by Tony Masero
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, he never made it here if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘So, why was he coming out here in the first place, Mister Causter?’
‘For the papers, you know. The ones I gave the other deputies. The sheriff’s men, they came calling looking for the Colonel and asked the same question. They said they should take them along as evidence.’
Slade looked keenly at the man. ‘What papers, what were they about?’
‘Oh, just some claim rights, I guess. Found them on a couple of dead prospectors. The Mescalero’s caught up with them, I found the bodies on the ridge way over yonder.’ He indicated the distant hills with the barrel of his Winchester. ‘Not pretty. The Indians made a mess of them; they don’t like prospectors on their land. And they see everything around here as their land.’
‘How come you survive out here then?’
‘I run cattle here and I see they’re okay for beef; it keeps them off my back. We’ve also got twenty cowboys riding for us, that’s twenty guns to call on which helps some, my boys are mostly out on the range at the moment so its quiet here for a spell. Its true to say that now and then we have the occasional run in with some tiresome buck but mostly its a kind of give and take situation and they leave us well enough alone.’
‘Could it have been the Apache who took down the colonel?’
Causter shook his head. ‘Doubtful, they’ve been pretty quiet just lately. I wouldn’t let my boy out alone if things weren’t safe just now. Most of our problems come from those wild boys left over from the local feuding.’
‘One of the gangs running around loose then?’
‘That’s more likely,’ Causter agreed. ‘But why the hell would they want to I wonder?’
‘Maybe some sort of revenge, I hear the Colonel was a good prosecutor.’
‘Good point now you make it. That’s a real possibility, I’d say. Some of these characters are just no good and I mean right down to the bone no good.’
‘The Colonel and his boy though?’ Slade said doubtfully. ‘Hard to believe a white man would take it out on a child.’
‘That wouldn’t bother them none. They’d cut up their own mother if it came to a dollar or two. I’m talking evil people here, Deputy. Real evil.’
‘These claim rights, d’you know the name of the deputy you gave them to?’
‘It was a peaky-skinned young fellow who sports a string tie, I believe he goes by the handle of ‘Rio’ something or other.’
‘Palmer.... Rio Palmer?’
‘That’ll be him.’ Causter answered with confidence.
Slade rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘So you’ve no idea what happened to the Colonel and his boy?’
‘Sorry, Deputy. My guess is either the Indians or the outlaws got them both and laid them in the ground out there somewhere,’ he waved his rifle barrel in a vague arc around the surrounding skyline.
A sudden thought occurred to Slade as he pulled his pony away from the drinking trough; afraid it would overfill itself for the trip back to town. ‘Is there another route out here. Rather than the wagon road I came in on?’
Causter raised his eyebrows. ‘There is another way in. I guess you could call it the scenic route, kind of the long way around. Comes in by that watering hole where my boy Joey swims and fishes some days.’
‘You think maybe a man and his son might have liked to take a little swim out there on a hot day?’
Causter shrugged. ‘Sure is a possibility. You think the Colonel might have gone that route just to take a dip?’
Slade swung up into the saddle. ‘Well, it’s worth a look I guess.’
Causter stepped back to allow Slade to turn his mount. ‘I was going to invite you into the house to join us for a bite, Deputy. You’re welcome to step down if you care.’
‘Kind of you,’ said Slade. Leaning down and taking Causter’s hand. ‘I’m obliged but I’d best get on.’
‘As you say. Well, luck to you, Deputy, hope you find your man.’
The watering hole was a deep pool surrounded on three sides by a great tumble of weatherworn smooth sided red colored rocks that created a wall some twenty feet high. Erosion from the rocks had settled below the surface of the pool over the years and Slade could see that where sunlight angled in slivers of light through to the silted bottom it was a deep shade of red. A blood red.
Fish darted through the beams and Slade could understand why the boy Joey liked to fish here. It was an ideal secret spot for a young lad to escape the chores and attentions of his family home. Also an ideal spot also for a father to holiday away an afternoon with his young son, Slade reasoned.
The wall of rock around the pool enclosed it on three sides, the rust-red skyline beyond broken only by a spread of sagebrush and chaparral. A withered tree had sunk its roots deep and clung to a gap in the rocks where it spread its low branches over one flat-topped boulder. It was there, Slade reckoned, that anyone relaxing and drying out after a dip would choose to be. He dismounted and let his pony’s reins drop then began the climb up to the spot.
A slightly steep climb over the smoothly surfaced stone that Slade completed by using his fingertips and the toes of his heeled boots. Scratch marks were the first things he noticed amongst the shadows cast by the tree. Scars scraped across the rock and not so old either. Scars that might have been caused by spurs dragged over the rock. Slade crouched under the branches and searched the rock with his eyes looking for further sign. Some indication of a struggle perhaps. There were dark patches splashed on the flat rock but they could have been anything. Dried bird droppings or residue from the tree. His gaze roved outwards away from the direction of the pool and into the countryside beyond the enclave of rock. The stone barrier tumbled down onto a flat prairie that undulated away for miles covered by mounds of chaparral and fine leafed mesquite.
Slade turned his attention back to the tree, as its liquorice scent was strong in his nose. He recognized it as a mastic tree and knew it was the resin he smelled, his mother had used it as a flavoring in her home cooking and a medicinal cure-all for mouth sores. Sure enough, he could see the cuts in the bark releasing the odor. Small knife cuts, idly made to bring out the flavor of the plant. Slade had to crouch down low to get up close to the marks. There in the dark shadows cast by the searing sun he could just make out the crude shape of letters carved into the bark. P... F.... Peter Friday.
So they had been here! Within walking distance of the Freshwater Ranch. Leaving the tree, Slade began to slide down the far side of the rock wall on the seat of his pants, his eyes searching every crevice for some indication of what had happened here. He reached the prairie floor without noting anything unusual and began a slow circling search amongst the scrub below. He found cloth trapped amongst the coarse undergrowth. Ribbons of torn cloth, some of it stiffened by patches of brown that could only be dried blood. A shirt he reckoned with a pale and tiny pattern of bunched flowers repeated over its surface.
He looked up again out to the vastness of the prairie that stretched away from him. It was too big. Somewhere out there the remains must lay, shredded and broken, picked clean by vultures. The shattered bones cracked open and spread about by scurrying coyotes and other wild creatures. But who had done it and how?
Slade pushed the cloth remnants into his waistcoat pocket and began to circle the red rock to find an easier way back around to the pool and his pony. He had not travelled more than fifteen feet when he found the body. Still dressed in a frilled shirt and drape jacket, the corpse sat propped up against the wall of rock. The skull was picked clean, only a few remnants of white hair sat clumped on the boney head. The head tilted to one side, the empty eye sockets staring out into the distance behind Slade. Sun dried and pickled, what remained of the fingers limply grasped a six-gun that lay alongside the dead man’s thigh. His dust covered boots stretched out, their heels still sporting the same Mexican silver spurs that Slade guessed had made the scratches on the rock abov
e.
Slade crouched down and looked at what he believed to be the remains of the prosecutor Colonel Sam Friday. Cautiously he pushed into the dusty sun stiffened jacket and searched the pockets inside and out. His fingers roved the waistcoat pockets where he found a stopped watch and chain, the chain sporting a military medal hung there in decoration. The flip lid of the watch showed the picture of a rather stern looking woman with a memorial-plaited circle of mousey hair pressed about her photograph. There was a bulging leather wallet in the inside pocket of the jacket, it held little of interest apart from paper money, calling cards and letters of a personal nature.
Slade eased the waistcoat lapels apart and saw the torn bullet holes that had ripped the chest open.
‘They nailed you good and proper, old fellow. That’s for sure.’ Slade observed to the corpse. ‘Put one in you up top there I’d say. Knocked you off your pins and down this side here. You made it to the rocks here and looked to defend yourself but you was too far-gone and the life eased out of you. Died with your weapon in your hand just like an old soldier should. Well, you rest in peace, partner. If I can, I’ll find out who snuck up and did this to you.’
Slade got to his feet and thought on the holed shirt he had just been looking at. It bore no resemblance to the patterned pieces he had found earlier. So where was the boy? Was he out here lying around somewhere dead also or had he managed to escape? If so where would a six-year-old boy alone and terrified go.... or be taken to?
Too many imponderables. But if the boy was still alive then he had either been taken or run off somewhere. Slade realized he had to discover if the child was still alive. He knew the Indian predilection for taking youngsters both male and female and integrating them into the tribe, if they had in fact slain the Colonel they could well have kidnapped the boy and carried him off. It was a possibility he felt he had to explore. But first he needed to see the Colonel decently laid in the ground and report of his discovery taken back to Garrett and the town sheriff. He also had a few questions for Smith’s deputy, Rio Palmer.
Chapter Six
‘Make it quick,’ said Garrett, when Slade picked him up at the hotel doorway just as he was leaving. ‘I’m on my way over to Roswell right now.’
Standing together on the street, Slade filled him in on all he had discovered. Garrett twitched impatiently, eager to be getting on before the coming night closed in.
‘Hire up a buckboard and go out and get the body tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘I reckon a word’s due with this Rio fellow too. See to it, will you? Although tread easy, we don’t want to pick a fight with the town law before I’m even in place.’
‘And the boy?’ Slade asked.
Garrett nodded thoughtfully. ‘Sure, that’s important. Do what you can, I’ll be back in a few days and we’ll set up a search party if you can’t find him on your own.’
After they had parted, Slade went along to the livery stable and ordered up the buckboard and as he was close by, he dropped into the undertaker’s and requested a simple stock coffin for the remains, with the word that he’d pick it up first thing next day.
He was on his way to the town sheriff’s office when he bumped into Jane Lowry in the bustling street. She looked good to his eye and was walking with purpose through the crowds on the boardwalk.
‘Howdy,’ he said, tipping his hat.
‘Why,’ she answered with a tolerant little smile. ‘Here’s the law about its business.’
‘That I am,’ Slade allowed. ‘And how about you?’
‘Me? I’ve got me a job of work and I’m about to enter the finery shop to get me some duds for the position.’
‘Oh, yeah. That’s good news. So you’ll be around a while.’
‘I guess,’ she said, looking away quickly down the street. There was a flicker of something in her eye that Slade could not immediately fathom. ‘You had a drink yet?’ she asked.
‘No, ma’am. So far I’m safe.’
‘Feeling awful though, I’ll bet.’
‘You’ve got that right. Say, how about supper again? If it don’t seem like an intrusion.’
She turned back to face him. ‘I don’t know, Jack. Do we want to get this started? You barely know me and in your new position it just may be that you won’t want to start something with a bar girl.’
Slade frowned, ‘Is that the new job?’
‘It’s what I do,’ she admitted. ‘Least what I used to do before I got married. And, hell’s bells, I need the cash right now.’
Slade shrugged but the troubled frown still furrowed his brow, ‘Supper won’t make us married.’
She snorted a laugh, ‘No, but once the upright town folk find out what I’m doing they might look a little critically at their new deputy marshal consorting with the local lowlifes.’
‘You ain’t a lowlife, I’ll never think on you like that.’
‘Kind of you,’ she said. ‘But others might see it different.’
‘You need some money, I’ll see you through.’
She smiled broadly and it lightened the restricted look she held behind her eyes. ‘That’s sweet of you, Jack. But I’ll make my own way and won’t be beholding to anyone.’
‘No strings,’ he said. ‘It’d be a loan. The only proviso is that you have supper with me.’
She shook her head, ‘I guess not. Let’s leave it lie, huh? I’ll have supper with you when I can, how’s that?’
‘If that’s what I get, then that’s what I’ll have,’ he said, the disappointment evident in his voice. ‘Though, I can’t say I like the notion of you as a comfort girl.’
She shrugged indifferently, ‘I have to make my way, Jack. That’s all there is for a woman in this town.’
He looked at her pretty face and shining hair and his heart sunk to think of her being pawed by paying customers in a smelly crib somewhere.
‘Don’t do it,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll see you straight.’
She cocked her head to one side; ‘You got a thing for me, Jack Slade?’
‘Maybe you guessed it right,’ he admitted wryly.
‘And just what would you think of me if I was your kept woman?’
‘A whole lot better than if I was sharing you with every drunken louse in town,’ he came back sharply.
‘You’ve been there yourself, Jack. Hung your hat on the bedpost, plenty of times, I’m sure,’ her voice hardened. ‘Don’t go all righteous on me now.’
‘I’m trying to change lanes is all, Jane. You know it.’
She huffed in disbelief. Once again her eyes would not meet his but her voice took on an angry note, ‘I’ve seen you guys so many times before. A drunk is always a drunk and only stays sober until the next drink appears. Not a one of you can hold down a job or keep a woman for long. Right now it all looks great for you. With your new responsible job, new clothes and a mission in mind. But later, Jack, when the times get tough and it’s in the dark of the night that’s when you’ll slide and go back inside the bottle. I won’t tie my strings to any one of you, I’ve done it all before and I won’t do it again.’
He looked at her coldly as her harsh words burned into him. He felt as if she had slapped him in the face and he balked at the affront and answered her bitterly.
‘Like you say, I don’t know you nor you me. You want it this way, then fine. I’ll wish you good day.’
‘Jack….’ She called after him but he had already turned on his heel and was walking quickly away.
It was a difficult pill for Slade to swallow and as he hurried on towards the sheriff’s office, the rough criticism Jane had handed out began to burn near as bad as the sour grinding he already felt in the pit of his stomach as the drink called to him. He recognized that her hard words had sprung from some earlier experience of her own where she had already burned her fingers and he saw the protective shield she had raised to avoid it happening again. It made him sad to think that she needed to bury her affections in such a way.
It was a nudge to his me
mory and he remembered his own crime and the guilt flooded over him in a wave as he pushed open the sheriff’s door.
They were all there as they had been the last time he had called. It seemed as if nothing had changed in the interim even the papers on Smith’s desk seemed unmoved. It was almost as if the whole pack of them had been frozen in time and the way they slowly rotated and blandly looked at him did nothing to ease the irritation already set in his mind.
‘Deputy Slade,’ said Smith, looking up from behind the desk with a placid grin and swinging his boots down from where they had rested on the edge. ‘We do something for you?’
‘I guess I need a word with Rio Palmer,’ said Slade, turning and facing the deputy.
Rio studied Slade lazily, ‘I thought we’d done all we could for you,’ he said.
‘The papers from the Causter place, I need them.’
‘Papers?’ Rio asked innocently. ‘What papers?’
‘The land deeds of title or whatever they are. The papers Caulfield found on the dead prospectors.’
‘I have no papers,’ said Rio. ‘Caulfield must have it wrong, he never gave me nothing. Did he fellas?’
The others nodded in agreement.
Slade’s eyes narrowed, ‘I think maybe he did.’
The muscles in Rio’s jaw began to clench, ‘I’m telling you he didn’t give me anything.’
‘Make it easy,’ warned Slade, his temper up and not willing to listen to any evasive lies. He lowered his head and compressed his lips. ‘Just hand them over.’
Rio got up from his lounging seat near the window and spread his hands wide. “I’m telling you,’ he stressed. ‘There ain’t no papers. Now leave off with the heavy stuff or deputy or no, I’ll box your damned ears for you.’
‘Please try,’ begged Slade. He was tense now, the river of viciousness rising up inside him like a hot red line of anger from the brewing fire of Jane’s words, his own sense of guilt and the gut wrenching burn of whiskey fever. His left hand moved innocuously to his jacket coat pocket and the three-inch tube of lead he kept there. An apparently innocent item but when clasped tightly in the palm it filled out the fist to make it a dense, rock hard weapon.