Lookout Hill (9781101606735)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  The half-breed stared ahead as they drew nearer to the hitch rail out in front of the tent cantina.

  “So, now do you understand about not paying him back if you borrowed money from him?” Ridge asked. They reined their horses toward the hitch rail.

  “I understand,” said Cold Foot, without taking his eyes off the street ahead.

  “Thank God!” said Ridge with a roll of his eyes.

  “But I have my own money,” the half-breed replied.

  Son of a bitch!

  Ridge managed to keep his cursing to himself, stopping and swinging down from his horse and spinning its reins around the rail. Beside him the half-breed did the same.

  “Cold Foot,” he said with clear deliberation, turning to the half-breed, “let me do all the talking. You hang back and keep me covered. Okay?”

  The half-breed only nodded, adjusting his gun belt and a bandolier of ammunition slung over his shoulder. The two walked into the tent and saw the Russian standing at an empty bar with a cocked, sawed-off shotgun lying only inches from his right hand. Ridge gave the half-breed a wry grin and eased forward with his head lowered until he stopped right behind the Russian. He drew his Colt and stuck the tip of the barrel into the Russian’s back.

  “Got you, boy!” he whispered. “You were supposed to see us when we rode into town.”

  Cherzi Persocovich was stiff with fear until Newton Ridge stepped around in front of him and lowered his Colt back into his holster.

  “You should have seen us, Cherzi boy,” he said, chastising the Russian. Then he noted the Russian’s glassy eyes, and he understood why they’d made it all the way to the cantina without ever being seen.

  “Where’s Tiggs?” he said. “Where’s the new sheriff?”

  The Russian only shrugged—he didn’t know.

  “This looks bad on you, Cherzi, really bad,” said Ridge. He wagged a finger at the Russian. “You didn’t see us coming and you should have.”

  Cherzi looked at the wagging finger near his chest, then over at the half-breed, who only stood back, staring at him, revealing nothing.

  “Take away from me your finger,” Cherzi told Ridge firmly.

  “Easy, Cherzi.” Ridge chuckled and lowered his hand. “I’m only funning you a little.”

  “Is not funny,” said Cherzi.

  “Anyway,” said Ridge, dropping the chuckling, “you should have seen us…but enough said.” He turned to the waiting bartender and said, “Burns, set us up a bottle and a couple of glasses.”

  “Coming up, Mr. Ridge,” said the bartender, stepping away toward the row of bottles on the wall.

  “Pay the man, Cherzi,” said Ridge, stepping away along the empty bar toward the rear tent fly. “I’m gone to hit el fuera casa.”

  “Why do I pay for your bottle?” said the glassy-eyed Russian.

  “That’s for not seeing us,” said Ridge. He grinned and slapped the bar top as he rounded the end of it toward the rear fly.

  “Ridge!” said the Russian, loud enough that the former assassin stopped and looked at him from the end of the bar.

  “I see you now,” said Cherzi. The sawed-off shotgun exploded, sending a streak of fire along ten feet of plank bar top, raising a cloud of splinters and dust in its fiery wake.

  The bartender’s eyes widened as he froze, bottle in hand.

  The half-breed had seen it coming, but his expression didn’t change as Newton Ridge let out a sharp yelp and flew backward in a bloody mist, the load of steel nail heads shredding the canvas tent as the blast launched him through it. He landed sprawled on the ground outside the tent.

  The bartender suddenly dropped out of sight. The half-breed calmly folded his arms across his chest and stared at Cherzi as the Russian clasped a hand around the smoking shotgun and swung it toward him, the second hammer still cocked and ready.

  “Is problem with you?” Cherzi asked the half-breed, his eyes drooping, glassy.

  The half-breed shook his head slowly.

  “He came here to kill Hughes,” he said, “probably you and Tiggs too if you tried to stop him.”

  “You were in on it?” said Cherzi.

  The half-breed only shook his head.

  “Then how you know this?” said the Russian.

  “He told me I should borrow money from Hughes if I got the chance,” said the half-breed.

  “Oh, I see,” said the Russian. He looked at the bloody torn-open canvas wall flapping idly on a breeze. “He is very funny man, eh?”

  “Yes,” said Cold Foot, “a very funny man.” He gave a nod at the bar, toward the bottle standing near the Russian’s elbow.

  The Russian nodded, glassy-eyed.

  “Burns, get for this man a glass,” he called out to the hidden bartender.

  Cold Foot stepped over to the bar.

  “Why you did not back for him his play?” Cherzi asked Cold Foot as the bartender arose and began filling a shot glass for the half-breed.

  “I didn’t like him,” said the half-breed. “Besides, I’m not going back to the mines. I quit working for the Pettigos. I think I will stay around here, see what Bob Hughes is going to do next.”

  “Why do you think he is going to do something next?” the Russian asked.

  “Hombres like him always do something next,” said the half-breed, tossing back a mouthful of rye.

  “I think that you are right,” said the Russian. He smiled knowingly. “You wait here with me until Hughes and the new deputy return.”

  Chapter 16

  Before Bellibar, Siebert and Billy Boyle reached a point halfway up the rock-walled canyon leading to Lookout Hill, a band of riders seemed to appear from out of nowhere and close in tight around them. On a high ridge in the upward distance, a line of riflemen stared down at them. Siebert instinctively reached for his big Remington, but before he could raise it, Bellibar growled at him under his breath.

  “Leave that gun where it is, Aces. Don’t go showing these boys how stupid you are, first thing.”

  “I don’t have to take that kind of talk from you,” Siebert growled in reply. He started to grab the Remington anyway, but the cocking rifles and revolvers surrounding them caused his gun hand to freeze.

  “Anybody makes a move for a gun is dead,” said a strong, threatening voice. “You’ve got sand, Billy Boyle. I’ll give you that. I had to ride down here myself and see just what the hell you were doing, bringing these strangers up to Lookout Hill.”

  “Don’t kill me, Fletcher,” Boyle said quickly. “These two are Pettigo men, Sheriff Bob Hughes and his deputy…” His voice trailed as he looked at Siebert.

  “Hot Aces Siebert, by God,” Siebert said with a scorching stare, even as he raised his hand away from his gun.

  “I’ve heard of you, Aces,” said Fletcher Cady, his rifle barrel lowering a little. He eyed Bellibar up and down. “Sheriff Hughes, huh?” he said.

  “Not really,” Bellibar said coolly, looking Fletcher Cady up and down in return. “I’m Bobby Hugh Bellibar.”

  “I figured as much when I heard him say he’s Aces Siebert,” said Cady. “You two are known to ride together.” His attitude mellowed some. “What brings you fellows up the trail to Lookout Hill?” He flashed a heated look at Boyle and added, “I mean, besides this cucaracha.”

  “Fletcher, please,” said Boyle, still fearing for his life under Cady’s burning gaze. “I knew you and Bert would want to hear what these two are doing in Copper Gully. That’s why I brought them.”

  “Why don’t you ride on up, Billy Boyle?” Fletcher Cady said with a gesture of his head. “The longer I look at your face, the more I want to shoot holes in it.”

  Without another word, Boyle veered his horse away and rode up the hill at a gallop.

  “Now, then, Bobby Hugh,” Fletcher said to Bellibar, as Boyle’s horse left dust swirling in the air above the trail, “you were saying?”

  Siebert chuckled, seeing Boyle race away in fear.

  “You’re not all that mad at
him, I can tell,” he said to Cady.

  Jesus…! Bellibar just stared at him.

  So did Fletcher Cady. He cocked his head a little to the side and turned back to Bellibar.

  “Are you going to say why you’re here?” he asked flatly.

  “Yes, I am,” Bellibar answered in a no-nonsense manner. “To be honest, we came up here from the lower hill country to see about riding for you Cadys. One thing led to another…I killed a couple of your men,” he said, brushing past that part. “First thing I know, Dale Pettigo made me sheriff—put me in charge of watching over the town, making sure no more of your men tried to gather there to make a run at the mines.”

  “Hold it. Go back,” said Cady.

  “The part about us wanting to ride for you?” said Bellibar.

  “Don’t mess with me, Bobby Hugh,” Fletcher Cady warned, leveling his rifle barrel on him again, the men gathered around him doing the same. “I mean about you killing a couple of my men.”

  “It was unfortunate,” said Bellibar, “but Harvey Moran and Bad Sharlo Bering threw down on me—I had to lay them down.” He looked saddened by the happening.

  “You killed Bad Sharlo, with Moran backing his play?” asked Cady, unable to completely mask how impressed he was. The men looked at each, equally awed.

  “They showed up in hell bloody and confused—didn’t even know they were dead yet,” Siebert said proudly, even though he hadn’t even seen it.

  Cady ignored Siebert. He stared at Bellibar.

  “And that got you made sheriff of Copper Gully,” he said.

  “It did,” said Bellibar. “I appointed my pard here and a dope-eating Russian outlaw as my deputies.” He grinned. “My first official act is to ride up here and see if you’d like to partner up, rob the mine payroll with us.”

  Fletcher kept a poker face, wondering if these two hard cases knew anything at all about the gold hidden at Pettigo-American Mining Company. He had a hunch they didn’t.

  “That would all be fine, Bobby Hugh,” he said, “except we’re already set to rob the place ourselves. I don’t see us needing a couple of partners.” He considered it, then added, “Ride with us maybe, for a share, since you came all this way—”

  “Huh-uh, Fletcher,” said Bellibar, cutting him off. “I’m not going to spell out what we both know to be a fact. Unless you can gather your men at Copper Gully unbeknownst, and slip up that gully to the mines without being spotted, Pettigo’s mercenaries will shoot you boys to pieces.” He thumped himself on the chest. “That’s where I come in. I can keep quiet, let you gather without any problem, or I can send a man to the Pettigos and have them waiting.”

  “You’ve put some thought into it, I see,” said Cady. “But what if we shot you both down, right here, say?”

  “Kill us and my dope-eating Russian will be up that gully and in Pettigo’s lap the second you boys send a man into town.” Bellibar grinned. He wasn’t worried, noting the gunmen hadn’t refocused their weapons on him and Siebert. Fletcher’s was an empty threat, the kind you make right before giving up and going along with the game.

  “All this for a mine payroll,” said Cady.

  “It must be a damn large payroll,” Siebert put in, “as long as you boys have been out to get it.”

  “We’ve been after this payroll for a long time, that’s a fact,” said Fletcher Cady. “I must be out of my mind, getting it stuck in my craw so bad.” He eyed both Bellibar and Siebert, convinced they didn’t know a thing about the stolen Mexican gold sitting there, just waiting to be had by men bold enough to take it.

  “So, what’s it going to be?” Bellibar asked, looking all around at the faces of the gunmen, confident he knew Cady’s answer. “Are you going to fire away or clear a spot for us?”

  Before Fletcher Cady could reply, another man stepped his horse forward through the gunmen.

  “Not so fast, Fletch,” the man said. “I want to look these men in the eye first. We might want to shoot them, after all.”

  Seeing the look on Bellibar’s and Siebert’s faces, Fletcher Cady gave a jerk of his head toward the man.

  “Meet my big brother, Bert,” Fletcher Cady said with a dark smile. “If he says shoot you, I suppose that’s how it’ll go.”

  Now the gunmen did refocus on the two. Bellibar hadn’t counted on this, but he held steady and gave Bert Cady a firm stare. So did Siebert.

  Bert Cady stopped his horse beside his brother and looked Bellibar in the eye.

  “We usually don’t let anybody in our fold unless they’re sent by our good friend Wilton Marrs. Were you sent here by Marrs?” he asked bluntly.

  “I wish I could say we were—this fellow being a friend of yours,” said Bellibar, remembering what Saginaw Sparks and Paco Reyes had said about all of them killing Marrs, that friends of Marrs wouldn’t be welcome at Lookout Hill. This was nothing but a trap. “But I won’t lie,” he said, straight-faced. “We never heard of the man. We come here strictly on knowing the Cady reputation.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Bert Cady, still pressing, trying to run his trap. “We don’t break our rules. If you don’t know Marrs…”

  “Wait a minute,” said Siebert, in mock consideration. “That name does ring a bell.”

  Ignoring Siebert, Bellibar said bluntly to the Cadys, “I told you I won’t lie about it.”

  “It’s true. He won’t lie at all. That’s a fact,” Siebert cut in, sounding shaky. “I’ve tried to get him to. He just won’t lie—hates a liar, in fact—”

  “Shut up, Aces,” Bellibar said over his shoulder. To the Cadys he said, “I don’t know your friend Martin. That’s all I can say on the matter.” He deliberately mispronounced Marrs’ name for good measure.

  “Marrs,” Bert Cady said, correcting him. He turned his eyes to his brother. “What do you think about it, Fletch? Maybe make an exception this one time?”

  “This is a big job,” Fletcher Cady said. “We could use more guns, losing Bad Sharlo and Moran.”

  “Yeah, not to mention Paco and Sparks being missing,” said Bert Cady. He looked at Bellibar and Siebert and said, “Looks like you two are getting ready for the biggest payroll robbery of your lives. Welcome to Lookout Hill.”

  Easy John Lupo had heard the shotgun blast on his way into Copper Gully. He had exchanged his long black riding duster for a faded, striped poncho that covered the big Walker Colt holstered across his stomach. As he rode onto a nearly empty street, he saw three men carrying a body away from the rear side of the ripped, blood-splattered tent cantina. He reined his horse over and looked down and recognized the bloody face of Newton Ridge.

  One more out of the way, he told himself. He had started to rein his horse away toward the front hitch rail when he heard the harsh voice of a man walking alongside the body.

  “What are you looking at, Mex?” the man said in an unfriendly tone.

  Mex? Here, in his own country?

  The words took Lupo aback for a moment until he caught himself and realized he was not dressed in his usual Anglo-style border clothes. Strange how something as simple as a different outer garment changed a whole people’s perception of the man wearing it.

  Half bowing his head as if reminded of his lower place in the world, Lupo touched the brim of his black sombrero without making eye contact with the man.

  “Nothing, señor,” he said, giving his best attempt at a peasant accent.

  “Damn Mexes,” he heard the man say to the ones carrying Ridge’s body, “they’re always underfoot here.”

  As he reined his horse away and back toward the front hitch rail, he recognized the half-breed, Clayton “Cold Foot” Cain, standing by the tent fly staring at him.

  “Buenas tardes,” he said, again touching the brim of his sombrero.

  The half-breed didn’t reply, but he grudgingly gave a slight nod of his head.

  “I see that death has reared his ugly head on this beautiful day,” Lupo said, spinning his reins around the hitch rail. “A terribl
e accident, no doubt?” He gave an affable smile without lifting his head to eye level.

  “Careful you don’t have a terrible accident yourself,” the half-breed said menacingly.

  Lupo raised a hand in a show of peace and walked past him inside the big tent. He stood at the nearly empty bar waiting for the bartender, who appeared agitated at the prospect of serving an unfamiliar Mexican. When the bartender did arrive, he gave Lupo a less than friendly stare.

  “Mescal, por favor,” Lupo said.

  The bartender left and came back with a wooden cup and a straw-wrapped bottle. He stared sharply at Easy John until the Mexican took a gold coin from inside his poncho and laid it on the bar top.

  The bartender examined the coin closely, then stared at Lupo again before turning and walking away.

  Lupo glanced along the bar and saw the glassy eyes of the Russian staring at him: another face he recognized from studying the gunmen through the powerful lens of his binoculars, back when the Pettigo mercenary force began growing in both size and fierceness.

  Touching his sombrero again, Easy John turned away from the bar and had started to a small, out-of-the-way table when he almost ran into the half-breed, who had slipped inside behind him.

  “I know you,” the half-breed said.

  Lupo recognized the same glassiness in Cold Foot’s eyes that he saw in the Russian’s.

  “No, señor, I do not think so,” Easy John said. He tried to sidestep him, but the half-breed blocked his way.

  “You’re Juan Lupo,” said the half-breed. “I saw you once in Matamoros.”

  Easy John glanced around, saw the Russian stand up in interest and walk toward them.

  “Aw, gracias, señor,” he said. “I am familiar with this Juan Lupo. He is a very handsome hombre and I am honored you think I look like him.” He shrugged. “But sadly—”

  “I didn’t say you look like him,” said Cold Foot, “I said you are him.” His hand fell onto the butt of his holstered gun.