“Except for Jacob,” Badger Dick reminded them.
“Oui, except for Jacob.” François looked at Ethan. “So, as Gerard says . . . who, my young friend?”
“Somebody who plans to make a legal claim on that land, then sell it to the railroad for a lot more than a few dollars.”
“Ah,” Gerard said, suddenly understanding. “For money.”
“What else?” Scotty replied sarcastically.
“Then our duty is as it was before,” Gerard continued. “We look for the men who killed Ian and his woman, and now Tom Handleman.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea who’s doing the killing,” Ethan said.
Scotty’s eyes widened. “Ye know his name, do ye?”
“If it’s who I think it is, his name is Nolan Andrews, and he’s got a bunch of hardcases riding for him.”
“Andrews?” Gerard repeated. “The man you fought in Ira Webb’s saloon?”
“He wanted to buy the Bar-Five, but Pa wouldn’t sell it. He came up to me in the Bullshead the day I got back from the high country. I expect he was hoping I’d talk Pa into changing his mind. When I refused, he tried to goad me into a fight, wanted me to draw my pistol against him. If Ira hadn’t been there, I might’ve done it.”
“If you had, then I think you would now be dead, my friend,” François opined soberly.
Ethan nodded silent agreement, icy tendrils of comprehension entwining the base of his spine as he realized how close he’d come to falling into Andrews’s trap. At the time, he hadn’t even seen it.
“So, ’tis Andrews we’re looking for?” Scotty asked.
“Not just him,” Ethan said. “Andrews isn’t a businessman, he’s a killer. We’re looking for someone else, someone with money and connections, especially to the railroad.” He stared distractedly at Gerard’s map, brows furrowed. “Andrews told me he was working for an outfit out of Bismarck called Westminster Cattle and Mining. Claimed they were wanting to expand onto the northern ranges.”
“An outfit like that’d have some big money backin’ ’em,” Badger Dick said. “But would it have the connections? That’d have to be someone local, someone who knows the breaks and us that lived there. That’s the person I want, boys. The dirty cuss who hired Andrews and his hardcases.”
“Oui,” Gerard agreed. “It is that one who must be stopped, else more killers will be brought in. So, again.” He glanced at Ethan. “Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Kestler?” Gabe ventured.
“Charlie?” Scotty sounded dubious. “Sure, and what would Charlie Kestler have to gain from killing the likes o’ us? Hell, we be the ones keepin’ the wolf population under control so he can run his damn’ cows all up and down the river.”
“It could be anyone,” Ethan remarked. “I’m not saying it is Kestler, but I wouldn’t put it past him, either. Not the way he’s been yammering for Joel and Ben’s hides.”
“Andrews,” Gerard said reflectively. “Where is he now?”
“I haven’t seen him. His men were in town earlier, but they seemed to have disappeared when Kestler and his boys showed up.”
“Then I think we should find them.”
“They’ve been keeping their horses at Palmer’s, in the nearest pen behind the main stables. Be easy enough to check if they’re still there.”
“Oui, if their horses are there, then they are still in town.” François glanced at Hank McKay. “What do you say, gabby? You will come with me to check these horses?”
“I will,” McKay growled.
He and François disappeared.
Gerard looked at Ethan. “While they are gone maybe there is someone you wish to speak with? Someone who wishes to speak to you.”
Ethan smiled his gratitude. “I won’t be long.”
Gerard remained with the others as Ethan headed for the Turcotte wagon.
Rachel rose from the fire as he approached, hurried to his side. “Ethan,” she said, taking his arm in both of hers and pulling it close. “I am so sorry. How is Victor?”
“He was better the last time I saw him, but he’s got a bullet near his heart and Doc Carver is afraid to dig it out.”
Rachel’s face scrunched up in worry. “Will he . . .?”
“I don’t know.” A shiver racked Ethan’s body, like a fever chill. He tried to laugh it off but Rachel wouldn’t let him.
“It is OK to be afraid for your brothers,” she said, “and to feel pain for your father’s death. You have suffered much these last few days.”
“Why did you come?” Ethan asked in an attempt to change the subject, then immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I wasn’t glad to see you. It’s just that there’s a lot of fired-up feelings right now, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“What would you have me do, Ethan? Stay at home? Hide under my blankets like a frightened child? I can shoot, and I can fight if I have to.”
“I know. I was wrong.”
Her eyes searched his. “Tell me the truth. Are you glad I came, or do you want me to go away? I will do as you wish.”
“I want you to be safe, because, if you were injured or . . . or killed, I don’t think I could take it.” The words came out simply, yet with a gut-deep honesty that caught him off guard. He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I love you, Rachel, but I don’t know what’s going to happen. There are too many factions involved. We’re not even sure who our enemy is yet.”
She placed a hand over his, the other on his chest. “It doesn’t matter, Ethan. I will be here, waiting. Or I will go home to wait if you wish. But I would rather stand at your side, armed. I could use Papa’s shotgun . . . .”
“No. I want you to stay here. Wait for me here.” He looked toward the fire where Corn Grower stood watching them. Rachel lowered her hands.
“We should go back. Mama watches, and . . . I think she knows.”
Ethan remembered the look Corn Grower had given him that morning at the Turcotte cabin, the conversation he’d had with Gerard on top of the bluff overlooking the Marias. He thought Rachel was probably right. They knew, and they would tolerate only so much. Taking her hand in his, he said: “Let’s go over to the fire and greet your mother, and not give her anything else to worry about.”
Chapter Fourteen
Darkness fell, and a cold, blustery wind kicked up out of the northwest, pummeling the fire at Badger Dick’s wagon, nipping at Ethan’s nose and fingers. His heavy coat was back at the ranch; a canvas jacket wrapped in the bedroll behind his saddle on the Appaloosa might as well have been. He wished now he hadn’t refused Rachel’s offer of a Hudson’s Bay blanket to drape over his shoulders while he waited with the others for François LaBarge and Hank McKay to return from town.
Standing slightly apart from the others, Ethan only became aware of a presence moving up behind him at the last minute. His hand streaked to his revolver, but he was too slow. A second hand clamped on top of his, trapping the Remington in its holster.
In his ear, Seth Barlow chuckled good-naturedly. “You grow careless, Ethan. Not so long ago, I couldn’t have gotten within twenty feet of you without being heard.”
“That must be it,” Ethan replied, forcing a lop-sided grin he didn’t feel.
At the fire, the older men looked up, a couple of them chuckling at Ethan’s expense. Then they turned their backs to the younger men, and Seth gave Ethan a nudge.
“Come with me.”
Ethan followed the young hunter away from the wagons.
Gabe waited for them in the dark with Ethan’s rifle and shell belt. He handed them over, then turned away without speaking.
“Where are we going?” Ethan asked, buckling the belt around his waist.
“Me ’n’ Gabe’s been doing a little scouting,” Seth replied, falling in beside Ethan. “You’ll see.”
Although curious, Ethan held his tongue. They backtracked through Sundance’s alleys and rear lots as far as the
Bullshead. Here, Gabe held up a hand. Ethan stopped, but Seth kept walking.
“We’ll wait over there,” Gabe said, nodding toward a harness shop north of the saloon, separated from it by an empty, weed-choked lot.
The two men moved cautiously through the lot, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Reaching a position close to the street, they settled down behind a stack of discarded lumber where they had a clear view of the boardwalk in front of the Bullshead.
Ethan’s nerves were jangled as he studied the crowd. Horsemen rode back and forth on the street, and now and then someone would fire his revolver toward the sky, the clap of gunfire disconcerting. A couple of whiskey-sodden cowhands jogged their mounts into the lot, so close that Ethan could have touched the stirrup of the nearest rider. He recognized the slack face of the short cowhand from the saloon that morning, one of the men who had tried to prevent Ethan from leaving. In the flickering torchlight, Ethan would have sworn the drunken cowboy was looking straight at him, but then he reined away without raising an alarm.
“What are we doing here?” Ethan whispered tersely.
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
Gabe nodded toward the boardwalk. “Watch.”
Ethan looked. Seth was approaching the saloon’s batwing doors from the south, threading his way casually through a mob of drinking cowboys. The crowd was boisterous, their laughter raking the night like spurs, but Ethan could sense an undertone of hostility in their crude jokes and rough-housing. They were killing time, bulking up on courage from bottles of Ira’s cheap river whiskey—just as Charlie Kestler seemingly wanted it.
There were no townspeople in sight, and Ethan doubted if any of them had lingered much past sunset as the cowhands grew more unruly, the night more dangerous. They would retreat to their homes, he thought bitterly, there to blow out their lamps and cower in fear until dawn brought an end to the tempest.
As Seth glided into the lamplight that spilled out over the tops of the batwings, the crowd turned abruptly silent. A cowboy with a drooping mustache and a sneering frown stepped into his path.
“Hol’ on there, redskin. Where yuh goin’?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Seth replied calmly, making no attempt to push past the cowboy.
The Lazy-K hand seemed to ponder Seth’s reply. Then he looked at the men surrounding him and laughed. “Ah hate tuh tell yuh this, sonny, but they ain’t no someone ’round here, and old man Webb don’t serve liquor to Injuns.”
Several of the men laughed loudly, but others didn’t; the threat of violence seemed almost palpable. Ethan shifted uneasily, ready to go to Seth’s aid, but Gabe stopped him with a touch.
“Wait. Let’s see what happens.”
Seth hadn’t budged. “I’m looking for Nate Kestler.”
“Nate?” The cowboy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What duh yuh want with Natey?”
“I have a message for him.”
The cowboy’s face screwed up with uncertainty. “What kinda message?”
“From a friend.”
“Maybe he does,” another cowboy interjected.
“They know about Janey,” Gabe whispered to Ethan.
Janey, with her Indian blood, Seth with his. It would make sense to a bunch of drunken cowhands.
The first cowboy was shaking his head negatively. “Why’d some redskin want tuh get a message to Nate tonight?”
Seth shrugged and started to turn away. “It doesn’t matter. I can tell him tomorrow . . . if it isn’t too late.”
“Now, jus’ hol’ on,” the first cowboy said, grabbing Seth’s arm and pulling him back. “I ain’t made up muh mind about yuh yet.”
Seth smiled reasonably. “Maybe when you’re sober.”
“I’m sober enough now,” the cowboy said, bristling, but, when several of the men nearby laughed, the cowboy’s face turned red. “The hell wit’ it. Go on, skedaddle.”
“What about my message for Nate?”
The cowboy was blinking rapidly. “Yuh go on ’n’ wait over there outta the way.” He pointed vaguely toward the harness shop. “I’ll tell Nate yuh wanna talk to ’im. If he wants tuh talk to yuh, I reckon he’ll come find yuh.”
Ethan breathed a sigh of relief, his fingers relaxing their tight grip on the Winchester.
On the boardwalk, Seth said: “I’ll be around back. He can find me there, if he doesn’t take too long.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell ’im,” the cowboy said, giving Seth a light shove. “Go on now, git. White men’s tryin’ tuh have a littl’ fun.”
Seth passed through the crowd to the empty lot north of the saloon. No one tried to stop him; they wouldn’t now, with Nate involved.
Ethan and Gabe waited until the first cowboy disappeared inside, then slipped out from behind the stacked lumber. They caught up with Seth in back of the saloon, filling his pipe from a brain-tanned tobacco pouch, but didn’t approach him.
“Over here,” Gabe said, backing up to the rear wall of the saddlery.
It didn’t take long for Nate Kestler to show. Ethan heard a couple of men tramping through the weedy lot several seconds before he saw them. They moved clumsily, stumbling over empty bottles and discarded tins. The cowboy who had gone to fetch Nate cursed the uneven footing. A second voice said: “Shut up, Maynard.”
Ethan smiled thinly. That was Nate, all right.
“Who’s over there?” Nate Kestler demanded, coming to a stop only a few feet away from where Ethan and Gabe were standing.
“Seth Barlow,” Seth replied. “I have a message.”
“Well, out with it,” Nate said impatiently.
“For the world to hear?” Seth asked mildly. He struck a match to light his pipe, turning his back to the wind and cupping his hands tightly around the tiny, sputtering flame.
Nate cursed and started forward. The cowboy followed. Gabe and Ethan stepped after them. Not nearly as inebriated as his partner, Nate sensed their presence almost immediately, but Gabe was on him before he could shout a warning. The cowboy didn’t have a clue anyone else was around, and crumbled silently under a roundhouse blow from the Winchester’s butt. Seth shook out his match without lighting his pipe and came over. Ethan and Gabe hauled Nate to his feet, a wadded piece of gunny sacking already shoved into his mouth. Ethan plucked the revolvers from Nate’s holsters and tossed them into the weeds.
“This way,” Seth ordered, and, with Nate struggling between them, Ethan and Gabe hustled him away from the saloon.
They went to Carver’s barn, slipping in through the back door, and Seth struck another match to light a lantern.
“You’ve been here before,” Ethan remarked.
“This afternoon,” Seth confessed. “Me ’n’ Gabe came looking for a likely spot when we hatched this idea.”
Nate kicked at Seth, but Gabe jerked him off balance and threw him to the ground. Pulling a short length of rope from his belt, he said: “Flop him on his belly, Ethan, so I can tie his hands.”
It took only moments to truss up Nate like a hog for market. Gabe hauled him roughly to his feet, then marched him over to a feed box and made him sit down. Pulling a knife from its sheath, he held it against Nate’s throat.
“Do you believe I’ll kill you?” he asked menacingly.
Nate snorted in disdain; he wasn’t buying it.
Lifting the knife from Gabe’s hand, Ethan leaned close. “What about me, pissant? Do you believe I’ll slit your worthless throat?” He pushed the knife’s tip into the soft tissue of Nate’s neck until a trickle of blood ran down into his collar.
Feeling the warm flow, Nate tried to pull away, but Gabe held him tight. In that same low, deadly tone, Ethan said: “My old man is dead and Vic is dying, and now that son-of-a-bitch you call a father wants to hang Joel and Ben. So what about it, Kestler? Do you believe I’d just as soon cut your throat as look at you?”
This time, Nate nodded with enthusiasm.
Grabbing the sacking that protruded from
between the younger man’s lips, Ethan said: “I’m going to pull this gag out. If you even try to shout for help, you’re a dead man.” Nate’s head bobbed acknowledgment, and Ethan yanked the coarse cloth from his mouth.
Nate drew in a ragged breath, but didn’t make a peep otherwise.
“For someone who carries two pistols, you caved awfully fast,” Seth observed.
“What do you want?” Nate demanded angrily.
Gabe rapped him upside his head. “Only speak when you’re spoken to, shithead.”
Leaning forward until they were practically nose to nose, Ethan said: “Who killed Jacob Wilder?”
“I don’t know.”
Gabe cuffed him once more, a mother bear disciplining its cub. “Tell the truth or I’ll smack you till your ears ring like bells.”
“You big, dumb bastard,” Nate spat, earning himself a third quick slap to the side of his head.
“Ethan, I don’t think this boy believes us,” Seth remarked. “Mind if I borrow that sticker?” Ethan handed him the knife. Seth brought the tip up into Nate’s left nostril. “Maybe we ought to notch him,” he said.
“Take off the whole damn’ nose,” Gabe urged.
“I’d rather he talk,” Ethan said. “If we cut off too much, he’s liable to pass out.”
“You boys are crazy,” Nate said. “Do you think my men don’t know I’m missing? What do you think they’ll do when they find out what happened?”
“First off,” Seth corrected, “they’re your daddy’s men, not yours, and I truly doubt if they’ll notice or even care what happens to some little coyote who sneaks around peeping on good girls like Janey Handleman. Far as they’re concerned, you ain’t nothing but an embarrassment to the Lazy-K, a patch of alkali on your daddy’s range. And second”—Seth pressed upward on the blade, forcing Nate’s head back against the wall—“second, it won’t matter what they do. You’ll still be walking around without a nose.”
Wild Side of the River Page 14