“Once again, mostly on account of me,” Monte spoke up. “Sam’s fine will get paid, Marshal, and he won’t be servin’ no more time over it. I’ll chip in, too, to make sure.”
Bob regarded him soberly. “You’re proving yourself to be a pretty decent fella, Monte . . . But it’s all coming after the fact. Next time, make sure your decent side shows a little sooner—before you run your mouth or lose your temper and drag yourself and your pals into trouble again.”
“I get the message loud and clear, Marshal,” Monte assured him. “You can count on that.”
“I hope so.” Bob jerked a thumb toward the front door. “Now beat it. Report back to your mine and stay out of trouble.”
CHAPTER 22
Bob went home for lunch and enjoyed a light meal and some quiet, leisurely time with Consuela. It added to his improved mood, the best one he’d been able to manage for a couple days now.
Having Larkin back in town also helped with that. It was a relief of sorts, certainly better than waiting and wondering about his return. His intentions now that he was here still weren’t entirely clear, but from the time Bob had spent with him he hardly seemed like the embittered, revenge-seeking threat that some feared he would be. Not to say he couldn’t still display such inclinations, especially toward certain people, but Bob got no sense of that being the main motive driving him.
Nor did the appearance of Larkin do anything to erase the situation with the Rocking W and Ed Wardell’s apparent hiring of Rance Brannigan. But at least the anticipation of one man showing up was out of the way, and the associated trouble at the Grand last night had occupied Bob’s time and attention sufficiently enough to relegate thoughts of Brannigan to the back of his mind, at least for the time being.
And now, as he came down the slope from his house, on his way back to the jail, he spotted someone waiting for him whom he was pretty sure represented something more that would be occupying his time and attention to kick off the afternoon.
The buggy parked at the base of the slope was not a showy affair, but the mere fact it was a buggy, as opposed to the buckboards and freight wagons more common to the streets of Rattlesnake Wells, made it stand out. Its two occupants—the tall, militarily erect man on the driver’s seat and the small, hunched-over man riding as passenger—gave it added distinction. Both wore dark business suits, crisp white shirts, neckties the color of ink. The driver wore a bowler hat perched on a cleanly shaven head. The passenger wore a wide-brimmed slouch hat pulled low over his eyes and had a plaid shawl draped over his narrow shoulders despite the warmth of the day.
Bob strode up and stopped beside the buggy. “Afternoon, Mr. Emory,” he greeted.
“And to you, Marshal,” Jackson Emory responded with a bob of his head. Lifting a pale, heavily veined hand, he made a slight gesture toward his driver. “You know my man Graedon, I trust?”
“I’ve seen him around. Don’t know that we’ve ever been proper introduced,” said Bob.
“Well then, consider that remedied. Marshal, Graedon . . . Graedon, Marshal Bob Hatfield.”
The two men exchanged nods.
Emory went on, “I presume you have gathered that we were here waiting for you, Marshal. Can you spare me a few minutes of your time?”
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“To talk,” Emory said bluntly. Then he slowly looked around, examining their surroundings, and brought his eyes back to Bob. “As you undoubtedly know, I seldom venture out of my house these days. Especially during the cold months only recently behind us. But inasmuch as I am out today and it is such a fine spring afternoon, I would very much like to drink it in with a turn through town and out a ways into the countryside. Would you mind riding with me while we have our discussion?”
Bob shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”
He went around the rear of the buggy and climbed in from the opposite side. Both the backrest and seat of the passenger compartment were so plushly cushioned that Bob felt half-swallowed when he leaned back. “Wow,” he said. “This is so comfortable you may have trouble getting me out of here, even when the ride is over.”
Emory gave no response to that. To Graedon he said, “Head on south through Old Town and then out into the country. Hold an easy pace.”
Up close, Bob was somewhat startled by how old and frail Jackson Emory looked. His skin was almost as pale as the tufts of white hair poking out from under his hat, and his hunched posture gave the impression that the weight of the shawl over his shoulders was pressing him down in the seat. It had been months, maybe close to a year since Bob had seen him last. When Bob had first come to town, Emory had been hale and hearty; never a particularly large man, just average sized, he was solid and square shouldered and made to seem larger by his self-assurance and the success of his two mines up in the Prophecies. But that was before the accident just short of three years ago, the wagon crash coming down off the mountain that had taken the life of his wife and left him without the use of his legs. Emory had been slowly withering away ever since then. But Bob had never seen him look this bad. Before long, if he didn’t get turned around somehow, there wasn’t going to be anything left to wither further.
They rolled down Front Street, past the jail and Peterson’s Livery, veering wide around the depot and the roundhouse of the spur railroad line. Ahead stretched the rolling hills of the prairie, its grasses starting to take on a bright spring green.
“In case you’re wondering, we can speak freely in front of Graedon,” Emory said. “I trust him implicitly.”
“Okay by me.”
“I expect you can guess that what I want to discuss is the return of John Larkin.”
Bob nodded. “Had a hunch that would be it.”
“I understand he’s arrived in town, just as we’ve all been anticipating, and he immediately got into a saloon brawl.”
“It wasn’t really what you could call a brawl. More of a scuffle between Larkin and a couple other men. McT miners, if it matters.”
“What matters, to me, is that you put the ruffian behind bars as a result. But then you released him again after only a short time.”
“That’s right. Larkin wasn’t the one who started that fight; all he did was defend himself. There were no grounds for keeping him in jail.”
“No grounds?” Spots of color appeared in Emory’s cheeks and his muddy brown eyes sparked with a hint of his old fire. “The man is a thief and a betrayer of great trust! He’s an ex-con come back seeking revenge and to make trouble—as he immediately proved only minutes after crossing the city limits line. What more in the way of ‘grounds’ do you need, for God’s sake?”
“More than that, I’m afraid,” Bob said, straining to keep his voice calm. “I can’t arrest a man for what he might do. And as far as him being an ex-con, that’s exactly right. The important part is the ‘ex’—he served his time for what he did and was officially released for good behavior.”
“That’s absurd!” Emory huffed. “His sentence was never adequate to begin with.”
“It was the ruling of a judge and jury. That’s all I know.”
Emory’s mouth formed a thin, straight line and he didn’t say anything for a long minute.
They were quite a ways out of town by now. The prairie spread on all sides, the green of new grass and even the faded, gold-brown remains from last year awash in bright sunlight. Up ahead, a tall, wide, flat-topped rock formation—a butte—thrust up like a lonely sentinel.
“Would you like to circle the butte as usual, sir?” Graedon asked over his shoulder.
“Yes. Yes, that would be fine,” Emory said rather absently.
“Very good, sir.”
Emory looked like he was ready to return to his silent stewing but then, abruptly, he motioned ahead and said to Bob, “Do you know the story of that butte up there?”
“No, I don’t guess I do.”
“The Indians had a legend about it. It doesn’t get told much today. Maybe that’s a good thin
g, but I think it’s sad. We drove all the Indians out, seems we at least ought to hang on to some of their lore.”
Emory’s voice took on a wistfulness as he continued. “Long ago, according to the legend, there were two Indian tribes fighting over this land and the vast herds of buffalo that roamed here. They warred back and forth for years. During a particular battle, the braves of one of the tribes were decimated to a very small number and cut off from any escape except to clamber to the high ground on top of that butte. From there, they were able to hold off the superior number of the other tribe.
“But as you can imagine, that was only a very limited victory. It quickly became clear that they were trapped there. The braves on top of the butte could hold off the other tribe as long as they had the strength to fight, but without food or water they would eventually grow too weak to hold their ground or perhaps even perish of starvation. Their choices were to surrender, or possibly fling themselves from the high rocks rather than that, or try to fight their way back off the butte knowing they would certainly be slaughtered by the larger opposing force waiting at the bottom . . . They chose the latter,” Emory concluded, “and were indeed slaughtered to the last man. But the fight they made of it so inspired the rest of their tribe that they rose up with great determination and ferocity and at last drove their enemies away forever. Afterwards, the butte came to be known as Massacre Butte and the legend of the great battle there was passed down through generations.”
“Quite a story,” Bob said.
“Not a pleasant one, I fear. I suppose that’s why, when the settlers came to the area, they quit retelling it and also stopped referring to the spot as Massacre Butte. Now it has no name at all, as far as I know. And that, as I said, seems sadder to me than maintaining the rather bloody legend.”
“But there’s something more,” said Bob, regarding Emory closely, “that gives it a special meaning to you.”
The old man met his eyes. “You are a very discerning man, Marshal,” he said.
“I try to be.”
They had begun skirting around the butte. The sun, only an hour past its noon peak, poured straight down, creating minimal shadows in the seams that ran up and down the sides or among the rubble of boulders around its base. This served to enhance the streaks of color—reddish-brown, hints of pink, gold, yellow—that ran all throughout the high-reaching rock slabs.
“Right there. The coloring,” Emory said. “That’s what gives this place a special meaning to me. More to the point, it’s what was so appealing to my late wife. She loved riding out here on sunny days or sometimes at sunset to watch the way the colors came out of the rocks. She was another one who hated hearing that old Indian legend, wouldn’t let me speak of it, but she savored seeing the way the sun paints the rocks and never tired of coming out here to see it. Since she’s been gone . . . well, on the infrequent occasions I leave the house, I still like to return.”
“It’s understandable—both why your wife liked coming here and why you like coming back,” Bob said. “I must have ridden in sight of here a dozen times and never paid much attention. Saw it as just a pile of rocks. Now I know better. I’m pretty sure it’s something my wife would appreciate seeing sometime, too.”
“Yes, you should bring her out. That’s what life is all about, Marshal. Family. Lasting memories from the special moments you spend with those you cherish the most.” As he spoke, Emory was gazing up at the butte, but somehow Bob knew he was seeing something more, something beyond.
Abruptly, the old man turned his head and looked very directly at Bob. “That’s my real concern where John Larkin is concerned. I don’t dispute that the man has served his time and deserves another chance to get his life straight. But what I fear—what I cannot accept—is for his actions to bring any more pain to me and my family. I was once ready to accept that ungrateful pup as a son, a husband to my daughter. But he chose instead to betray me and break her heart. He’ll not affect me any further, you can be certain of that. But my daughter, Victoria, I’m not so sure about. I’ve little doubt he still has intentions toward her. I won’t stand for him intruding into her life and her happiness any more than he already has!”
“That’s understandable,” Bob allowed.
“Then what do you intend to do to stop him?”
Bob hesitated, looking to formulate the right answer—one that would address Emory’s concerns while at the same time stating the legal limitations when it came to preventing Larkin from at least making an attempt to see Victoria. To do this without setting off the old man’s anger all over again was the tricky part.
But, all of a sudden, none of that mattered so much.
What mattered was the bullet that came sizzling in and cut a slash across the top of the backrest smack between the heads of Bob and Emory! The boom of a rifle report came an instant later, sounding from among the boulders clustered around the base of Massacre Butte.
Bob’s Colt was immediately gripped in one fist while, with his other hand, he was grabbing Jackson Emory and yanking him down lower in the cushiony seat. Another bullet cut the air just above their heads, followed by another jarring boom.
“We’re being shot at, Graedon,” Bob hollered. “Put the whip to that horse and get us the hell out of here!”
The buggy jolted into motion at an increased speed. Graedon’s whip cracked above the tail of the sleek black gelding in the harness and the animal responded by breaking into long, smooth strides.
Bob twisted around in his seat and peered cautiously over the backrest, looking for some sign of the shooter. He caught a momentary glimpse of a telltale wisp of gunsmoke hanging above the low boulders, though the range was questionable for return fire from his pistol. But in a matter of seconds, the horse’s pounding hooves and the churning wheels of the buggy kicked up a dust cloud from the dry ground under the prairie grass that boiled around the rear of the rig and obscured his vision of the spot.
But no more shots came their way. And, as Graedon veered them away from the butte and made a wide loop back toward town, no riders appeared in pursuit. Just to make sure, however, Bob remained vigilant, peering over the backrest with his Colt held at the ready while keeping Emory down low in his seat until they were well clear.
CHAPTER 23
On the outskirts of town, Graedon reined the buggy to a halt. He quickly hopped down and came around to the side. Bob was more than a little surprised to see a short-barreled, nickel-plated revolver gripped in Graedon’s hand when he first hit the ground. The manservant quickly returned the weapon to a shoulder holster under his coat, however, and then both he and Bob got Emory situated upright in his seat again and checked to make sure the frail old man hadn’t been too badly shaken up by being shoved low or by the rough ride that followed. Judging by the string of epithets Emory began spewing toward whoever had shot at them, he was feeling more pissed off than hurt.
“Who was that bushwhacking bastard who opened up on us back there?” he demanded.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Bob answered. “All I saw was a telltale sign of gunsmoke from over in the rocks around the bottom of the butte. Being exposed out in the open like we were, we couldn’t afford to stick around to try and get a better look. Graedon did a good job of getting us out of there and luckily there was no pursuit.”
“He was a yellowbellied damn coward whoever it was.” Emory scowled fiercely. “You figure it was somebody out to get even with you, Marshal?”
“I’ve made some enemies over the years, no denying that,” Bob allowed. “But most of them are either in the ground or behind bars. The ones still running loose are nowhere in this area, not as far as I know. And even if they are, they’d have no way of expecting I’d be taking a buggy ride out close to that butte in order to be laying in wait for me there.”
“So what are you saying?” Graedon asked.
Bob thumbed back the brim of his hat. “Well, I guess I’m thinking maybe the question needs to be turned back on Mr. Emory . . . Do
you have any enemies, sir, or anybody wanting to get even with you badly enough to take a potshot at you?”
Emory’s scowl tightened even more. “You don’t reach my level of success and wealth without throwing some sharp elbows and making some enemies along the way. Especially not in a tough business like mining. But those days are mostly behind me. Ever since the accident, I haven’t been . . . well, either as ambitious or aggressive. It’s been years since I’ve clashed with anyone who’d be likely to harbor enough ill will toward me to try and kill me.” He paused. The scowl left his face but his expression remained no less intense as he fixed Bob with a very direct gaze before adding, “With perhaps one exception.”
Bob knew who he was talking about, of course. He hated to put it into words but it loomed too large to try and step around. “John Larkin, you mean.”
“Who else? So you admit to seeing it the same way?”
“I admit nothing. I was simply stating my recognition of what you were implying.”
“It was more than an implication. It was a conclusion, and not a very hard one to reach.”
“That might be one way of looking at it,” Bob said. “But here’s another: First of all, it’s almost too obvious. A day after he hits town he goes after you? And for what purpose? You weren’t on the jury that sentenced him, you brought no evidence against him. You were caught in the middle as much as anybody. And if Larkin continues to have designs on your daughter, as you believe he does, how would killing you—knowing he’d surely be a suspect—stand the chance of gaining him anything in that regard? What’s more, how would he know to be laying an ambush out there at the butte any more than one of my past enemies would?”
“You sound like a defense lawyer for Larkin.”
“I’m just pointing out some facts as I see them. The key, it seems to me, is that butte and how somebody—anybody—would know to be there waiting for either one of us.”
“When we take our buggy rides, sir, a trip out to the butte is a rather common thing,” remarked Graedon.
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