by Paul Colt
BOUNTY OF GREED: THE LINCOLN COUNTY WAR
OTHER FIVE STAR TITLES BY PAUL COLT
A Great Western Detective League Case
Wanted: Sam Bass(2015)
Bogus Bondsman(2016)
Frontier Fiction
Boots and Saddles: A Call to Glory(2013)
A Question of Bounty:The Shadow of Doubt(2014)
Bounty of Vengeance:Ty’s Story(2016)
BOUNTY OF GREED: THE LINCOLN COUNTY WAR
PAUL COLT
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, a cengage Company
Copyright © 2017 by Paul Colt
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from the King James Bible.
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, a Cengage Company.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Colt, Paul, author.
Title: Bounty of greed : the Lincoln County war / Paul Colt.
Description: First edition. | Waterville, Maine : Five Star Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc., [2017] | Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017007826 (print) | LCCN 2017012658 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432834463 (ebook) | ISBN 1432834460 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432834432 (ebook) | ISBN 1432834436 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432834494 (hardcover) | ISBN 1432834495 (hardcover)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3446-3 eISBN-10: 1-43283446-0
Subjects: | GSAFD: Western stories.
Classification: LCC PS3603.O4673 (ebook) | LCC PS3603.O4673 B67 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017007826
First Edition. First Printing: July 2017
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3446-3 ISBN-10: 1-43283446-0
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Printed in the United States of America
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For Dusty
For Dusty How do you thank someone who made a writer out of a storyteller? It’s a gift bigger than mere words. Dusty Richards didn’t know me from a western writer wannabe when I finished my first book and contacted him to see if he had any words of wisdom for an aspiring author. He asked to read a chapter. “Not ready for prime time,” he said. Dusty critiqued the pages I sent him and told me to rewrite them. Rewrite them we did, for nearly a year before the craft of writing entered my head. How do you thank a man who has become mentor and friend? Dusty once told me, “There are more western stories than blades of grass.” With his help, I’ve managed to find a few. Here’s one for you, Pard.
PROLOGUE
Las Vegas, New Mexico
February 14, 2011
Retired police detective Rick Ledger rocked back in his desk chair. Cold gray light filtered through the curtains to his home office from the small pool deck in the backyard. He gazed at the antique tintype in the filigree frame atop his desk. A tall rugged cowboy with a dark rough shave stared back at him. Greatgreat-grandpa Ty had a story all his own. He was a rancher and deputy US marshal in Lincoln County New Mexico in the 1880s. He was there when they fought the Lincoln County War. He told that story to Rick’s Grandpa Brock. Grandpa Brock passed it along to Rick along with a journal kept by Greatgreat-grandma Lucy. Between that and the history books, Rick grew a boyhood fascination with the exploits of Billy the Kid into a lifelong pursuit of untold facets of the story.
He was often surprised by the intense controversy stirred by events that happened over a hundred and thirty years ago. History, he concluded, affords a cloudy perspective through which we view the past. Legends are fashioned by people. History, it seems, is sometimes written by the devious or uninformed; folks who have an ax to grind and a pen to sharpen it on. Nonetheless, some of it becomes history. When it does, it is accorded the stature of truth, not to be questioned even in the face of uncertainty or contradictory evidence. Rick had seen this during his career as a police officer. Sometimes the law got it wrong. Sometimes Lady Justice could truly be blind. He took the controversy in stride. He felt no need to defend his work. He did wonder what Great-great-grandpa Ty would have thought. He hoped he would have approved. Most likely, though, he’d have been surprised that anyone cared after all these years.
Rick picked up the cracked leather-bound journal he’d found in an old trunk in Grandpa Brock’s attic the week after he passed away. Great-great-grandma Lucy set down in her own hand a personal side to the story the writers of history never quite seem to capture. He opened the old volume to the marker he’d left the last time. She’d told the story of how she’d come to Lincoln County in New Mexico Territory. She’d become acquainted with a brash young Englishman with pockets full of money, a soul full of ambition and a head full of big ideas. Stir that into the politics and set way of doing things in Lincoln County, New Mexico, at the time and what you got was a bountiful harvest of greed. All that greed, scrapping over the spoils afforded by Lincoln County in those days and you had a recipe for violence. And not just ordinary violence, you had the makings of a war. It all started shortly before Great-great-grandma Lucy arrived in Lincoln . . .
CHAPTER ONE
Santa Fe
July 1877
A man had to enjoy a good steak. The potatoes were fried crisp in drippings. The wine was decent. The Hotel Santa Fe dining room provided a tasteful setting. He folded the white napkin and eased his chair back from the table. You had to enjoy a meal like that, but eating alone left time to ponder a man’s troubles. By rights, Alexander McSween shouldn’t have had many. A lawyer with the reputation of an aggressive advocate, McSween specialized in other people’s problems. He had a beautiful wife and an established frontier practice in Lincoln. In truth, Lincoln was the problem. It was the county seat and that promised a bright future for an ambitious lawyer when he arrived, but it was also a one-client town.
The onetime partnership of Lawrence Murphy and James “Jimmy” Dolan controlled most of the commercial interests in Lincoln. Murphy’s failing health resulted in Dolan buying him out the past spring, but that hadn’t changed anything. The House, as its substantial mercantile establishment was known, controlled everything in Lincoln County. If he didn’t work for Dolan, all that remained to his practice were small land dealings. He’d gotten on fine with Murphy. Recently, relations with Dolan had become strained over the matter of an insurance claim that hadn’t settled to Dolan’s satisfaction. Nor should it have. Dolan had no direct interest in the proceeds. The claim had been made for the estate of a local rancher. Dolan’s interest arose from his assertion of an unpaid debt levied against the estate. He sought to hold McSween accountable for not settling the debt out of the insurance proceeds. The matter was further complicated by the fact that the deceased’s rightful heir had abandoned
the ranch holdings and left the county, leaving the estate unsettled. The rightful disposition of all of that would be up to a court. The insurance dispute exposed Dolan’s real problem.
He and Murphy were smart businessmen to a point. They reasoned rightly that selling to local landholders and businesses on credit would give them economic and political power. What they hadn’t reckoned was the amount of cash it took to sustain such an enterprise. McSween had a way to solve that problem, but he couldn’t see wasting it on the arrogant likes of Jimmy Dolan. He hated the thought of pulling up stakes, but unless something changed for the better, things would likely come to that.
He rose from the table. Not quite six feet tall, he wore a dark frock coat with matching trousers. An unruly shock of brown hair fell over his forehead. The quiet hum of conversation coming from the salon invited a drink before turning in. He crossed the polished lobby, his heels tatting staccato echoes. He eyed the dimly lit crowd, searching for a table or a lounge chair. All appeared occupied. He was about to give up when a young man at a table near the door stood.
“I say, I’ve an empty chair here if you care to join me.”
The British accent piqued his curiosity. “That’s very kind of you.” He extended his hand. “Alexander McSween. May I buy you a drink?”
“John Tunstall. I’ve just ordered, but kind of you to offer.” He signaled the waiter.
McSween appraised the young man as he drew back the offered chair. He affected a serious demeanor with the dignified bearing of British breeding. He had a refined manner, alert brown eyes and a prominent nose that gave his mouth the appearance of being small. He wore his wavy brown hair barbered about his collar and ears. He had a thin mustache and a patch of chin whiskers that might never rise to the stature of a beard. A waiter in a starched white jacket appeared.
“Sir?”
“Whiskey.”
“Very good, sir.”
“So, Mr. Tunstall you’re British I take it.”
“I am and please, call me John.”
“Then you must call me Alex. You’re a long way from home. What brings you to Santa Fe?”
“A bit of business, I hope.” The waiter arrived with the drinks. Tunstall lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” McSween took a swallow. “May I ask what sort of business you’re in?”
“You may. Just now I’m looking for a business to invest in. What do you do, Alex?”
“I have a law practice.”
“Ah, a barrister. Here in Santa Fe?”
“No, in Lincoln. About one hundred fifty miles southeast of here.”
“Then you, sir, are also a long way from home.”
“I suppose I am. Have you found a business that interests you?”
“Not really. I’ve some thoughts on land speculation, but I’ve yet to encounter the right piece of property. Santa Fe may be a bit too well established. Tell me about your Lincoln. I’ve not heard of it before.”
“Lincoln is the largest county in New Mexico. The Pecos River valley makes it prime ranch land. Lincoln is the county seat.”
“Those are all ingredients to opportunity.”
“You would think they would be. Unfortunately the business community is dominated by a small group that controls everything.”
Curiosity pecked at Tunstall. “How do they do that?”
“It starts with the mercantile. They operate the only store in the county. If you need something, you buy from the House at whatever price they think you should pay.”
“The House?”
“Locals call Dolan’s business the House because the mercantile and offices are the largest building in Lincoln.”
“I see. Well that problem seems easily remedied. All you need is another mercantile and a bit of good old-fashioned competition.”
“Easier said than done. It takes money to do that.”
“Yes, well that is where I might step in. I have capital to invest. I hadn’t thought about a mercantile, but this House you describe sounds like an opportunity ripe for the picking. The ranch land in the area may also suit some of my other ideas.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m serious. I told you I’m looking for a business opportunity.”
McSween drained his glass. “In that case, I have another thought for you if you have the time.” Tunstall nodded. “Then let me buy that drink I promised.” He signaled the waiter. “It will take more than a mercantile to beat Dolan. He sells at exorbitant prices to be sure, but he gets his real power by selling on credit. Everybody owes him money. His problem is that he doesn’t take in enough cash. It takes cash to keep the enterprise going.”
“Yes, I can see that.” The waiter arrived with the drinks.
McSween leaned across the table with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “I know how to fix that.”
Tunstall couldn’t disguise his skepticism. “Just how would you go about that?”
McSween smiled. “With a bank.”
Tunstall broke into a broad grin. “By jove, that’s it, isn’t it? A mercantile and a bank, capital idea! I think I shall have to pay your Lincoln a visit. Of course, I shall need legal services for anything I might do.”
“When it comes to chartering a bank, you’ll need more than legal services.”
“Oh, how so?”
McSween sat back. “You’re a foreign national and a stranger to the country. You’ll need a partner. You’ll need a citizen partner people know and trust.”
Tunstall pursed his lips and nodded. “I see. Something of a head for business yourself, I see. A partner, you colonials are so quaint. Shall we drink to it then?”
CHAPTER TWO
Lincoln
August 1877
Morning sun streamed through the dusty office window. Alexander McSween examined the deed. He nodded thoughtfully and rocked back in his desk chair, turning to his guest.
“This all appears in order, John. I’ll file it with the county clerk’s office and you’ll have yourself a ranch.”
The young Englishman sat back and smiled. “Splendid.” John Henry Tunstall arrived in Lincoln early that fall with an abundance of ambition determined to make his fortune. He favored dark suits to affect severity on his boyish appearance, severity in keeping with a ruthless appetite for business.
The mild-mannered, bespectacled McSween had his own ambitions. He and Tunstall had partnered in chartering a bank as part of the Englishman’s plan to open a mercantile in competition with Jimmy Dolan’s House. Dolan also controlled the most lucrative end of the local cattle business, contracts to supply beef to Fort Stanton and the Mescalero reservation. Dolan controlled his empire with an iron hand by staying on the right side of the Santa Fe Ring, the Republican political machine in the capital that ran New Mexico Territory. Mc-Sween pushed a shock of sandy hair off his forehead.
“I’m happy to record the deed for you, John, but I must remind you this property has a history. You’re purchasing it from an estate that is the subject of some dispute. The dispute itself wouldn’t bother me as your attorney in most cases. We’ve paid a fair price for the property. What concerns me is the fact the dispute involves Jimmy Dolan.”
“Dolan again, is there nothing in this county the man doesn’t have his fingers in?”
“I know it seems that way. His claim is on the estate in settlement of some debt. He may try to use that against you for your other business interests. He’s tried to force me to pay his alledged debt out of the proceeds of an insurance claim I settled for the estate.”
“It would seem to me that is a matter between Dolan and the heir to the estate.”
“One would think. Then again this is Jimmy Dolan we are dealing with.”
“Fiddlesticks! Record the deed.”
“Very well. I’m curious, though. What are you going to do about running the place? You’re not cut out for ranching.”
He smiled. “No, I’m not. Perhaps I should explain. Since you st
and for me at law in these matters, you should have the benefit of the full picture.”
McSween removed his spectacles and polished the glass with his handkerchief. “You’re right there. I can’t represent you effectively unless I know the full extent of your plans.”
“You’re right, Alex, I don’t plan to run the ranch. I have hired Dick Brewer to raise some horses for me. If he manages turnover properly, the ranch should cover itself.”
“Turnover?”
“Oh, sorry. British slip, I’m afraid. Profit to you colonials. I plan to use the land in the cattle business.”
McSween wrinkled his brow and replaced his glasses. “I’m not sure I understand. If you plan to raise horses, where do cattle come in?”
“Dolan is in the cattle business. He supplies beef to the fort and the reservation. He doesn’t own a ranch. He simply takes his profit on the sale. It is a capital idea, don’t you think?”
“It’s not as easy as it sounds. Dolan holds those contracts because he has political help from Santa Fe and he sells at prices that are well below the market. He buys his stock from small ranchers who are in debt to his store. Rumors say he can do it because the cattle are stolen. That still doesn’t explain what you want with the Flying H.”
Tunstall smiled as if at some private humor. “Land.”
“Land?”
“Yes, land. I was able to acquire the Flying H at something of a distressed price, don’t you agree?”
“Well, yes; but if you don’t plan to ranch it, I’m afraid I don’t see . . .”
“Other small ranchers in Dolan’s debt might be similarly distressed. Should they decide to sell out, their land might also be purchased at similarly advantaged prices. One day that land will be worth a fortune.”
“And how is it you propose to ‘distress’ these small ranch ers?”
“Winter feed.”
“Winter feed? I don’t follow.”