by Max O'Hara
“The boss in?” Stockburn asked.
“He’s upstairs with his son!”
“Tell him Wolf Stockburn just wanted to stop in and say good-morning, will ya?” Stockburn crouched again, jerked Cove to his feet then tossed him forward, onto a big baize-covered craps table sitting in the middle of the room.
Again, Cove screamed and clutched his wrist. He turned onto his side and bellowed, “Black-hearted son of Satan!”
“Are you crazy?” bellowed the barman.
There were maybe a half-dozen men in the place—four standing at the bar, half-turned toward Stockburn and Stanley Cove, and two men in business suits sitting at a table against the front wall, to Wolf’s right. They were eating ham and eggs and drinking beer.
A door opened on the balcony running along the rear of the room. Kreg Hennessey stepped onto the balcony. He moved across the balcony to stand with his hand on the rail, staring down into the main drinking and gambling hall.
He looked blankly down at Stockburn and at Cove lying atop the craps table, grimacing and groaning and clutching his wrist, which hung at an odd angle from his arm.
Hennessey closed both his hands around the balcony rail, tightening his grip until his knuckles turned white.
Stockburn glared up at the saloon owner and said, “If you have any messages for me in the future, Hennessey— good-morning or otherwise—be man enough to deliver them yourself.”
Stockburn wheeled, climbed the steps to the front door, then pushed through the door to step out onto the boardwalk. He turned left and started across the side street, slowing his pace when he saw Ivy Russell standing against the hitchrack near where Smoke stood, the horse’s reins dangling.
Ivy leaned back against the rail, arms crossed on her chest. She wore the same clothes as last night—wool shirt and suspenders and faded denims and boots—but she’d brushed her hair and washed her face.
She grinned at Stockburn walking toward her. “Up early making new friends?”
Stockburn stepped past the girl and grabbed his reins. “You can’t have too many friends, Ivy—you know that.”
CHAPTER 10
Stockburn followed the spur line rails north to where the Hell’s Jaw Company’s office sat, on the east side of the recently laid tracks and about a hundred yards from the northeast end of Wild Horse. The building was a long, story-and-a-half wood frame structure without frills—purely utilitarian by design. It wasn’t even painted.
The company office appeared to be on the structure’s left side, behind a door and two sashed windows, one on each side of the door. A simple shingle over the door identified the place as Hell’s Jaw Railroad, Jamerson Stewart—Jamerson Stewart, Jr., Props.
To the right side of the building appeared a warehouse or supply shed, several hundred feet square. It had a pair of closed double doors, not unlike the main doors of a livery barn. Behind the building were a stable and corral and several heavy wagons, tongues drooping, as well as piles of new rails and railroad ties that filled the air around the place with the smell of pine tar. In fact, Stockburn had first detected the odor of the pine tar, used to weatherproof the ties, even before he had left the town proper.
Smoke rose from a stove pipe poking out of the building’s slightly pitched, shake-shingled roof, on the office side. The elevation here was high, and though it was early September, the mornings and evenings were cool. Loud voices sounded from inside the place, too muffled for Wolf to hear.
He dismounted, tied Smoke at the hitchrail, and mounted the awning-covered porch. As he did, he could hear the voices more clearly now, one man saying, “. . . just yesterday evening and he’s already left a path of death behind him!”
Another man said, “He was jailed for several hours and then Wally Stigen saw him enter the Territorial Hotel with Lori McCrae clinging to him like they were newly married man and wife!”
“What kind of man did Wells Fargo send me, anyway?”
Wolf decided not to knock. Instead, he tripped the latch, shoved open the door, and poked his head into the office with a wolfish grin. “A busy one, I’ll tell you that!”
The three men in the cluttered, smoky office jerked startled looks toward the door. Two were dressed in suits. These were obviously father and son Stewart.
They were not only physically the spitting image of each other despite an age difference of twenty-five or so years, they were dressed almost identically, as well. They even wore the same round, steel-framed spectacles on identically shaped noses above identical mustaches, though the father’s ’stache had some traces of gray in it.
The third man, sitting casually in a Windsor chair with his back to the building’s left wall, was dressed less formally in a cream shirt, string tie, corduroy jacket, and denim trousers. A cream Stetson hung from a knee of a crossed leg. A brown paper quirley sent a curl of smoke into the shadows above his right hand, which was draped casually over a chair arm.
The three men flushed with surprise and sheepishness. The flush in the more plainly dressed man was closely followed by a smile.
“Stockburn?” the elder Stewart said. He sat behind a large desk, his back to the rear wall. An angry scowl furled his brow. He had a pen in his hand and several open account books before him.
Wolf stepped into the room, doffing his hat and closing the door behind him. “I’d have knocked but I figured you were expecting me. Apparently, you knew I was in town.”
“Indeed, we did, Mister Stockburn!” This from the young Jamerson, who sat at a desk, slightly smaller than his father’s desk, facing the wall to Stockburn’s right. A long, slender black cheroot burned in an ashtray near his own pile of account books and ledger.
He slid his chair back, rose, and turned to face the detective. “Good Lord—you certainly know how to make an entrance, don’t you?”
“Sorry. Should’ve knocked.”
The elder Jamerson rose from his own desk, showing Wolf that the father was several inches shorter than his otherwise nearly identical offspring. “He meant your entrance into Wild Horse. Good Lord, what do you do—travel the country seeing how many new notches you can add to your pistol grips?”
“Well, I—”
The other man rose from the Windsor chair to Stockburn’s left, smiling, holding his hat in his hands. “Did you really kill that little snake, Riley Hennessey?”
Jamerson Jr. scowled at the man, “Paul, it’s no laughing matter.”
“It’s not a laughing matter,” Stockburn said. “But it would have been a lot less funny to the McCrae family if I hadn’t snuffed that little polecat’s wick. As for Kreg Hennessey—he’s the one who started the dance last night in the Cosmopolitan. I finished the hoe-down to keep from being fitted for a wooden overcoat this morning instead of heading over here to get started after the men who killed your rail crew.”
He fingered the goose egg on his temple. “Albeit with a bit of a headache.”
“And Lori McCrae?” the man called Paul asked with another delighted smile on his rugged-featured face. He was not a tall man, but, even slightly pot-bellied, he had the look of a working man, not a pencil-pusher and bean counter like the Stewarts.
The older Stewart said from behind his large, messy desk, “If you’ve gotten us crossways with the McCrae family, too . . .”
“Ah, there’s nothing for them to get crossways with you about. One, I’m a big boy. I can stand for myself. Two, Lori McCrae and I got to be friends. Just sort of happened after that jasper Hennessey pulled her off the train and I had to put him down like the rabid dog he was.”
“Was it she who bailed you out of jail?” Paul asked with that smile again that said he wasn’t nearly as bothered by the whole affair as father and son Stewart were. In fact, he appeared well entertained.
“No one bailed me out of jail. Her lawyer, Powderhorn, threatened to drag Russell in front of a judge.”
“Oh, right,” Paul said. “No, no—Watt Russell wouldn’t want to answer to no judge.” Smiling down at
his hat, he chuckled and shook his head.
The elder Stewart drew a deep, tolerant breath, filling up his chest and throwing his shoulders back, chin up. “Mister Stockburn, it’s very important that you give our matter your full attention. You can’t afford to be distracted by Kreg Hennessey or Watt Russell or, or . . .”
“Lori McCrae,” Paul said, jostling the hat in his hands.
“Or Lori McCrae,” scolded the younger Stewart.
Or Ivy Russell, Stockburn silently opined, then covered the grin threatening to spread his lips by brushing his fist across his chin and clearing his throat. If they didn’t know about Ivy’s visit to his room last night, on the heels of Lori’s visit, all the better, since the Stewarts seemed to have their drawers in a twist.
“I always give business matters my full attention, Mister Stewart.”
The elder Stewart drew his mouth corners down, nodded, then came out from around the desk to extend his right hand. “Proper introductions are in order. I’m Jamerson Stewart.”
“How do you do? Wolf Stockburn at your service.”
Junior stepped forward to shake Stockburn’s hand, as well. “Jamerson, Jr. Call me James. My father goes by Jamerson.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Stockburn said, shaking the young man’s hand. He judged the younger Stewart to be in his late twenties.
The older Stewart, somewhere in his late fifties, gestured toward the other man in the room. “This is Paul Reynolds. He’s the ramrod of our rail crew. At least, he was when we still had a crew.”
“Pleased to meet you, Reynolds,” Stockburn said as the ramrod walked up to shake hands.
“Pleasure’s mine. I’ve heard a lot about you. Sounds like you’re the man for the job.”
“I reckon the proof will be in the pudding.”
“Mister Stockburn,” said the elder Stewart, “would you like to sit down, perhaps enjoy a cup of coffee with us? I was just brewing a fresh pot.”
He glanced at the potbelly stove in the room’s corner on which a black pot ticked and thumped as coffee started to boil.
“I had plenty for breakfast. I’d just as soon get headed up to where the massacre happened as soon as possible. I’ve gone over the file the company provided several times on my journey from Kansas.” Stockburn looked at the elder Stewart. “I just have a couple of questions. Were those men that were killed the only men you had on your payroll?”
Stewart nodded. “I’m afraid so. There were fourteen including a cook and a horse wrangler. All dead. Paul was spared because he’d returned to town for a meeting with James and myself. We like to keep up to date on the progress up there, and as yet there is no telegraph operating between Wild Horse and the end-of-track. There won’t be one until the rail line is finished all the way to Hell’s Jaw Pass.”
“You got lucky, Reynolds,” Stockburn said.
“Lucky, I guess. I sure wish I’d been there to help. Some of those dead men were close friends of mine.”
“You couldn’t have helped, Paul, and you know it,” the elder Stewart assured the man. Returning his gaze to Stockburn, he said, “The raiders came at night when all of the men were asleep in their tents. They were wiped out likely within minutes.”
“I found them when I rode back up there the next day,” Reynolds said. His previous humor had vanished, and it was a grave-faced, angry man speaking to Stockburn now. “Some of them lay dead on their cots. A few had grabbed guns and ran outside in their longhandles only to be cut down close to their tents. I doubt if more than a couple managed to snap off any return fire at all. Those men that lay wounded were finished off”—the foreman placed two fingers to his forehead—“with a bullet to the head. Fired at close range. I was in the Indian Wars. I know what close-range bullets look like.”
The foreman sighed, shook his head. “Whoever pulled that lowdown dirty trick were about as lowdown dirty mean as men can get.”
“Professional killers, most likely,” James Stewart said.
“Hired by who?” Stockburn glanced at each man in turn.
The men looked at each other, hesitant, vaguely sheepish.
“What?” Stockburn said with a wry chuckle. “You want me to guess?”
The elder and younger Stewarts shared another silently conferring look, then the older man settled his brown-eyed gaze on Wolf. “We think it’s someone from the McCrae Triangle Ranch.”
Wolf was nudged by genuine surprise. “Why’s that?”
“The raiders did a pretty good job of covering their tracks, but I managed to follow some sign onto Triangle graze.”
“It could be they merely crossed the Triangle, or circled back, hoping to confuse trackers,” Stockburn said. “I thought Norman McCrae owned a percentage of the company.”
“He does,” said Jamerson Stewart. “But his oldest boy, Lawton, was dead-set against the rail line. He’ll inherit the Triangle one day—probably not too long down the road, in fact—and he’s always hated the fact that gold was discovered above the Triangle. He thinks our spur line will encourage more prospecting, more mining . . . more rustling.”
“Some of the independent prospectors,” said the younger Stewart, “are poor men living remotely. Some right on Triangle graze. Or on what Lawton calls Triangle graze even though up there it’s all officially government land. Norman doesn’t mind feeding a hungry prospector or two, but Law, as he’s called, sees the problem as an existential threat to Triangle. If more and more outsiders move onto so-called Triangle land . . .”
“He’s a bit of a hothead, Law,” put in Reynolds. “Nothing like the Hennessey boy, but . . . he’s bullheaded. Scrappy when pushed. Even scrappier when he’s been drinking. He’s also greedy.”
The older Steward said, “Just like his old man used to be, when he was younger. He’s settled down some now in his later years, Norman has.”
“Maybe a little.” The younger man seemed reluctant to agree.
Stockburn raked a thumbnail down his cheek, pondering.
Finally, he turned to the elder Stewart. “What about McRae’s rival rancher?”
“Rufus Stoleberg?” The older Stewart shook his head. “Nah. I wouldn’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“He don’t have a dog in the fight.”
“He hates McCrae, doesn’t he? Because he lost the sale of the right-of-way?”
“Sure, but he wouldn’t try to ruin us just because of his age-old feud with Triangle. McCrae has a percentage in the Hell’s Jaw Line, but it’s not enough to do Norman any real damage if we went under. He doesn’t really need that kickback. He’s rich in beef.”
“Besides,” Reynolds added, “Rufus Stoleberg is way more, shall we say, direct? If he killed men, they wouldn’t be our men. They’d be McCrae’s men, sure enough.” He gave a dark chuckle. “Nah, he’s too busy just surviving on second-rate graze,” the ramrod added, “to go to war with us.”
“I agree,” said the younger Stewart. “Rufus Stoleberg would save his lead for McCrae.”
“All right, then.” Stockburn turned and walked to the window right of the door, and peered out, thoughtful. After a time, he turned back to the three men facing him expectantly. He glanced at the stove. “You’re coffee’s boiling, gentlemen. I’ll be on my way.”
“Would you like me to ride up to the sight of the massacre with you, Stockburn?” Reynolds asked.
“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I’d like to check it out on my own. Besides, I already have a guide.”
Stockburn grinned as he hooked a thumb to indicate Lori McCrae looking fresh as a spring daisy and straddling a fine sorrel filly just beyond the office window.
CHAPTER 11
“Good morning, young lady,” Wolf said as he stepped out of the Hell’s Jaw Railroad office. “You look every bit as ravishing as this late summer morning!”
“Oh, stop it, you charmer. I know about you.” Lori glowered down at him, pooching her red lips out in mock anger. She was dressed in a tailored riding outfit
with a split skirt and wasp-waisted blouse open at the neck and a black silk choker trimmed with a fat, glistening pearl. Gold-buckled, black patent riding boots climbed nearly to her knees. Besides the choker around her neck, she also wore a red silk kerchief whose long tapering ends blew in the breeze.
She wore her thick, lovely chestnut hair down about her shoulders, a few strands braided and tied behind her head. A felt hat, the same color as the skirt of her riding dress, shaded her face with its broad brim.
Stockburn stopped. “What do you know about me?”
“I know who paid a visit to your room last night—not fifteen minutes after I left. Ivy Russell.”
Stockburn grinned as he untied his reins from the hitchrail. “Well, darlin’, I never let on I was a one-woman man. Say, where’s all those steam trunks and portmanteaus I saw the porter killing himself to haul over to the hotel yesterday?”
“I’m having it delivered by wagon later. But the subject was Ivy Russell. Steer clear of her, Wolf. She is as ugly on the inside as she is pretty—albeit in a rather crude and rough way—on the outside.”
“Oh?”
“She’s a conniver. She’s always working both ends against the middle. Everybody knows that about Ivy. Smart men steer clear.”
“And dumber men?”
Lori arched a brow with meaning.
“Hmmm.” Stockburn swung up into the leather, absently marveling at the similarities in the girls’ warnings to him about each other. “It’s not serious, I assure you. We just had a little whiskey and . . . well, she did show me her ankle but only because she was feigning injury.”
“That harlot!”
“I gotta admit it was a pretty ankle but obviously uninjured.” Stockburn chuckled as he reined Smoke out away from the railroad office and booted him northeast along the trail paralleling the newly laid spur rails.
“You’re a shameless cad!” Lori accused as she trotted up beside him, her hair bouncing on her shoulders, the crisp golden sunshine dancing in the tumbling tresses.
Laughing again, Wolf said, “I’ve been called far worse than that by some much less easy on the eyes than you.”