took another pull off the stogie, once again displaying his cold eyes. “And if the situation boils down to a choice between me dying and you dying, Mr. Dooley, I choose you!”
Chapter Fourteen
It was early evening as Second Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley sat crossed-legged in front of the fire, holding a stick on which he had stuck a hunk of salt pork. He moved it slowly through the flames, waiting until it began to sizzle, then withdrew it. The young officer gazed at the unappetizing sight of the preserved meat, then brought it up it to his mouth for a bite. He stopped and sighed loudly.
Captain Mack Hawkins sat next to him, grinning. “Got a nervous stomach, Mr. Dooley?”
“That’s an understatement, sir.”
Both officers were out of uniform, dressed for the trip into the town of Paso Cruz to take Jim Pate’s two pals into custody that same evening. Hawkins had his army-issue Colt .45 revolver in the outlaw’s holster attached to the belt he took to replace his army issue gear. He had removed the Smith and Wesson .44-40 rounds from the bullet loops and replaced them with government-issue ammunition.
Since Ludlow had no access to civilian leather gear, he would carry his pistol stuck in his belt. Hawkins had joked, “You better make sure that single-action weapon isn’t cocked when you stick it down your pants, Lieutenant. If you don’t, and it goes off, there won’t be any little Dooleys in your future.”
Ludlow failed to appreciate the humor in the remark.
Both he and the captain wore civilian shirts previously purchased at the Kiowa-Comanche Agency store. The difference was in their trousers; Hawkins wore buckskin while Dooley had a sturdy pair of woolen britches. They had the appearance of drifters, and Hawkins was riding Pate’s horse with the outlaw’s saddle and gear. Unfortunately, Ludlow’s horse furniture was strictly U.S. Army. Hawkins hoped it wouldn’t be too obvious, and that included the US brand on the horse’s right shoulder. The fact they would be in town after dark would be helpful.
Hawkins now took the last bites of his salt pork and slurped the mushy hunk of hardtack out of his coffee. After a glance at the fading sun to the west, he gave a satisfying burp. “Well, Mr. Dooley. Are you ready to ride?”
Ludlow decided to show a bit of bravado since the scouts and Jim Pate were observing him. He stood up and forced a grin. “Let’s get to it, sir.”
The officers mounted up and Hawkins led the way out of the copse, heading for Paso Cruz.
When they reached the edge of town the evening’s dusk was edging in slowly as they turned down the main street. Their destination was the Delmonte Hotel, where Pate had told them his friends Tim Dickson and Arlo Capman would be staying. They were half way into the community before they spotted the hostelry sandwiched between a couple of saloons.
Hawkins pointed farther down the street. “There’s the livery barn. It seems to be the only one around.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stop calling me ‘sir’,” Hawkins cautioned him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyhow, that’s the only place in town to board horses. So when we drag those two out of the hotel, that’s where we’ll have to go to get their mounts for the trip back to the bivouac.”
“Maybe they’re in the saloon, sir,” Ludlow suggested.
“They prob’ly are. But that isn’t where I want to capture ’em. It’ll be easier to wait for dark, then get ’em at the hotel.”
“That’s the most logical procedure to employ all right, sir.”
“Yeah. Let’s ride on through town and wait on the other side for things to quiet down.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Godamn it!” Hawkins snapped. “I told you to stop calling me ‘sir’.”
“Yes—uh, Captain. I’m really sorry, sir, but after four years at West Point, I’ve had certain customs drummed into me.”
“Oh, hell, never mind. I don’t suppose we’re gonna be around anybody else anyhow.”
“Sorry, sir.”
The captain quickened the horse’s pace, leading Ludlow completely through town and out the other side. They rode another hundred yards before finding a grove of dogwood trees. The two officers entered the shadows and dismounted. After pulling hobbles from their saddlebags, they secured both horses and sat down to relax and wait.
Neither felt much like talking. The days of cross-country travel through the wilderness had taken its toll. They were tired, but the encounter they faced with the train robbers Tim Dickson and Arlo Capman keyed them up too much to doze even a little bit. The two officers sat silently, observing the road back to town while catching wisps of noise that became audible momentarily before being swept away by the night breezes.
A full moon, bright and sassy, rose above the low, strung-out clouds in the dark sky. Its emergence created a yellow illumination that permitted Hawkins and Ludlow to make out each other’s facial features.
“I’m glad we aren’t trying to sneak up on anyone,” Hawkins remarked. “This sure isn’t the time of year to try any surprises at night. It’d be almost as hard to stay hid as if it was high noon on the Sonora Desert.”
“I suppose so, sir,” Ludlow said. His nervousness increased with the passage of time. Without deliberately thinking about it, he knew that each fleeting hour brought them closer to what could be a deadly confrontation.
Neither knew how much time had passed when Hawkins suddenly looked up. “Listen!”
“At what, sir?” Ludlow asked in a whisper.
“At how quiet it is, Mr. Dooley.”
Ludlow strained his ears for a few moments. “You’re right, sir. It would seem the activities at the saloon have come to a close.”
Hawkins slowly got to his feet. “It’s time to get down to the hotel and make inquiries of the night clerk.”
Ludlow stood up, brushing the grass from the seat of his britches. He looked at his pocket watch. “It’s two o’clock.”
“Good. Are you ready, Mr. Dooley?”
“I’m ready, sir.”
Hawkins reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a two sets of handcuffs. “Then let’s go.”
They released the hobbles of the horses, mounted up and rode back into Paso Cruz. It took only ten minutes before they swung out of the saddles and looped their reins around the hitching post in front of the Delmonte Hotel. Hawkins looked up and down the empty street, then led the way into the interior of the small, crude lobby of the hostelry.
The night clerk looked up at their entrance. “Need a room, gents?”
“Well, sorta,” Hawkins replied in a casual manner. “A couple of our pals are staying here. We were supposed to meet up with ’em earlier today, but we got slowed down by some bad weather over at Corazon.”
Ludlow felt awkward just standing there. So, in his best imitation of cowboy-talk, he said, “Their names be Tim Dickson and Arlo Capman. Do they be hyar?”
The clerk eyed the thin kid with a quizzical gaze. “Where the hell are you from?”
“Over yonder thataway bit,” Ludlow answered. He pointed eastward.
“Well, I don’t know the names of any of the fellers staying here,” the clerk informed them.
“Why don’t you take a gander at your register book?” Ludlow suggested.
“Register book?” the clerk scoffed. “I ain’t got a register book. It ain’t none of my business what the folks’ names is that stay here. I’ll bet three out of four of ’em cain’t write anyhow.”
Hawkins quickly spoke up. “They would’ve checked in yesterday or maybe two days ago. Two fellers traveling together.”
“That’s prob’ly them that’s up in room four
. Go up to the landing there, then go ‘bout halfway down on the right. There ain’t no numbers on the doors, so you’ll have to count.”
Ludlow Dooley rolled an imaginary wad of tobacco around in his cheek and set his thumbs in his belt. “If’n I was you, partner, I’d put numbers on them doors.”
“That’d be a waste of time,” the clerk remarked. “I told you that most of these dumb bastards cain’t read anyhow.” He stared at Ludlow some more. “Where in hell did you say you was from?”
“Never mind,” Hawkins said. He grabbed Ludlow by the sleeve and pulled him up to the stairs. The captain spoke low enough so the clerk couldn’t hear him. “From now on keep your comments down to only what’s necessary.”
“Yes, sir,” Ludlow said. “I was just trying to make our roles more convincing.”
“If you ever decide to become an actor, you’re gonna starve to death or get run out of ever’ town you play in. Either that or the audience is gonna throw rotten tomatoes at you each time you step on the stage.”
They went up the stairs and stepped into the dark hallway. Hawkins drew his pistol and Ludlow followed his example. When they reached the fourth door, Hawkins touched the knob and slowly began to turn it.
“Who’s there?” came a voice from the room.
“They’re alert,” Hawkins whispered. “Those fellers are used to being on the dodge.” He spoke up in a hoarse voice, “It’s me Jim Pate.”
“Damn!” the man inside said. “It’s about godamn time.”
The sounds of someone approaching could be heard. At the exact instant the door opened, Hawkins charged against it. The man who had pulled on it was knocked backpedaling to the opposite wall. The two army officers stepped into the pale light of the room’s lantern, their pistols at the ready.
A man who had been asleep on top of the covers, looked up with an angry frown on his face at the intruders. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“You’re under Fed’ral arrest,” Hawkins said. “Get your hands up. The both of you.”
The man against the wall reacted quickly. “You son of a bitch!” he said, making a spinning move toward the dresser beside him. he picked up a Remington revolver.
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