A Good Day To Kill

by Dusty Richards

  “A dozen vaqueros and their food, plus support, would cost several hundred dollars. If you can insure those bangtails won’t come back to the ranch, I’ll spend the money. Otherwise, find me some horse hunters to shoot them.”

  Ortega nodded.

  “I know you want to feed the poor down there, but if we get rid of those horses, I want to be sure I’m rid of them.”

  Ortega smiled. “I understand. We plan a roundup to get the best older horse colts rounded up for our own remuda.”

  “You’ll need them.”

  Ortega smiled. “There is a blue roan horse down there among the bachelors. He is three or four. I think you would want him.”

  “You kind of teasing me about a great roan horse?”

  “No. I will catch him and show you a great horse.”

  “Ortega, I believe what you tell me.”

  “What if I hire less to take them off the ranch and down into Mexico.”

  “You think it will work?”

  “I will see and get back to you.”

  “Good, I trust you. You and JD have that to solve. But I sure want to see that good roan horse.”

  Ortega laughed. “You will really like him.”

  He was looking for Randall and the windmill. They should be there in another day. Earlier, he’d met the well drillers, Crazy Ed and his grandson Mike, who were setting up their small derrick to drill on a rise west of the headquarters. The old man was what he called a geezer, but they both worked hard and sure acted grateful for the workers JD sent to help them set up. When Chet went to bed on the ground that night, he wondered if there were any more problems hatching.

  One of the riders sent to meet Randall came in at dawn. Chet and JD got up from their breakfast to greet him.

  “The freighter had some wagon spoke problems,” the man said, and shook his head. “We bound them with rawhide, but if they get it here today, I will be surprised.”

  “Thanks, Chavez,” JD said. “We figured you had problems and were going up to see about you today.”

  “That equipment they bring is real heavy. And those wagons are—what you say—old?”

  “Well, why don’t we get what we can down here and then go back to get the rest with their good wagons?” Chet asked.

  JD agreed. “I can ride up there and do that. Chavez, get all the men ready. They’ll need help to unload them here when they arrive, so we can go back and bring in the rest.”

  “Si, I can do that.”

  “Since I hired them, I’ll go along,” Chet said, and they soon rode up the dim wagon trail that led north.

  They met Randall in a light wagon well ahead of the train.

  He introduced JD and they discussed the new plan.

  “That would work,” Randall agreed. “I’ll tell my contractor the plan and with your men’s help we can move the rest on the good wagons to the ranch.”

  “You look tired,” Chet said to the man.

  Randall shook his head wearily. “It has been a helluva trip down here so far.”

  “Well, we’ll help get this done. What’s the freighter’s name?” Chet looked at the dust they raised on the northern horizon.

  “John Acorn. He’s tired, too.”

  “We’ll get this worked out.”

  “Thanks, Chet.”

  “Nice to meet you,” JD said, and they rode on to meet the rest.

  Acorn was a tall man in overalls, riding a stout bay horse with sweaty shoulders. He shook their hands. “Been a helluva trip. Never realized I’d have this much trouble.”

  “Park the wagons you have problems with. We’ll go on to the ranch, unload, and come back, and transfer the load to the good ones. We have help and JD has some good blacksmiths who can repair those wheels and get them all rolling for you to go back.”

  “My God, man, that takes a big load off my shoulders. Let’s do that then.”

  They soon had the train stopped. The drivers of the two most rickety wagon wheels unhitched their teams to ride and lead them on to the ranch. Everyone on the wagons looked dirty faced and worn out. They headed for the ranch, arriving in late afternoon.

  The women had cooked a big meal in preparation for their arrival. The visitors took baths and were in good spirits when someone struck a guitar up and they had a fiesta.

  Randall sat on a bench with Chet. “You really think this will make a ranch?”

  “Yes. All we need is water development.”

  The man laughed. “That’s all they need in hell—water.”

  “There, too, maybe. We’re getting set to make it one anyhow.”

  “Tomorrow, I’ll start making the pipe for the windmill pump. It must be a strong well.”

  “You know as much as I do. It’s watered stock and these people here over the last five years.”

  “Oh, I imagine it’s a good one. We should be pumping water in a few days. Will they have the water stand built?”

  “I plan to get them on it tomorrow.”

  “Good. I brought more steel stock tanks. I figured we’d need them once we got things going. I also have two sheepherder shower fixtures we can install.”

  “I may have to send for lumber. JD told me he has hay coming for the stock. But we might need to thin those numbers of horses we feed down some. We’ll need to feed his horses, after we get Acorn unloaded.”

  Randall agreed. “Oh, I’m sure Acorn needs to get back.”

  “Good. Hay is not cheap hauled down here.”

  “I bet that’s right. Maybe you’ll get an artesian well and can irrigate some of this land.”

  “We’d love that.”

  “You met the driller and his grandson?” Randall asked.

  “Yes. They are going to start a well tomorrow west of here on a high point, in case they get a gusher.”

  “It pays to plan. Great food and music here tonight.”

  “Mexican people love both. They’ll be glad when you have the windmill going.”

  “Take me a few days. But they are good windmills and, if maintained, will serve you for a long time.”

  “They’ll be maintained.”

  JD joined them. “We should have those other two wagonloads back down here and unloaded tomorrow. I spoke to Acorn about bringing the wheels down here and us fixing them. But he’s going to try to pull them back to Tucson with no load and may skid the axle. He just wants to get home.”

  “I’ll pay him his hauling bill,” Randall said.

  “Fine. I can’t understand why he won’t let us fix them, but that’s his decision.”

  “Hell, I think he just wants to get out of here,” JD said, and laughed. “There are other haulers, if we need more pipe.”

  Chet nodded in agreement. “I’m going back over to Tubac if all this is settled in the morning. JD, you can figure out the rest.” He turned to Randall. “I appreciate your coming and installing the windmills. Hope the driller finds water and we have two up and running. We’ll consider buying more from you when we need them.”

  “Thanks, sorry we had so much trouble.”

  “No problem, Randall, it goes with the business. Good night.”

  In the morning, he took Jesus, Cole, and Shawn back with him to Tubac. On the way, he went by to check on the well driller and his teenage grandson. The old man, Crazy Ed, was odd sounding, but the boy showed lots of get-up-and-go. Their little steam engine was thumping the cable drilling rig. Wood to fire his boiler might be another problem, but the men had so far snaked a lot of deadwood in for them. He left them working.

  He planned to wind up the Force business and then go home for a spell. The ranch was JD’s to make it work. Plus, he had Ortega to help him. He had water development and the buildings soon going up. They would see about the rest in the future.

  The next day, when Chet and Shawn arrived, Roamer had a few things for them to check on. He left that for Chet to decide after he read them.

  “Number one, they stole six horses from a rancher up north of Tucson. He thinks they’re go
ing to try to sell them in Tombstone. The market for horses there is sky high and no one asks questions. The horses all wear the rancher’s brand, the HKY. They’re well-broke ranch horses. I have their ages and colors. Let’s see, his name is Ace Stroud. Florence, Arizona Territory.”

  Chet nodded, sipping on the steaming Arbuckle’s coffee Marie poured for him in a tin cup. “Those rustlers may already be over there.”

  “May be,” Roamer said. “Business number two, this says Bill Hunter and Slim Blandon cheated a rancher named Harley Wiles on a gold flimflam scheme. The two men brought him some gold-flecked specimens to his ranch and offered him half interest in their claim for five hundred dollars. He bought it and they left. He later went to their so-called mine and found nothing but caliche. I have a description of the two. They’re supposed to be in the Tombstone District. Lord knows where.”

  Roamer continued. “Third, a man named Trent Marks shot his brother, Abraham Marks, and killed him. They were both drunk, supposedly arguing over a woman, name unknown, over on Whiskey Creek, and got into a gunfight. Abraham’s body was found at their homestead and no one has seen his brother since then.”

  “What the hell do Behan’s deputies do over there?” Cole asked in disgust.

  “Sit on their thumbs and count cattle for tax purposes,” Roamer said.

  “That’s probably right. Roamer, you and Cole see about the rustlers. They may be holding those horses outside of town until they find a buyer.

  “Jesus, you and Bronc see if you can locate those phony mine sellers in the Tombstone area. Then Shawn and I will ride up on Whiskey Creek and try to find out where that shooter went. No border crossers doing mischief up here?”

  Roamer shook his head. “Nothing like we’ve had in the past. But that don’t mean they ain’t around.”

  “Four days from now, we’ll meet that evening at the O.K. Corral Livery. We’ll have a good supper at Nellie Cashman’s place. If you’re still out chasing, you can just wire me there. I’ll check at the telegraph office for any telegrams.”

  After a predawn breakfast, they left out, separated enough to not be recognized as a group. He told Marie his plans, then he and Shawn headed east. Whiskey Creek was north of the mining district. He had little hope of solving much, since the crime had happened a week before and the tracks were probably gone. Maybe someone knew something—that would be his only hope to solve a crime like this.

  They had a packhorse and bedrolls. The high temperatures had slipped a little lower as they moved into fall. It was already September and the year had progressed so fast. But he was about ready for a change. His job had shrunk to almost the duties of an ordinary deputy sheriff. Marshal Blevins could hire some good men to do this kind of housekeeping, if local sheriffs wouldn’t do their jobs. Arizona needed Rangers, but they were politically a disaster in the legislature. After passing the legislation for them, they had conveniently dropped any funding for the new arm of the law.

  This killer needed to be removed from society. But running him down should be under the sheriff’s authority and he should handle it. But even in his own county, it wasn’t being done. Why should he expect Behan to do it? The constant newspaper stories of rope justice being done by citizens told him people didn’t trust the law to curb the criminal element. Riding through the chaparral, cactus, yucca, and century plants with Shawn that morning, and listening to the sharp cries of the California quails, he wondered if all his team’s efforts were really curbing the lawlessness in the territory. The two of them and the mourning doves had the grassland to themselves.

  They avoided going into Tombstone and camped north of the town. The next morning, at a small store, they spoke to the keeper about the murder.

  “My name is Chet Byrnes. I’m a U.S. Marshal, Mr. Cline.”

  “Call me Mel. How can I help you?”

  “Trent Marks supposedly shot his brother, Abraham.”

  Mel nodded. “Yeah, they found his brother’s body up there two weeks ago.”

  “Did he do it?”

  “If he didn’t, no one else had a reason that I know about.”

  “I understand this incident was over a female.”

  “Oh, you mean Carol Scott.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Well, I think she has a place next to them, and I understand she”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“entertains men.”

  “Busy lady. Where is she?”

  “About four miles north of here, at her ranch, the Y-Y-T-Four.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check back. You learn anything else, I’ll be back.”

  “Sure, Marshal. Nice to meet you, and your deputy, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  They rode up the wagon tracks that went north through the brown grass and century plants to finally rein up at the hand painted sign. SCOTT RANCH.

  Turning up the lane, they rode up to the house. A woman in her forties came out on the porch in a new-looking dress. Tall and straight backed, she looked on the tough side when she pushed the graying waves of hair back from her face and gave them a pinned-on smile.

  “Carol Scott?” Chet asked, leaning a little on the saddle horn.

  “Yes. What’cha boys need?” Kind of like she’d perked up, expecting some business from two strange waddies at her door.

  “A little information.”

  “Oh.”

  “They say Trent Marks shot his brother.”

  “How would I know?”

  “I understood you were friendly with them.”

  “Friendly? What does that mean?”

  “That you were having relationships with them.”

  “What if I was? I never shot him.”

  “Ma’am, I’m trying to find out who shot the man. I could haul you to Tombstone and have you talk to a judge about this case.”

  “No, thanks. What do you need to know?”

  “A brother named Abraham was shot?”

  She nodded her head. “They found him.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Rick Harmon, Clyde Bloomer, they found him. Said he was shot and they took his body to Tombstone.”

  “No one has seen Trent since then, have they?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Do you think he shot his brother?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “People tell me you were close with both of them.”

  Her brows knit close; she glared at him. “You’re saying I’m a whore?”

  Chet shook his head. “I don’t give a damn whether you are or are not. There was a man killed. If his brother did it, I want him brought in to face charges.”

  She turned up her palms. “I have no idea where you would find him.”

  “I may be back. Where can I find the two men who found his body?”

  She snorted. “Those dumb dinks don’t know anything about it.”

  “I have to talk to them.”

  “The second place north of my gate goes to their place. I can warn you, they’re too dumb to think. Good day.” She turned on her heels and closed the door.

  Shawn looked at him with a grin. “I guess she settled with us, Marshal Byrnes.”

  Chet reined his horse around. “I guess she did. Was that a brand-new dress she had on?”

  “I reckon so.” Shawn snuck a peek back at the closed door. “Why do you ask?”

  “Details. It may not amount to a hill of beans. But I’d say that was an expensive new dress to wear around the house doing housework.”

  Shawn nodded. “Thanks, I’d never have noticed that. But I seen when she figured we wasn’t looking for her company, she was sure wanting rid of us.”

  With a nod, he booted his horse for the road. “She knows a lot more than she told us.”

  “Could be,” Shawn agreed. “A woman like her would have buffaloed me ten times more than she did you. I guess my mother taught me to respect all ladies.”

  “Not a bad idea. We touched on a sore point. I’m not so sure she told us
all she knew about the killing.”

  “Well, I bet you’re going to have to pull her teeth out, one at a time, to learn more.”

  Chet laughed and they rode on up the dusty wagon tracks.

  They passed the low-walled cabin set back off the road under some drab cottonwood trees.

  “That must be the brothers’ place. We can check it later.”

  Up the road, they found a white-whiskered man soaking a buckboard wheel in a tank of water to swell the spokes.

  Chet introduced themselves as U.S. Marshal Chet Byrnes and Shawn.

  “Clyde Bloomer.” He dried off his hands to shake with them. “Well, Marshal, what brings you up here?”

  “The Trent murder. Can you tell me anything about what you found?”

  Clyde squeezed his beard and then tilted his old weather-aged hat back, exposing the untanned part of his forehead. “He was sure enough dead. Been so for a couple of days. We hadn’t seen them boys in near a week, so went to check on them. Boy, it wasn’t a good thing to find, either. Hot weather and all. No sign of his brother around there anywhere.”

  “Was there a horse gone?”

  Clyde spit to the side and wiped his mouth on his age-spotted hand. “Funny thing you asked, he must not took a horse, ’cause they were all turned out. I seen them a few days ago out west. A couple of bay geldings.”

  “How would a man skip out of here, if not on a horse?”

  “Ain’t no telling. He’s simply gone. I figured they was arguing over her and had a shoot-out. They did that a lot. Even had a few good fistfights. But I never figured he’d kill him over her.”

  “You are talking about Carol?”

  Clyde gave a high-pitched laugh. “Hee, hee. Them two was paying her well for the privilege, mind you.”

  “You mean for having sex?”

  He spit. “Durn tooting. Trent got drunk one night and told me and my partner she was better than any cathouse girl he ever used.”

  Chet nodded. “Them boys have much money?”

  “Strange you should ask. They got some money a while back. Their uncle left them a farm in Illinois and a lawyer sold it and sent them the proceeds in a check. Them boys both went right to Tombstone and cashed it. Neither one of them trusted a bank and told us that on several occasions. I guess the money is still down there somewheres.”