Servant of the Law

by Dusty Richards

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES BY DUSTY RICHARDS

  VENGEANCE WILL BE HERS

  Copyright Page

  I dedicate this book to Charlie, who helped so much; to Linda, who typed the most; to Lynn, who corrected the most; to my wife, Pat, who listened the most; to Mary Alice, who bossed the most; and my wonderful critique group, who sure helped straighten out the kinks. Thanks also to the great staff and crew at Sharlot Hall Museum in Prescott, Arizona, for all their help in researching the past. Besides their great exhibits and research facilities, the museum hosts a wonderful cowboy gathering each August. Check them out on the Web. And to all my friends and fans, God bless you all.

  Dusty Richards

  PROLOGUE

  Rinker’s thick, muscular arm cranked the blower’s handle. The acrid smell of burning coal from the red-hot center of the forge’s fire wafted up his nose. With a pair of tongs, he plunged the horseshoe into the inferno. Radiant heat swept his sweaty face. When he was satisfied it was hot enough to be malleable, he removed the plate with the tongs and used a large hammer to shape the shoe on his anvil.

  The pings of his blows rung like a bell under the building’s shake roof. With a critical eye, he turned the shoe up for his inspection. Not quite flat enough yet to suit him. He stuck it back in the forge’s heat and repeated the process.

  When someone entered the sunlight-flooded double front doors from the street, he glanced up from his work. Marvel Ransom, a rancher from up on the Dry Fork, came inside leading a stout buckskin horse.

  “He’s thrown a shoe, Rinker. Can you get to him?”

  “Be an hour or so before I can do it.”

  “That will work. I’ve got the time. Going to get some lunch and then I have an order to turn in at the store.” The lanky rancher paused, looked around until he was certain they were alone, then with a sly grin, he asked “You still playing house with that widow Budd?”

  “Yeah,” Rinker said. “Her and that worthless kid of hers.”

  “She looked all right to me. Don’t know about the boy.”

  Rinker shrugged. “She’s all right.” From time to time, the bitch needed to be slapped around some, so she knew her place. It was the kid, Bobby Budd, that he was thinking about. Kinda runty in size for his age.

  “Yeah, but she’s better than sleeping by yourself, I’d imagine,” Ransom said, and headed through the open doorway into the glare from outside.

  “Don’t rush back,” Rinker said after him, his thoughts still focused on the boy. Where was that brat? He was supposed to be there swamping out those stalls. He’d sure bust that kid’s ass good with a razor strap for laying out on him.

  As the horseshoe cooled in a pail of water, he bent over to apply the plate to the horse’s hoof. Thinking about the kid had him worked up in the middle of the day. He quickly drove the individual nails in their place, then put the hoof on a stand. He nipped the pointed shanks off and bent the ends of the nails over. The last shod hoof on the ground, he straightened his tightening back and reached for his uncomfortable crotch. Then with some regrets that he still had hours of work left to do before any playtime, he led the horse off to a stall. The gelding belonged to his banker, Walton Bridges. Couldn’t be too good to a banker, never know when a man would need a loan.

  Where was that hatchet-assed Bobby, anyway? He brought Ransom’s buckskin out to the center of the room. An appraising glance down at the pony’s feet told him the buckskin needed a small shoe. Maybe he had a used one that would fit. From the corner of his eye he caught some movement and turned to see who it was. He looked hard as Ina Budd strode through the back door, holding up the hem of her blue dress as she stepped over the board threshold. What the hell did she want at this time of day?

  She knew he was busy working. Why did she come by to bother him, anyway? He hurriedly tied the horse’s reins to the ring and turned to face her.

  “What do you want?”

  “I come to speak to you, Lighe Rinker,” she said. Her eyes narrowed in anger.

  “About what?” He cranked on the blower to contain himself from exploding at her intrusion. Something had her riled and he held back from his first urge to smack her a good one. She stood straightbacked a few feet from him, a tall thin woman in a blue checkered dress.

  “Bobby told me what you did to him.”

  “What’d that little liar say I did?” he growled, ready to reach out and grasp her by the arm and slap the living fire out of her. He’d show that mouthy bitch and her skinny-butted kid what talking out of place got them when he got through with both of them.

  “How could you?” she demanded.

  He’d had enough. He caught her by the arm and whipped the back of his hand into her face; popped her so hard that her hair bun came undone. It spilled brown hair halfway down her back as his vise-like grip clamped her arm. He drew her up close to his face.

  She threw up an arm to ward off any more blows. Then, cringing in his hold, she shook her head, on the verge of tears.

  “You’re an animal. An animal—” she cried.

  “Shut up or I’ll bust your damn teeth out, woman!” He held his coal-stained fist inches from her face. Trembling with rage, he shook her like a rag doll. “Shut your mouth. You hear me?”

  When she nodded, he released her. She fell in a pile at his feet.

  “Don’t move!” someone commanded.

  Rinker churned around at the boy’s voice behind him. With a wide grin, he intended to complete his lesson of the day for both of them. They’d know better than to question his authority—

  The cold sound of a hammer clicking a cylinder into place shattered the silence of the building. Despite the barn’s oven-hot interior, a cold wave swept over Rinker and the beads of sweat beneath his sodden shirt turned to icicles. He blinked in disbelief at the muzzle of the .44 Army model cap-and-ball pistol that Bobby held up with both hands, aimed at his heart.

  “You better point that somewheres—”

  His words were cut off when he saw Bobby’s jaw muscles tighten. It was too late for talking; the kid’s fingers were already squeezing the trigger. The hammer fell and a chunk of hot lead struck Rinker in the chest like a powerful mule had kicked him.

  A blue sulphurous cloud fogged the shop. Rinker felt himself being slammed into the buckskin horse. The gelding shied away and Rinker, dazed by the force of the bullet, sprawled on his back. When he looked up through the veil of smoke, he saw the coldness in the kid’s blue eyes. Bobby stood poised ready to shoot again.

  “No, Bobby,” she screamed. “That’s enough.”

  “Hell, Maw, this sumbitch needs killin’,” Bobby said as the Colt bucked in his fist to spit lead and fire again.

  Noise of the explosion, billowing gunsmoke, and the confusion of the frightened, whinnying horses floated on the periphery of Rinker’s thoughts. The second bullet struck him square in the chest and drove all the breath from him. He wanted to protest, but no words came from his mouth as he began to sink into a twisting whirlpool. In the distance, he could hear the boy and her arguing.

  “One thing for gawdamn sure, he won’t ever bugger anyone else,” Bobby said.

  Then through a misty haze, Rinker saw the kid bound onto Ransom’s horse, duck his head to go out the front door and
gallop away. The drum of the retreating hooves were the final sounds in Rinker’s ears.

  1

  Two days after his shooting of Lighe Rinker, Bobby Budd still looked hard over his shoulder for the posse’s pursuit. Near noon that same day, he crossed out of Colorado into the New Mexico Territory. His pounding heart ached from the urgent panic and his empty stomach roiled like a nest of snakes from the cold fear of the hangman’s noose. Somewhere near Fort Union, he traded the lame buckskin to a Jacarillo Apache for a scrubby pinto. In the months that followed, word drifted back to the Springfield, Colorado, authorities that the young killer was swamping out bars in Santa Fe. They sent warrants for his arrest, but the local officials either ignored them, or they never found him.

  Several monthes later, information filtered back to Colorado officials that Bobby Budd was working for the army. They sent a deputy down to Fort Wingate, but the lawman returned empty-handed. More time passed and Bobby Budd vanished like a dust devil that floated over the horizon. The wanted posters became tattered and faded; the law lost interest in his capture. His crime became history and in turn joined a portion of the outlaw legend of the frontier. Murderer Bobby Budd, like so many other felons, had managed to evade justice’s grasp.

  Two years later, on a hot July afternoon, seventeen-year-old Bobby Budd rode up to the Bosque Grande’s main house to see the most powerful person in the New Mexico Territory, John Chisum. He’d ridden down there to ask the big man for a job. Not for an ordinary ranch-hand position, but one as an avenger.

  When Chisum’s black houseman came out on the porch to greet him, Bobby tried to look past him. Where was Chisum? He had expected to impress the big rancher with his appearance when he rode up. Instead, he felt degraded having to talk to a black domestic servant.

  “What you want, boy?” the man asked in a deep voice, a frown of disapproval written on his dark face.

  “Chisum hiring today?”

  “Hiring what?” the man snorted and looked at him in dismay.

  “Avengers,” Bobby said and squinted his left eye hard at the man.

  “Why, you ain’t old enough to be no avenger.” The man shook his wooly head in disbelief.

  “Let me talk to the man. You ain’t doing the hiring, nohow.” Bobby rose in the stirrups and tried to see past him.

  He heard someone of authority clear his throat, then a man came out the front door of the two-story house. Very tall, he wore a sparkling white shirt, vest, and a tie. His full mustache was trimmed and so was the goatee; his eyes were dark as coal and had a hard look.

  “So you came looking for work?” John Chisum asked, as he looked Budd up and down, appraising him.

  “I sure did, Mr. Chisum.”

  “Rhemus,” Chisum said to his man. “Go get five dinner plates for this man to shoot at with that hog leg in his belt. Every one that he hits is worth a hundred dollars to him and the ones he misses cost him two hundred.”

  “Yes, sah, Mr. John, I’ll go get them, but I’s says he can’t hit no bull in the butt.”

  “Rhemus, that’s no way to talk to a top gun. By the way, what is your name?”

  “Bobby Budd. Up in Colorado, they call me the Coyote Kid.”

  “Coyote Kid, huh?”

  “Yeah, in Colorado.”

  “Why, you must know Bill Bonney, the Kid. He has a big reputation in these parts.”

  “Never met him. Hope folks don’t get us mixed up.”

  “They won’t,” Chisum said, as if he knew they wouldn’t. Standing on the porch with his arms folded on his chest, the cattle king looked much bigger than Bobby had expected him to be.

  “How old are you? Not that it would matter.” Chisum straightened up and moved aside for Rhemus to come by with an armful of white china plates.

  “Eighteen,” Bobby lied. Still trying hard to impress the man, he stepped off his pinto in a swaggering manner and drew the ancient Army model Colt out of his waistband. This better be good. Here was his chance to get a real job and never again have to mop up puke or empty another stinking old spittoon. The thought of such work made a bitter sourness rise behind his tongue.

  “I want it to be perfectly clear,” Chisum began. “You know that each plate you miss costs you two hundred dollars and you’ll have that held out of your wages working for me?” The big man paused and looked hard at Bobby for his reply.

  “And I only get a hundred bucks for them I hit, huh?”

  “Not fair, is it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “See, Bobby, I don’t need another avenger, but from the looks of you, you really need a job.”

  Bobby nodded. The old sumbitch drove a damn hard bargain. Still, anything beat his last job swamping in a stinking saloon. His stomach churned and he felt weak below the knees over the prospect that he might fail to meet Chisum’s standards. Somehow he had to hit those plates. They looked big enough.

  “Rhemus,” Chisum directed. “Throw up the first plate.”

  Bobby cocked the hammer, aimed, and followed the plate with his eye in the arch up and then downward, until it shattered on the hard-packed ground. He silently chided himself for not shooting. He didn’t know why he hadn’t shot. Was he spellbound?

  “That’s two hundred dollars you owe me,” Chisum said coolly, while streams of sweat raced down Bobby’s face. His armpits felt like rivers and he quickly switched hands with the Colt to dry his palm on the front of his pants.

  It was an effort for Bobby to even swallow. The knot in his throat hurt each time he tried. He carefully studied both men and strained to imagine the next trick they had up their sleeves. His hopes for getting the job were fast evaporating in the hot sun.

  “He wasn’t ready, Rhemus,” Chisum said to his servant as if Bobby weren’t even there. “This time before you toss it, you give him a shout like, now!”

  “Yes, sah.”

  “Ready, Bobby?”

  “I am now.” Bobby mopped his wet face on his sleeve and blinked his sweat-stinging eyes at the dazzling sunlight from under his floppy-brimmed hat. He drew a deep breath.

  “Now!” Rhemus shouted.

  The plate sailed high, wobbled, and Bobby shot. The cloud of blue smoke smarted his eyes, but he heard the undamaged dish hit intact on the ground and smash to pieces.

  “That’s four hundred you owe me. Way over a year’s work as a stableboy. Want to quit?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re getting expensive, you know? You’ve already missed two of my good china plates. Should we quit?”

  “Throw the damn plate.” Bobby motioned the gun barrel at Rhemus to go ahead. He’d plugged that damn Rinker in the heart both times with this Colt. Maybe his aim was off. No telling about the old pistol. He bought it for two bucks from a Mexican back in Colorado.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Toss it up slower this time,” Chisum said to his man. “At this rate the poor boy will work the rest of his life for me for free.”

  “Now!” Rhemus shouted.

  Bobby laid his gun butt on his left forearm, took aim, and fired. This time the stiff wind swept the smoke away from his face and he watched the plate shatter in midair.

  Chisum stood applauding on the porch. The clap of his hands echoed from the adobe stables beyond. “Very good.”

  “That makes three hundred I owe you now,” Bobby said, readying himself for the next one. “Throw it.”

  “Now!” Rhemus said, and instead of throwing it up, he tossed the dish flat ways away from him.

  Bobby wanted to scream. They were cheating on him. He took a wing shot and fragmented the plate. Rhemus looked up at his boss, then he shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “I tried to trick him.”

  “Not your fault, Rhemus. That boy can shoot. One more,” Chisum said. “Toss this one high.”

  The plate soared toward the tops of the rustling cottonwoods. Bobby knelt, rested it again on his forearm, and fired. His bullet disintegrated the white circle into a thousand pieces. He stood up,
blew the smoke away from the muzzle, then jammed the Colt back in his waistband.

  “Not bad,” Chisum said, sounding moderately impressed. “You owe me three months’ wages. Put that crow-bait of yours in the corral with the other ranch horses. He is a gelding?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank heavens, I won’t want a colt out of him.”

  “What do I do first?” Bobby asked anxiously.

  “You report to Dave McClure. He’s the cow boss. If and when I ever need an avenger, I’ll call for you.”

  “Yes, sir.” He forced himself to conceal his excitement. He was hired to work for the biggest man in New Mexico. And Jesus, what lucky shooting.

  “Oh yes, Bobby, the first three months you’ll work for your keep and to repay me.”

  “I can count,” he said, pissed that Chisum thought he was stupid or something. He led the pinto off to the corral. Pay or no pay, he was working for the big man and some .how opportunities would avail themselves. He jerked his rigging off the pony and turned him inside the pen. His kack piled on the top rail, he went off whistling to himself to find McClure.

  Without money to gamble, buy drinks, or pay whores, Bobby still rode into town on Saturday night with the boys. Hanging around in the streets of Roswell, he soon met Rosa, a pretty Mexican girl close to his own age. They danced for a few hours to the tunes of a small band in a park, then she snuck him into her bedroom. There she showed him the charms of her womanhood.

  Sunday morning, when the hungover ranch hands came staggering out of Maria O’Brien’s whorehouse, they frowned in disbelief at the beaming face of Bobby. He held the reins with their horses all saddled and ready for the sore-headed punchers to ride back to the ranch.

  “Hell, he’s sober and looks fresh bred,” Cooly said as he coughed and spit in the dust.

  “Yeah, the only smart one in the bunch.” Phillips staggered off to the corner of the adobe house to retch up his guts with the wall of stucco for support.

  “You riding or walking?” Bobby asked, bringing him his horse.

  “Shit, riding, man. I couldn’t walk to the edge of town.” Phillips managed to get aboard by groaning, moaning and more coughing.