Town Tamers

by David Robbins

  Pollard could never tell the Gray Ghosts apart and asked, “Are you Dray or Cray?”

  “Cray.”

  “In all the time you’ve been working for Mr. Studevant,” Marshal Pollard mentioned, “I never did hear where you two are from.”

  All Cray said was, “Didn’t you?”

  Pollard simmered. First the summons, now this. The Ghosts never showed him any respect. For that matter, they never showed anyone any respect except Arthur Studevant.

  “I bet you’re from the South,” Deputy Agar said. “That accent you have.”

  “Do we?”

  “And those names of yours,” Agar said. “They’re Southern, ain’t they?”

  “Are they?”

  “You’d think it was a secret or something,” Agar said testily.

  A lot of shops and stores had just opened or were about to. Boardwalks were being swept and a haberdashery owner was washing his front window. Newspapers were being hawked on street corners by boys no older than twelve, a little army of them that Richard Fiske hired at pennies a day.

  “Did you hear that?” Deputy Agar said. “It’s a special edition.”

  No, Pollard hadn’t. He was fuming about the Gray Ghosts and Studevant and hadn’t been paying attention to what the boys were bawling about. They always yelled exactly what Fiske told them to, no more, no less.

  The boy on the next corner was hollering, “Special edition! Read all about it! Revenge for death of Laura Baker!”

  Marshal Pollard stopped, fished out a coin, and bought one. He didn’t care that Cray gave him an impatient glance. Unfolding the paper, he couldn’t believe the headline: Raid On Studevant Hotel! Suicide Claimed As Motive!

  Deputy Agar was looking over his shoulder and said, “Oh, my. A raid?”

  “That bastard Fiske likes to stir things up to sell his papers,” Pollard growled. “Sensationalize” was how Arthur Studevant once put it.

  “He’ll stir up a lot with that,” Agar said.

  A small crowd had gathered at the hotel and were staring up at the top floor. A hush fell over them as they parted for the Gray Ghost without them having to say or do a thing.

  “They sure are scared of him,” Deputy Agar whispered.

  “They should be.” By Pollard’s tally, the pair had killed seven men at Studevant’s bidding that he knew of. He suspected the total was a lot higher.

  The hotel staff was bustling about like so many agitated bees.

  Cray conducted the marshal and his deputy to the top floor where the other Gray Ghost stood guard outside the suite. Without comment, Dray opened the door for them and motioned for them to go in.

  “Oh, hell,” Pollard said on setting eyes on the shambles. It looked like a madman had swept through the suite with a scythe.

  Arthur Studevant was standing in front of a slashed painting, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I came right away,” Marshal Pollard said.

  For maybe half a minute Studevant just stood there. Then he said, “I was out for the evening. I took a young lady to the theater and then we went to her place where I stayed the night. Normally I would have brought her here, but she didn’t want rumors to start.”

  “It’s good you didn’t,” Deputy Agar said. “You might have run into the vandals who did this.”

  “Vandals, my ass,” Studevant said. “Have you two seen the paper?”

  “We have,” Marshal Pollard said, and wagged the one he’d bought.

  “Read the letter to the editor out loud.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  Pollard unfolded the newspaper and cleared his throat. “‘Dear Editor,’” he began. “‘We are outraged citizens who say enough is enough. There is a serpent in your midst, and his name is Arthur Studevant. A young woman has hung herself because of him. She said that he raped her. Why was he not arrested for his foul deed? Why was he not put on trial? Her soul cries for vengeance. Who hears her besides us?’”

  “That’s some letter,” Agar said.

  “What do you make of it, Abel?” Studevant asked.

  Pollard hated being put on the spot. “Suppose you tell me what to make of it.”

  Studevant turned and took the paper and glared at it.

  “The writer is educated. He uses ‘serpent’ instead of ‘snake’ or ‘sidewinder.’ He has a sense of drama. Notice his questions at the end to appeal to the emotions of his readers? And he’s not working alone.”

  “The ‘us,’” Marshal Pollard said.

  “Do you know what I think?” Studevant asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. “I think we’re seeing the handiwork of our so-called highwaymen.”

  “That farmer bandit in overalls?”

  “Who was always so polite and well-mannered, and didn’t talk like any farmer.”

  “I never thought of that,” Deputy Agar said. “I wish I was as smart as you, Mr. Studevant.”

  “I wish you were smarter than a stump,” Studevant said, “but no matter.” He crumpled the newspaper and gestured at the slashed painting. “Do you see that? It was by a French master. I paid five thousand dollars for it. The total for everything they’ve destroyed will be fifty thousand or more.”

  Agar whistled.

  “This is a deliberate campaign, Abel. Those sham stage robberies, and now this.”

  “To stir up people against you?” Pollard said.

  “I suspect there’s far more to it than that,” Studevant said. “The trouble they’ve gone to. The planning they must have done. No, I suspect that they are out to destroy us. And I very much want them dead before they achieve their goal.”

  “I’d shoot them for you if I knew where to find them,” Pollard said.

  “Do what you can. In the meantime, I’ll be using my own resources. I’m bringing in a specialist.”

  “A what?” Agar said.

  “His name is Cyrus Temple. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

  “Isn’t he the hombre folks call the Tracker?” Pollard recollected.

  “He is. I’m paying him a great deal of money to track down the farmer-bandit and his companions so I can rip their hearts from their bodies.”

  66

  The morning sun rose stupendous and bright over the prairie to the east and gradually spread its radiant glow over the foothills and higher slopes of the Rocky Mountains.

  Asa sat at the campfire and sipped his first cup of coffee of the day. He was always up before the others. It came with age. He needed less sleep than they did.

  Which was just as well, since he had a lot of pondering to do.

  So far things had gone well. They’d pointed an accusing finger at Arthur Studevant without drawing the town’s ire on themselves. Their stagecoach antics and their visit to the hotel had set Ordville abuzz.

  What it hadn’t done—which was the whole purpose—was set posses after them. If they’d killed someone or wounded a stage passenger, people would be outraged. As it was, the good folks of Ordville were more amused than angry—those who weren’t incensed at Studevant over Laura Baker.

  Yes, things were going well.

  Asa admired the sunrise and listened to the warbling of the songbirds and the cry of a magpie off down the meadow. He’d grown fond of the Rockies in the short time they’d been there. The lofty spires thrusting at the sky, the sea of forest, the magnificent vistas. It was no wonder so many folks flocked there.

  Noona’s blankets moved and her head poked out. “Morning, Pa.”

  “Daughter,” Asa said. “You and your brother have become layabouts.”

  She grinned and laid her head back down. “It’s your fault. We never have much to do.”

  “That’s about to change,” Asa said. “It’s been a week since the hotel.”

  Her head popped out again.
“What do you have in mind?”

  “Your brother came up with another brainstorm last night after you turned in.”

  “What is it this time? We burn down one of Studevant’s saloons? Or better yet, one of his whorehouses?”

  “Your brother calls it a list of injustices against humanity.”

  “Another note to the newspaper?”

  “Why not? We want to keep them agitated. And keep Studevant mad. Did you know he had that fancy team of his brought all the way from New York?”

  “I did not,” Noona said.

  “He’s very fond of them, folks say.”

  “I like horses, Pa. You’re not fixing to harm them, are you?”

  “You know me better than that, girl. But they are pawns in the chess game, as your brother likes to think of this.”

  “Just so we don’t hurt them.”

  From under the blanket on the other side of the fire came a grunt of annoyance. “Talk a little louder, why don’t you? So what if someone is trying to sleep.”

  “Rise and shine,” Asa said. “We’ll do those horses today like you suggested, and it’s a long ride to town.”

  “Me and my brilliance,” Byron said.

  Noona sat up and ruffled her hair and yawned. “I can’t wait to get back to Texas. I miss home.”

  “It’ll be a while yet,” Asa said. “Remember, we have to do this slow and careful.”

  “More’s the pity,” Byron said.

  “I should stop and visit with Cornice,” Noona said. “She always has newspapers and grub for us.”

  “We should go together,” Byron said. “She baked an apple pie last time.”

  “It’s riskier with the both of you,” Asa said. “Your sister can slip in and out with no one catching on.”

  Noona got up and fixed breakfast, eggs over easy and bacon sizzling with juicy fat. “We’re running low on butter,” she mentioned.

  “We’ll ask Cornice to buy us some,” Asa said.

  Byron forked a piece of bacon into his mouth and chewed lustily. “How long do you intend to stay at this? When will enough be enough and we send Arthur Studevant to hell where he belongs?”

  “I haven’t set a date.”

  “Are we talking days? Weeks? Months? I’d like to get on with my life and don’t appreciate the delay.”

  “You mean you’d like to get on with that Olivia gal,” Noona teased.

  Asa lowered his tin cup and scowled. “I warned you to stay away from her. You better listen. They know you were with her that night and might put a watch on her, thinking you’ll pay her a visit.”

  “I’m not that stupid,” Byron said.

  “I hope not,” Asa said, “for all our sakes.”

  67

  The man who got off the train was big and wide—so big he towered head and shoulders above the tallest of other men, so wide his shoulders brushed the compartments on either side when he moved down the aisle.

  His attire added to his size. Even though it was summer, he wore a long-sleeved bear-hide coat that reached to his knees. Made from a black bearskin, it smelled like bear, too. Bear and sweat.

  His hat was a stocking-cap fashioned from buckskin that hung to his shoulder and swung with every stride.

  His moccasins were the knee-high kind Apaches were partial to.

  He carried an old Sharps and had a cartridge belt and a large bone-handled knife around his waist.

  Marshal Pollard and Deputy Agar were waiting when the big man got off.

  “Cyrus Temple?” Agar said. “Mr. Studevant sent us to fetch you.”

  Cyrus Temple scanned him from head to boots and then looked at Pollard and said, “At least one of you ain’t worthless.”

  “Hey, now,” Agar said. “I’ve hardly spoken ten words to you.”

  “It was enough.”

  “We’re on the same side,” Pollard said. “You’d do well to remember that.”

  “I don’t kiss law dog ass,” Temple said. “You’d do well to remember that.”

  “You’re not very nice,” Deputy Agar said.

  “No,” Cyrus Temple said, “I’m not.”

  Studevant had also sent his carriage. They rode in silence to the hotel. Temple drew a lot of stares as he crossed the lobby to the stairs.

  The Gray Ghosts were at their usual post. Temple stopped on seeing them, then said, “These two are more like it.”

  “Like what?” Agar asked.

  “Not like you,” Temple said.

  Arthur Studevant was seated on a wood settee, one of the few items of furniture to escape the wrath of the intruders since it didn’t have cushions or upholstery.

  He rose and offered his hand.

  Shaking, Cyrus Temple regarded the destruction. “Twisters strike indoors now?”

  Studevant told him about the three bandits and the invasion of his suite.

  “It was a week ago and you haven’t cleaned the mess up yet?”

  “I’m keeping it like this as a reminder,” Studevant said, “of how much I want them dead. I’ll have it cleaned up when they’ve breathed their last, and not before.”

  “That’s why you sent for me, I reckon,” Temple said.

  “I appreciate you coming so quickly.”

  Temple cradled his Sharps. “I was between jobs when your telegram reached me in Cheyenne. I took the next train, and here I am.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll have refreshments brought and explain my situation.”

  “All I need to know is who I’m after and where I can pick up their trail.”

  “I can give you their descriptions but not their names. As for a trail, we’ll have to wait for them to strike again.”

  “That’s all right. I’m a patient man. Have to be, in my line of work.”

  “I’m not except when it suits my purpose,” Arthur Studevant said. “And it doesn’t suit my purpose to have them continue to belittle me and mock me and try to turn the people of Ordville against me.”

  “Strange bunch of bandits,” Cyrus Temple said.

  “As soon as you can, I want them to be a dead bunch of bandits.”

  “About that,” Temple said. “I’m a tracker. I don’t kill unless the law will look the other way.” He glanced at Pollard. “What way will your law look?”

  “Need you ask?” Studevant said. “They do what I tell them to do. But even so, I’d prefer that you take this trio alive if you can. I want them dead, yes. But I want to do the deed myself.”

  “So I find them and bring them here, or I come fetch you and take you to where they are?”

  “It’s better if they’re not seen in town. When you find them, make damn certain they can’t go anywhere while you come get me.”

  “You’re makin’ it harder than it needs to be,” Temple said.

  “In my telegram I offered to pay you twice your going rate. For that much I can make it as difficult as I damn well want.”

  “So long as I get to do the tracking my way.” Temple looked about him and walked over to a chair cushion that lay on the floor. It had been hacked almost to pieces. He nudged it with the toe of his moccasin and said, “You know this is personal, don’t you?”

  “I know they’re out to bring me down,” Studevant said. “I suspect they’re out to bury me.”

  “If all they wanted was to have you dead, they’d do like I do and sit off somewhere and pick you off with a rifle.”

  “Perhaps they’re building up to that.”

  “Could be.” Temple gestured at the destruction. “But whoever did it hates you, mister. Hates you somethin’ fierce.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “Or maybe they’re like me and were hired by someone who hates you.”

  Arthur Studevant gave a slight start.

  “Somethin’?” Temple said.

  “I
may need to thank you twice over,” Studevant said. “You’ve just given me food for deep thought.”

  “Do you have many enemies?”

  “I’ve made a great many of them.”

  “That’s where I’d start lookin’. I take it you hope they strike again soon so you can get this over with.”

  “The sooner, the better,” Studevant said.

  68

  The stable was only a few blocks from the Studevant Hotel. Studevant liked his team handy for when he needed to go somewhere on short notice.

  Once it was a public stable, but Studevant bought out the owner and now it housed his six carriage horses and no others.

  The horses were Clydesdales. Originally bred in the Clyde River Valley in Scotland, Clydesdales proved so popular as draft animals that soon they were being bred in Europe and the United States.

  Studevant, though, insisted on owning only those of the purest blood. He imported his team from Scotland.

  They were tremendous animals. Each weighed close to two thousand pounds and stood nearly seventy inches at the shoulders. When fitted with their trappings, they presented an imposing spectacle with their rapid gait, long strides, and the hair around their ankles.

  The stableman, appropriately enough, was a Scotsman by the name of MacDougal. Studevant imported him from Scotland, too. He had no wife and no children and lived in a room at the back of the stable so he could be close to “his babies,” as he liked to refer to the Clydesdales.

  On this particular night, MacDougal had tended to their needs and given each an affectionate pat, and then turned in, as he always did, about ten. He didn’t bar the front doors. He never did. Horse theft was unknown in Ordville, and besides, no one in their right mind would steal horses that belonged to Arthur Studevant.

  The first inkling MacDougal had that this wasn’t going to be an ordinary night occurred when he awoke with a start to find a hard object gouging his cheek. Someone had lit his lamp but turned it low, and he saw that the object gouging him was a rifle barrel. Then he looked up. “Sure and by God, what’s the meaning of this?”