Philomena was waiting for them at the shack. “What happened?” she asked. “Did you find out anything about that poor man with the destroyed face?”
“Not much,” Jackson told her. “He was a ranch hand, rode for a spread called the Winged T. Know anything about it?”
“A man named Tillman owns it,” she replied. She looked at Everett and added, “He came from somewhere in the East, like you, Señor Howard.”
“Has he been out here long?”
Philomena shook her head. “A year or so, I think. The man who owned the Winged T before must have been related to him. His name was Rufus Tillman. But then he died, and Señor Benjamin Tillman came out to take over the ranch.”
“Berryhill worked on the ranch while Rufus Tillman was still alive?” Jackson asked.
“I do not know,” Philomena said with a shrug. “I think so, but I am not sure.”
A wagon rolled past outside. Jackson saw it through the open door and read the legend painted on its sideboards: GREENWOOD’S UNDERTAKING PARLOR. He recalled Brennan mentioning someone named Cecil Greenwood, who was obviously the undertaker here in Death Head Crossing. A blanket-covered shape lay in the back of the wagon, all that was left of the luckless cowhand Luther Berryhill.
A few minutes later the group of Winged T hands rode past. Sheriff Brennan was with them. They were going to show the lawman where they had found Berryhill’s body, Jackson figured. He said, “Come on, Everett. There’s a livery stable right down the street. We can rent a mount for you there.”
“All right,” Everett said. “If you think that’s best.”
“You can stay here with Philomena if you want.”
Jackson saw the way Everett glanced at the young woman and knew that he was sorely tempted. Any young man would be. But Everett’s devotion to the duties of his profession won out, and with a sigh he said, “No, I’ll come with you, Mr. Jackson.”
“You can call me Hell if you want,” he said as they left the shack and started toward the livery stable.
“I’m not sure I’d be comfortable doing that. Is it all right if I just continue to call you Mr. Jackson?”
“Whatever you want, Everett.”
When they told the bandy-legged hostler at the livery stable they needed a horse for Everett, the old man brought out a mean-eyed dun that Jackson spotted right off as trouble. He knew what the old-timer was up to. He wanted to see the young Eastern dude get bucked off and thrown right on his ass. Under other circumstances, Jackson might have gotten a chuckle out of that sight himself. But they didn’t have time for it now, so he pointed to another horse in the corral behind the livery barn and said, “That roan right there.”
“You’ve got a fine eye for horseflesh, son,” the old-timer said in a high-pitched voice. “Your friend’ll be needin’ a saddle too, I reckon?”
“That’s right.”
Ten minutes later, the roan Jackson had picked out for Everett was saddled and ready to ride. “Left foot in the stirrup first,” Jackson instructed. “Hang onto the reins and grab the saddle horn good and tight. Now step up and swing your right leg over.”
Everett did as he was told and settled into the saddle. The roan shifted a little underneath him, prompting him to clutch the saddle horn even tighter. Jackson had thought the horse looked like a pretty steady animal, the sort that Everett would need, and it settled down quickly.
“Ever ridden before?” Jackson asked as he climbed onto his dun.
“No. Never in my life. What else do I need to know?”
“Well, the main thing,” Jackson said, “is that if we have to ride very far, your balls’ll probably hurt like hell in the morning. Still want to go?”
Everett looked a little panicky, but he managed to nod.
“Follow me then,” Jackson said. “Just bump your heels against his sides. He’ll come along.”
They rode out of the settlement, heading in the same direction as Sheriff Brennan and the hands from the Winged T. Jackson gave Everett some tips as they went along, warning him not to jerk the reins or lean too far to one side. It was plain to see that Everett was scared of the horse, but the only way he would ever get over that was by riding and getting used to being in the saddle.
“The sheriff and those other men are a long way ahead of us,” Everett pointed out as they jogged along. “Will we be able to follow them?”
Jackson pointed lazily toward the trail. “They left fresh tracks. Not only that, but I can still see a little of the dust that their horses’ hooves kicked up.”
“You said you were a scout for the army. I suppose you must be pretty good at tracking people.”
“Done my share,” Jackson said. “Most of ’em didn’t want to be followed, so I had to worry about being drygulched too. Don’t think that’ll be a problem today. Not with the sheriff up ahead of us like that.”
But he couldn’t rule it out entirely, he reminded himself. Out of long-standing habit, he kept a close eye on their surroundings, watching especially for the telltale glint of sunlight reflecting from a rifle barrel.
Nothing happened, though, except that they rode across some fine-looking rangeland. To most people the terrain probably looked sparse, arid, and rocky, but Jackson’s experienced eyes noted the pockets of green on the hillsides that marked lush pastures and the sparkle of water where clear creeks flowed. Hardy breeds of both men and cattle were required to make a go of it in country like this, but the rewards would be great for those willing to put in the necessary effort.
The trail curved around some large boulders and then dipped across a broad valley. As they rounded an outcropping of rock, Jackson reined in and said, “Slow down, Everett.” He had spotted something ahead of them.
Not surprisingly, Everett hauled back on the reins too hard, hurting the roan’s mouth and making the horse jump around a little as it came to a stop. Everett let out a frightened yell. Jackson reached over and grasped his arm to steady him.
“Hold onto the reins! Firm, but not too hard. Don’t jerk ’em.”
With Jackson’s help, the young Easterner brought the skittish roan under control. “Sorry,” Everett panted. “I guess I’m not much of a horseman.”
“You’ll be fine, you just need some practice.”
“Why did we stop?”
Jackson leveled an arm. “Look yonder across the valley, about five hundred yards.”
Squinting, Everett looked where Jackson was pointing. “I don’t see anything.”
“The sheriff and those other hombres have stopped, and Brennan’s looking around.”
“Oh,” Everett said. “Oh, yes, I see them now. You must have really good eyes, Mr. Jackson.”
Jackson reached into his saddlebags and brought out a pair of field glasses that had once belonged to a Confederate officer. He lifted the glasses and peered through them for a minute, then grunted and handed them to Everett.
“They don’t seem to be finding anything.”
“No, they’re just sort of milling around,” Everett agreed. His voice quickened. “Now the sheriff is getting back on his horse.”
Jackson took the glasses back and stowed them away. “Let’s get off the trail,” he said.
He led the way into the rocks, putting the largest of the boulders between them and the trail. A few minutes later, they heard the hoofbeats of a single horse as Sheriff Brennan rode past on his way back to Death Head Crossing.
“The rest of ’em went on to the Winged T,” Jackson guessed. “We’ll give them a few minutes and then go have a look around the spot.”
While they waited, Everett took his derby hat off and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. As he mopped sweat from his face, he asked, “Why are you really doing this, Mr. Jackson? It’s not just to help me out, is it?”
Jackson hooked a leg around his saddle horn to ease his muscles. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “Let’s just say that I’m curious. The first thing I came across when I rode into this part of the country was an old
man being tortured to death. I got the feeling right then and there that something was mighty wrong around here. There’s a certain smell in the air . . . the scent of evil, I guess you could call it if you wanted to be dramatic about it. But it got my hackles up, and the way that cowboy was killed just made it worse.”
“You don’t think the two deaths are connected, do you?”
Jackson shook his head. “Not directly, no. I know why Julio died, and the men responsible for it are buzzard bait now. But I’ve still got the stink of brimstone in my nose, and I don’t like it.”
“With a name like yours—” Everett began.
Then he fell silent as Jackson looked at him and said, “It’s been long enough. Let’s go.”
Chapter 7
While watching through the field glasses, Jackson had paid particular attention to the spot where Sheriff Brennan was tramping around, about fifty yards off the main trail, so he was able to locate it without much trouble.
“Berryhill was headed back to the ranch after a night of drinking in town,” Jackson said, thinking as much to himself as he was talking to Everett. “As full of whiskey as he was, the horse probably knew the way home about as well as he did. But when he came along here, he must have seen something, because he left the trail.”
“Maybe he passed out and the horse just wandered off the trail,” Everett suggested.
Jackson shook his head. “No, if Berryhill had gone to sleep or even passed out in the saddle, the horse would have stayed on the trail and gone straight back to the Winged T. Berryhill rode over here on purpose.”
Jackson looked around, his keen eyes searching for anything out of the ordinary. A low range of hills rose about half a mile away. He wondered if Berryhill had seen something in that direction. It was unlikely, since it had been the middle of the night, but something had drawn the man off the trail.
As the cowboys who had bought the body in had said, there were quite a few hoofprints scattered around the area. However, it was impossible to tell if those tracks had been made the night before or sometime in the past. The weather hadn’t been particularly windy, and there hadn’t been any rain in several weeks. Tracks might last a long time under those conditions.
“Shouldn’t there be some blood?” Everett asked.
Jackson turned his head to look at him but didn’t say anything.
“I mean, the man’s face was gone,” Everett went on. “There was nothing left but bone. With such a horrible injury, there must have been quite a bit of blood.”
Jackson nodded. “So we’d be able to see some of it on the ground, is that what you’re saying?”
“Well, yes. I don’t pretend to be an expert on such matters, but that seems logical to me.”
“Not if he wasn’t killed here,” Jackson pointed out. “Maybe he was killed somewhere else and his body was just left here.”
Everett looked crestfallen. “I suppose that’s possible.”
Jackson pointed at something on the ground. “Look at those marks, the narrow ones that twist around some.”
Everett studied the markings for a moment, then said, “They look like they were made by snakes crawling through the dirt. There are snakes in this part of the country, aren’t there?”
“Plenty of them, mostly diamondback rattlers and sidewinders. You don’t want to run into any of them if you can help it. But those marks weren’t made by snakes. They were made by ropes.”
“Ropes?” Everett repeated.
Jackson nodded. “Somebody lassoed something, then cut it loose and pulled the ropes back in. I’m betting it was Berryhill they dabbed their loops on.”
“You can tell that just by looking at some marks on the ground?”
“It’s what you’d call an educated guess.”
“So,” Everett said, “someone roped Mr. Berryhill . . .”
“Dragged him out of the saddle,” Jackson continued, “and then blew his face off somehow without leaving a drop of blood on the ground.”
“That’s . . . amazing. Unbelievable even.”
Jackson just shrugged. He knew what he saw, whether he understood the how and why of it or not.
“Let’s ride on out to the Winged T,” he said. “I want to have a talk with the fella who owns it. Tillman, I believe Philomena said his name was.”
They returned to the trail and turned away from the direction that led back to Death Head Crossing. Everett was beginning to handle his horse a little better now, but his nervousness was still apparent.
“You don’t believe Berryhill was killed somewhere else, do you, Mr. Jackson?” he asked as they rode.
“Not really. I just brought that up as a possibility. Those rope marks in the dirt make me believe somebody jumped him right back there, though.”
“We have to ask ourselves who would have wanted him dead. From all we’ve heard about him, he was just a cowboy, without any real enemies.”
“Everybody has enemies,” Jackson said. “The friendliest man in the world has rubbed somebody the wrong way, sometime, somewhere.”
“Enough so that someone would kill him for it?” Everett sounded skeptical.
Jackson shrugged. “You never can tell what’ll prod a man into killing. It may not seem like much to everybody else, but not to him. Problem is, I think there were several men involved in Berryhill’s death. That makes it trickier. A bigger group of men needs a bigger reason to kill.”
They continued talking about it as they rode toward the Winged T, but didn’t reach any conclusions. Several miles farther on, they topped a hill and saw the ranch headquarters in a little valley that spread out before them. The valley was well watered by a creek that meandered through it. The main house sat on a knoll beside the creek. It was a sprawling, two-story log structure surrounded by trees. Several outbuildings clustered nearby, including a long building that was probably the bunkhouse, a smokehouse and cookshack, a blacksmith shop, and a couple of large barns with a complex of corrals around them. Judging by its headquarters, the Winged T was no little greasy-sack outfit. It was a large, profitable ranch.
A couple of dogs came running and barking to greet the two riders. The canine commotion attracted some attention. Several men emerged from the bunkhouse, and two more came from one of the barns. They gathered together in front of the main house as Jackson and Everett rode up and reined in.
Jackson recognized some of the men as the ones who had brought Luther Berryhill’s body into town. The one who had done most of the talking there stepped forward and gave them a curt nod. He was a stringy, middle-sized man with a gray mustache. “Something I can do for you gents?” he asked. “I’m Ned Dawson, the ramrod here.”
“We came to see Benjamin Tillman,” Jackson said.
“If you got business involvin’ the Winged T, you talk to me,” Dawson rasped. “I told you, I’m the ramrod. I run the operation.”
Jackson wasn’t phased by the man’s hostile attitude. Sitting easily in the saddle, he said, “We still want to talk to Tillman.”
The door of the main house opened and a man stepped out onto the long porch that ran across the building’s entire front. “What is it, Ned?” he asked. “Who are these men?”
The newcomer wore boots, jeans, and a work shirt, but he didn’t look like he ever did any actual work in them. He was a little below medium height and had wavy brown hair that was starting to recede despite the fact that he wasn’t more than thirty years old.
Jackson turned his horse toward the porch and said, “Are you Benjamin Tillman?”
“That’s right,” the man said, a puzzled frown on his unlined face. “Who are you, sir?”
Before Jackson could answer, Ned Dawson said, “He’s a gunslinger, Boss. Name of Jackson. The fella with him is some sort o’ newspaperman from back East. We saw ’em in town, in Sheriff Brennan’s office. They was takin’ a mighty big interest in what happened to poor Lute Berryhill.”
Benjamin Tillman seemed more intrigued by Dawson’s mention of Everett�
�s profession than by anything else the ranch foreman had told him. He looked at Everett and said, “Are you really a journalist? For what paper?”
“The New York Universe,” Everett replied.
“I’m familiar with it. A fine paper. My family owns an interest in the Philadelphia Chronicle. I take it you’re from New York?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve visited there many times. Come in, come in. It’ll be nice to sit down and chat with someone from a more civilized part of the country.”
As Everett dismounted carefully, Tillman moved to the top of the porch steps and extended his hand.
“We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Benjamin Tillman.”
“Everett Sidney Howard,” Everett said as he came up the steps and gripped Tillman’s hand. “And this is my friend Mr. Jackson.” He didn’t give Jackson’s first name.
Jackson smiled faintly at Ned Dawson as he dismounted. Dawson had tried to keep him and Everett from talking to Tillman, but that effort had failed. Jackson wondered briefly if Dawson had just been trying to shield his boss from being bothered by strangers . . . or if there might be some other reason the foreman didn’t want them talking to Tillman.
“Come inside,” Tillman said again. “It’s getting late in the afternoon. You’ll stay for supper, won’t you, Mr. Howard? And you too, of course, Mr. Jackson.”
“We’ll see,” Jackson said. As he stepped up onto the porch, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the group of cowboys in front of the house was breaking up, with most of them heading back to the barns or the bunkhouse.
All but Dawson, that is. The ramrod still stood there, eyes narrowed in suspicion and thumbs hooked in his gun belt.
Tillman took them into a large room furnished with heavy, comfortable furniture. Thick, woven Indian rugs lay on the floor, and stuffed heads of deer, antelope, and mountain lions adorned the wall. A massive fireplace took up most of one side of the room.
Death Head Crossing Page 5