The Pinkerton Job

by J. R. Roberts

  “Well, there’s no infection,” he said. “That’s good. He shouldn’t be riding, but on the other hand, he hasn’t done any lasting damage to himself—not yet anyway.”

  “Then he can continue to ride?”

  “That’s going to be up to him,” the doctor said, “if he wants to take the chance that he will do some damage eventually.”

  “Well, if I know him,” Clint said, “he’ll want to take the chance.”

  “His choice,” the doctor said. “What about you? Anything ailing you?”

  “Me? I’m fine,” Clint said. “No, this was just for Tom.”

  “Okay, then,” the doctor said. “He should be dressed by now, but he might need help getting down from the table.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Clint went into the room just as Horn was trying to get down.

  “Here, let me give you a hand,” he said, rushing to Horn’s side.

  “Thanks.”

  With Clint’s aid, Horn managed to stand up without falling down.

  “The doctor gave me a clean bill of health,” Horn said.

  “Kinda,” Clint added.

  “Whataya mean?”

  “He left it up to you, I know,” Clint said. “You can ride if you want to.”

  “I’ll ride as long as I can,” Horn said. “When I fall off, you can leave me where I lay.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Clint said.

  “Where’s Charlie?”

  “Talking to the sheriff,” Clint said. “We’re supposed to meet him at the mercantile.”

  “Let’s do that, then,” Horn said, “and maybe after that we can get a drink.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Clint said.

  They settled with the doctor and left the man’s office.

  SIXTEEN

  When they reached the mercantile, Siringo was standing at the counter, paying for supplies. A drink sounded good to him, too, so they stuffed their purchases into their saddlebags and crossed the street to a saloon.

  The saloon was about half full, with plenty of room at the bar. They lined up and Clint ordered three beers.

  Horn drank down half of his quickly with his eyes closed.

  “Ahh,” he said, “I needed that.”

  “I think you might need more than that,” Clint said.

  “Whataya mean?”

  “You need rest, Tom.”

  “I think he’s right,” Siringo said.

  “I can rest after we catch Sandusky and his crew,” Horn said defensively. “Unless you think I ain’t pullin’ my weight.”

  “That ain’t it at all, Tom,” Siringo said. “Even if you’re only half the man you usually are, you’re twice as good as anyone else.”

  That seemed to mollify Horn a bit.

  “Then if it’s all right with you two, I’ll just keep on and rest when we’re done.”

  “It’s okay with me,” Clint said. “The decision is yours.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Siringo said. “Have it your way.”

  “Let’s get another beer before we move,” Horn suggested.

  “Do we want to spend the night?” Clint asked, thinking of Horn’s leg.

  Siringo decided not to coddle Horn, if that was what the man wanted.

  “We can’t afford to,” Siringo said.

  “Okay, so what did the sheriff say?”

  “That if twelve men had ridden into his town yesterday, he’d know it.”

  “So they didn’t?” Horn asked.

  “Not accordin’ to him.”

  “You believe him?” Clint asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Siringo said. “But he did say three men rode in, and rode out after going to the mercantile.”

  “Did you ask the clerk there if he knew anythin’?” Horn asked.

  “I did,” Siringo said, “and I’m convinced that once I left there, he couldn’t have described me a minute later.”

  “So then let’s assume the gang sent three men in to do their shopping, and then moved on,” Clint said.

  “Which means they must’ve circled the town,” Horn said. “I propose we go back to where we lost their tracks and see if I can pick them up again.”

  “Agreed,” Siringo said.

  They got their second beers just as three men entered through the batwings and looked their way.

  “See, I told you,” one of them said. “Tom Horn.”

  “You was right,” a second man said.

  The third man just glared.

  “You know them?” Siringo asked in a low tone.

  “I think so,” Horn said. “Might be the Monroe brothers.”

  “And?” Clint asked.

  “I might have had occasion to kill their brother last year.”

  “Here?” Siringo asked. “You been here before?”

  “No,” Horn said, “up north, near Taos.”

  “They don’t look happy,” Clint said.

  “Horn!” one of them yelled. “You know who we are?”

  “Not really,” Horn said, standing with his beer mug in his left hand, his right hand free. Clint and Siringo had adopted the same stance.

  “Tell yer friends to move away,” the spokesbrother said. “We’re gonna kill ya.”

  “Gonna be up to them if they want to move away,” Horn said.

  “If they get hurt, ain’t gonna be our fault.”

  “Which one are you?” Horn asked.

  “I’m Josh,” the man said. “This here’s Dal and that’s Ed. You killed our brother Jess last year, up Taos way.”

  “The way I recall,” Horn said, “he was askin’ for it—much the same way you fellas are now.”

  “That don’t matter,” Josh said. “You killed Jess, and we gotta kill you. We promised our ma.”

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Clint asked.

  “What?” Josh asked.

  “Do you think your ma would want to lose all her boys?”

  “You sayin’ you’re takin’ his part?” Josh asked.

  “If he ain’t sayin’ that,” Siringo piped up, “I am.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Josh asked.

  “Oh, sorry,” Horn said, “I didn’t introduce my friends. “This here’s Charlie Siringo, and that’s a fella named Clint Adams.”

  “Clint Adams?” Josh asked.

  “Clint Adams?” Ed echoed. “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right,” Horn said.

  “And that’s Siringo,” Dal Monroe said.

  “I heard ’em,” Josh growled.

  “What are we gonna do, Josh?” Ed asked.

  “Shut up!”

  “That’s a good question, Josh,” Horn said. “How do you wanna do this? In here or outside?”

  “Three against three?” Josh asked.

  “Pretty even, huh?” Siringo asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Josh said. He pointed his finger at Horn. “We’ll see you again when you ain’t got your gunnies with you.”

  “I hope not,” Horn said, “for your sake.”

  The Monroes backed out of the saloon. When they hit the boardwalk, their footsteps could be heard hurrying away.

  The rest of the men in the saloon were staring at the trio now, aware that Clint Adams, Charlie Siringo, and Tom Horn were in their midst.

  “We better go,” Clint said, “before somebody gets brave.”

  “Good idea,” Horn said.

  They set their unfinished second beers down and headed for the doors. They stepped out, mindful of the fact that the Monroes might be lying in wait for an ambush—but they weren’t.

  Outside Siringo said, “Gunnies?”

  “Ain’t you ever been called a gunhand before?” Horn asked.

  “Not to my face anyw
ay,” Siringo said.

  SEVENTEEN

  Clint, Siringo, and Horn managed to ride out of town without any trouble. They reached the point where the Sandusky gang’s tracks mixed in with others, then they circled around to the other edge of town until Horn picked up the trail again. Clint and Siringo followed behind, letting the man do what he did best.

  “There it is,” Tom Horn said, pointing at the ground. “They seem to be heading to Lincoln.”

  * * *

  About an hour later Horn reined in, Clint and Siringo doing the same behind him.

  “They’re still heading south,” the tracker said.

  “Mexico,” Clint suggested.

  “Eventually,” Siringo said, “but Lincoln first.”

  Clint gave Siringo a surprised look.

  “You think they’re going to hit a ranch in Lincoln?” he asked. “Having some cattle with them will slow them down.”

  “It’s what they do,” Siringo said. “If they think I’m dead and nobody’s on their trail, why not stop and make a few extra dollars?”

  “Sounds right to me,” Horn said.

  “Let’s stay on their trail,” Siringo said. “They could be heading to one of the bigger ranches.”

  “Okay,” Clint agreed, “this is your show, Charlie. Let’s move.”

  * * *

  Sandusky looked down at the ranch that spread out beneath them. Anderson sat his horse next to him. The rest of the men were behind.

  “There you go,” Sandusky said, pointing. “Plenty to pick from.”

  “Are you really sure about this, Harlan?” Anderson asked.

  “Stop worryin’, Cal,” Sandusky said. “When have I ever been wrong?”

  Anderson didn’t answer, but if Charlie Siringo was still alive, then Sandusky was wrong now! That meant he could be wrong again.

  “When we gonna hit ’em?” Anderson asked.

  “It’s gettin’ dark,” Sandusky said, looking at the sky. “Let’s hit ’em at first light, before they have a chance to wake up.”

  “I’ll tell the others.”

  Anderson rode back to the other men while Sandusky remained where he was. He was thinking about Charlie Siringo. If the detective was not already dead, he was hoping he would catch up to them so Sandusky could kill him, once and for all.

  “Gettin’ dark,” Siringo said.

  “They can’t be that far ahead,” Horn said. “If we keep goin’—”

  “I don’t want to ride in the dark,” Siringo said, shaking his head.

  “Because of me?” Horn demanded. “You think I’m gonna fall off my horse?”

  “Because of the horses,” Siringo said. “I don’t want one of them steppin’ into a chuck hole. The last thing we need is a horse with a broken leg, Tom.”

  “I agree,” Clint said. “If we’re that close, we can catch them in the morning.”

  “Fine,” Horn said, looking at Siringo. “It’s your call.”

  They made camp, started a fire, had a dinner of bacon and beans they had purchased in Carrizozo.

  They sat around the fire, Horn leaning to one side to favor his injured leg.

  “You think we got anybody followin’ us?” Siringo asked.

  “Like who?” Horn asked.

  “Like the Monroe brothers?” Clint asked.

  “You think those three idiots are gonna come after us?”

  “They’re out for revenge for their dead brother,” Siringo said. “They’re not gonna give up that easy.”

  “I don’t think they want to go back home and tell their mother what happened,” Clint offered.

  “Well,” Horn said, “as far as I can tell, there ain’t nobody behind us.”

  “I’ll take the first watch,” Clint said. “Just to make sure.”

  “I’ll go next,” Siringo said. “Is there any more coffee left?”

  “I thought you didn’t like my coffee,” Clint said, lifting the pot.

  “Just pour,” Siringo said, holding out his cup. “I’ll take what I can get.”

  They moved around after that, Horn rolling himself up in his bedroll with some effort, trying to get comfortable on the ground.

  Siringo got his own bedroll ready, but then came back to the fire. Clint handed him another cup of coffee, then set to making a new pot.

  “Damn you,” Siringo said. “I think I’m gettin’ used to this stuff.”

  “I told you, it’s good for you,” Clint said, putting the pot back on the fire.

  Siringo hunkered down and drank his coffee.

  “Something on your mind?” Clint asked.

  “Nope,” Siringo said, “I just wanted another cup before I turn in.” But he looked over his shoulder at Horn, leading Clint to believe there was, indeed, something on this mind.

  Finally he said, “Yeah, all right, I’m worried about Horn.”

  “What about him?”

  “When we catch up to the gang, we’re gonna be outnumbered,” Siringo said. “If Tom was not injured, I wouldn’t worry about it so much. But the way he is . . . well, I don’t know.”

  “Look, Charlie,” Clint said, “Tom’s a grown man, he can make up his own mind. And if we get into a firefight with twelve men and you’re worried about him, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Clint,” Siringo said. “I know that.”

  “So just get yourself some sleep and we’ll come up with a plan in the morning.”

  “Yeah, okay, that works.” Siringo had a last sip, then threw the remnants into the fire, which flared up. “G’night.”

  Watching Siringo wrap himself up in his bedroll, Clint hoped it wasn’t going to be him getting killed because he was worried about the both of them.

  EIGHTEEN

  Tom Horn stood the last watch and woke Clint and Siringo in the morning.

  “Coffee’s on,” he announced. “Come on, we gotta get goin’ before they get too far ahead of us.”

  “Okay, okay,” Clint grumbled, “I’m up.”

  Siringo rolled out and got his feet without complaint. They all had coffee and then went about breaking camp and saddling the horses.

  “We’re gonna have to pick up the pace today, Tom,” Siringo said to Horn when the horses were ready. Horn knew what he meant. They were going to have to push everyone harder, the horses and themselves.

  “I’m ready,” Horn said. “Let’s catch up to those bastards today.”

  “Okay,” Siringo said, “but we’ve got to know what we’re gonna do when we do catch ’em.”

  “Whataya mean?” Horn said. “We’re gonna take ’em down.”

  “There’s gonna be at least twelve of them, Tom,” Clint said. “Just how do you suggest we take twelve of them down?”

  “By surprise.”

  “And how do you think three of us are going to surprise twelve of them?” Clint asked.

  “Ambush,” Horn said right away, like he had all the answers.

  That didn’t sit right with Clint. No matter who he was hunting, he felt no one ever deserved to be shot from an ambush.

  “I can’t do that,” Clint said.

  “Why not?” Horn asked.

  “Shooting anybody in the back just goes against the grain.”

  “You mean after all these years of killin’ men, you’re gettin’ religion?” Horn asked.

  “Religion’s got nothing to do with it,” Clint said. “Nobody deserves to be shot in the back.” He let the comment about him killing so many men go for now. It had always been his contention—even before his friend Wild Bill was killed by a coward from behind—that shooting somebody in the back was wrong.

  Horn looked to Siringo for support.

  “Sorry, Tom,” the detective said, shaking his head. “I agree. Shooting somebody—anyb
ody—from ambush? That’s just murder.”

  “You’ve both killed men before,” Horn argued. “Why so antsy about it now?”

  “I only killed when they were trying to kill me,” Clint said.

  “Same here,” said Siringo.

  Horn stared at them.

  “I’m surprised you two have managed to live this long,” he said finally. “Okay, so what do you propose that we do?”

  “Divide and conquer,” Clint said.

  “Huh?” Horn said.

  “Instead of tryin’ to take them all at once,” Siringo said, “we try to take them a few at a time.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “Well, that’s what we’ve got to figure out,” Siringo said.

  * * *

  Once they were back on the trail, Horn predicted they were going to catch up to the Sandusky gang within hours, so they really needed to come up with a strategy by then.

  They had no idea how things were going to change.

  NINETEEN

  Harlan Sandusky watched as his men followed his instructions.

  Below them were three wranglers working with about a hundred head of cattle. They were probably driving them to a place where they would join with the majority of the herd.

  Sandusky intended for them never to get there.

  He sent half a dozen of his men down to grab the cattle, and dispose of the hands. The simplest and easiest way was for them to get as close as possible, and then start shooting.

  Just in case that started the hundred head stampeding, he had placed the rest of his men so that they’d be able to intercept the small herd and stop them before they really got started. Delilah remained at his side.

  He and Anderson watched the action, making sure that everything went right.

  It did.

  The three ranch hands were dead before they knew what happened. The cows did panic and start to run, but the rest of the men successfully cut them off and stopped them.

  Sandusky and Anderson rode down to where the nine men were sitting their horses, surrounding the cows.

  “Cal, better check those wranglers,” Sandusky said.

  “Right.”

  Sandusky rode around the small herd, examining the beeves.

  “Where we gonna sell ’em, boss?” one man asked.