“Be careful what you wish for, boss,” Fred cautioned earnestly. “We’re coming off a pretty hard winter, not too far into spring. But summer’s just around the corner and you know how things tend to bust open more when the weather gets hot.”
“Yeah, I guess I should appreciate the calm while it lasts.” Then, stealing a line from Buford Morrison, Bob added, “I just don’t want to die of boredom and dry up like an old buffalo skull.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Just something I heard somewhere.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about the calm or the boredom. Take a closer look at a couple more things right here.” Fred waved the newspaper again. “I can spot trouble brewing that I got a pretty good hunch we’re bound to get involved in sooner or later.”
“You mean that piece about the cattle rustling that’s supposedly going on west of town? The rustling that Dutton got a big ‘lead’ on and went out to see for himself the other night? Trouble was, he came back without ever catching sight of anything, not even a scrawny coyote. Yet it still didn’t stop him from running his article just to help keep things stirred up, did it? You see, that’s the side of him I find so damned annoying.”
“Maybe so. But you know who’s behind those rustling claims, don’t you?”
“I know who and I’ve got a pretty good idea why.” Bob frowned. “The who is Ed Wardell. The why is because he’s had a burr under his saddle ever since last summer when Carlos Vandez bought those sections of land off the Widow Terlain and expanded his V-Slash spread so it borders Wardell’s Rocking W property for a good long stretch.”
“Near to five miles,” Fred said.
“Wardell hates Mexicans. Can’t say I’ve ever heard exactly why, but it’s a fact he’s made plenty clear on more than one occasion. So now, all of a sudden, he not only has a Mexican for a neighbor but the Mexican’s spread has expanded bigger and, by all accounts, is more successful than the Rocking W. This leaves Wardell in a seething rage pretty much around the clock. The only way his pride will let him face the fact that a greaser could pull off something like that is to start believing something underhanded must be going on.”
“Underhanded like rustling?”
“That’d fit the bill.”
Fred’s face scrunched up. “You mean you think Wardell is making it all up?”
“I got no proof of that. I’m just sort of thinking out loud. But neither does Wardell have any hard proof to back up his rustling claims. That’s part of the problem. Even if it was within our jurisdiction, he can’t offer a trail or a sighting or an altered brand—nothing that makes a starting point to go after any culprits. All he does is keep claiming he’s got missing cattle. Like you said a minute ago, we’re coming off a hard winter. Maybe he lost an undue number of head to the weather or maybe some have wandered off and his brush poppers haven’t rounded ’em up yet.”
“So it could be that Wardell is jumping the gun with his rustling claims. And because he hates Mexicans so much, he thinks—and he’s hinting hard for others to think—that Carlos Vandez might be behind it.”
Bob shrugged. “Remember, I’m just thinking out loud. But nobody hates cattle thieves worse than I do. Even if it is outside our jurisdiction, if I truly thought a mangy pack of long-loopers was at work anywhere in our area, I’d probably still offer our services to try and run ’em down. But I ain’t sold on the idea. Remember, too, neither has Wardell been able to convince the U.S. Marshals to send anybody to look into it.”
“Yeah, he’s made plenty of noise about that, too. And when he heard Buford Morrison passed through the other day without even a glance in his direction, it set him off all over again.” Fred paused, his expression darkening with a deepened concern. “In fact, that’s actually what I meant when I said I could spot trouble brewing in this newspaper article about the rustling. It reminded me of what else Wardell said about the law refusing to get involved.”
“And what was that?” Bob wanted to know.
“He said he was sending for some special men to hire on to his ranch crew—hardcase wranglers who knew how to work cattle and also how to deal with trouble in cases where men had to make their own justice.”
Bob scowled. “You sure he said that?”
“I didn’t hear it with my own ears but I sure heard about it secondhand from plenty of folks. There was still some talk about it in the Bluebird Café this morning when I stopped for breakfast.”
“Well, that’s just great. Why didn’t I hear about it before this?”
“I figured you had. I guess that’s why I didn’t say anything. It was just a couple days ago. Like I said, after Marshal Morrison left without making a swing out to the Rocking W.”
“Now I suppose I’m going to have to,” Bob said with a sour look. “First, to see if Wardell went ahead and did send for some hardcases. Second, to see if I can get him to ease up and call ’em off. That’s all we need is for hombres like that to show up and set a damn range war in motion over something that amounts to nothing.”
Fred shifted his feet and looked anxious. “There’s, er, something else we haven’t talked about yet that I think you’re gonna want to pay closer attention to also.”
“Something else covered in the Gazette?”
“Uh-huh.”
Fred smoothed out the elongated, single sheet of paper on Bob’s desk once more, then leaned over and pointed to another small article on the back side. The header for this one read: JOHN LARKIN RELEASED FROM PRISON—REPORTEDLY ON HIS WAY BACK TO RATTLESNAKE WELLS.
CHAPTER 5
“Close to five years ago, it would’ve been. A few months before you showed up and took on the marshal’s job. The gold boom was under way, really starting to pick up steam. Gold Avenue was stretching out daily, though still a far cry from what it is today. You remember how it was back then.”
Fred had settled onto a wooden chair that he’d hitched up in front of Bob’s desk as he related this background information.
“Jackson Emory had the biggest mining operation going up in the Prophecies at that time. Angus McTeague was coming on strong, but he wasn’t yet top dog like he’s become these days. So, anyway, Emory had two foremen helping him run things. Saul Norton—you know him, he’s still around—and John Larkin, the fella mentioned in that article. They were both a couple of aggressive go-getters, really worked their tails off for Emory.”
Bob arched a brow. “Then that means Norton ain’t changed much. He’s still aggressive, though ornery would be more like the word I’d choose. He drives those Emory digging crews hard and with little or no letup. I’m surprised he can keep finding men to work for him.”
“I know what you mean. He wasn’t always quite that bad, though. He pushed himself hard and expected everybody around him to keep up, but he didn’t used to seem so . . . well, okay, I guess ‘ornery’ is as good a word as any. Since Larkin got sent away to prison and old man Emory got stove up the way he did, the responsibility for keeping up the output of the Emory Mining Company has fallen mainly on the shoulders of Norton. You got to give him credit for sticking with it, I’d say, but the strain of it has taken its toll. The two Emory daughters do their best to be involved, but, from some reports, they may be almost as much bother as actual help.”
“I thought Norton and the oldest sister, Victoria, were kinda sweet on each other.”
Fred nodded. “That’s the way Norton would like it to be, that’s for sure. And I guess there’ve been a few signs of Victoria maybe showing some interest in return, but not as strong as Norton would like for her to show.”
“Okay. I already know the situation with Norton and the Emorys pretty good,” Bob said. “But what about this Larkin and the likelihood of his return? Your tone and Dutton’s implication in this article seem to suggest that he might be a threat of some kind.”
“No doubt that’s the concern of certain people. It was another subject of conversation at the Bluebird this morning, I can tell you that.”
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“Sounds like I ought to start stopping by the Bluebird more often in order to stay on top of things.” Bob scowled. “How does anybody even know Larkin got out anyway? How long was he sentenced for?”
“Five years in the Laramie pen,” Fred answered. Then he went on. “But he got out early for good behavior. That means he’s on parole for the balance of the five, and, if he does as directed, he’s supposed to check in with the local law officials wherever he decides to settle on the outside.
“How does anybody know about this? Try chalking it up to the Emory money and influence. Somebody on the Laramie parole board saw fit to notify the lawyer who represented Emory Mining on the original case, and he in turn let the old man know. How, exactly, it traveled from there I don’t know. But newspaperman Dutton caught wind of it somehow and made sure word got spread good and proper. So now it’s wagging on tongues all over town.”
“Yet, for all the wagging, I still haven’t heard the full story on Larkin. What did he do to get himself sent to prison, and what makes folks think he might be coming back for some kind of revenge?”
“He got convicted of stealing from Emory. He swore his innocence throughout. The most damning testimony against him came from none other than Saul Norton, who spotted Larkin pocketing small amounts of gold dust from the mine. He went to Emory, who went to old Hector Goode, the town marshal at that time, who called in a U.S. Marshal. With the name ‘Emory’ involved, there was no foot-dragging by anybody. Larkin was formally charged and there was an immediate investigation that turned up two small sacks of gold dust hidden among Larkin’s personal effects. Once that was presented in court, along with Norton’s testimony, the jury didn’t have to waste a whole lot of time deliberating.”
“Classic open-and-shut case,” Bob said solemnly.
“Uh-huh. But a lot of folks—folks not on the jury or not in any other kind of position to have an official say in the matter—still had a hard time buying it.”
“Why?”
Fred squirmed a little in his chair. “Mostly because Larkin was such a well-liked fella. Aggressive and nose-to-the-grindstone when it came to his job, like I said before, but somehow still likable and friendly. His men worked hard for him because they saw how much he cared and they wanted to please him, not because he pushed ’em and drove ’em.”
“The way Norton did.”
“Yeah. Did and still does.” Fred paused, frowning, mentally sorting to choose the right words. “Why it was hard for so many folks to buy Larkin as a common thief had to do with more than just finding him likable, though. In about any way you could figure, it just didn’t make sense for him to risk so much by pilfering that way. He had a good job, was earning—without having to steal—good money, and was clearly looked on with favor by Jackson Emory himself. Favorably enough to be seriously courting Victoria and doing so with the full blessing of the old man and his wife.”
“But there was no getting around the sworn testimony and the hard evidence found against him.”
“That’s the way the jury saw it.”
“Any reason to think it was a frame-up? Somebody looking to gain by getting rid of Larkin?”
“Who? Norton hasn’t gone anywhere, hasn’t gained anything except a crushing added workload. Old Judge Bricker, the circuit judge who ruled over the trial, died of a stroke six months afterward. Hogan, the lawyer for Emory, is still practicing down in Cheyenne at about the same level he was then. And the U.S. Marshal who conducted the investigation, a fella named Mulhaussen, got shot to death three years ago up in Deadwood. You remember hearing about that, right? All that leaves is Jackson Emory himself, the victim of a wagon crash less than a year after the trial that killed his wife and left him a cripple, only a shell of the man he was.” Fred paused again and wagged his head slowly. “No, it’d be kinda hard to find anybody who you could say gained from Larkin going off to prison.”
“So why do folks think he’s coming back to make trouble? For who?” Bob said.
“Well, Norton would be the most obvious choice, wouldn’t he? It was his accusations that started it all, and then his testimony and the rest that sealed it. And I know a few of the jury members who ruled on a guilty verdict are sweating a little, too. Larkin’s last words, after the judge sentenced him and gave him the chance for a final statement, was to turn to the whole court and say this . . . I was there that day, I remember it word for word . . . ‘You’ve just sentenced an innocent man to a prison hellhole. I mean to come back some day and show all of you the error of your ways.’”
“That was it?” said Bob, sounding almost disappointed.
“It was enough. If you were in court that day hearing him say it, it was plenty.”
Bob pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I guess it could be taken as a threat. But it could also simply be the words of an innocent man stating his aim to try and one day set the record straight.”
“One way or the other, I expect we’re gonna be finding out one of these days before too long.”
“You’re convinced he’ll be showing up?”
“For better or worse.”
“Interesting choice of words. The oldest Emory daughter, Victoria, the one you said Larkin was sparking pretty seriously before his trouble . . . She figure into any part of why you’re so sure he’ll be back?”
“Not due to any encouragement from her, if that’s what you mean. But for the first couple of years, Larkin sent her letters almost weekly. All they did was pile up at the post office, unopened, until they eventually quit coming . . . But just because he gave up on sending letters don’t mean he’s given up on his feelings for Victoria.”
“Only now the feelings between her and his old friend Norton have been added to the picture.”
“Yeah. There’s that.”
Bob leaned back in his chair. He puffed out his cheeks, then slowly expelled the air. “Fred,” he said. “I want you to do me a favor.”
“Sure, boss. What is it?”
Leaning forward again and planting his elbows on the desktop, Bob said, “The next time I open my yap about maybe feeling a little bored because things seem a mite too calm . . . Don’t work so hard at cheering me up by painting all the trouble brewing on the horizon. Okay?”
CHAPTER 6
Bob didn’t know exactly what to expect when he rode out to the Rocking W that afternoon . . . But what he for sure wasn’t counting on was finding a necktie party under way once he got there.
After taking an early lunch at home with Consuela, the marshal had saddled up and headed out with the intent of discussing Ed Wardell’s alleged rustling problem with him. As part of that, he figured to confront Wardell about the rumor of him bringing in hardcase wranglers.
The sky was clear, the air warm and sweet with the smells of spring’s first greening. It was a good day for a ride, a chance to get away from the confines and increasing crowdedness of the town. Although he took a lot of satisfaction in being the marshal of Rattlesnake Wells, Bob had grown up on a sprawling Texas ranch so it never took very long out in the open spaces for him to be reminded it remained a setting that would always have an appeal and a strong hold on at least part of him. What was more, he knew Consuela felt the same. Their shared dream, once his days of wearing a badge were behind him, had now become to find a little outlying spread where they would run a few head of cattle, maybe some horses, too, and finish out their time together.
Such pleasant thoughts drifted in and out of Bob’s mind as he rode over the rolling, grassy hills. But for the most part, he stayed focused on the upcoming meeting with Ed Wardell. He hadn’t had a lot of contact with the rancher over the years, and what there’d been failed to leave a very favorable impression.
For one thing, there was Wardell’s blatant dislike and distrust of Mexicans. During his formative years in Texas, Bob’s closest friend had been Ramos Diaz, Consuela’s brother. Their father, Alberto, was ranch foreman and trusted right hand to Bob’s father. So all of his life—albeit never more s
o than now, subsequent to his marriage to Consuela—Bob had felt an affinity and appreciation for Mexicans. To hear others disparage them for no good reason other than ignorant bias (something all too common where he came from back in Texas) chafed him mightily.
Furthermore, in Wardell’s case, he was a cold, sullen, generally unlikable individual to boot. It would be hard to find anybody around Rattlesnake Wells who regretted him not coming to town more often.
In fact, as he neared the Rocking W’s main ranch house, Bob was starting to seriously question the wisdom of going through with this visit. Changing Wardell’s mind about Mexicans wasn’t going to happen, that much was a certainty. Nor was he apt to dissuade the man’s belief that some of his cattle were being stolen. The best Bob could hope for was to find that Wardell hadn’t yet sent for those Texas hardcases or that he’d be willing to call them off if Bob expressed some willingness to look into the suspected rustling. As far as the latter, though, Bob knew there was only so much he’d be able to offer.
And, looming over it all, would be the question of whether or not the two of them would be able to hold their tempers long enough to have any chance at ironing out anything at all. If Wardell got too mouthy, as he had a habit of doing, and Bob was entering into it already disliking him . . . well, how constructive was that likely to be?
From the crest of a long slope looking down on the ranch, Bob reined up and leaned across his saddle horn, pondering if it would be worth it to go the rest of the way or if it only stood the risk of making harder feelings.
That’s when a pair of horsemen came in sight, each dragging on the ground behind him a hog-tied man lassoed at the ankles. As Bob watched, the two riders galloped hard toward a cluster of trees located off one end of a well-maintained corral. Four or five other horsemen were sitting their mounts there, waiting. A couple of them were waving their hats and cheering the approaching riders, reveling in the way the hog-tied men twisted and bounced cruelly on the rugged ground as they were dragged along.
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