Killing Texas Bob

by Ralph Cotton

  ‘‘Why’d you do that, Frisco?’’ Price asked. ‘‘You’re not a bushwhacker, are you?’’

  ‘‘Never mind what I am or ain’t,’’ Frisco Phil said crossly, his face reddening at Price’s question. ‘‘The point is I know where Texas Bob and the dove most likely are laying low right now.’’

  ‘‘Yeah? Where?’’ Price asked, then tossed back his shot of rye.

  ‘‘I won’t tell you, but I’ll show you, if the money is right.’’ He gave a wink.

  ‘‘I don’t believe you,’’ said Price, setting down his empty glass and watching Frisco refill it.

  ‘‘Oh, I think you do believe me, Deputy.’’ He narrowed his gaze on Price and purred in a rasping tone, ‘‘Just picture the two of them, all alone, grunting, groaning, her panting, humping, doing for him for free what you could barely get her to do for—’’

  ‘‘Shut up, damn it!’’ Price pounded his fist on the bar top; his shot glass splashed rye over its rim.

  ‘‘That’s all I’m going to say about it.’’ Raising his hands chest high, Frisco continued, his tone of voice growing louder, more confident, ‘‘All you’ve got to do is get us a deal with His Honor for some serious blood money, and you can skin them both and roll them in salt for all I care.’’

  Stepping inside the tent, a hand on his hip, a hammer dangling from his fingertips, Judge Bass called out to Price in a booming voice, ‘‘What kind of deal is it you plan to execute with me, Deputy?’’

  ‘‘Your Honor!’’ Price shoved the empty shot glass away from himself, startled by the judge’s sudden appearance. ‘‘We—we were just talking about how we might help bring in your brother’s killer!’’

  ‘‘Oh, you want to help?’’ the judge said cynically, stepping toward the bar, holding the hammer out toward Price. ‘‘I found this lying on the boardwalk out front of the barbershop. If you want to help, get the rest of these reward posters nailed up all over Sibley the way I instructed you to do.’’

  Price turned nervous. He fumbled with the canvas bag, jerking it up and trying to stuff the loose posters back inside.

  ‘‘Easy, Deputy,’’ the bartender said under his breath, catching Price’s forearm and stopping him. As Price stood transfixed, gripping a handful of reward posters, the bartender said boldly, ‘‘Judge Bass, you need to hire yourself some barroom flunky to do this kind of work.’’ As he spoke he stepped from behind the bar, the butt of his Colt standing high from his waist sash. ‘‘Better yet, you could do it yourself.’’

  The judge looked offended, but he held back any sharp response. Instead he tilted his head back and looked down his nose at the bartender. ‘‘Oh? And who might you be?’’

  ‘‘I’m Phillip Page,’’ the man replied in a calm voice. ‘‘Folks call me Frisco Phil.’’ He stopped three feet away from the judge—too close for the judge’s comfort. Yet, when the judge took a short step back, Frisco Phil took a short step forward. ‘‘I’m the one man who can bring Texas Bob Krey to you, either all at once or a few pieces at a time, till I’ve got him piled up in the street like cordwood.’’

  ‘‘The one man indeed?’’ the judge said. ‘‘What makes you think so, pray tell?’’

  ‘‘Because I know where he lives,’’ Frisco said with a thin mirthless smile. ‘‘I can ride there straightaway for the right amount of money.’’

  ‘‘For money,’’ the judge said, as if even saying the word conjured up disgust. The judge looked him up and down with the same measure of distaste. Then he looked at Price and said, ‘‘Come along, Deputy. You have posters to distribute.’’

  Frisco cut Price a harsh glance, his hand going to his gun butt and resting there. ‘‘Your Honor,’’ said Price in an anxious voice, ‘‘this man is telling you the truth. He knows where Texas Bob lives.’’ Price had no reason to believe Phil really knew where Texas Bob lived. But he didn’t like the way Page stared at him, his fingers tapping on his gun butt. ‘‘Frisco and me can go get Bob right now and settle this whole matter for you.’’

  ‘‘If the money is right,’’ Frisco cut in, turning the same harsh stare to the judge. ‘‘I don’t work for flunky pay.’’

  The judge glanced first at the bar where Frisco Phil had been standing a moment earlier, then at Phil with a knowing look. Getting the judge’s meaning, Phil said, ‘‘I’ve only been here biding my time ’til some man-hunting work comes along. Now, here it is. And I’m ready for it.’’

  The judge nodded slightly, considering the offer. He was starting to realize that if this man knew where to find Texas Bob, he might be worth dealing with. He’d known of many cases where one man killed another and rode off, never to be seen or heard from again. He didn’t want that. Letting out a breath, he asked, ‘‘Just what amount of money are you proposing, Frisco Phil?’’

  ‘‘One thousand dollars,’’ Page said without hesitation, staring the judge in the eyes.

  ‘‘A thous—’’ Judge Bass stood in stunned silence for a moment. Finally, he looked back and forth between the bartender and the deputy and chuckled. ‘‘For a minute I thought you were serious.’’ His chuckle turned into a short, nervous laugh, then fell away as he saw the no-nonsense look on Frisco Phil’s stoic face. He coughed and cleared his throat. ‘‘That is totally out of the question, of course.’’ He pitched the hammer to Price, who caught it and dropped it inside the canvas bag.

  ‘‘You’re the judge,’’ said Page. ‘‘You can set the reward at whatever you want it to be. I once heard of a judge who set rewards high, billed the territory for a thousand dollars but only paid the bounty hunter two or three hundred. I expect you might have heard of that same judge.’’

  ‘‘Are you accusing me of something untoward, bartender?’’ said Bass, bristling at Page’s words.

  ‘‘Not at all, Judge Bass,’’ said Page. ‘‘I’m just pointing out that you have the power to appoint whatever amount you feel is right for the man who killed not only your brother but two other men. Not to mention that he wounded a woman and burned down a saloon.’’ Looking back and forth between the judge and the deputy, he said, ‘‘For all we know he might’ve forced this other woman to go with him. He might be holding her against her will.’’

  The judge listened closely. Page was making sense. A thousand was not too much to ask for. Neither was two thousand, the more he considered it.

  Page stood silent for a moment, seeing that the judge was working it out in his mind. Finally he asked, ‘‘Well, what’s it going to be, Judge?’’

  Bass knew that whatever amount he posted on Texas Bob’s head, he could keep it a secret for only a short while before making it public information. ‘‘You’re certain you can ride out straight to where Texas Bob is hiding?’’

  ‘‘I’m certain,’’ said Page.

  ‘‘Then here’s the deal,’’ said the judge. ‘‘I want Texas Bob brought in alive if at all possible.’’

  ‘‘But, Judge Bass,’’ Deputy Price cut in, ‘‘after all he’s done—’’

  ‘‘Shut up and let His Honor finish what he’s saying, Deputy,’’ Frisco Phil said gruffly.

  ‘‘Thank you, Frisco Phil,’’ Judge Bass replied cordially, saying his name more respectfully this time. ‘‘What I’m saying is, I would perfer personally hearing Texas Bob’s neck crack, dangling at the end of a hang-man’s knot, than to see him already dead and slung over a saddle.’’ Looking at both men he said, ‘‘But I will take his execution either way I can get it. Am I making myself clear?’’

  Frisco grinned. ‘‘Clear as springwater, Your Honor.’’ He took his hand from his gun butt and extended it toward the judge. ‘‘Then we have a deal between us?’’

  ‘‘I just told you the deal,’’ Bass said coolly. He looked down at Frisco Phil’s hand but didn’t reach out to shake it. ‘‘Bring me Texas Bob Krey, dead or alive, right away, and you’ll receive one thousand dollars. I can stall putting out reward posters for a few days. But if you’re not back with him pretty quick,
every bounty hunter in the territory will be out there looking for him.’’

  Seeing that the judge was not going to shake on the matter, Frisco rubbed his hand on his belly as if that had been his intention. ‘‘You can consider it done, Your Honor.’’ He lowered his hand to his side. ‘‘Once you’ve given us the reward money we’ll get saddled up and under way.’’

  ‘‘Reward money? For what?’’ The judge looked him up and down again.

  ‘‘For what we’re getting ready to do, Your Honor,’’ said Page. ‘‘For what we just agreed to.’’

  ‘‘I can’t think of one incident in my years on the bench when this territory has paid a bounty reward before the culprit has been either killed or captured.’’

  ‘‘The victim being your brother and all, Judge,’’ said Page, ‘‘I figure we need at least half up front and the other half when Texas Bob is dead.’’

  ‘‘An advance? I don’t think so.’’ The judge looked shocked at such a suggestion. ‘‘Brother or no brother, from now on this is a territorial matter. Things will now be handled in an official manner.’’

  Bass pointed a thick finger at Page’s chest. ‘‘What kind of fool do you take me for? Only an idiot would pay bounty money in advance.’’ He looked at Price with a cruel grin, as if he knew the deputy had paid the Frenchman three hundred dollars up front to kill Texas Bob. Price felt his face sting with embarrassment. The judge adjusted his fine shiny derby hat on his head and said to the two, ‘‘Come see me when this Texas Bob business is finished—your money will be waiting.’’

  Chapter 5

  On their way into Sibley, Sam kept Tommy Rojo riding a few feet in front of him. Rojo led Sealey’s horse, Sealey’s body dangling over its saddle. Before all eyes along the boardwalk began turning toward them, Tommy and the ranger saw three men standing out front of a barbershop reading the poster Price had earlier attached to a tall striped barber’s pole. A few yards away, two miners with their picks over their shoulders stood reading another poster out front of a closed stage depot. Farther up the dirt street, a man and two women stood reading yet another poster.

  ‘‘If this is about Texas Bob Krey, somebody didn’t waste any time getting his name on the wall,’’ Rojo commented.

  ‘‘Yep, so it appears,’’ said Sam. Without further comment, the ranger noted Judge Bass’s big Studebaker rig sitting out front of the livery barn at the far end of town. As Sam and Tommy turned their horses to the hitch rail out front of the sheriff’s office, Sam looked back along the boardwalk and watched the three men move away from the barber pole. The three ducked their heads away from the ranger and stepped into their saddles, one of them stuffing the wanted poster into his coat pocket.

  ‘‘Looks like those three either know you,’’ Rojo said with a slight chuckle, ‘‘or else they’re trying their best not to.’’

  ‘‘They know me. I know them too,’’ Sam replied in a lowered tone of voice, keeping a suspicious eye on the three. ‘‘Hiding under your hat brim doesn’t help you, Carter Roby,’’ he muttered, as if the man who’d stuffed the poster into his pocket could hear him. ‘‘I’d recognize that Circle T buckskin anywhere. Word is he killed the man who owned that horse.’’ He kept an eye turned to the three men as they nudged their horses into a trot and rode out of town.

  Shaking his head, Rojo said to Sam as he stepped down from his saddle, ‘‘I hope I’m not about to get a bad reputation being seen riding with you, Ranger.’’ He hitched his reins, as well as those of Sealey’s horse beside it.

  ‘‘Riding with me is about to come to an end for you, Tommy Rojo,’’ said Sam, also stepping down and hitching his barb. ‘‘I can’t say I enjoyed your company much.’’ He glanced at the swarm of flies dipping and swirling around the black crusted-over bullet hole in Sealey’s head.

  Rojo gave a taunting grin. ‘‘Aw, come on, Ranger. You and me ought to become pals now that I’m becoming a bounty hunter instead of an outlaw—’’ He stopped and corrected his words: ‘‘An alleged outlaw, that is.’’

  ‘‘Oh, you’re a bounty hunter now?’’ Sam asked. ‘‘When did this happen?’’

  ‘‘All the way here I’ve been thinking it over,’’ said Rojo. ‘‘I’ve been looking for a change in occupations. I believe this is it.’’ He gestured a hand toward Sealey’s body.

  ‘‘Killing your pard from behind doesn’t make you a manhunter,’’ Sam said, ‘‘and becoming a bounty hunter doesn’t put you right with the law. If I was you, I’d take my bounty money and clear out of the territory before your luck runs out. There’s some men who won’t allow you the advantage of shooting them when their back is turned.’’

  ‘‘You sure have let this little back-shooting incident of mine get under your skin, Ranger,’’ Rojo said, still grinning. ‘‘I’ve never seen what difference it makes, front or back.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Dead’s still dead, no matter how it happens. Don’t you think?’’

  ‘‘I think it’s best you and me don’t talk any more about it, Rojo,’’ Sam said. He took off his dusty pearl gray sombrero and batted it against his leg. Stepping up onto the boardwalk as he slapped his gloves against his dusty shirt, Sam reached for the door handle to the sheriff’s office just as the door opened. Judge Henry Edgar Bass stood staring at him in surprise.

  ‘‘Morning, Judge Bass.’’ Sam was not as surprised, having already seen the judge’s big coach in town.

  ‘‘Ra-ranger!’’ said Bass, trying to regain his composure. Sam’s appearance in Sibley clearly caught him completely off guard. ‘‘Wha-what brings you to town?’’

  ‘‘Law business,’’ said Sam.

  ‘‘Oh . . .’’ The judge looked back and forth as if someone might be following the ranger. Seeing Rojo standing close behind Sam and seeing Sealey’s body lying over the saddle, he said, ‘‘I’m not due to preside over any cases here for a few more weeks.’’ He eyed the black bullet hole in the back of Sealey’s head. His expression turned grim. ‘‘I’m afraid I’m here in Sibley as the result of a very personal tragedy.’’ He stepped back and allowed Sam and Rojo to enter the office as he spoke.

  ‘‘Yes, I heard about your brother’s death,’’ Sam said respectfully. ‘‘You have my condolences.’’ Behind him, Rojo stepped inside and closed the door.

  ‘‘Thank you, Ranger Burrack,’’ the judge said, averting his eyes from the ranger in his grief. ‘‘I know you and I have had our differences in the past, but at times like these it’s good to know that men on the same side of the law can be counted on to stick together.’’ He raised his head and looked back and forth between Rojo and the ranger. ‘‘Now, what is your business here today, Ranger Burrack?’’

  ‘‘I have a man here who’s claiming the reward for killing Dade Sealey, Your Honor,’’ Sam said, gesturing Rojo up closer to the judge. ‘‘This is Tommy Rojo.’’ To Rojo he said, ‘‘This is territorial judge Bass.’’

  Neither of the two offered to shake hands.

  ‘‘Indeed?’’ said the judge, taking on the same officious tone he’d used with Price and Frisco Phil earlier when it came time to talk about money. Scrutinizing Rojo closely, he said, ‘‘I take it you have proof that the person lying dead out there is Dade Sealey.’’

  ‘‘I do, Your Honor,’’ Rojo said confidently. ‘‘The ranger here will identify him for you. He’ll also tell you it was me—I, that is—who killed him. Right, Ranger?’’

  ‘‘That is true, Your Honor,’’ Sam said, not mentioning how low he thought it was, Rojo shooting Sealey in the back of the head. ‘‘He killed Sealey for the bounty money. I am his witness.’’

  Detecting something in the ranger’s voice, the judge asked, ‘‘Is everything all right, Ranger Burrack?’’

  Sam eyed Rojo but said, ‘‘Yes, everything is all right, Your Honor.’’

  ‘‘The ranger’s got a knot in his tail because I shot Dade Sealey from behind, Your Honor,’’ Rojo cut in. He gave his familiar grin. ‘‘Knowing Dade Sealey, I’d say
he got as good as he gave. I hope you agree.’’

  ‘‘It doesn’t matter if I agree,’’ said the judge. ‘‘You shot him, you get the reward.’’ He paused, then asked, ‘‘Are you a professional manhunter, Mr. Rojo?’’

  ‘‘As a matter of fact, yes, I am,’’ Rojo said, taking a step forward. Cutting Sam a glance he said, ‘‘To be honest, I have to admit that I have only recently come into the profession. But what I lack in experience I more than make up for in enthusiasm.’’

  ‘‘This is his first bounty work, Your Honor,’’ Sam offered.

  ‘‘But it’s not going to be my last,’’ Rojo added quickly. ‘‘In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think I might try my hand at tracking down Texas Bob.’’

  ‘‘I see,’’ said the judge in contemplation. ‘‘That is most commendable of you.’’ He gestured toward the front door. ‘‘Please excuse the ranger and me while we discuss a private matter. Feel free to go to one of the saloons and have yourself a drink while you wait for me to go to the bank and bring you the reward money.’’

  ‘‘That’s mighty courteous of you, Judge Bass,’’ Rojo said with a smile, already on his way to the door. ‘‘I’ll just ease my way over to the Bottoms Up and have myself a shot or two to cut the trail dust.’’

  No sooner had Rojo stepped out the door and closed it behind himself than the judge turned to Sam. ‘‘Ranger Burrack, thank goodness you two have arrived,’’ he said, speaking rapidly. ‘‘I need all the help I can get on this. Sheriff Thorn is away. I’ve got his deputy and another fellow on Bob’s trail, and of course I’ve put up money of my own for bounty, one of the victims being my brother. Perhaps Mr. Rojo will—’’

  ‘‘Your Honor, Tommy Rojo is not a man I would put much faith in,’’ Sam said, cutting him off. ‘‘He and Sealey knew one another. I doubt if he would have managed to get so close to him otherwise.’’