by Ralph Cotton
“Why not?” said Summers. “I’ll teach you both. You can practice on each other when you’ve got time.”
“Same deal you offered Little Ted?” said Kerns. “Keep my questions to myself till we get where we’re going?”
“Same deal,” Summers said.
The two hitched the team of wagon horses to the empty freight wagon and climbed up into the wooden seat. Kerns jiggled the wagon reins to the horses’ backs and drove them to the side door of the Swann hacienda.
At the side door, Bedos and his daughter, Rena, met them, having already carried out and stacked a few pieces of smaller furniture and wooden crates. Kerns set the wagon brake. Summers stepped down and began handing the items up to him. As the men worked, Summers looked at the side porch and saw Ansil Swann sitting slumped in his wheelchair. Swann stared out at the wagon, but his flint-colored eyes were hollow and glazed. The eyes of a dead man, Summers thought grimly to himself.
He watched Bailey come down the stone walkway and gesture him to the side. Summers stepped away from the loading and joined her.
“I hope I’ve chosen the right items, Will,” she said just between the two of them, while the others continued loading. From the barn, Little Ted walked up, leading the four bays on a lead rope.
“It all looks good, ma’am,” Summers said. “If you took your best valuables you might lose them if we get in a bad spot and have to give them up. If you don’t bring some things of value, it could cause suspicion.” The two of them gave the furnishings and housewares an appraising look.
“What do you think, Will?” she asked him in a hushed tone. “How’d I do?”
Summers nodded, watching the others load the wagon.
“You did just fine, ma’am,” he said, noting a large painted portrait of a younger, powerful Ansil Swann leaning in an ornate gilded frame. “These are not items a person would easily toss aside.” He paused, then said, “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to keep the portrait here?”
“No,” she said without a second thought. “Like you said, if we get caught in a spot, something of value has to go in order to make this whole thing look good.”
• • •
In Dark Horses, Endo Clifford, Red Warren and Buster Saggert had been going from business to business after dragging Bert Miller out in front of the adobe office and leaning him against a hitch-ring post. Endo had stuck Miller’s earless head through the wide iron hitch ring and left him sitting, his dead eyes staring out at the street. Hico stood beside Evert Crayley in front of the sheriff’s office, the two watching Endo break the news to the citizenry that he’d become their newly appointed sheriff.
“Dad, this man is an imbecile,” Hico said quietly. “I hope he doesn’t turn on you someday.”
“No problem,” Crawley said with a careless shrug. “There’s nothing wrong with Endo that a bullet in his head won’t cure.”
Hico nodded with a slight grin and glanced at the town mercantile with a curious expression.
Moving along the street with Bert Miller’s ears in his shirt pocket and his hands smeared with blood from cutting them off, Endo and the two gunmen made their rounds. They met no objections from the town’s business community when they explained to the store merchants that Miller was out of office for good and that Endo had now taken over.
“And, by the way,” he told Melvin Smith, the Dark Horses Mercantile owner, “Ansil Swann is no longer running the mines or anything else here. If you take any notes signed under Swann’s name, you’ll likely never get paid.” He grinned, then added, “And don’t say you never heard me say it. You see what happens to men who don’t listen.” Patting Miller’s severed ears in his shirt pocket with a bloody hand, he turned to leave.
“But—but I came here and settled specifically because of Ansil Swann,” Smith stammered, before Endo walked away.
“Uh-oh,” Red Warren said under his breath, he and Buster Saggert stopping on either side of the new wild-eyed sheriff. Endo turned to face Smith with a strange, enraged look in his beady eyes.
“What did you just say to me?” Endo said slowly, each word evenly delivered. One hand went to his Colt, his other, bloody hand to the handle of his knife sheathed at his waist.
The store owner’s face turned pale and drawn.
“I’m not trying to start trouble, Sheriff Endo,” Smith said. “It’s just that Ansil Swann lent me money to help open an American-style mercantile store here in his settlement venture. Without him, who do I pay each month?”
It took Endo a second to understand. When he did, his rage cooled quickly. He chuckled as he looked at Red Warren and Buster Saggert. They returned a sly grin.
“Grab his ears, Deputy Red,” Endo said, his bloody hand wrapped around the knife handle.
“No, please no!” Smith screamed, unable to duck away and run before the deputies grabbed his forearms and yanked him over the counter. While Buster jumped behind him and wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug, Red reached out, grabbed both of his ears and held them stretched out. Smith screamed again, loud and long.
“Are you listening now?” said Endo, only inches from the store owner’s face.
“Yes, God yes!” Smith screamed.
“All right, pay attention,” said Endo. He went back to a slow, evenly delivered voice. “You come pay me the same amount, every month, as you were paying Swann.” He took a step back, his bloody hand still poised on the knife handle. “Did you hear every word real clear?”
“Yes, Sheriff, yes!” Smith said in a trembling tone. “I will. I will. I swear I will!”
“I know you will,” said Endo. “I’ve got faith in you—in this whole town for that matter.”
He motioned for Buster and Warren to turn the terrified man loose. When they did the store owner collapsed and caught himself with both hands on the long counter. His breath rushed in and out.
“Need some water?” Red asked Smith, putting his hand on the store owner’s bowed back and patting it kindly.
“I’m . . . all right,” Smith said, panting heavily. “I just need a minute . . . to calm down some.”
“Take your time,” Endo said in a feigned tone of concern. “Getting out of breath can kill you, as hot as it is here.” He paused, then said, “I want you to keep paying attention ’cause I’ve got something for you to pass along to the other business owners. Will you do that for me?” he asked politely.
Smith swallowed hard and straightened himself up.
“Yes, anything you say,” he said, rubbing his reddened ears with both hands.
“What was that?” Endo asked, a smoldering look coming back into his eyes.
“I meant, anything you say, Sheriff Endo,” Smith said, correcting himself quickly.
Endo looked at Red and Buster. The two deputies looked at each other and gave a smirk.
“That’s lots better, Melvin,” Endo said. “That shows you’ve got respect for the law. I admire that in a man. It shows that a Mexican town can be run just like it’s American. With Americans running it, of course,” He smiled proudly. “I believe that’s what Ansil Swann was out to prove coming here. Don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” Smith said humbly, his head bowed slightly.
Red and Buster watched Endo at work, liking the idea of people having to do what they told them to.
“I want you to tell them what I just told you, Melvin,” Endo said to Smith. “Anybody owing Swann money, just come on up with it. Pay it to me, same as you paid it to him.”
“I’ll tell them,” Smith said.
“That’s good. I’m counting on you, Melvin,” said Endo. “The sooner everybody gets into the spirit of this, the better. You all came here following Swann, wanting to see things run like this is Texas or Arizona Territory. I aim to run it just that way.” He turned and walked out, the two deputies flanking him.
On the street,
Dad Crayley and Hico Morales watched the three newly appointed lawmen walk purposefully from the mercantile store to the large Dark Horses Cantina and step through the open double doorway.
“So far, so good,” said Dad to Hico. “Anytime there’s no gunfire where Endo Clifford just left, it’s worth celebrating.” He chuckled, reached into his coat pocket, took out two cigars and gave one to Hico. “Come on, let’s get a drink.”
“What about the screaming?” Hico asked as the two started walking to the cantina.
“A little screaming never hurt anything,” said Dad. “Far as I’m concerned, that’s just a part of making folks understand.” He grinned and shoved the cigar into his mouth. Nodding toward the open double doors of the cantina, he added, “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to see some big changes in this town’s attitude on drinking, gambling and whores.”
“I believe you,” Hico said, the two of them walking on. “Endo Clifford has always had huge cravings for all three.”
“And what red-blooded man doesn’t?” Dad asked.
From the open doors of the cantina they heard a loud cheer and a heavy round of applause resound out along the street as they walked on.
“What about Ansil Swann’s place, the horse trader who buckshot your boy, Darren?” Hico asked. “When are we going to ride through and strip that place to the bone?”
“Soon enough,” Dad said. “Finnity and Baines has put the word out we’re taking over everything Swann owns. Thomas Finnity is rehiring some of the old railroad gun monkeys who used to work for them, sending them all this way. This is a big deal for Finnity. He might show up himself.”
“I have never met him,” Hico said.
“Well, be prepared to anytime,” said Dad. “Taking over something as big as Swann Enterprises is no light piece of work.” He grinned. “We’ll have gunmen straggling into Dark Horses two and three at a time before long. And that suits me. The more men I’ve got at my command, the better. As far as the horse trader goes, if I wake up with a big mad-on, we might ride out and shoot holes in him. For now, let’s enjoy the hospitality of Dark Horses.” He gestured a sweeping hand all around at the Mexican hill town that had been made over to look like a smaller version of El Paso, or Denver City.
Chapter 13
In the afternoon, crossing a flat stretch of sandy plain, Little Ted rode up alongside the wagon on the driver’s side, where Will Summers sat with the wagon reins in his hands. His Winchester rifle stuck out from within the furniture stacked tightly in the wagon bed. Bailey Swann sat on the seat beside him. Behind the wagon Lonnie Kerns rode along, leading the four bays and Summers’ dapple gray. The gray clopped along saddled, ready to ride.
“Don’t look around right now, Will,” Little Ted said sidelong to Summers, “but I think somebody’s watching from the ridgelines to your right.”
Summers nodded without looking.
“Good call, Ted. I’ve been thinking that myself,” Summers replied. Listening, Bailey Swann had to catch herself to keep from turning in the wagon seat and searching along the ridges.
“Apache?” she said, almost with a gasp.
“No,” said Summers, “I doubt it. I first thought I saw somebody skylighted a little ways back.”
“No Apache would do that,” Little Ted cut in.
Summers nodded in agreement.
“Besides, if it was Apache,” Summers said, “they’d be after these horses. Us crossing this plain would have been too good a chance for them to pass up.”
“Who, then?” she said, still fighting the urge to look. “Maybe some traveler headed for Dark Horses? Maybe they watched us for a minute, then moved on?”
“No,” said Summers, “I wish that was the case. But whoever it is up there, they’ve been moving right along with us the past couple of miles.”
“Dang, Will,” said Little Ted in surprise, “then you spotted them long before I did.” He looked Will up and down. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“I was waiting for you to ride up here,” Summers said quietly. “I was also thinking it over, deciding the best thing for us to do this time of day.” Without turning toward Bailey, he asked sidelong, “How much farther to the mines?”
“We can be there by dark, easy enough,” she said.
Summers looked at the sandy plain, at the hills a short distance in front of them, at the slant of the sun.
“Three hours . . . ,” he said, thinking out loud.
“Yes, three hours, I’d say,” Bailey replied.
“Too close to stop for the night, if our destination is that near,” Summers said.
“Yes, it wouldn’t make sense, us being this close and making camp for the night,” Bailey said, “not when we’ll be there by nightfall.”
“Right, it would make no sense at all,” Summers said. “But that’s exactly what we’ll do if we’re still being followed when we reach the end of this flatland.”
They rode in silence for a moment as Bailey and Little Ted thought it over. Finally Bailey nodded and smiled, staring straight ahead.
“I get it,” she said. “Whoever’s up there will figure we must be headed farther away than we are if we’re stopping here for the night?”
“Yep, that’s it,” Summers said. “And if they stick with us until morning, they’ll be surprised to learn that we cleared out overnight.” He gave the team of horses a tap of the reins just to keep their attention.
“Pretty clever,” Bailey said. She looked past Summers at Little Ted.
“I knew that was the plan, all along,” Little Ted said with a slight shrug.
Kerns galloped up beside him, leading the five-horse string. The horses bunched around him as he slowed his horse back to a walk.
“I just saw the sun flash on something up along the ridges,” he said, not looking up at the hillsides. “Thought I ought to say something.”
Little Ted gave a chuckle.
“We’ve known that for an hour, Lonnie,” he said. “Were you sleeping back there?”
“Hell no, I wasn’t sleeping—pardon my language, ma’am,” Lonnie said. He looked past Little Ted at Summers. “What do you think we ought to do, Will?”
“Spread out,” Will said, tapping the reins to the wagon horses’ backs, pulling the wagon ahead of the two ranch hands a couple of yards. “We’ll make camp as soon as we reach the hills.”
Lonnie gave Little Ted a curious look as the wagon rolled on ahead of them.
“Make camp?” he said. “Did I hear him right?”
“Of course you heard him right,” Little Ted said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Now spread out like he told you. We’ll make camp just up ahead.” He grinned to himself as he rode on.
• • •
Watching from high atop a cliff shelf overlooking the stretch of sandy flatlands, Dallas Tate was glad to see the wagon stop at the bottom of an up-reaching hill trail. Through a battered telescope, in the shadowy evening light, he saw the two ranch hands carry downfall wood behind a tall stand of rock. In a moment he saw firelight glowing along the upper edge of the rock.
“Good,” he murmured to himself, lying stretched out on the rock shelf, a nearly empty whiskey bottle in his left hand. He didn’t know how much farther he could have made it, had they continued on up into the hill line. The pain in his right arm was sharp and constant. The arm felt broken at shoulder level. He had to hold the telescope up with one hand, his right arm dangling loose, sore and throbbing. The whiskey had helped the pain some. But now, with the whiskey supply diminishing quickly, he knew he would be in trouble the rest of the night.
Luckily, while he was in Dark Horses, he’d picked up two bottles of rye at the cantina and a small bottle of opium extract at the apothecary. He took out the bottle of opium and looked at it and shook it a little. He had just about enough to get him through the night. Then
he gauged the whiskey. Between the two he might be able to quell the pain, for a while anyway, he told himself, uncorking the whiskey with his left hand and taking a long swig from it.
Come morning, he would continue following them. He placed the whiskey bottle on the rock shelf and opened the opium, taking a generous drink of the bitter-tasting drug. That’ll help. . . . He corked the blue opium bottle, stood it beside the whiskey and lay back facing the graying evening sky, the telescope on his chest.
Oh yeah, he thought as his head began to swim, it’s helping already.
He had no idea where Summers, Bailey Swann and her ranch hands were going, but seeing the bays, the furnishings, and the silverware, he would bet they were taking the fillies and the household goods somewhere to keep the collectors from getting them. That would suit me fine, he thought. He’d follow them in the morning, find out where they were going, first thing. Then he’d ride back and tell Dad Crayley.
Smart thinking.
He smiled dreamily at the darkening sky. He was pretty sure Crayley would pay well for that kind of information. He rolled onto his stomach and stared for a moment at the whiskey and opium bottles. His hands relaxed at his sides, the pain in his left arm melting away as his eyes crept slowly shut.
In a moment he had fallen into a sound opium-alcohol stupor. His eyes did not open again until sunlight stood above the hill line on the eastern sky. When he did open his eyes and blink them to get them working, he found himself lying facedown on the rock shelf and struggled to push himself up using only his left hand. Once up, he staggered back and forth in place and looked out with his naked blurry eyes toward the place where he’d seen the party make its campfire last night.
Damn it!
He rubbed his eyes with his left hand and tried to focus again. Then he cursed and bowed at the waist and looked all around for the telescope. It was gone, and so were the bottle of rye and the opium. He looked at the edge of the rock shelf, visualizing all three items rolling off in the night and plunging down the hillside.