by Paul Colt
Ty walked me home from the store today. He’s worried Dolan may make trouble for John . . . not really. He’s worried I might get caught in the middle of it. I don’t know how I feel about that. Yes I do. I just don’t know how to admit it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Rio Hondo
They rode north from Seven Rivers, five grim-faced men heavily armed. They crossed Flying H range through hills covered in mesquite and creosote bush under a rumpled woolen sky. Jesse Evans rode the lead followed by Crystobal and his regular Seven Rivers boys. Short of stature and solidly built, Evans had a square jaw, generous mouth and a crooked nose courtesy of a saloon brawl over a soiled dove. Ladies still found the distant look in his eye fetching. He wore a bibbed shirt, bracers and woolen britches with a .44 Colt butt forward on his left hip.
Crystobal rode a spirited black stallion, prancing and tossing his head. He was something of a newcomer to Seven Rivers. A man with a grudge to settle that brought him to Lincoln County. The grudge came courtesy of a gunfight over the favors of a woman Crystobal considered his. He lost. He’d survived out of a lust for vengeance and a mean streak worthy of venom running in his veins. The Chisum man who shot him would pay this time. He’d signed on with Evans to bide his time.
He dressed in black with silver spurs and conchos in his hatband. Pearl-handled revolvers slung at each hip. A pencil-thin black mustache traced the stub of a sometimes-lit cigarillo tucked between thin lips. Hooded dark eyes glittered in a walnut mask. A jagged scar, earned in a knife fight, sliced his left cheek. A shock of coarse black hair fell across his forehead beneath the brim of his black sombrero.
Frank Baker, Buckshot Roberts and Buck Morton made up Evans’ regular gang. Baker looked the part of a drifter, with shabby clothes, a rough shadow of dark beard and tobacco-stained teeth. Handy with his gun, he was inclined to shoot first and find a reason why later.
Andrew “Buckshot” Roberts earned his nickname by way of a shotgun wound to his right shoulder. Lean and gnarled as a hickory stick, he wore a wide brimmed slouch hat with a round crown over a shaggy mop of gray hair. He had watery blue eyes shaded by thick bushy brows that met over the bridge of a hawklike nose. His lean chiseled features were weathered and lined with a heavy drooping mustache tugging the corners of his mouth to a frown.
Billy “Buck” Morton brought up the rear. He had a round moon face. Small blue eyes squinted from fleshy folds that drooped into heavy jowls. Stringy blond hair hung below a battered derby hat. His belly rolled over his gun belt, on spindly legs that gave him the appearance of an overstuffed scarecrow. Morton cooked for the Seven Rivers outfit. He overcame his partners’ complaints about the food by serving as his own best customer.
They struck the Rio Hondo northwest of South Spring late afternoon the second day out. Evans drew a halt at the south crest of the river valley wall. The Long Rail herd stretched across the valley floor, browsing winter grass along the river bottom. He cut his eyes east and drifted back along the valley wall across the river. No sign of a watch for this bunch. Dolan needed fifty head for delivery to Fort Stanton. He rocked back in his saddle.
“All right, boys, we’ll go in, cut fifty head or so and drive ’em west until dark. Crystobal, you stay here and watch our back trail. If anybody comes along, you know what to do. If nobody shows up before sunset, follow the river west until you catch up with us. We’ll cross in the morning, drive ’em north some and change the brands. We should have ’em up to Fort Stanton in a couple of days. Then we’ll ride on over to Lincoln and get rid of some trail dust before we ride south.”
The boys exchanged grins at the prospect of kicking up a little fun in Lincoln. Crystobal stepped down. He ground tied his horse below the skyline and drew his Winchester from the saddle boot.
“See you tonight.” Evans eased his bay down the ridge into the valley.
Crystobal dropped into the tall grass, the Winchester laid across his knees. He wondered if Chisum men would come. Would the one called Roth be with them? The fresh scar on his chest prickled at the thought. He’d been lucky. This time he would not underestimate the gringo. This time his bullet would do the killing.
Clouds drew a thick blanket of felt out of the northwest, scudding across the river valley on a stout breeze. Wade Caneris drew rein on the north valley wall. The wind cut through his coat, the air scented with the threat of snow. The herd knotted along the riverbank. Steel ripples ribboned the surface of the river, reflecting the sky. Caneris made his reputation as a tough, no-nonsense trail boss driving longhorns from Texas to the Kansas railheads in the early seventies. Crews followed him, confident he’d pull them through to payday, no matter what the trail threw at them. Storms, stampedes, river crossings, rustlers, Indians, it didn’t matter. Chisum signed him on to ramrod the South Spring cattle operation without a second thought. Caneris earned his complete trust in the years that followed. He eyeballed the herd. An experienced cowman, he didn’t need to count them to know they were missing more than the usual strays.
He nudged his chestnut down the ridge to the valley below. He loped across the grassy flat and splashed the dark gray surface of a creek spilling into the broader river. He circled southeast to west searching for sign. He found it west of the herd and stepped down. Riders had driven fifty or sixty head off to the west. He toed a horse dropping with his boot. Two maybe three days old he judged. He squinted off to the southwest. Not for the first time, he smelled the Seven Rivers boys. Chisum would be righteously pissed. He could send out his gunhands but Caneris knew they were already too late. Those beeves were penned up at Fort Stanton or the reservation wearin’ a running iron brand built off the South Spring Long Rail. Standing here he could make out a couple of options the boss had to stop this. He wondered which Chisum might choose, as he stepped into the saddle and squeezed up a lope for home.
South Spring
John Simpson Chisum threw a log on the fire, sending a shower of sparks up the soot-stained stone chimney. The fire crackled, drying the new log with a succession of sharp cracks and pops. Heat spilled into the spacious parlor. Evening chill retreated against the adobe walls in the shadows of firelight. Chisum stood up and turned to his easy chair, ready to rest his frame after a long day. Lean and rangy, he had a bearing about him that made an imposing appearance out of an average frame. He had wavy brown hair gone gray at the temples, neatly trimmed around prominent ears. Intense brown eyes with bushy brows set in lean weathered features. He wore a neatly waxed mustache with a patch of whiskers below his lower lip. He favored plain spun shirts with a black ribbon tie that gave him the look of authority. The clatter of horse hooves caught him up as he reached for the chair. A rider comin’ fast usually spelled trouble.
He crossed the parlor to the heavy front door and stepped out into the night chill. Caneris drew rein. His horse snorted clouds of steam as he jumped down.
“What is it, Wade?”
“Rustlers. They hit the Rio Hondo herd two, maybe three days ago.”
“How many we lose?”
“Fifty, maybe sixty head. I didn’t wait around to make a tally.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“You want me to post guards on the Pecos and Rio Hondo herds?”
Chisum considered his options. In truth, raids of this size amounted to little more than a bee sting, though every bit as annoying for the principle of the matter. His Long Rail herds, numbering near a hundred thousand head, roamed the free range all along the Pecos River valley. Small ranchers resented it. Jesse Evans and his Seven Rivers boys thought nothing of running off a few head now and again. They had a ready market for stolen stock, courtesy of Jimmy Dolan’s contracts to supply beef to Fort Stanton and the Mescalero reservation. “Damned expensive way to swat bees,” Chisum mumbled. “We ought to ride down to Seven Rivers and clean that scum bunch out once and for all. I’d do it too, if I could prove it was them.”
“What about the guards?”
“When’s Dolan’s next delivery due? That�
�d be the time to post a guard.”
Caneris shrugged.
“All right, put up your horse. Get Roth and come on back to the house. I’ll see if Dawn’s got a bite of supper left for you. I got some business to discuss with you and Johnny.”
Minutes later, boots scraped the porch outside. Chisum started to rise from his chair by the fire only to pause at the soft pad of moccasins on the dining-room floor. He smiled and sat back. Nothing like Johnny Roth to bring Dawn Sky running.He rose to greet the boys.
“Let’s sit in the dining room. Dawn’s got some supper for Wade. Bring us a drink will you, Dawn?”
She nodded. Her eyes never left Roth. She’d become like a daughter to Chisum. Her mother served as his housekeeper for years. Dawn grew up at South Spring. When her mother died, Chisum raised her as if she were his own daughter. She grew to take her mother’s place, looking after her benefactor. A willowy young woman she carried the proud bearing of her Navajo people. Her liquid dark eyes might flash like summer lightning or turn soft like a river eddy. She had a short straight nose, high strong cheekbones and full lips drawn taught in a bow. She wore the plain cotton blouse and brightly colored skirt of a peon, though the simple dress gave full measure to the flower of her womanhood. Roth captured her heart the moment his shadow crossed the gate at South Spring the previous fall.
Johnny Roth came to New Mexico with Ty Ledger, following the killer known as Patch. Ledger wanted vengeance. For Roth, the killer meant bounty. He never expected he’d settle down. Then again he’d never expected Dawn Sky. Tall and muscled, he still wore black-leather-rigged, ivory-handled Colts slung on his hips. Old habits died hard. A man didn’t wear a rig like, unless he had the talent to use it. He had mountain-ice eyes and a small scar that split his lower lip in a way ladies found fetching. They might still, though to hear Ledger tell it, Johnny Roth had got himself ground tied by a slip of a Navajo girl. Roth didn’t argue.
Caneris found his plate at the dining-room table. Chisum took his place at the head. Roth drew a chair across from Caneris. Dawn Sky brought the whiskey bottle and glasses. Chisum poured and passed the glasses around as Caneris dug into his dinner hungrily.
Chisum took his whiskey in a swallow, topped up his glass and looked from Roth to Caneris. “Tunstall’s sent word he’s ready to open the bank. I’m riding up to Lincoln in the morning. Johnny, I’d like you to ride along.”
Roth nodded.
“Wade, I think you’re right about posting a guard on the herds. This thing with Dolan is about to come to a head. Tunstall’s bought the Flying H. Dick Brewer’s hired on as foreman. He’s hiring his own crew of gunmen. If this thing with Dolan and the Seven Rivers boys gets ugly, we plan to stand together. I’ll be gone a few days. You’re in charge here. If anything goes wrong and you need help, send word to Brewer.”
Caneris nodded around a mouthful of roast beef.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lincoln
Ty stepped out of the Wortley into a chill winter afternoon sun. He took a breath of fresh air and exhaled a mask of steam. Across the river five horsemen dropped out of the hills to the northwest riding into town. Curious, Ledger lounged in the shadow of the porch covering the boardwalk. He watched the riders splash across the river and jog into town past the hotel. Jesse Evans and his boys took no notice of him. Crystobal.He squinted. At least we know where he’s hangin’ his hat.
Evans wheeled to the rail at Dolan’s store. The rest rode on to the cantina down the street past Tunstall’s new bank and store. They left their horses at the hitch rack and trooped inside. Wonder what that’s all about? He decided to pass the news along to Marshal Widenmann.
Widenmann was a deputy US marshal sent down from Santa Fe to look into disputes between Chisum and some of the small ranchers. Territorial Marshal John Sherman had been pressured to do it by Governor Axtell on behalf of Dolan. Dolan complained to his political cronies in Santa Fe when Chisum threatened to take the law into his own hands over the matter of his rustling complaints when Lincoln County’s Sheriff Brady refused to do anything about allegations of rustling by the Seven Rivers boys. Dolan owned the sheriff along with most everything else in Lincoln. Chisum suspected Dolan of providing a ready market for the stolen cattle to fulfill his contracts at Fort Stanton and the Mescalaro reservation. Soon after his arrival, Widenmann fairly concluded that Chisum had the right of it. Circumstantial evidence tended to support Chisum’s suspicions, though nothing had come of any of it yet. Widenmann had limited jurisdiction in Lincoln, but he was the only law that wasn’t in Dolan’s pocket.
Ty set off down the boardwalk toward the freshly painted sign hanging over the door to the old McSween place. Widenmann had struck up something of a friendship with the brash Englishman. Ty didn’t understand it. A lawman should be able to smell trouble. Tunstall acted like a man with a target painted on his coat just for fun. Get too close and a man might find himself in the line of fire. He read the sign again: Lincoln County Bank. He wondered if Dolan had noticed yet.
Evans strode through the clang of the visitor’s bell. The scarecrow clerk blinked owlishly from behind the counter. “Afternoon, Jasper, Dolan in?” The old man bobbed his bald head perched on a spindly neck with a prominent Adam’s apple. Evans didn’t wait for an answer. He crossed the sun splashed floor and disappeared between the shelves to the office door at the back. He rapped on the frame.
James Dolan looked up from a ledger. Darkly handsome, Dolan projected a confident manner despite his modest stature. Women found him attractive. Others found him cold eyed and ruthless.
“Herd’s delivered.” Evans pulled the office door closed behind him. He handed Dolan the quartermaster’s voucher.
“Any trouble?”
“Nah.”
“Good.” Dolan opened a lower desk drawer and drew out a strongbox. He counted out two hundred fifty dollars in notes and pushed the stack across the desk.
Evans scooped up the bills and thumbed through them. “Nice arrangement, Dolan. You sit on your ass and make fifteen dollars a head while we do the dirty work for five.”
“Damn good money for a couple days’ work, Evans. You complainin’? If you are, I can find somebody else to do your part.” The muffled sound of the visitor bell echoed the threat.
“Not complainin’, just makin’ a point. If Chisum puts a guard on them beeves and this turns to gunplay, our price is goin’ up.”
“If you don’t want to get shot at you’ll have to be clever. Like I said, I can find somebody else.” A soft knock sounded at the door. “Yes?”
Jasper opened the door a crack. “Mr. Dolan, John Chisum’s here. I thought you should know.”
Dolan scowled. Speak of the devil.He glanced at Evans. “You best stay here. No sense givin’ Chisum ideas.” He followed Jasper back to the store, closing the office door behind him. Chisum stood at the counter with his hired gun, Roth. Dolan forced his best smile. “Afternoon, John, what brings you to town?”
Backlit in window shine, shadow masked Chisum’s features. “Dolan, I come in to do a little banking and thought I’d pick up a few supplies.”
“Banking? You mean that silly sign the Englishman’s put up down the street?”
“Yup.”
“That’s no bank. He’s puttin’ shelves in there like he’s fixin’ to open a store of some kind.”
“Oh, it’s a bank all right, Lincoln County Bank. I’m sure folks around here will find that real handy. Now, about that order, I guess we’ll have to pay your prices one last time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Once Tunstall opens his store, we’ll have a little good old-fashioned competition to choose from around here.”
Dolan’s expression darkened. “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.”
“Johnny, what have you got on that list?”
“A dozen boxes of forty-four forties.”
Dolan raised an eyebrow. “Kind of a lot of firepower ain’t it, John? You expectin’ trouble
?”
“Already had some. Lost another small herd a few days ago, but then maybe you heard about that.”
“No, can’t say that I have. Sorry to hear it now, though.”
“Sorry. I bet you’re sorry. You wouldn’t have the slightest idea what became of those cattle.”
“You suggesting I know something about your lost cattle, Chisum. Them’s strong words unless you can back ’em up.”
“I can back ’em up, Dolan. I can back ’em all up. I just can’t prove ’em, yet. You just go along and send them boys down my way again. We’ll be more than pleased to back up everything we can prove.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do, Dolan. I think you know plenty. You sit up here hidin’ out in your office while hired scum do your dirty work for you. They leave tracks, Dolan. We know where those tracks lead. Sooner or later somebody’s gonna make a mistake and when they do . . .”
“Don’t threaten me, Chisum. You ain’t half so big as you think.” He turned on his heel and stalked back to the office.
Tunstall leaned on the counter beside the newly constructed teller cage. Widenmann sat on a barrel of nails amid the dust and skeletons of the new store shelves. McSween inspected Tunstall’s progress in transforming his former office into a bank and a store. Boots on the boardwalk interrupted the conversation. The men looked to the door as Ty Ledger came in.
Tunstall smiled. “Ty, haven’t got a proper bell installed yet. Sorry, old chap.”
He nodded. “Rob, Jesse Evans and his boys just hit town. Evans went to see Dolan. The rest of ’em are at the cantina.”
“Free country so far, but thanks for lettin’ me know.”
“I say, who is Jesse Evans?”