After they mounted, she took the buckskin’s rope and led him. John Wesley accepted the idea that she would take care of the packhorse. He and Devers rode ahead. He suspected that she had deliberately maneuvered herself into that position to give them a little privacy or simply to ease the strained atmosphere.
“You do a lot of law work?” Devers asked, to be conversational.
“I’m new in Arizona,” John answered casually as the horses plodded onward. “Before this, I worked as a town marshal in Colorado.”
Devers nodded as he appeared to digest the news. “Well, I never got to Colorado. Always aimed to go there, but stopped here and stayed. Must be lonely, though, being a lawman? No roots.”
“Sometimes,” John agreed. Then he wished he had denied it. Because it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn’t lonely anymore. He didn’t like to think it was because Dolly Arnold was riding with him. He had never spent much time in the company of women like her; they usually made him uncomfortable and tongue-tied.
He recalled Bessie Jergen. How on his last day in Walsenburg, he had seen her in Fred Bowles’s buckboard; no doubt they were headed for Bowles’s ranch. She never even acknowledged that she saw him, if she did. As he stood by himself on the boardwalk, he hoped her children could attend school out there. He even recalled how he couldn’t swallow the knot in his throat and when the rig was gone from his sight, how grateful he was to be alone on the street.
He had blown his nose hard twice and wiped his eyes, before jamming the kerchief in his pocket. Then he strode away to close the rest of his business in Colorado. He’d never had a chance to tell her about the new job in Arizona. Just as well. Like smoke in the wind, Bessie was gone in the buckboard with another man.
“We can camp at Muddy Springs,” Devers said, breaking into his thoughts.
John blinked his eyes to dispel the image of the blue-eyed window. “How close will we be to the peddlers’ place?”
Devers didn’t answer immediately. Looking at him in puzzlement, John noted that he was squirming uncomfortably in his saddle. The expression on his face was almost comical, and John realized what his problem was before Devers spoke in a disgruntled fashion. “I’m going out there somewhere. What do you do with her along?”
John hastily swallowed a smile and spoke dryly. “The same thing you’re doing.” He watched Devers move toward a bushy pinon to his left. He didn’t trust himself to look back at Mrs. Arnold, for fear he would chuckle out loud.
When Devers rode back to join them, he spoke as though John had just asked the question. “We’ll be half a day’s ride from the peddlers when we get to Muddy Springs.”
John glanced around the Arizona landscape then he turned and spoke decisively to Mrs. Arnold. “We’ll camp at Muddy Springs.”
She sighed gratefully at his words She was not used to being in a saddle for such a long time. The stiff new jeans were chafing the inside of her thighs, and it would be a relief to put on a dress.
Later, she boiled beans and bacon in a small pan over the fire.
Both men seemed to find things to do to avoid sitting by her at the campfire. Even dressed now like a woman, she had not put them at ease. She gave up trying, and poured herself a cup of strong coffee. Glaring at the two bachelors’ backs, she decided if they wanted some coffee, they could get their own. It would be sundown soon, and she had other problems on her mind. One was her growing fear of sleeping on the ground. The mere thought of a snake caused her to shiver in spite of the warm fire in front of her. It was going to take a lot of grit and determination not to squirm and complain when the time came to bed down on the open ground.
Her brows drew together when she looked at John Wesley’s rugged face as he talked to Milt. With Devers along, she knew she wouldn’t get much opportunity to find out anything about John Wesley, and for some reason that fact irritated her. Curiosity nagged at her. What was he really like? Did he have a family?
A twig crackled in the fire and she shrugged. It looked like she’d have plenty of time to find out about the silent lawman, because at the rate they were tracking the killers, the snow would be flying before they caught up with the murdering pair.
In Prescott, Ella Devereaux stood in her former apartment behind the lace curtains and studied the sunlit street below. The skin on her neck crawled. Her ex-pimp Ash Waddle was gone for the afternoon to play poker. To no doubt lose some more of her hard-earned money. Why, he must be the hit of Prescott, throwing that cash around on Whiskey Row as if he owned the U.S. Treasury. Her only hope to escape his vindictive hold on her and Harrington House was the telegram she had sent to those police officials in Westport, Kansas.
If he had killed the mayor’s son there would be a murder warrant out for him. If not that, then he must have committed some high crime for him to ever leave the business behind. Why, he owned the best sporting place in the country. Didn’t make sense that he’d up and leave it for a chance of homing in on her place in the sticks.
It was off season in Prescott. When the legislature came to town, her business flourished. All the important folks flocked to the Capitol and the Harrington House during that time. Why, there were more things about those sessions decided in her parlor than on the floor of either the house or senate. The pockets of those trying to influence the politicians were bottomless, paying the tab for huge banquets, champagne, liquor, and frolicking with her girls.
There were gray-headed old men who found their youth had not died. Filled with new steam afterward, they came downstairs, hugged her shoulder, and shoved a crisp bill in between her cleavage for a tip, with heartfelt gratitude. “Thanks, it was the best I ever had.”
She drew a sharp breath watching a freight wagon lumber uphill under mule power. Why hadn’t the Westport law answered her telegram inquiring about Waddle? There had been plenty of time for one to come by this hour. Perhaps the wire was down? She would send Sassy up there and see about it.
“Sassy,” she shouted from the top of the stairs.
“Yes, missy?” The girl came running into the vestibule and looked up at her.
“Go up to the telegraph office and see if there are any messages for me.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
Sassy rolled her eyes at the ceiling and nodded that she would. Then she rushed out the front door before she drew her boss’s wrath.
“That girl at times—” Ella said aloud in despair and started down the stairs. Some way or other she was ridding herself of this parasite Waddle. She could only hope the law handled him for her. Getting rid of his body might be hard to do—no, the law thing would work, she felt certain.
Sassy returned in a short while. Ella was busy in the kitchen overseeing her culinary staff when the girl reported, “Missy, they said there ain’t been no telegrams for you.”
Ella nodded that she had heard her. Damn, oh damn, she couldn’t stand him blowing her money much longer. For a long moment, she stared at the cut-up potatoes on the counter. Something else might have to be worked out to rid herself of this festering parasite, Ash Waddle:
Tuesday nights were usually slow, this one dragged on. Two inebriated drummers sang sea chanteys about the girl from Fray. in the parlor until she told two of her girls to take them upstairs and do whatever was necessary to shut them up. It was late and she doubted there would be any more business coming by, so she sent the rest of them off to bed and went upstairs to her room.
She was half undressed and standing in her corset when, unannounced, red-faced Waddle burst in the door.
“You bitch!” he shouted, waving a yellow piece of paper and closing in on her. “You lying, damn rotten whore!”
For an instant, she thought of the .22 in the trunk among her things, but there was no time for her to get to it. He shoved the telegram in her face.
“Goddamn you. If my friends hadn’t been working the desk shift at the police department when you wired them about me—”
Her heart sank. That was why s
he hadn’t heard. His friends at the police station had intercepted the one she sent. Her heart stopped. She saw his quick move and the savage look on his face. Despite her effort to avoid and repel his reach for her, Waddle ended with a handful of her hair and jerked her toward him. The pain of his grasp caused her to catch a scream in her throat.
“I’ll teach you to try and double-cross me!”
Then he swung his fist into her midsection and drove the air out of her diaphragm. The worse was yet to come and she knew that unless she did something quickly to stop him, he would give her the worst beating of her life. Helpless, she tried to think of something to say to make him quit—but nothing came to mind.
Never would she beg for mercy. Gawdamn him! Never—
Once, she saw what looked like her opportunity and she kicked hard, but he deflected her foot and she missed her goal—his crotch. His wrenching hold on her hair jerked her around again and he delivered another hard blow to her midsection. Desperate for air, she gasped for breath. Her knees gave way. She felt him pounding on her back, then she found herself sprawled facedown on the carpet.
For an instant, his ferocious attack let up. A wave of relief coursed through her body, but it was short-lived.
The first slap of his belt across her bare shoulders felt like a fire brand on the exposed skin. She tried to scoot away, but the lashes only grew more fierce. Then he repeatedly kicked her with his boot. Deeply in pain, she drew herself into a ball under the relentless onslaught of his belt and boot toes. At last, unconsciousness took her away from the pain and she passed out.
9
His whole world was totally black. Fear caused his heart to race uncontrolled. The Kid desperately clutched the saddle horn’s cap under his palm to keep from falling from the sway of Buster’s gait.
“Where in the hell are we now?”
“Oh.” Leo paused and brought the horses to a stop. He was still leading the Kid’s horse. Bobby could hear the leather creaking and knew Leo was looking around. “Dammit, Kid, I don’t know. There are some more pines now. I think we’ll be at Snowflake tomorrow.”
The Kid noted the uncertainty in Leo’s voice and cursed to himself over his own helplessness. He was fairly certain Leo would not leave him. Leo was a follower, and since having taken up with Bobby, he had stuck tightly. No, Leo wouldn’t leave him. When his blindness was healed and everything was over, he vowed silently, he would do something for Leo. Something really special.
“Kid, I think we’d better stop for the day,” Leo said, sounding concerned. “We’ll ride up one of those washes and make camp. It’ll take me a while to get the fire started and to take care of the horses. I’ll get you settled first. Is that okay, Kid?”
“Sure, Leo. Sounds fine. I’m counting on you.”
He dismounted heavily and Leo helped settle him on a bedroll with his back against a sun-warmed rock. The Kid recalled that he had heard those same words “counting on you” from someone else years before.
After Bobby quit Chisum, he went over in the Indian Territory for a while. Satisfied the law had forgotten him, he rode back to New Mexico. Los Gatos was the first place he had stopped when he reached the territory. It was a wood-frame town without any trees except for a few spindly ones that dotted the nearby river. The stream was a typical sandbar affair with a strip of water so narrow that it could be leaped across anywhere.
In the empty saloon, he drank a ten-cent beer and ate boiled eggs with sourdough bread off the free lunch board. He had very little money left, and knew he would soon have to find some work or starve.
“Anyone around here hiring?” he asked the bartender.
The man wiped his hands on his apron. “And just what can you do?” he asked mockingly.
“Mister, I can ride, shoot, and punch cows pretty good.”
“How good can you shoot?” The man looked at him with deep skepticism written on his face.
“Pretty fair.”
“Which says nothing,” the bartender scoffed. “Tell you what; business is kinda slow. You come on out back, and we’ll see how good you are.”
Feeling a little put out at the man, Bobby trudged after him. In the backyard of the saloon, the man motioned for him to wait.
The saloonkeeper took several brown whiskey bottles from a big pile outside the back door, and set them in a row on the edge of the grassy hill. Then he walked slowly back.
“How many of them can you hit?”
“Which ones you want hit?” he asked the man seriously.
“Just take out as many as you can.”
The Kid nodded, then drew the .38 he had traded for in the Nation. He fired the gun in a slow, methodical manner until five bottles were splintered pieces of glass. Then he busied himself reloading his .38. He knew the bartender was impressed with his skill, because each time he had hit a bottle, the man had softly exclaimed, “Oh.”
“You’re good,” the bartender admitted with a surprised smile. “What’s your name?
“Bobby Joe Budd.”
“Where you from, Budd?”
“Oh, the Indian Nation.”
“I think I know a man who could use you to shoot wolves and varmints.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I’m sure he’ll hire you. His name’s Peter Townsend. He owns a ranch south of here. You ride out there. Tell you what, I’ll give you a note to take along, sort of an introduction. You’re some shooter.”
Bobby had shot lots of ammunition through this revolver and liked it better than the larger .45 Chisum had issued him. He loved the double-action Colt and practiced for hours with it. He never doubted his ability. If he wanted to hit something, he simply took aim and fired.
Four hours later, he found the ranch for which the bartender had given him directions. The moment that he laid eyes on Peter Townsend, he knew that the man was a gentleman. Townsend was dressed in a suit even though he was working around the corral. He came forward with a polite smile of inquiry.
“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
Bobby nodded. “The bartender in Los Gatos said you might be able to use me.” He passed the folded note to the rancher.
The man read it, his eyebrows rising in obvious surprise. “What’s your name?”
“Bobby Joe Budd.”
“Willis says you’re a marksman.” Townsend tapped the paper in his hand.
He felt flush faced with embarrassment. “Oh, I reckon I’m … a fair shot.”
The man smiled at his modesty. “Fine, you’re hired. Go put your things in the bunkhouse, then get a bath. You can start work tomorrow.”
Get a bath? Bobby echoed silently. Hell, the man had hired him to punch cows or shoot. What did that have to do with taking a bath? Oh well, it might not hurt him. It was still warm outside, so maybe he wouldn’t catch pneumonia.
So he went to work on the Turkey Track Ranch. The other hands were congenial, although there was an occasional bunkhouse squabble. It was a good job and a fine place to work. Townsend expected everyone to take a bath twice a week, which was unheard of in New Mexico, Texas, and the Indian Territory. But the rancher paid better than most, so it was worth the small inconvenience. Later on, frequent bathing would become a habit with him.
Townsend ran two-year-old steers that he brought in from Texas. Bobby calculated he ran a few thousand or more head. The cattle did good on the rich grass and sold for a healthy price in the fall. Then the following spring, Townsend went back to Texas for more steers. Of course, the man could have laid everyone off in the winter, but he didn’t operate that way.
Folks were drifting into New Mexico. A lot of riffraff came and squatted around Turkey Track watering places, which proved to be an irritation to Townsend.
“There’s not a blessed reason for that bunch to squat over at the Blue Hole,” Townsend told him. “They can’t farm that ground.”
“Probably be closer to your cattle if they get hungry,” Bobby said with youthful cynicism.
The rancher nodded gr
imly. “Exactly. They eat our beef and then sit on their bottoms.”
“Maybe I could ride over there and suggest that they go to California or somewhere,” Bobby offered.
Townsend looked at him intently, then smiled. “A fine idea. We don’t want no trouble, mind you. Just tell them how poor this land is to farm. Take one of the other men with you.”
Bobby considered the idea before he spoke. “Mr. Townsend, I think I can handle it myself.”
“Just be careful.”
“Oh, I will.”
Bundled in a jacket against the north wind, he saddled up and rode out to the place where the good spring water was. He wore a scarf around his neck and a knit sailor cap pulled over his head for warmth. The sun was weak and gave precious little heat.
When he arrived at the top of the mesa near the spring, he saw the wagon bows. They looked like bleached steer carcass ribs. Smoke swirled up and was swept away from beneath the rise that hid the squatters’ outfit.
He rode up to a dug-out canvas tent and could smell the cow-chip fire. Wind whistled past him and popped the tent roof.
“Hello!” he shouted from his position on the horse’s back. His answer was a hexagon barrel of a rifle poked out of the side of the canvas door. “What do you want?”
“Hey,” Bobby protested with a halfhearted laugh. “It’s cold out here; can we talk inside?”
“You just keep riding, mister. We don’t have nothing here for you.” The man had a slight accent.
“Can’t do that. You better come out here and talk to me.” His words carried a distinct warning.
“Don’t try nothing. I’ll get dressed and come out.”
Bobby looked around the small encampment, then pulled his cap over his ears and hugged his arms for warmth.
A tall man, wearing a quilted coat, appeared with a rifle in his hand.
“What do you want?” he demanded, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Mister.” He twisted around as if to examine the land. “This sure ain’t farmland. You’d be ten times better off somewhere else.”
Servant of the Law Page 13