Above the Herd . . .
Siringo fired and ducked back behind the steers, but the animals were just seconds away from stampeding because of the shots.
Clint fired twice, quickly dispatching two men from the action, then took cover himself.
Both men fired into the group of outlaws, who were scattering, trying to make a smaller target of themselves. The steers started to run, but that was of no concern to Siringo and Clint as long as they weren’t trampled. And, in fact, the herd began to run toward the outlaws, who then really had to scramble to keep from being trampled beneath them.
Clint and Siringo managed to avoid that fate themselves, but the stampeding herd kicked up a lot of dust, which impeded their view. They both hoped their tracker, Tom Horn, had a clearer view from above . . .
But he did not . . .
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THE PINKERTON JOB
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Robert J. Randisi.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-62387-9
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / June 2013
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Contents
MORE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES
Title Page
Copyright
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
ONE
Charlie Siringo waited while the other man studied the ground. Siringo had been a cowboy for a long time, was a published writer, and was working as a detective. He was not a tracker. For that he had sought out another man, and he left it up to him to do the tracking.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t get impatient.
“Well?” he demanded. “What do you see?”
The other man looked up at him and said calmly, “I see more than you see, or you’d be down here doin’ this.”
The New Mexican ground was so hard here, he didn’t see how anyone could pick up tracks on it. But if anyone could, it was Tom Horn.
Horn remained on one knee for a few moments longer, then stood up, brushed his hands together, and looked off into the distance.
“We’re still on the right track,” he said.
He walked back to where Siringo sat his own horse and held the reins of Horn’s. Siringo handed the reins to the younger man, who swung up into his saddle.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m positive,” Horn said. “Charlie, you came to me, remember? Why you always gotta question me?”
“It’s my nature, Tom,” Siringo said. “I’m a detective.”
“So you’re sure these guys we’re trailin’ are the right ones?”
“I’m sure the Sandusky gang are the ones I’m after, yeah,” Siringo said. “I’m not sure we’re on their trail. I only know you say we’re on somebody’s trail.”
“I picked up this trail from where you took me,” Horn said. “You said the Sanduskys were there. If you’re right, then I’m right. It all depends on you, Charlie.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“Are we goin’?” Horn asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” Siringo said, “we’re goin’. Lead on.”
Horn didn’t actually take the lead. Rather, they rode off together, with Horn determining the direction they took.
* * *
Charlie Siringo was a Pinkerton operative who had been assigned to find out who was rustling cattle in Santa Fe County, New Mexico. Once he had determined that it was Harlan Sandusky and his gang, he recruited Tom Horn to track the gang for him.
Since joining the Pinkertons two years earlier—using Pat Garrett’s name as a reference—Siringo had worked mostly on labor disputes, but the Stock Grower’s Association of New Mexico had paid the Pinkertons a lot of money to stop the rustling, so they had decided
to send their best man. Also, they figured Siringo’s experience as a cowboy—which he had set down in print in the published book, A Texas Cowboy; Or Fifteen Years on the Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony—would be a benefit.
Siringo knew that Tom Horn, several years younger than himself, would be the man to actually track the gang down. He also trusted Horn to back his play. He intended to try to get the Pinkertons to hire Horn once they were done with this job. Siringo knew that Horn—a soldier, scout, and tracker—had all the makings of an excellent Pinkerton detective.
Despite all that, Siringo was becoming impatient to catch up to the Sandusky gang. It was time to put this job to bed and get back to Chicago. If he had wanted to spend this much time on horseback, he would have remained a cowboy.
* * *
Tom Horn respected Charlie Siringo.
He’d never tell him that, of course. Although he respected the detective, he also had enough ego to believe he was every bit as good as Siringo was. However, when it came to tracking, there was no doubt he was superior.
Horn was not yet thirty, and had established a reputation as a scout and tracker. He and Siringo had crossed paths several times and, while not friends, got along. In truth, Tom Horn had few friends. He was a man who enjoyed his solitude. That was why he enjoyed the time he had to spend on the trail when working.
But Siringo was paying him well this time, so they traveled together.
* * *
They stopped and camped for the night, and over beans and bacon Horn said, “I think we should catch up to them tomorrow.”
“I’m lookin’ forward to it,” Siringo said.
“Can’t wait to go back to Chicago?”
“It’s so different, Tom,” Siringo said, “after all the years I spent on a horse, punchin’ cows.”
“Yeah, well,” Horn said, “I ain’t done with my time on horseback.”
“As long as you still enjoy it,” Siringo said, “why change?”
Horn raised his coffee cup in agreement.
“I’ll take first watch,” Horn said.
While they were the pursuers, that didn’t mean the pursued wouldn’t double back at some point, and they didn’t want to be caught unawares. So they had been setting a watch each night.
“Fine,” Siringo said, “wake me in four hours.”
“You can have longer if you want,” Horn said. “I really don’t sleep that much.”
“Naw,” Siringo said, “four hours is fine.”
“Okay.”
Siringo rolled himself up in his bedroll and said, “And try to leave me some coffee this time.”
“I’ll make sure there’s a fresh pot,” Horn said, pouring himself some more and nibbling on the last of the bacon.
TWO
A day earlier, Clint Adams awoke and drank the last of his coffee and ate the last of his beans for breakfast. He broke camp and killed the fire. He’d stop in the next town and restock.
Looking around, he figured the next town would be Las Vegas. He could have gone east, to Albuquerque, but he’d already bypassed it, not wanting to spend time in a big town. Las Vegas would suit his purposes.
* * *
He rode into Las Vegas before noon, found the street of the small town busy with foot traffic, as well as some buckboards. He’d been there before, but not for a while. It had grown, and the mercantile now occupied a store twice the size as last time he was there.
There were a number of horses already tied off in front of the place. He found a space for Eclipse, looped the reins loosely over the hitching post, and went inside.
The inside of the store was busy, so he took some time to walk around and examine the wares. There were racks of clothing, mostly for women, many dresses and hats, but there were some jeans and shirts for men folded on some tables. Plenty of tools—pitchforks, shovels, pickaxes—lined one wall, while another wall accommodated rifles and handguns, as well as ammunition. The store was extremely well stocked, which was probably attracting a lot of out-of-town—and even out-of-the-county—business.
Finally there was a lull and he stepped up to the front counter.
“How can I help you, sir?” the clerk asked happily. Of course he was happy—he was selling stuff hand over fist.
“I just need some coffee and beans,” Clint said.
“Is that all? We have a wide variety of items, as you can see.”
“I did see,” Clint said, “but all I need is some coffee and beans.”
“All right, sir,” the clerk said. “How many cans of beans?”
“Four.”
“Comin’ up!”
He turned to the wall stocked with staples and took down a tin of coffee and four cans of beans. He put the items down in front of Clint.
“And I’ll take some beef jerky,” he said. Adding jerky to the beans would stretch them a bit.
“Yes, sir!”
The clerk told Clint how much and he paid the bill.
“Put that in a burlap sack, will you?” Clint asked.
“Of course, sir.”
Clint left the store with his burlap sack, tied it to his saddle horn, and then mounted up. His intention was to ride out of town immediately, but he spotted the saloon across the street and suddenly his mouth had a dryness to it that water just wouldn’t cut.
He needed a cold beer.
* * *
Once again he looped Eclipse’s reins loosely around a pole before entering the saloon. The place was large, with lots of space between the tables, a full stage in front. Gaming tables were covered and would be until later that evening. At the moment, there were only a few patrons in the place, and Clint strode to the bar, where a bartender was waiting for him.
“Beer,” Clint said.
“Comin’ up.”
When the beer came, it had a nice head, and was sweating. Clint sipped it and found it bitingly cold. It ate dust all the way down to his belly.
“That’s good.”
“Anything else?” the bartender asked.
“Nope, this’ll be it.”
“A nickel.”
Clint tossed the nickel on the bar and said, “Good price.”
The bartender took the nickel and moved down the bar.
Clint drank the beer slow enough to enjoy it, but fast enough so that the last sip was still cold.
He had just set the empty mug down on the bar when a man came running through the batwing doors.
“Hey,” he yelled breathlessly, “they just brung ’em in.”
“Brung who in?” the bartender asked. “Yer not makin’ any sense, Wilson.”
Wilson tried to catch his breath, then he said, “They just brung in Charlie Siringo and Tom Horn, all shot up!”
“Where are they?” Clint asked immediately.
“Took ’em over to Doc’s.”
Clint left the bar, grabbed Wilson by the shirt, and said, “Show me!”
THREE
There was a shingle hanging outside the building that said: DR. JOHN T. EDSON. Clint noticed it in passing as he followed Wilson inside.
The first person he saw was Charlie Siringo, sitting in a chair, holding a bloody bandage to his left arm. Tom Horn was nowhere to be seen.
“Charlie!” he said.
Siringo was startled when he saw Clint.
“Clint. What the hell are you doin’ here?”
“I was in the saloon when I heard this fella say they brought you and Tom Horn in, all shot up. Are you all right?”
“I got nicked on the arm,” Siringo said. “I’m fine. The doc is workin’ on Tom. He took two bullets.”
“Bad?”
“Bad enough,” Siringo said, “but I don’t think either one’s gonna be fatal. I was able to stop the bleedin’ out there, until we could get picked up.”
> “What happened?”
“I think I’m gonna have to tell the sheriff that,” Siringo said, “so if you don’t mind, I’ll just wait ’til he shows up and tell it once.”
“That’s fine,” Clint said. “Let me see that.”
Siringo removed the bandage and Clint took a look at the wound. He’d seen hundreds of bullet wounds over the year, and this was nowhere near the worst.
“You’re good,” he said as Siringo covered it up again.
“What are you doin’ in Las Vegas?” Siringo asked.
“I’m passing through, Charlie,” Clint said. “I assume you’re working.”
“Sure am.”
“And Horn?”
“Workin’ with me.”
“How’s that going?”
“It was goin’ fine, until this.”
The doctor came out at that moment, wiping his hands on a towel. He was a youngish man, maybe forty, with black hair and handsome features.
“Doc,” Siringo said, “how’s he doin’?”
“He’ll be okay,” the man said. “He took one high on the shoulder. That’s not a problem. The bad one is in the thigh. The bullet went through, tore a bit chunk out of the back of his thigh, but you did a good job controlling the bleeding. I closed the wound and bound it. He should be okay, as long as it doesn’t get infected.”
“Can he ride?”
“Not unless he wants to tear that wound open,” Dr. Edson said. “I don’t want him on a horse for at least a week. Now let me take a look at you.”
Again, Siringo uncovered the wound. The doctor cleaned it and dressed it and pronounced Siringo fit.
“I was expectin’ the sheriff to show up,” Siringo said.
“If you want to talk to our sheriff, I think you’ll have to go to him,” Edson said.
“What kind of man is he?” Clint asked.
“He doesn’t do any more than he has to do,” Edson said. “Let’s leave it at that.”
“All right, then,” Siringo said. “I’ll go and see him. But can I talk to Tom first?”
“Sure, go on in.”
“Clint?”
“Sure, I’ll come along.”
Siringo led the way, and he and Clint went into the examination room.
The Pinkerton Job Page 1