by Chuck Tyrell
“So you’re after Red McNeil, are you?” said a Hashknife rannie.
“I am. He’s a robber who ain’t afraid of nothing. He never even covered his face when he tried to rob Adolf Schuster.”
“Didn’t they tell you what he looks like?”
“In a way. They said he’s a little above average height, but not as tall as me. An’ they figured he had blue eyes, but wasn’t sure, it being almost midnight when he held up Adolf and Ben Schuster’s general store.
“Hmmm,” the Hashknife boys said, and went to sipping at their strong black coffee.
“McNeil worked for the Hashknife Outfit. Do any of you boys know him? Could any of you tell me more about him so’s I’ll know him if ever I run across him?”
“That’s almighty strange, Sheriff. We’d a thought you’d know Red McNeil up close and personal, being as you rode in with him last night.”
You could have knocked me over with a broom straw.
The Hashknife boys laughed like it were a good joke on me. And I reckon it was.
“Dang”—I don’t like to cuss—“Dang. Whyn’t none of you rannies tell me I was riding with Red McNeil?”
“Didn’t want no blood dirtying up our camp. If’n we’d a said something like ‘Hiya Red,’ then there’d a been shootin’, sure as Christmas. We didn’t want no one shot.”
I had no answer to that, because if Red McNeil had drawed iron on me, he’d a sure been a dead man.
“Red left this for you.” The head cowboy held out a piece of paper. I took it. Red McNeil’d writ in near perfect hand:
Pardon me, Sheriff
I’m in a hurry;
You’ll never catch me,
But don’t you worry.
-- Red McNeil
I never did catch Red. He’d made a fool outta me, but then, it weren’t the first time. Still, his making fun of me started people thinking that I couldn’t run the sheriff’s office quite right and that I wouldn’t be the proper man to maintain law and order in Apache County.
Part V
The Snider Gang
I could tell Commodore Owens had not been comfortable during yesterday’s session. It seemed he felt that his first term in office had served more to damage his image than to build it up.
He seemed straight forward and honest, but I have no idea how well he did as a leader of men. From the record, it seems he did much better when acting on his own, taking blame or credit on his own, and not having to answer to what others—deputies and such—did in his stead.
This morning I had reached the Bucket of Blood before Commodore Owens arrived. Only Frick the barman was there.
“C.P. around?”
“Ain’t here yet,” Frick said. “Should be afore long, though. Coffee?”
“Coffee’d be good.” I’d had two cups, maybe three, while ingesting the good breakfast food at the Havasu House. Fred Harvey sure knew how to set a table, and how to pick those who served. Don’t know a man alive who would bitch about being served by a Harvey Girl.
Frick had no more than brought me the cup of coffee he promised than Commodore Owens slid in the front doors. He said nothing. Frick the barman said nothing. I said nothing.
He sat opposite me.
Frick brought him a cup of coffee, setting it in front of him almost before he got completely situated in his chair. He still said nothing, and he didn’t really look me in the eye. It was like he didn’t register my presence.
He drank all the coffee. I drank all my coffee. Frick brought more coffee. Nobody said a thing.
Finally, C.P. looked at me. “How’s your morning, shaver?”
“Can’t complain, C.P. We have to take what comes, but at the Havasu House, what comes is better than most.”
“I hear you’re sweet on Betty McNeil.”
I had to raise my eyebrows. She was sweet, but taking good care of me, a Havasu House guest, was part of her job. And I didn’t mean anything disrespectful when I say that. “She’s a Harvey Girl. They’re paid to look after Fred Harvey’s guests.”
“You don’t say. Well, you be real careful or you’ll have both barrels of Randolf McNeil’s 12-guage up your rear end as you head for the J.P.”
“Speaking of girls, C. P., we’ve never talked about all your girl friends.”
“Nothing to say.”
“I hear that you were sweet on a Mexican girl in St. Johns.”
“It don’t matter. Over and gone. ‘Sides, no woman ever got in the way of what had to be done.”
“What had to be done?”
“My job was to get rid of the outlaws in Apache County. That’s what I figured anyway. The supervisors thought otherwise, though. They wanted me out there running my horses all over the county collecting fees and fines and whatever they could come up with to put money in the coffers. But I was out after outlaws . . . and not all of them were out on the range.”
Commodore Perry Owens, never famous for his smile, kept a straight stone-hard face. Thinking back on his Apache County sheriff days never brought humor to his face.
“Being sheriff is not such a posh post, I guess,” I said.
“Like I said, I was elected to rid the county of outlaws. They what stole critters was easy enough to run down, but as soon as the crime took place in someone’s fine paneled office, every man and his dog looked for ways to trip me up.”
“Sounds like you might be talking about John Blevins.”
“Him, and Tony Perez, and Sol Barth, and a bunch more from the St. Johns Ring.”
“But didn’t John Blevins become a lawman later on?”
“He did. That don’t change the fact that he was ruled guilty by a jury and then pardoned by the governor, who didn’t know up from down about what John Blevins did or did not do.”
“But wasn’t that kind of the way things often went? In looking through the records of inmates at Yuma Territorial Prison, before it was moved to Florence, I remember seeing many inmates pardoned by governors.”
“That don’t make it right every time. Fact is, I’d be willing to bet that most who were in Yuma deserved to be there.”
“Be that as it may, can we get back to talking about how you cleaned outlaws out of Apache County?”
“Lots of ‘em skedaddled when I got elected.”
“But not all?”
Commodore shook his head. “Not by a long shot.” He held his coffee mug up and Frick rushed to get it refilled.
“Which ones come to mind?”
“You mean besides the Blevins family?”
I nodded. “If you please.”
Commodore stared at the tabletop for a long moment, his face set in flat, hard lines, as if remembering was not a pleasant task. “You know,” he said, “most folks never knew what I did to rid this country of owlhoots. I guess nobody paid much attention. Not that I was hunting glory or anything like that, but all the news rags would say was, ‘Sheriff Owens left town on official business and returned empty-handed.’ Of course I never told any reporter—other than yourself—what took place in those days when I was out of town on ‘official business’.”
“And what might that business have been?”
“You asked me that before, and I’m getting around to it.” Commodore’s blue eyes took on an icy glint, and his face remained without expression. I got a hint of what it must have been like for a lawbreaker to see the sheriff close up.
“Apologies, C.P. Don’t let me interrupt, but which . . . .”
“I’m getting to that.”
I held my tongue and sat with my Sheaffer poised over the foolscap I used to record Commodore’s story in shorthand.
“I reckon it were the gang at Round Valley,” Commodore said.
“The Snider Gang?”
“Shut up and let me talk.” Commodore stood and walked to the bar, coffee mug in hand. Frick fetched the pot and filled the mug. I had to wonder why Commodore had done that, but I imagine it was because of my incessant questions. I knew I had to give him more breathi
ng space, or run the risk of losing this precious opportunity to record the legendary lawman’s own version of his days behind a badge.
The old sheriff sat in silence, sipping at his coffee. He gazed at the front window, but his eyes seemed not to focus. Perhaps they were seeing events of long ago once again.
“They called it the Snider Gang,” Commodore said, “but a fast gun by the name of Ken Grizwold was the mainstay.”
“I say fast gun because Griz was always ready to jerk iron and when he did, he pulled the trigger. And I’ll tell you again, it ain’t how quick you can whip out a six-gun or lever a rifle, it’s all about whether you’ve got the guts and gumption to take the shot and put a man down. Griz was always ready, and I reckon I could count up a dozen men, at least a dozen, he took down with his S ‘n’ W Russian or the Winchester saddle gun he always carried.”
“Snider Gang? An organization? How did it work, may I ask?”
“You know about the Outlaw Trail?”
“I’ve heard of Hole in the Wall and Robber’s Roost, if that’s what you mean.” Of course, I knew of the Outlaw Trail, and I knew that cattle and horses were moved from and to Canada and Mexico and many places in between. Stolen stock went north and south with everyone sharing in the driving and the profits. I knew, but I wanted to find out why Commodore Owens brought it up.
“Snider’s gang cowboyed cattle down the Trail toward Mexico and up the trail toward Mexican Hat, but Griz worked on the side with a bunch of rannies, robbing a mail stage once in a while, or making off with cows to sell to the Indian Agent in San Carlos. Gus Snider didn’t do that, but Ken Grizwold did. Oh, how he did. So when I got elected County Sheriff, I got warrants for Grizwold and a dozen of his compadres. Then I went to give them fair warning.”
1
Some people think of Arizona as hot and dry. Well, dry she is, but up on the Colorado Plateau and into the foothills of the White Mountains, snow lay a foot deep on the flats and in drifts up to the height of a tall man. True, the country’s dry and snow don’t fall every day, but in January, it don’t melt much either. A man wants to ride careful because the snow’s crusted and can cut a horse’s fetlocks if you have to ride off the trail for some reason. Still, I was the elected sheriff of Apache County, and I’d promised to rid the county of outlaws.
Some of them took off right away, not wanting to trade shots with me. The owlhoots in Round Valley, though, stayed put. So I went calling.
The Little Colorado runs through Round Valley on its way to St. Johns, the Zuni fork, and north and west to join with the Colorado in the depths of the Grand Canyon. In other words, all I had to do was follow the river uphill.
Just my luck that there’s no regular road between St. Johns and Round Valley, but at least I had a choice. I could head southeast toward Escudilla and double back on the mail road, or I could move west through Concho, over the divide, and back southeast to Becker’s store. Julius built his general stone at the crossroads where people coming or going to Round Valley, Eager, Springville, or Show Low passed. Julius Becker was no fool. He always did what was good for business.
Julius’d cleared the snow from in front of the store so horses could stand on hard ground. Smoke drifted from the chimney up and across the cloudless sky. I could almost hear the crackle as juniper logs gradually crumbled into coals and then ashes. Had to be warm inside that store, and half a day’s ride out of St. Johns, I could use some warming up.
I left Cloudy, my grulla, tied to the rail. He looked at me like he wanted a bait of grain. “Hold on, pard,” I said. “Oats as soon as I can get some.”
“Gone to talking with your hosses now, have ya?”
I glanced in Julius’s direction. “This here horse carries on a better conversation than most men I know.” Cloudy give me a nudge with his nose. “An’ right now, he’d like some oats. Got any?”
“I do,” Julius said, giving me one of his famous smiles, the ones that showed lots of teeth so you’d ignore the eyes. “You being County Sheriff makes me wonder why you’ve come in this direction. Must be cold out on the trail.”
“Oats for the horse. And I’m here to have words with the Snider outfit.”
“I’ll get the oats, but words? I’ve always heard of Commodore Owens talking with his guns. Aren’t you the rannie the Navajos call Iron Man?”
“Navajos never could shoot straight. Mind if I come in outta the cold?”
“Open for business, I am.”
“Oats for the horse. Can of peaches for me.”
“Lemme get ‘em. Opened?”
I nodded. “Got me a sweet tooth that wants peaches right this minute.”
The goods in Julius Becker’s general store stood on the shelves in perfect order. And I didn’t see a speck of dust on any of his stock. “You see any of Snider’s boys around here much?”
“Couldn’t say, Commodore. I don’t ask names unless the customer wants credit.”
“You know ‘em. They around?”
“Winter time don’t make for easy pickings. Hard to stay warm.” Julius handed me an open can of peaches in syrup and waved me toward a long table surrounded by highback chairs. “You can sit and eat while I get oats for your pony. Mind if I take the bit outta his mouth?”
“’Bliged,” I said, and took him up on the offer. I picked a place not far from the cast-iron stove that sent smoke into the sky through a long black stovepipe and started to work on the can of peaches.
“You got word for Snider’s men, you might want to let me have the message. I’ll make sure it gets delivered,” Julius said.
“Better to deliver it personal.”
“They keep a good watch.”
I stabbed the last hunk of peach with my Bowie and ate it. The syrup on those peaches was downright pleasant to drink, and I did.
“I’d better have a box of 44-40s.”
“A dime for the peaches, two bits for the oats, half dollar for the bullets,” Julius intoned.
“Don’t reckon you’d put them on a tab for the county, would ya?”
Julius didn’t even crack a smile at my joke. “Cash,” he said. “You can collect it from the county later.” He plopped the box of fifty rounds on the table. “That’ll be eighty-five cents, hard cash.”
I paid with paper money.
“Commodore, you be right careful riding into Gus Snider’s den,” Julius said. “Right careful.”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled. Thanks for the peaches, and I hope I don’t have to use the cat’ridges.”
Julius followed me outside. “You sure I can’t deliver your message?” He took the nosebag off Cloudy and bridled him.
I took my Remington .44 from its holster and checked it, spun the cylinder, eared back the hammer, let it down to half cock, added a bullet to the cylinder, and returned the gun to its holster. Then I pulled the 44-40 Winchester saddlegun from its scabbard, checked the action, levered a round into the chamber, and mounted.
Cloudy gave me an evil eye. “Maybe you want more grain, old boy, but we’ve got things to do. Giddap.”
Cloudy seemed reluctant when I reined him toward the trail to Round Valley. I rode with the Winchester across the saddle bows and the retaining loop off the hammer of my Remington. Cloudy made his way along the one-horse trail as if he knew exactly where he was going. For me, this was the first time I’d started out to visit Gus Snider in his own lair. The saloon came first. No name but SALOON across an old board. If there was any place I could get information, the saloon would be it.
Two horses stood at the rail, a shaggy brown and a three-color paint. I didn’t recognize either one, but I hadn’t spent any time in Round Valley till now.
I got off Cloudy and left him ground-tied. Winchester in hand, I pushed my way into the saloon.
Not much, as saloons go, a bar running down the north wall, four tables and a back door. Two men, who I figured rode in on the two horses outside, sat at one table, trading poker faces with a ratty gambler. They didn’t so much as loo
k up from their cards when I walked in.
Jim McCarthy stood behind the bar. I knew him from Albuquerque. “’Lo, Jim,” I said.
McCarthy kinda grunted. Didn’t look too happy to see me. “You’d better look to your hole card, C.P.,” he said, “this here’s Gus Snider’s domain” —McCarthy always used four-bit words—“and he’s not partial to lawdogs.”
I didn’t say nothing, and walked over to stand right in front of him.
“You was elected sheriff of Apache County, I hear,” he said.
I just nodded.
“Whatcha want?”
“I come to have a word with Gus Snider and maybe Ken Grizwold.” I leaned the Winchester against the front of the bar and put a boot up on the brass foot rail. “Where ought a man go to see Gus Snider?”
“Over to the big house, I reckon.”
“Didn’t see nothing but tarpapered shacks on the way in.”
“The big house is over west of here, behind that little ridge. There’s a wagon track you can follow, if you’ve got the guts.”
I gave Jim McCarthy one of my patented lawman smiles. “Now Jim. You know I’ve got all the luck I need. Navajos’ve been bouncing bullets off me for five, six years. That’s why they call me Iron Man. Gus Snider’s gun hawks ain’t got what it takes to down C. P. Owens.”
“You talk awful big for one man, C.P.”
“Well, being as I’m not a drinking man, I reckon I’ll just have to ride on over to Gus Snider’s big house and tell him direct.” I put four bits on the bar and picked up my rifle. “Thanks for the time.”
McCarthy fumed, but he didn’t push the coins back across to my side of the bar. The men at the card table ignored me and McCarthy. I touched my forefinger to the brim of my four-by-four hat and left.
Outside, the two horses were still tied to the hitching rail, and Cloudy stood where I’d ground-hitched him. I stood on the saloon’s porch for a while to see if anyone left it, front way or back. No one did. Which meant Gus Snider would get no advance warning, or mighty little of it. I shoved the Winchester into the saddle scabbard, mounted, and rode west on a little wagon track, not much more than a couple of ruts in the snow.