Bounty of Greed

by Paul Colt

  “It’s quite inexpensive early in the year. A clever chap such as myself can buy up the lot of it and put a proper price on it come winter.”

  “The small ranchers depend on that feed to survive through the winter.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “They won’t like that.”

  “I shouldn’t imagine they would, but who is to stop it? Once we’ve recorded our deed, it’s all perfectly legal.”

  “Those already in debt to Dolan may not be able to pay higher prices.”

  “I rather enjoy the prospect of squeezing Dolan through his suppliers’ debt.”

  “Range wars have started over far less than what you’re talking about.”

  “You mean violence?”

  “I do.”

  “Dick said as much. He suggested we hire some competent men to assist us should the need arise. I take that as prudent advice.”

  “You seriously mean to force these ranchers to sell out.”

  Tunstall bobbed his head in animated agreement. “I say, you’ve come to the same conclusion as I. I expect some of them shall fail. It is the surest way to buy their land at the lowest prices.”

  McSween blew out a breath. “That could still take a great deal of capital.”

  “Precisely,” Tunstall beamed. “And that is where our bank comes in once again. It can fund more than the mercantile. Mr. Dolan has created quite the opportunity there, don’t you think? He’s victimized the good people of this county with his store for far too long. It’s high time someone gave him a bit of competition. The bank is the key. You said so yourself. The bank and the mercantile bring in money we can loan to a development company, buying up all that lovely ranch land.”

  “You do think big, John, I’ll give you that. I’ve told you before, though, Dolan won’t take this lying down. Your winter feed plan only adds fuel to the fire.”

  “Dick mentioned that too.”

  “You’ll need more than a few competent men.”

  “I’ve considered that. I think we shall have a powerful friend with us.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “John Chisum. He wants Dolan’s beef contracts. Without competition from Dolan’s small ranchers, beef prices will rise. Our friend Mr. Dolan won’t be able to make a profit on cheap beef. Mr. Chisum will have the opportunity to win those contracts for himself at fair prices.”

  McSween revised his appraisal of Tunstall. The man was either crazy or a genius. Common sense favored crazy. Then again, you couldn’t deny the genius in his plan, ruthless genius, but genius nonetheless. If he pulled it off, he would be the wealthiest man in the territory. Money bought power. Power always needed a good lawyer, in this case, a lawyer with ten percent interest in the bank.

  “Are you with me, Alex?”

  “We’re partners, aren’t we? I’m with you.” If you don’t get killed first.

  Susan McSween listened to Alex describe his meeting with Tunstall. She had rich auburn hair, an attractive figure and a fresh cream complexion. She cloaked a sharp wit and a sharper still appetite for men she found attractive in the frailty of proper womanhood. Tunstall did not measure up to her taste. She found the self-assured Englishman too smart for his own good. His business ambitions were downright dangerous. Alex may not satisfy her every desire but he did provide a certain social standing she found comfortable. The prospect of his getting killed struck her as inconvenient in the extreme.

  “So you are going to go through with this harebrained scheme of his.”

  McSween pursed his lips defensively. “We’ve been through this all before, my dear. It is most definitely not a harebrained scheme.”

  “What else do you call a scheme that is certain to get you killed?”

  “Reward comes with risk. In this case, we’ve a plan to fight fire with fire.”

  “A plan is it? He who has the most hired guns wins. Is that your plan?”

  “Backed up by Chisum, I’d say that would be us. Besides, Tunstall’s taking most of the risk. I’m just doing a little lawyering with a modest silent partnership. You do like money, don’t you?”

  She did, of course, and he knew it. Well, perhaps they could relieve the Englishman of some of that lovely family wealth.

  “Has John found a place to locate the bank and the store?”

  “He didn’t say. Why?”

  “The house will be done in a few weeks. You could easily make your office there. This office could be converted to house the bank and the store. John should find these living quarters more than suitable to his needs until his business is established.”

  “That’s an excellent idea, my dear. I shall suggest it to John in the morning.”

  A little nest egg wouldn’t hurt in the event the fool’s partnership wasn’t silent enough.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Flying H

  Tunstall stuck his head inside the ranch house door and wrinkled his nose. Gray light filtered through dirt-smeared windows did little to brighten the musty smelling, dust-covered interior. A rust-streaked potbellied stove stood in the shadows of one corner, its soot-stained chimney pipe home to a massive spiderweb. The roof sagged noticeably, mindful of a swayback horse. A cracked wooden table boasted two chairs that might be serviceable. The third chair had a broken back with one leg bent at an angle sure to break under the slightest weight. A door frame covered by a dingy torn curtain suggested a sleeping room at the back. He’d not spend any more time here than necessary.

  “It don’t look like much now, Mr. Tunstall, but me and the boys will have it fixed up in no time.”

  Brewer might be an expert horseman, but his sense of suitable accommodation stopped well short of even rustic charm. Tunstall calculated he couldn’t get back to Lincoln in time to avoid spending the night. “Yes, well, I shall leave the improvements to your discretion, Mr. Brewer.”

  “Please call me Dick.”

  Sturdy and rawboned, Brewer had dashing good looks with curly hair and a serious though pleasant disposition. He’d been highly recommended to Tunstall on his arrival in Lincoln as a man who could help him establish an interest in ranch land. The ranch house and outbuildings might not look like much, but the location of the Flying H suited Tunstall’s purposes. If Brewer could raise enough horses to break even on the place, the land could only appreciate in value with the passage of time. Small ranches to the south all the way to Seven Rivers stood ripe for consolidation.

  “We’ll have time enough to work on the house and corrals over the winter. I’d like to get a start on bringing in some stock before the snow gets bad.”

  “That’s all well and good, Dick. Now, who here about do their business in winter feed?”

  “Winter feed? We shouldn’t need much of that this year with the size of our herd.”

  “No, no, not for our consumption. For investment purposes.”

  “Investment in winter feed?”

  “Precisely. It should be quite inexpensive standing in the ground in the spring. A shrewd person might buy it up and hold it until the price rises in fall. In fact if one were to control enough of it, one might actually be in position to set the price.”

  “You mean higher?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “Folks ain’t gonna take kindly to that.”

  “I have no intention of denying them feed. I only mean to make it available at a fair price.”

  “Fair to you.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Like I’ve said, Mr. Tunstall, folks won’t take kindly to that.”

  “That’s why you are hiring those men we discussed.”

  “We’ll need ’em.”

  “Business is business. Now, about those winter feed growers ...”

  “Let’s see, there’s George Peppin and . . .”

  Brewer stepped out on the porch with his second cup of coffee in hand. His eyes wandered the horizon to the south and west. Something moved in the hills. Two dark shapes resolved into riders approaching at an easy jog. He
reached inside the door for the Winchester propped beside it.

  “We got company, Mr. Tunstall.”

  Tunstall emerged from inside, shrugging his shoulders into his coat. “Any idea who it might be?”

  “Hard to say. I got the word out, we’re lookin’ for men. Then again, out here, you never know. You have a gun?”

  “Me? Heavens, no.”

  “Then maybe you best step inside and let me handle this until we know who we’re dealin’ with.”

  “I say, do you really think so?”

  “I do.”

  Tunstall stepped back inside.

  “Oh, and, Mr. Tunstall, one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “With all the business interests you’re plannin’, you might want to get yourself a gun.”

  “I say, Dick, I fully intend to abide by the law. I can’t imagine any reason I should require a firearm.”

  “If you don’t fancy carrying a gun yourself, I suggest you make it a point to travel with someone who does. This ain’t jolly old England. With all you’re plannin’, some folks is likely to take you for a marked man. Think about it. It’s good advice.”

  “I see. Perhaps so.”

  The riders drew rein fifty yards out. “Yo the house,” one called.

  “Yo.”

  “We heard you’re hirin’.”

  “We are. Ease on in and keep your hands where I can see ’em.” Brewer sized them up. The bigger of the two looked like a bare-knuckle prizefighter. He had a handlebar mustache, oiled brown hair under a slouch hat and bright hazel eyes. The other had a wiry, boyish mixed breed look to him, with straight black hair and lean features. “That’ll be far enough. Who are you?”

  “John Middleton.” The big one spoke. “This here’s Fred Waite.”

  “You know what we’re lookin’ for?”

  Middleton drew his coat back behind the butt-forward-rigged Colt on his left hip. “We do. You need proof. Give us a target.”

  Brewer nodded. “That won’t be necessary. Step on down and meet the boss, Mr. Tunstall.”

  Lincoln

  McSween’s former office smelled of raw lumber, sawdust and stain. Tunstall stood silhouetted in the sun splash pouring through the front window. Dust mites rose around him as though a sorcerer conjured them up from the darkness below. Lucy Sample followed his expansive gesture in rapt attention.

  “That’s the teller cage at the end of the counter. The safe behind it is in plain sight to the depositor. Safety, strength and all that, you know.” He crossed the floor stepping over and around the skeletal frames for the new shelving. “Soft goods here I should think, don’t you? Can’t say I’ve much opinion as to that. Never have been much in the way of a shopper.”

  Lucy fingered her lower lip in thought. A wisp of a girl, petite, almost childlike, she took her woman’s curves from a tiny waist. She had a rich fall of sable hair and creamy complexion barely hardened by the rigors of frontier life. The thing that most set her apart were large dark brown eyes that looked like they came with a story. They did. A story most folks around Lincoln didn’t know.

  She’d come west with her family as a girl. They’d all been lost crossing the Arkansas, all of them except Lucy. The wagon master took her as far as Dodge. A girl alone, she fell in with the soiled doves and survived the best way she could. Billy Cantrell took her to Denver and on to Cheyenne. She met Belle Bailey on her way to Deadwood. She worked Belle’s Red Garter, became part owner and made a little money when she sold her interest back to Belle. She drifted back to Denver and got a job at the Silver Dollar. That’s where she had a run-in with the serial killer Patch and that’s when Ty Ledger entered her life for the second time.

  She’d met him the first time a couple of years before in Dodge. It was a brief encounter, no more than a casual conversation really, yet they both felt a special connection. They’d gone their separate ways. She didn’t see him again until that afternoon last year when he strolled into the Silver Dollar with the bounty hunter, Johnny Roth. They were on the trail of the killer who’d attacked her. Roth was after a bounty offered by a banker in Laramie who lost his wife to the killer. A dead wife and unborn child accounted for Ty’s stake in the hunt. In the midst of all that grim purpose, something connected between them again. He left Denver following the killer south. She decided to pull up stakes and finish her family’s journey down the Santa Fe Trail. She found Ty in Santa Fe and convinced him to take her with him to Lincoln. She’d hoped catching the killer would free him of his grief. Free him to feel something for someone else. It didn’t. That’s when John Tun-stall arrived in Lincoln.

  “I say, Lucy, you were about to say something?”

  “Oh, sorry. I’d put the soft goods more toward the back. Women will look for that sort of merchandise. Keep the front space for the things people need most.”

  “Yes, that makes sense. I should have thought of it myself. Have you other suggestions?”

  “Hmm, you can store bulk items like coffee and flour in bar rels on the end of the shelves.”

  “Quite so, use all the space we have.”

  “The shelves behind the counter and the counter should be used for luxury items like candy and cigars. Things people may buy even though they had no intention to.”

  Tunstall smiled. “You’ve quite the head for this, Lucy girl. I say you are the very person to run this store!”

  She blushed. “A little common sense is all, nothing more.”

  “I disagree! You are far too modest. I’ll hear nothing other than you’ll take the job.”

  “Oh, all right, but only the store, I’ll not trust myself with the bank.”

  “Splendid. The bank won’t be necessary. I shall be the president and cashier. I know just the person to manage the teller counter.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Susan McSween. The two of you can keep one another company while we are making all that lovely money.”

  Lucy left Tunstall to planning his bank and mercantile. Out on the boardwalk, she pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders against a sharp afternoon breeze. Sun slanted out of the southwest from a vault of bright blue sky. She turned east toward the room she maintained at the widow O’Hara’s. The soft clop of a horse sounded behind her. The shadow of its rider crossed her path. She glanced over her shoulder.

  “Afternoon, Lucy.” Ty touched the brim of his hat. He stepped down in the street beside the boardwalk.

  “Good afternoon, Ty.” The greeting felt strained. Tall and wiry, he had dark wavy hair and a rough shave in need of a barbering most of the time. Her breath caught in her throat. He had an easy way about him that never failed to have a palpable way with her. Cool gray eyes took her in as though they might swallow her. He’d gone off after his wife’s killer the past summer, leaving things unsettled between them. Tunstall had come to town while he was away. Things had grown awkward between them when he came back to find she’d been seeing Tunstall.

  “Mind if I walk you home?”

  She hesitated. “No, of course not. How have you been?”

  He walked along, leading a sturdy steeldust gelding. “Fine. And you?”

  “Oh, all right I guess.”

  “Tunstall fixin’ to take over McSween’s old office?”

  “He is.”

  “I heard he bought the Flying H. What’s he need with an office in town?”

  She glanced sidelong at the question. “John’s planning to start another business.”

  “Busy fella. What sort of business?”

  She arched a brow, a little uncomfortable with where this question led. “He plans to open a bank and a general store.”

  “Gonna take Dolan on then. I heard as much.” He fell silent for a few paces as if measuring his words. “Be careful, Lucy. Dolan won’t cotton to that one bit. He’ll play rough. Tunstall has no idea what he’s up against. I’d hate to see you in the middle of that kind of trouble.”

  She stopped and met his eyes.
“You say that like you mean it.”

  He shuffled the toe of his boot in the dirt. “I do.”

  She held his eyes. “I never know what to make of you, Ty Ledger.” She stepped off the boardwalk to cross the street to Mrs. O’Hara’s gate. “John’s offered me a job clerking in his store.”

  “You gonna do it?”

  “A girl’s gotta eat. Besides, it’s better than my old life.” Ty knew the story most didn’t. He’d accepted her for what she was. It didn’t seem to matter to him, but maybe that was because he didn’t think of her . . . that way. She wondered what John would think if he knew. Ty broke the thought.

  “Until lead starts flyin’.”

  “Lead can fly anywhere.” She paused at the gate, searching his eyes for traces of the ghost that haunted him. A familiar flutter inside made her shiver against the afternoon chill. That mysterious connection tugged at her. She drew back. John’s safe.

  “Thank you for walking me home.”

  He nodded. “You be careful. Hear?”

  She nodded. The gate groaned.

  Lamplight danced with the shadows on the wall, keeping time to a tune played in silence. The journal lay open on the small writing table, the pen idle beside the ink pot. It felt like she’d faced writing this entry before. It was easier when he wasn’t around. John was John. His accent and etiquette amused her. He was safe. He offered a promising, respectable future. If he succeeded in all his business dealings, he was sure to be an important and influential man in the territory. His plans seemed to include her for more than a shopgirl. He had promise. He offered more than she’d ever hoped to aspire to. All she had to do was be there.

  Ty.

  Just when things seem to be settling in, along he came and unsettled her. Unsettled. That was one way to describe it. She let her eyes drift closed remembering the look of him. Her mind flashed back to the taste of him, the feel of him. He did something to her standing in the street in broad daylight without so much as touching her. How did he do that? How did she do that? All he said was that he worried about her. He meant it. He said so. At some level he cared. Could that be the start of something more? Could it be his wife’s ghost might finally leave him in peace? She would if it were her place. Would the woman called Victoria? Only time would tell. How much time? She shook her head. No way to know. She dipped pen in ink.