Hickory Jack (Ben Blue Book 1)

by Lou Bradshaw

  As I had said, we rested for four days. I polished the seat of my homespuns on the chair in front of the hotel all day, while Andy snored up in our room. He would sleep all day because he had accumulated a good deal of money at a dollar a day and needed to get rid of some of it. He worked his way through all three of the saloons and about half the whorehouses. Luck was with him at the tables and he was winning a little more than he was spending. In other words, Andy was in a race to empty his pockets before we had to leave town and he was losing. But he was having fun.

  On the morning of the fifth day, I was up and had the horses ready at sunup. I figured I’d have to go roust Andy out of some gal’s bed, so I had a good breakfast first. I hate having some woman cussin me on an empty stomach. I couldn’t find him at the brothels, nor was he passed out in any of the saloons. I finally found him in jail. The marshal said that two of his deputies hauled him in about midnight. He was putting on a shooting exhibition in one of the saloons. He was betting that he could shoot a shot glass off the town drunk’s head and was making a pile of money. The drunk got so scared that he passed out and they had to prop him up. One of the deputies laid a pistol barrel across Andy’s scull and then drug him in for disturbing the peace.

  “You got his things here?” I asked. The marshal shoved Andy’s gun, belt, hat, and wad of money to me. “What’s the fine?” I asked.

  “Ten dollars if you can get him out of town – quick! I don’t want him lookin’ for my deputies. They was just doin’ their job.”

  “Deal.” I said and peeled off the ten, “How about the drunk who was holdin the targets?”

  “Asleep in the same cell.” I peeled off another ten and said to give it to him.

  Between the marshal and me, we got Andy into the saddle. He was feeling no pains – yet. I figured he’d sleep in the saddle; we’d both done it before. So I lashed his hands to the horn to keep him from falling and we rode off.

  I had his horse roped to the packhorse, which I led. Andy’s horse didn’t like that much, since he was used to being up front, but it wouldn’t kill him to be last for a couple of hours. Once I heard Andy throwing up, but I didn’t look back, since that was something he could take care of on his own. About mid morning, he called out, and I stopped. I went back and untied his hands; he was awake enough so that he wouldn’t fall. He didn’t say anything but, “Thanks.” He knew he had been a naughty boy and I knew he knew, so there was nothing to say.

  When we stopped for our noonin’ he was as awake as he was going to be that day. I made a small fire for coffee and took out a couple of sandwiches I had bought at breakfast. After he had finished about half his sandwich and several cups of coffee he asked, “What happened? Where did you find me?”

  “You got drunk, and I had to get you out of jail.”

  “How bad was it?” he asked.

  “Could have been worse,” I said, “at least nobody got hurt.” Then I went on to tell him about his misadventure as a Texas version of William Tell. He couldn’t believe that he would do something like that drunk or sober. “You were covering all bets, and rakin in the money.”

  “How well did I do?” he asked, and when I told him that he had about a hundred and thirty dollars in his roll he said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  When I told him that he paid his own fine and that I left an extra ten for the old drunk he said, “You should of left him twenty.”

  “No,” I said, “someone would take it away from him, or he’d drink himself to death with that much money. Ten’s more than enough.” He nodded.

  He was truly sorry for what he had done to that poor old sot, and swore not to do that sort of thing again.

  “I hope not,” I told him, “because if you had been just a little off target, I’d be tryin’ to come up with a way to bust you out of jail before they could hang you. And I don’t know nothin’ about jail breakin.”

  Chapter 20

  We reached San Antonio fifty-two days after leaving Dodge. It was the biggest and busiest town we’d ever been in, but you could tell it had been planned out better, even with the river wandering through it there was order. The plaza was much grander than that of any other town we’d seen. Our first stop was one of the three hotels, which was followed by the livery, and then we made our way to the nearest saloon.

  It was early December, but the weather was mild and comfortable with just a light jacket. I was just happy we didn’t have to go into Colorado for the winter. We’d have needed some sheepskin or buffalo coats for sure. I would have bet a hundred dollars that all this comfortable winter weather would be paid for in July and August.

  We made a few casual inquiries at the first saloon about the lawyer Brezlin, but no one seemed to know any such person. We began to get a little worried about our connection to Poke. After two days of asking around and checking out all the law offices in town we went to the court house figuring that if he was a lawyer the court would be a natural place to look.

  The first clerk we talked to sent us to another clerk and another until we finally wound up with the boss clerk. He was a bit of a prig with ink smudges on his hands and cuffs. He was almost as tall as me, but weighed about a third as much. He was all elbows and Adam’s apple. When we told him that we were trying to locate a lawyer named Brezlin, he said, “Certainly not. There’s no such lawyer in this city. Are you sure, you’re in the right town? Many of these Spanish names sound alike.”

  I told him that I got the information from a dying man, and I was positive he said San Antonio in Texas. I said that a dying man wouldn’t lie about a town and I was writing it down. He sighed and agreed to check his list of lawyers who were recognized by the court. As he ran his finger down the list, he called them off, “Brendle, Bremen, Brestock, Breziel, Cabbot. No.” he said, “No Brezlin.”

  Andy and I looked at each other for a few seconds and then I turned back to the boss clerk and said, “What was that next to last name, Brezel or something?”

  “Breziel,” he said, Robert Breziel. Most folks pronounced it Brazil. He was a specialist in property management and estates.”

  “It’s pretty close.” I said, “We’ll talk to him, where can I find him?”

  “You can’t.” he replied, “He’s been dead over a year now.” Then he looked around to see if anyone was in hearing distance and said, “Murdered!”

  “What happened? Who killed him and why?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you any more about it. The police haven’t caught the murderers yet, so any further questions should be directed to the city marshal’s office.” The dead end may have just opened up again.

  We found the marshal or chief of police, as they were inclined to call him, in his office and eager to talk to anyone who came through the door. He was an old time lawman trying to adapt to being head of a large and competent force. It was large enough and competent enough that he didn’t have anything to do. He sat at his desk and looked at papers full of numbers and reports full of misspelled words and did his best to keep his eyes open. Life had gotten tame. I didn’t have to hear him say so, although he did, I could read it in his manner. He was a general who wanted to be a private, but the years had taken too much from him.

  He was a man well past fifty with a lot of years as a frontier lawman. His reputation had given him the job of chief, but no one expected him to do the kind of work that had earned the reputation. So there he sat looking at papers and waiting for someone to come in.

  We introduced ourselves and told him who we were looking for. We also told him that our man Brezlin might be the murdered man Breziel.

  “Breziel,” he said, yeah, Bob Brazil. Killed last year. A real snake, he was. Managed property and business matters for some of the wealthy Mex folk, things like cattle and horse sales, land rental – that sort of stuff. After he got his throat cut, they went over his accounts and found a lot of Mex money unaccounted for.”

  “We may have an idea who killed him.” I said.

  “Oh, we know wh
o killed him,” he replied, it was those two skunks he had working for him. My guess is they had the money and were out of town before Brazil even hit the floor.”

  “Just for the sake of curiosity, marshal,” I said, “let me see if I can describe the two men who killed him.” I think he liked being called marshal because he smiled and motioned me to proceed.

  When I had finished describing Poke and Gentry, he leaned across the desk and said, “Right down to the chin whiskers. You got them fellers good and proper. Who might they be?”

  I told him they were best known as Amos Poke and Clyde Gentry out of the South by way of Kansas, Missouri, and Arkansas. I also showed him the wanted posters on both men and told our story.

  “Damnation!” he blurted out, and banged his fist on the desk. “We had Judge Poke walkin around here for months and didn’t have any idea. Double damnation! I got nearly twenty deputies or policemen as they call theirselves, but they’re all puppies. Oh, they’re tough youngsters, but they don’t know what to look for. Damnation!”

  He went on to tell us that Poke and Gentry had been around for some months before they killed the lawyer. My guess was they had waited until they could get their hands on the money. Then they took the money and lit out. The question was… where?

  We thanked the chief and left, but not before, he asked if we were interested in becoming policemen. We thanked him again and declined. We had some planning and arguing to do. All we knew for sure was that Poke and Gentry had been in San Antonio, that they had killed Brezlin, and had taken the money and run. Or had they taken the money and Brezlin’s plan and run? If they just took off, then we’d be hard pressed to pick up their trail after over a year. If they took the plan seriously then we should find them somewhere in New Mexico, or at least we might find traces there. It was a pretty slim chance, but it was all we had.

  Andy was in a foul mood; he was depressed, bitter, and just plain madder than hell. He felt that we were starting all over again – from scratch. We found a table in one of the out of the way saloons and started our war council. I let him get some of the steam and cussing out first. He cussed our luck, cussed Poke and Gentry, he cussed Brezlin and Brazeil, and cussed the lousy beer the joint served. He finally got a bottle of Old Buffalo Pee from the bar and got serious about his mood. I just sipped the lousy beer.

  After the whiskey started to take a calming effect on him, I began laying out our options. We could go to Santa Fe and start over again on a small scale, or we could start from San Antonio and begin looking in all directions on a very large scale. Personally, I opted for the smaller search. I had a feeling that Poke had not only stolen Brezlin’s money, but he also stole his idea as well. Maybe I was just being lazy, maybe I was just getting tired of being on the trail, but maybe something in my belly said it was the thing to do. I told Andy what I thought, and he just snorted with disgust. I didn’t take a snort too seriously. In the mood he was in he would have snorted at an idea written in stone and handed down from Heaven.

  The place was filling up with a late afternoon crowd, and someone was torturing an old worn out piano. We ordered some food from the kitchen and kept on making plans. I was making plans; Andy was making grunts and snorts. Lamps were being lit and the late afternoon crowd drifted out to make way for the serious drinkers of the evening crowd. The man at the piano was persistent, if not good because he never gave up.

  I got up and went to the privy out back. On the way, back in I picked up another lousy beer and caught the attention of one of the girls. I gave her a dollar and asked her if she could show my friend some attention and get him out on the dance floor. She was sure that she could do that without too much trouble. I also held out a five-dollar piece and said it was hers if she could keep him occupied until morning. She said if she couldn’t handle that, she’d turn in her garters. I gave her the coin and told her that it was over and above anything he might offer. She smiled and said, “These cowboys love to think they’re getting a free ride.” Then she looked me in the eye, smiled again and said, “There’ll be enough left over for you, big ‘un.”

  I blushed, choked, and stammered, “Maybe later.” Girls made my ears turn as redder than my hair.

  Chapter 21

  We spent the Christmas of 1869 in a snowstorm on the high plains of west Texas. Within the first few weeks of 1870, we were in the Sangre de Cristo, or Blood of Christ, Mountains of New Mexico. They were the first real mountains we had ever seen, and I for one was overwhelmed. Folks always referred to the Ozarks as mountains, but they were just tall hills compared to the western mountains. I just stared, trying to put those massive rock piles into some sort of prospective. It was enough to make a fella dizzy. All I knew was I liked ‘em.

  When we rode into Santa Fe, we were inclined to think we had reached our goal. I had to keep reminding myself that Frazier had specifically said the land grab was north of Santa Fe. I guess the only thing we could do was start.

  Our first order of business, after we got a room and the horses stabled, was to pay a call on the Sheriff. Santa Fe wasn’t a big town compared to San Antonio, but it was an important town. It was the capital and an old, old town full of old Spanish families and old Spanish money. I remembered Father Paul telling me that he had come from a wealthy family in Santa Fe. I wished I had asked him about the country and everything else as well. But at the time I had no idea that I would ever wind up in his hometown.

  The sheriff’s office wasn’t a lot of help, but the idea of having Poke in their county sent up a red flag, and we were allowed to talk to the sheriff – personally. The sheriff was a lawyer turned lawman. He was cordial enough, but efficient. He wanted to know all about us, so I drug out the stack of letters, fliers, and death certificates. After quickly looking over everything, He sat back and tapped his pipe stem on his lower lip. You could see him rushing information through his head like a steam engine getting ready to hit the drivers and turn the wheels. It was amazing to watch.

  He walked to the window and stood looking out at the plaza for about a half a minute. Then he turned and said, “You boys are gonna be a big headache to somebody, but not to me. If your man Poke is trying to pull off a land grab, he’s not doing it in Los Alamos County. The land grants and deeds have all been proven up and the court cases were settled sometime back.” He relit his pipe, took a few puffs, and said, “We’ve spent several years working to get that mess straightened out here.”

  Turning back to the window he said, “There was an incident up north in Taos County, but the precedents set in our courts pretty much squashed all that. Although, some of the principals involved forked over the cash and bought portions of the land they were contesting.”

  “Do you think one of those ‘principals’ could maybe be Amos Poke?” I asked, not really knowing what a ‘principal’ was.

  “Couldn’t tell you,” he said, “never set eyes on any of them. In fact I’ve never been to Taos – no reason to.” Which confirmed my earlier suspicion that most folks don’t know what is twenty miles up the road.

  We thanked the sheriff and left. It was time for another pow-wow. It seemed that we had our best pow-wows at drinkin places. So, we went looking for a saloon, and I was hoping it was one that served food. We found a small cantina off the plaza that served strong liquor, warm beer, and lots of peppers in the beef. It had a mixed crowd and a guitar player in the corner. The senoritas serving the food and drinks were almost as spicy as the food. Life can have its moments.

  After we had taken the edge off our hunger, we got down to the root hog or die part of our planning. Andy wanted to head for Taos the next morning, but I thought it would be better to stick around Santa Fe for a while and see what rumors were being stirred. As best I could remember ever hearing anything about the place was that it was a trapper hang out back in the Kit Carson days. It surely couldn’t be much even today. If we go up there with no prospects in the dead of winter, we’d stick out like a couple of sore thumbs.

  Andy wasn’t con
vinced. He still wanted to barge on up there and start nosing around. He said, “We don’t need prospects. We got plenty of money to last out the winter.”

  “Andy,” I said, “that’s not the point. The idea is to find out if Poke and Gentry are there, or if they might be there. If we go up there to some little crossroad town and just hang around we’re gonna look mighty suspicious.”

  “But,” I went on, “if we stay around here a while, no one’s gonna even notice. And I’ve a hunch we can pick up a lot of information here.”

  “Pick up information here? Are you crazy? Even the sheriff doesn’t know what’s goin on in Taos.”

  “You’re right.” I said, “He doesn’t know what’s going on, but that’s because he doesn’t care. Think about it. He’s a lawyer turned sheriff in a town full of politicians. That tells me that he most likely worked on those land grant cases, made a name for himself; his people ran him for office, and the next step is a higher office. He’s not a real sheriff like we’re used to – he’s a government official – a big boss clerk.”

  “Trust me on this, Andy. We can take a ride up that way in a couple of weeks to get a lay of the land and then come back here to sit out the rest of the winter. Come spring the ranchers will be needing extra help and we can latch onto something. I hear that bunkhouse gossip is better than an old maids’ convention.”

  He wasn’t fully convinced, or at least he wouldn’t tell me I was right out of pure stubbornness, but I knew the signs. It didn’t hurt that the little chili pepper serving the drinks flashed a beautiful smile and batted some equally beautiful black eyes for his pleasure. We’d stay in Santa Fe for the winter.

  I figured there was information to be had in Santa Fe if a fella could find the right people to talk to, and those who wanted to be congressmen or governors weren’t the right people to talk to. Who were the ones affected by a land grab? It only affected politicians because it could make or break their careers. The ones it really affected were the ones who were the victims – the ones who stood to lose their land, and those who worked for them.