by Ralph Cotton
“I did,” the ranger said, watching Quinn’s hand search the empty holster. “Don’t give me cause to do it again.” He stared at Quinn from a few feet away where he sat on the unopened strongbox, sipping coffee. Behind him, the three men’s horses and the team of stage animals stood watching with disinterest.
Quinn said defiantly, “You had no cause to do it the first time.” But his hand left the holster, gave up its search and fell to his lap. “I’m an officer of the law, the same as you.” He jerked his throbbing head toward Grady Black, who sat coming to slowly. “So is this man. I’ll see to it you pay for this, Burrack. As soon as I get back to Albertson, I’ll wire the circuit judge—”
Sam cut him off. “You’ll take the stagecoach and the dead back to Albertson and forget all about your cracked chin and the goose egg on your forehead, if you’re wise, Quinn.”
“Sheriff Quinn to you,” Quinn snapped.
“Stop testing me, Quinn,” said the ranger. “You and this man dishonored your badges. You don’t know how hard it is for me to keep from wearing this rifle butt out on the two of you.”
Quinn fell silent, seeing the fire in the ranger’s eyes grow more intense.
“I’m going to turn all three of you loose,” said Sam, holding up the handcuff key in his gloved hand. “But first, tell me what was in the hidden freight compartment.”
“Nothing,” said Quinn, a little too fast, a bit too harshly. He caught himself and shrugged. “I mean, nothing that I know of. Why, is it empty?” But the look on his face had already told the ranger he was lying.
“Yes, it is empty,” said the ranger, watching Quinn’s eyes.
“Oh well, that’s too bad,” said Quinn. “It could have been private mail, personal business documents.”
“Come on, Quinn,” said Sam, “you know about everything coming and going on the Albertson stage. You’re bought and paid for by Davin Grissin.” He gestured toward Antan Fellows. “This one has already told me that Grissin owns a big piece of the stage lines. What was on the stage that was more important than the money in this strongbox?”
Quinn gave Fellows a hard look. “What?” said the dog-bitten half-breed. “It’s not a secret that Grissin owns everything that’s worth anything around here.”
“You talk too much, breed,” Quinn growled. To the ranger he said, “As soon as I get this coach back to town, me and my deputy here will be headed out after whoever did this. So this is one time when your services will be neither welcomed nor required. I’ve got everything under control.”
“Are you sure you want to play it this way?” Sam asked. “I’ll be on the trail after whoever done this whether you like it or not. If there’s anything going on that I need to know about, this is the time to tell me.”
“You’ve got some nerve, Burrack,” said Quinn, “after what you’ve done to me.” He shook his cuffed hand. “If this wasn’t on my wrist and I had my gun in my hand, I’d kill you.”
The ranger levered a round into his rifle chamber and left the hammer cocked. “My hand isn’t cuffed. I am holding a gun. Every time you think about how wrongly you’ve been treated, remind yourself I could’ve killed you. Don’t make me sorry that I didn’t.”
Quinn looked away, too proud to admit to himself that the ranger was right.
The ranger continued. “It won’t help either one of us or your boss, Grissin, either, if you and I keep bumping heads out here.”
“We take care of our own business in Albertson, Burrack,” said Quinn, turning a cold stare back to the ranger. “You’ll do well to keep your nose out of things here.”
Sam stepped in with the handcuff key and unlocked Fellows’ cuffs first. The half-breed rubbed his wrists and stepped back, not wanting any trouble.
Sam turned from Fellows and stepped over to Quinn. In an even tone he said as he reached down and stuck the key into the handcuffs, “You’ve made your threats, Quinn. Now here’s something you’d better know as the gospel. Don’t ever come into my camp the way you did tonight, or badge or no badge I’ll treat you like the vermin you are.”
Quinn struggled up onto his feet, his head still pounding. “What about our guns?”
“You don’t have any guns,” Sam said flatly. He reached down, unlocked Black’s cuffs and poked him with the toe of his boot to help awaken him.
“You can’t send us back to town unarmed,” Quinn raged. “You can’t disgrace us that way!”
“You’ll be more disgraced if I ride in with the three of you handcuffed and tell the town what you were up to out here,” said the ranger. “Now get your horses and get out of my sight.”
The other two started for their horses, but Quinn would have none of it. He stood with his feet spread shoulder width apart, still rubbing his wrists. Nodding toward his Colt sticking up from behind the ranger’s gun belt, he said, “Give me that gun, Burrack. We’ll see who gets out of sight. You might be a big wind out on the badlands, but for my money you’re just one more—”
Before he’d gotten his words finished, his Colt landed with a plop in the dirt at his feet. The ranger leaned his rifle against the wagon wheel and dropped his right hand down beside his holstered Colt. “There it is, Quinn. Make use of it, or crawfish back away from it like a coward.”
Chapter 8
The big dog stood back, watching from the side, his head lowered slightly, his ears back. His paws spread wide beneath him, he looked prepared to spring forward with no further warning. Antan Fellows noted the animal’s fierce demeanor and eased a step farther away toward his horse, the wet cloth to his cheek. Black was still too groggy to understand what was about to happen. He stood staggering in place, his palms out flat toward the ground as if stabilizing him.
Stunned by the ranger’s pitching the gun at his feet, Quinn eyed the weapon lying in the dirt. He considered his odds while a drum pounded hard, sharp beats inside his forehead, inside his swollen chin. He looked back up and caught the cold, killing look in the ranger’s eyes and heard Maria say quietly, “Sam, don’t do this. Don’t kill him.”
“See what he’s doing?” Quinn said over his shoulder to the other two. “He wants me to make a move for my shooting iron. He wants me to grab it and come up fighting. But I see through his plan.” Staring at the ranger, he gave a tense, knowing grin. “He took all the bullets out of my gun. Didn’t you, Ranger? My gun’s not loaded, is it?”
Sam stood staring calmly, at ease, yet with his gun hand poised at his side. “There’s only one way you’ll ever know for sure, Quinn.”
“Yeah, that’s it, I get it. I see what you’ve done, Burrack.” Quinn straightened and put any thought of going for his gun from his mind. “I’m not making a move. See this, boys? I’m not making a move. I want you both to see that I’m not going for my Colt . . . not getting myself shot down while I reach for an unloaded gun.”
Antan Fellows eyed the big Colt lying in the dirt closely and said, “Sheriff, I didn’t see him unload it. If you ask me it’s still—”
“That’s just it, Antan!” Quinn said angrily. “Nobody asked you a damn thing.” He pointed at the ranger. “This man is no fool. He knows my reputation with a gun. He’s not about to lay a loaded gun at my feet and invite me to pick it up and use it.” His cold, sly grin came back as he stared at the ranger. “Some other time, Burrack. I’m not falling for any tricks tonight. I’ve got business that needs attending.” He backed away.
“Suit yourself, Quinn,” Sam said coolly. He stepped forward, picked up the Colt and held it up. He let bullet after bullet fall to the ground until all six lay in the dirt at his feet. “But don’t leave here with your shirt in a knot, feeling like I took unfair advantage.”
Fellows shook his head; Black blinked his unsteady eyes. Quinn clenched his fists and gritted his teeth in humiliation. “I hope to hell we meet again, Burrack.”
“Careful what you hope for, Peyton Quinn,” the ranger said before the gunman had hardly finished his words. He made it a point not to put the word �
��Sheriff” before Quinn’s name, not acknowledging the man having any moral claim to the title.
“He wasn’t lying, Quinn,” Black said in a thick, still addled voice, “the gun was as loaded now as it was ever going to be—”
“Let’s get a damn move on!” Quinn snapped fiercely. “We’ve wasted most of the night dealing with this blasted stagecoach! We need to get it back to Albertson and get on after the men who robbed it!”
Sam stood beside Maria, the two of them watching closely as the three shamed and beaten men hitched the team of stage horses to the coach and hefted the strongbox up behind the driver’s seat. He returned Quinn’s cold stare while the gunman made one final look in his direction as the stage rolled away.
“I’ve got a feeling there’ll be some lively conversation going on when these three explain everything to Davin Grissin,” he said when the stagecoach lurched forward. Antan Fellows sat in the driver’s seat. The other two rode alongside, Quinn slapping his reins hard to his horse’s rump as if blaming the poor animal for all of his woes and degradation.
“He is right about one thing,” Maria said. “The night is nearly gone. Should we break camp and get an early start? Parks is wasting no time finding himself a hole to crawl into.”
“Yes, we can do that,” Sam replied, knowing Maria, realizing that she wanted to ride away from this place and the events that had nearly occurred here. “First, let’s give credit where it’s due.” He looked over at the dog and saw the big animal standing as if at attention, watching the two of them closely. “Sergeant Tom Haines, come right over here, front and center,” he called out in a feigned military tone of voice. “You’ve earned yourself a nice strip of jerked elk.”
The big cur loped over and sat down near their feet, facing them. “This one is certainly recovering fast,” Maria said, stopping and rubbing the dog on his shoulder, his head still too tender and swollen to be patted. “Do you suppose he will ever take up with anyone the way he did with the colonel?”
Sam gave a slight smile, taking a piece of elk jerky from the colonel’s handkerchief in his trouser pocket. “We’ll find out soon enough, I expect,” he said, reaching out, letting the big cur take its reward from his gloved fingertips.
The big dog swallowed the elk morsel without so much as a chew, then stood up and licked his flews. Maria nodded toward the hoofprints leading away toward the north and asked the ranger, “Where you suppose these tracks are going to lead us?”
“To Red Hill,” the ranger said with confidence.
“The supply town?” Maria queried. “Won’t they try to lie low for a while first, hide themselves until their trail turns cold?”
“That’s what most robbers would do,” Sam said. “But I’ve got a feeling this isn’t thieves we’re dealing with here . . . not yet anyway.” He gazed in contemplation along the dark trail ahead of them as the first glimmer of dawn wreathed the eastern horizon. “These folks are still wondering whether or not they’re going to keep the money or turn it in.”
“Oh?” said Maria, raising a brow at his keen perception. “And which of the two choices do you predict they will make?”
“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. A troubled look came to his face as he considered it. “I expect they realize by now that either choice can be dangerous.”
Maria nodded. “And if they are headed for Red Hill, we can bet that Parks is hot on their heels.”
“That is my thought, exactly,” the ranger said, his gloved hand at his side. He felt the big dog sniff at his fingertips, then sit back down at his side, gazing ahead in the same direction.
Jet Mackenzie rode his claybank dun onto the dirt street of Red Hill. Jock Brewer rode his brown-speckled barb beside him, followed closely by Tadpole Harper on a white-faced roan and Holly Thorpe atop a salt-and-pepper barb. Thorpe led the two spare horses behind him. Harper led three of the four stage horses they’d gathered on their way, having stripped the animals bare and discarded their harnesses along the trail.
“Here goes nothing,” Brewer said under his breath to Mackenzie, feeling eyes on them as they rode toward the large weathered wooden star hanging out in front of the sheriff’s office. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” he added almost in a whisper.
“Me?” said Mackenzie. “I thought we all agreed this was the right way to handle things?”
“Yeah, we did agree,” Brewer said with a worried half smile. “But the more eyes I feel on me, the more I’m wanting this to be your doing.”
“Much obliged,” Mackenzie replied under his breath, veering his horse over to the hitch rail. The others followed his lead and stepped down from their saddles as one. Mackenzie said to Holly Thorpe as Thorpe and Harper hitched the spare animals beside their horses, “Holly, you and Tadpole stick here while me and Jock go see the sheriff.”
“Right,” said Thorpe. The four had already discussed it while they’d stopped miles back and divided the money. Each had rolled a portion of it in his slicker, bedroll and saddlebags rather than be seen carrying the cash into town in a bag bearing Davin Grissin’s name. There would be time to haul the money into the sheriff’s office after they explained everything that had happened. He hoped so anyway, Thorpe said to himself, standing near his horse, a hand on its rump near his bedroll.
A few townsfolk gathered along the boardwalk as Mackenzie and Brewer walked to the door of the sheriff’s office and Mackenzie tried the door handle. “If you boys are looking for the sheriff, there ain’t any,” an old man said from the boardwalk. He wore the ragged clothes of a prospector, scuffed and worn-down boots and a tattered broad-brimmed flop hat.
“There used to be one,” said Mackenzie, looking back and forth with a concerned expression. “What happened to him?”
“If you mean Jake Sutterwhite, a rattlesnake bite is what happened to him,” the old man said. “That was nigh three years back.”
“No,” said Mackenzie, “I heard of a sheriff here only last winter—a man by the name of Delbert something or other.”
“That would be Delbert Jamison,” the old man said with a crooked grin. “But he’s dead too—consumption ate his lungs out. He coughed his way plumb to hell and stopped right there. The nearest thing we’ve got to lawman here is ‘Fearless’ Fred Mandrin. He was Jamison’s deputy. He’s dead too, only unlike the others he’s dead drunk.” He let out a rasping laugh and looked all around to see if any townsfolk shared his good humor. When no one joined him in his laughter, he grumbled under his breath, “Mirthless sons a’ bitches.”
“All right, then,” said Mackenzie to the old man, giving Brewer a look of uncertainty, “where will we find this Fred Mandrin?”
The old man gestured with his rough hand. “Just pull the cork on a whiskey bottle and fan your hand back and forth across the top of it. He’ll land on you quicker than a blue fly. Just don’t let him hold that bottle if you want to get any sense out of him—”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said a bearded man in a swallow-tailed business suit. He stepped forward from along the boardwalk, an ivory-handled cane in hand. “Pay Art Mullens no mind.” He looked the old man up and down with distaste. “Art, go have Sweeney set you up a drink on the house. I’ll talk to these gentlemen, if you please.”
“There you have it,” the old man said, tossing a rough hand. “When it comes to a free drink, I expect I am your huckleberry, no less so than the man I just maligned.” He turned on his worn-down heels and walked away toward the saloon.
“Art Mullens is a good old man, but he’s spent too many hard days in the sun and cold nights with his head on a rock,” said the bearded man. “I am Bart Frazier, owner of the Blue Belle Saloon, at your service, of course, gentlemen.” He touched his fingers to the brim of his black bowler hat. “Now, do I understand you are looking for a lawman, someone with legal authority? May I be so forward as to ask why?”
“We, uh—” Mackenzie stalled, not sure he wanted to explain what had happened to anyone other than a man wearing
a badge.
“Saw some Indians not far from here,” Tad Harper cut in. He suspected that Mackenzie thought the same thing he and the others thought. They all knew how quickly things could get out of hand in a town like Red Hill with no lawman keeping the peace. Once a crowd tossed a noose over a limb, it was too late to stop them, right or wrong.
The gathered townsfolk gave one another a curious look.
“Oh, Indians? Do tell,” said Frazier, looking back and forth among the four, noting the three big team horses standing at the rail beside the two spare horses. The crafty saloon owner could tell there was something afoot. He noted the gathered townsfolk and decided the four young drovers weren’t about to say much more on the matter unless they did so in private. “Good of you to come tell us,” he added, eyeing Mackenzie knowingly. “But we haven’t had any trouble with Indians around here for a long time. Perhaps it was just some peaceful Utes moving north with the game.”
“Yeah, maybe so,” said Mackenzie. He was still having a hard time getting his thoughts centered on what to do next.
“Hear that, folks?” said Frazier to the gathered onlookers. “Nothing to worry about, just some Utes moving through, I’m betting.” He turned from the townsfolk back to the four drovers. “But I sure want to thank you young men for coming to tell us. I hope you will accept the hospitality of my drinking establishment as repayment for your thoughtfulness.”
Mackenzie looked warily at Brewer.
“Free drinks, gentlemen?” said Frazier as if he hadn’t made himself clearly understood. In a lowered voice he said just between himself, Mackenzie and Brewer, “Along with some, shall we say, private conversation, if you feel so inclined?”
Mackenzie let out a tense breath. “A private conversation sounds good right about now.”
“Follow me, then.” Frazier turned and gestured his walking stick toward the batwing doors of the saloon a block away. “I have a private office behind the Blue Belle. We can pull a cork and sit and discuss whatever is on our minds.”