The Pinkerton Job

by J. R. Roberts

  Sandusky began to growl as he came near to exploding in her mouth, but before that could happen, he grabbed her by the hair and threw her off him. Then he pushed her onto her back and yanked her jeans off her. Once she was naked and he could see that wild tangle of red hair between her legs, he became single-minded. He mounted her on the cot, grabbed her ankles, spread her legs, and drove his hard cock into her, fucked her brutally enough that the men outside could hear her screaming . . .

  * * *

  Later he threw her jeans and torn shirt at her and said, “Get out. I got some thinkin’ to do.”

  “Jesus, Harlan, lemme get dressed at least,” she complained.

  He grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the door, saying, “Out!”

  Battered and bruised—her big brown nipples swollen for more than one reason—she staggered out of the shack even before she could get dressed. The other men eyed her nudity for as long as they could, and then, fully dressed, she approached the group, slapping two or three of them, until one of them tossed her a bottle of whiskey. She opened it with her teeth and guzzled the remains, then laughed . . .

  * * *

  Sandusky, still naked, went back to his coffeepot and poured a cup. While he drank it, he thought about Charlie Siringo being on his trail for the Pinkertons. He wished he’d had time to go back and check to make sure Siringo and his partner were dead, but those ranch hands had heard the shooting and showed up pretty quick. His men were tired and he didn’t want to get into a full-scale firefight.

  If he knew for sure Siringo was dead, he would have taken his men back to Santa Fe County for some more rustling. However, not knowing for sure, he had to execute another plan. They could go to Mexico and wait for the heat to die down, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t stop off in Lincoln and grab some more cattle. They could drive them to Mexico and find a buyer there.

  His thoughts went back to Siringo. An ex-cowhand turned detective, he turned out to be a damned good one. Charlie Siringo was literally the only man Sandusky was concerned about.

  Sure wished he knew for sure if he was dead.

  And suddenly he wished he hadn’t kicked Delilah out so soon . . .

  * * *

  Clint had taken the last watch, so he had breakfast on the fire when the others woke up.

  “Ah, damn it!” Tom Horn growled as he came awake.

  “You okay?” Clint asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Horn said, “just stiff.”

  “You need help gettin’ to your feet?” Siringo asked, standing.

  Horn seemed to give the offer some thought, then said, “Ah, why not?”

  Siringo went over and gave Horn a hand. Horn grabbed it and Siringo hauled him carefully to his feet.

  “Ahh,” Horn groaned as he straightened. He started to walk around a bit, testing his leg. “You musta done a good job, Charlie.”

  “I hope so,” Siringo said.

  “Come on over here and have some breakfast,” Clint suggested. “Might make you feel even better.”

  “Not his coffee,” Siringo warned.

  “What’s wrong with his coffee?” Horn asked. “I like it. Good trail coffee.”

  “Jesus,” Siringo said, shaking his head, but he accepted a cup from Clint.

  After breakfast Horn decided to pitch in, so he said he’d refill the canteens. Clint broke camp and killed the fire, while Siringo saddled the horses.

  They were ready to go.

  Horn insisted in mounting his horse on his own, so Clint and Siringo fell back, ready to jump in if he fell. But he managed to get himself in the saddle. Clint and Siringo mounted up, and they started south.

  * * *

  Sandusky pulled on his jeans, then called Anderson into the shack.

  “Close the door,” he said, not that it made any difference. The windows had no glass, and the walls were so thin, anybody who wanted to listen in could.

  “What’s up, boss?” Anderson asked. “Man, you sure tore Delilah up, huh? She looks sore as hell.”

  “I wanna stop over in Lincoln County and get some cows, Cal.”

  “Where we gonna sell ’em?”

  “Mexico.”

  “We’re gonna drive ’em all the way to ol’ Mexico?” Anderson asked.

  “It ain’t that far,” Sandusky said, “and we can use the money.”

  Anderson shrugged and said, “You’re the boss.”

  “You think these men are up to it?” Sandusky asked.

  “Most of ’em are,” Anderson said. “Skeeter, Nelson, Rosario . . . they’re good men.”

  “All right, then,” Sandusky said. “Start breakin’ camp and we’ll head to Lincoln.”

  “What do I tell the men?”

  “Nothin’,” Sandusky said. “They’ll find out when the time comes.”

  “Right.”

  “Anderson.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know you got friends out there,” Sandusky said, “but don’t get too attached, huh?”

  Anderson gave a wolfish grin and said, “I getcha, boss.”

  TWELVE

  Suddenly, the trail swung east.

  “This is odd,” Horn said.

  “Where could they be headed?” Clint asked.

  “Santa Rosa?” Siringo asked. “It’s the biggest town east of here.”

  “Maybe they want to rest,” Clint said.

  “Could be,” Horn said.

  “We got no choice,” Siringo said. “We gotta follow.”

  Horn shrugged and said, “Let’s go.”

  They rode along Santa Rosa Lake later in the day until they came to a cold campsite, with a worn-out shack next to it.

  “They stopped here,” Horn said, looking around. “Looks like at least overnight, maybe two nights.”

  “I’ll check the shack,” Clint said, and rode over to it. He dismounted and went inside.

  Horn dismounted on his own, stood there for a moment, then turned and started walking. He was stiff, Siringo could see that, but he wasn’t complaining and—more important—he wasn’t bleeding.

  “I got maybe a dozen horses picketed here,” Horn called out.

  “Lots of boot scuffs on the rocks here,” Siringo said. They weren’t going to find many tracks because the ground was hard, but it was well scuffed. He bent over and picked something up. “Cigar butt,” he called.

  “Lemme see,” Horn said, coming over.

  Siringo handed it over. Horn smelled it, then tried a few puffs.

  “It’s dead,” he said, “but not long. Probably this mornin’.”

  “They camped here ’til this mornin’?” Siringo said. “We’re less than a day behind?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Let’s see what Clint’s got.”

  They started for the shack.

  Inside the shack Clint could see that one man had camped there, probably the leader. There was an old shirt left behind, an empty whiskey bottle, a couple of flattened cigarettes, and burned matches. He touched the wall of the shack, realized it could fall in on him any minute, and got out of there.

  “What’s inside?” Siringo asked.

  “Not much,” Clint said. “Looks like the leader kept himself apart from his men.”

  “Sandusky,” Siringo said.

  “If it’s them.”

  “It’s them,” Horn said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “The tracks led us here,” Horn said. “I recognize some of them. They’re pretty distinctive.”

  “Okay,” Siringo said, “then we’re just a matter of hours behind.”

  “Where’d they go from here?” Clint asked. “Santa Rosa?”

  “We’ll follow the tracks south,” Horn said, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if they bypass Santa Rosa.”

>   Horn stretched and Clint asked, “How’s the leg?”

  “I’m fine,” Horn said. “Let’s get back on their trail.”

  Horn mounted with seemingly more ease than before. Clint wondered how much effort that actually took.

  THIRTEEN

  As Horn had opined, the gang bypassed Santa Rosa. Not only that, they swung west.

  “Now what?” Clint asked.

  “Still going south,” Horn said, “but now it’s southwest.”

  “Carrizozo?” Siringo wondered.

  “Maybe,” Horn said. “It’s small, but they can stock up there.”

  The three men exchanged a glance.

  “It’s your call, Charlie.”

  “If they bypassed Santa Rosa, they’re gonna need supplies,” the detective said. “Carrizozo figures.”

  “So we can stop tracking them and head straight there?”

  Siringo thought about it.

  “If we do that and they bypass Carrizozo, we could lose ’em,” Horn said.

  “We’re only a few hours behind,” Siringo said. “Let’s stay on their trail.”

  * * *

  They followed the trail for the better part of the day. Horn drew his horse to a stop, Clint and Siringo following his lead.

  “You okay?” Clint asked.

  “I’m fine,” Horn said, although his face was very pale beneath his perpetual sunburn. “Looks like we were right. They’re headed straight to Carrizozo.”

  “Can we make it tonight?” Clint asked.

  “If we ride in the dark,” Horn said.

  That didn’t sound like a good idea to Clint. All it would take was a small stumble and Horn’s horse might unseat him. If that happened, his wound would burst open when he hit the ground.

  “Why push it?” Clint asked.

  “I was thinkin’ the same thing,” Siringo said.

  “You’re both bad liars,” Horn said, “but I ain’t gonna argue.”

  As Clint had suspected, Horn’s wound was giving him trouble.

  “We’ll camp and head out first thing in the morning,” Siringo said. “If they’re in Carrizozo now, we won’t be that far behind them.”

  They made camp. This time Siringo fetched the water and built the fire while Clint picketed the horses. Horn sat down immediately after dismounting, leaning his weight off his injured leg. For the most part he’d been doing pretty well, but if he was going to start slowing them down, they’d have to leave him behind. Maybe in Carrizozo. But Clint figured it was up to Siringo to bring it up.

  By the time Clint got to the fire, Siringo had the coffeepot going, and bacon in the pan.

  * * *

  When Sandusky and his gang reached Carrizozo, he sent three men to buy supplies while the others waited at the edge of town. A dozen men riding down the main street would attract attention, which he didn’t need at the moment. Since the town was the county seat of Lincoln County, they were where they wanted to be, and Sandusky was anxious to get a move on.

  While the men were sitting around the campfire eating that evening, Sandusky and Anderson were off to the side.

  Sandusky said, “There’s a ranch not far from here that usually runs five hundred head or so.”

  “We can’t drive that many to Mexico,” Cal Anderson said.

  “We don’t need five hundred,” Sandusky said. “We’ll grab a hundred or so.”

  “What ranch is it?” Anderson said.

  “Used to be John Chisum’s place,” Sandusky said. “Back in the sixties he was running a hundred thousand head.”

  “Who owns it now?” Anderson asked.

  “Don’t rightly know, but I hear there’s always plenty of cattle there.”

  “It’s gonna slow us down,” Anderson said.

  “Who do you think is after us?”

  “Siringo,” Anderson said.

  “Yeah,” Sandusky said, “but if he’s alive, he’s alone. One against twelve. I’ll take those odds every time.”

  Anderson didn’t look convinced. If Siringo was alive, Horn might be alive, too, even if Anderson himself had put Horn down. He knew he’d hit him at least twice, but he hadn’t actually seen him die.

  “Don’t worry so much, Cal,” Sandusky said. “That’s my job, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  Sandusky slapped his segundo on the back and said, “Just enjoy your meal. Tomorrow we’ll pick up some cows and head for Mexico.”

  “It’s a long way,” Anderson said.

  “It’ll be worth it,” Sandusky told him, “when we get there.”

  FOURTEEN

  Clint had a decent pot of coffee ready when Siringo and Horn woke the next morning.

  “I knew I wouldn’t get away from this for long,” Siringo said, but he drank a cup. At the very least, it was eye-opening.

  Horn rolled over and struggled to his feet, accepted a cup from Clint.

  “No breakfast,” Clint said. “We’ll have to buy some more supplies in Carrizozo. Maybe get a doctor to look you over.”

  “I won’t argue with that,” Horn said.

  They broke camp, Clint dousing the fire and Siringo saddling the horses. This time Horn took some assistance in getting in the saddle.

  They headed for Carrizozo.

  The trail led right to the edge of town, where it got lost among other tracks leading into town. No matter, they could pick it up again on the other side.

  Twelve men riding into Carrizozo would have been noticeable. All they had to do was ask.

  “I’ll talk to the local law,” Siringo said. “You get Tom to a doctor.”

  “Right,” Clint said. “Let’s meet at the mercantile.”

  “Okay,” Siringo said.

  They split up.

  * * *

  Siringo entered the sheriff’s office. There was a time when Pat Garrett would have been there, but since killing Billy the Kid, Garrett had written a book about it and had moved on to Texas, where he was the captain of a company of Texas Rangers.

  The present sheriff of Lincoln County looked up from his desk as the detective entered. He was a mild-looking bald man in his fifties.

  “Help ya?” he asked.

  “Charlie Siringo,” Siringo said, “Pinkerton Agent, Sheriff . . .”

  “Hapwell,” the man said, “George Hapwell. I know who you are, Mr. Siringo. What brings you to Lincoln County?”

  “I’m tracking a gang of rustlers,” Siringo said, “and have reason to believe they rode through here as recently as yesterday.”

  “Rustlers?” Hapwell asked. “Through here? How many men are we talkin’ about?”

  “At least a dozen,” Siringo said.

  “Sir, if a dozen men had ridden into this town yesterday,” Hapwell said, “I would know about it.”

  “So you’re sayin’ they didn’t come through town?”

  “They did not.”

  “Their trail leads right to the edge of town.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Hapwell said. “A dozen men did not ride into this town yesterday, or in the past week.”

  * * *

  Clint found the doctor’s office, helped Horn down off his horse, and took him inside.

  “Can I help you gents?” a short, straw-haired man asked.

  “Are you the doctor?” Clint asked.

  “I am.”

  “You’re a little young,” Horn observed.

  The doctor studied Horn and said, “Probably only a year or two younger than you. However, if one of you needs a doctor, I’m what you’ve got.”

  “This man was shot several days ago,” Clint said, “and against his doctor’s orders, he’s been riding. We’d like you to take a look at the wound.”

  “Of course,” the doctor said. “St
ep through that door, please.”

  Clint helped Horn through the door and onto an examining table. The doctor followed them.

  “I can take it from here,” he said to Clint.

  “I’ll be outside,” Clint replied. “Thanks, Doc.”

  As soon as he left the room, the doctor closed the door.

  * * *

  “Okay,” Siringo said, “so a dozen men didn’t ride into town. Have any strangers been through town?”

  “Well,” Hapwell said, “now that you mention it, three men did ride into town yesterday.”

  Siringo wondered if the sheriff was really this stupid.

  “And did they stay overnight?”

  “No,” Hapwell said, “they went to the mercantile, and then left.”

  “So they were in town for . . .”

  “Maybe an hour.”

  “And you knew about this how?”

  “I happened to be in the mercantile at the time.”

  “So you know what they bought?”

  “Some supplies,” Hapwell said. “I don’t know exactly what. You’d have to talk to Wendell Court. He owns the store.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  “Do you think those were your men?”

  “Some of them.”

  “So where do you think the others went?” Hapwell asked.

  “Probably just waited outside of town.”

  “I hope you catch up with them.”

  “Yeah, Sheriff,” Siringo said, “so do I. Thanks for your help.”

  “Sure,” Hapwell said. “Let me know if there’s anythin’ else I can do while you’re in town.”

  “I will.”

  “Any idea how long that might be?” Hapwell asked as Siringo walked to the door.

  “No, idea,” Siringo said. “I have a friend seein’ your doctor, but I’m hopin’ not overnight.”

  He left the office before the sheriff could ask another question.

  FIFTEEN

  The doctor came out and addressed Clint.