“I’ll be damned if I’ll die like this!” a Lightning hand yelled, and ran for the door. He made it about ten feet before rifle fire spun him around and sent him to the unknown.
“Help!”
Clang!
“Start pulling back,” Pete sent the word up and down the line of men. “I think we’ve made our point for this afternoon.”
Hugo and son and hired guns and Lightning hands stayed down for ten minutes after the firing had ceased. The first man to enter the clearing was the gunslick from the garbage pit. Coop had fired probably fifty rounds at him and missed all fifty times. But the gunhand was scared out of his wits and stinking like nothing anybody had ever smelled . . . however, all that was to change in about five minutes.
“Halp!” Rusty’s cry was growing weaker. “Somebody get a rope and get me out of here.”
“We got bad wounded over here,” Tulsa yelled from the bunkhouse door.
The naked gunhand with the busted jaw came staggering into the clearing, holding his hat over his privates.
“Good God!” Hugo said from the bullet-pocked front porch. What the hell happened to you?”
“Halp!” Rusty hollered.
The naked gunhand mumbled his reply. His jaw was swollen so badly the words could not be understood.
“Somebody help me over here!” Buck called from the doorless and bullet-shattered privy. “We got to haul Rusty outta the pit. He’s done fell in.”
Carl appeared by his father’s side, his face bleeding from the splinters. “You done been shot in the ass, Pa,” he said.
“I know,” Hugo said wearily.
Inside the house, the chandelier gave it up and fell crashing to land on the expensive dining room table.
“I’m gonna kill that goddamn Pete Harris,” Hugo swore.
Rusty almost made it. But his hands were so slick and slimy just as he reached the lip of the privy floor he lost his grip on the rope and fell back whence he’d come. He surfaced, gasping for air.
Clint leaned over and lowered a fresh rope. “Tie this one around you, Rusty,” he said. “We’ll haul you out. Just give us time to back off about fifty feet.”
“Pa?” Carl said.
“What do you want now?” Hugo asked.
“The bunkhouse is on fire.”
Twenty-three
Blake Vernon stood gazing out into the darkness as he stood on his front porch, enjoying the coolness of the night. It was a pleasant night, but his mind was troubled. He had finally gotten it through his head that he and Hugo were fighting a losing battle. They weren’t going to win against the nesters and the sheepmen. Not now, not ever. There would always be cattlemen fighting farmers and sheepmen, he reckoned, but as far as he was concerned, his part in the war was over.
He had told his hands that over supper and then fired all the gunhands he’d just hired and told them to git. They had packed up and were gone just after dark. He had also told Dixon, Jody, and Burl that if they’d had anything to do with raping that Mexican girl, they’d best get gone, too. They went right behind the gunhands.
Now he was down to sixteen hands. But roundup was over and he could easily get by with that number.
He sat down as the cook brought out a pot of coffee and cups and Frisco, his foreman, walked over and took a seat on the porch. “Boss, I’ve done some terrible things in my life, and I reckon I’ll go to Hell for what we done to them nesters and sheepmen, but I’m glad it’s over. I ain’t got no use for nesters and I shore don’t like sheep, but I am glad them gunhands is gone and this war is over for us.”
“I am too, Frisco. Where did all the hands go?”
“Into town to celebrate. Don’t worry, they’ll behave. I told ’em that any who got in trouble with the law would lose their jobs.”
Standing in the dark inside the house, listening, were Hubby and Lane. Lane wanted the ranch and Hubby just wanted to kill somebody, so Hubby agreed to go along with his brother’s plan. They were just about ready.
“I’ll ride into town in the morning,” Blake was saying, “and put up a fund for the nesters to use to rebuild and such. It won’t make what I done right, but it’ll be a start.”
“I’ll ride with you,” Frisco said. “It’ll make me feel a damn sight better.”
Lane looked at Hubby and he nodded his head and slobbered all down the front of his shirt.
The two brothers stepped out onto the porch and shot their father and the foreman. Then they shot them again to make sure they were dead. The cook came running to see what was the matter and Hubby plugged her twice, stopping the woman cold on the living room floor.
“Now, Hubby,” Lane said, standing over the cooling body of his father, “we go nightherd, just like we planned. Let the hands find them when they come in from town.”
“No,” Hubby drooled.
“What’d mean, no? Damn it, Hubby. We agreed to do it this way.”
“I don’t wanna do it this way.”
Exasperated, Lane said, “Well, how do you want to do it, you drooling igit?”
“This way,” Hubby said. He lifted the Springfield rifle and blew a hole in his brother’s forehead a silver dollar couldn’t cover.
Grinning, Hubby took all the money in the men’s pockets, then looted the house of cash and ammunition and food. He was mumbling as he filled sacks. “Call me stupid, will you? Call Hubby a fool all the time. Well, Hubby’s not very stupid. You’re dead and Hubby’s alive.” Hubby thought that was hysterically funny. Of course, Hubby thought all sorts of weird things were funny.
Hubby had him a real good plan all worked out in his head. He planned on taking a short trip . . . over to the Box H. And then he was going to take a long trip. Just him and Miss Millie.
* * *
Rocky switched saddles to a fresh horse and beat it back to town minutes after the hands had ridden in and discovered the bodies. The news shattered what had been the beginnings of peace in the area, at least on one side of the war.
Matt and Sam had just ridden in from the raid when Rocky came galloping in with the news. They listened with Jack and the others.
“But we couldn’t find hide nor hair of Hubby.” Rocky ended it with that.
“Hubby killed them,” Dewey said, firm conviction in his voice. “I have always believed that he was responsible for the random killings over the years in this area. And those rapes.”
“What rapes?” Jack asked.
“Before you got here last year. But Dad and Lane always alibied for him. Hubby’s vicious, and he’s not nearly as stupid as he’d like people to think. If it’s possible, Hubby has conditioned himself to be stupid-acting. Either that, or he’s one hell of an actor.”
“You mean to tell me Hubby ain’t addled?” Jack asked, buckling his gunbelt.
“He might be one spoke shy of a whole wheel,” Dewey said. “But don’t kid yourselves: he’s plenty smart. And he’s a killer of the worst kind. Hubby likes to kill.”
“Regardless, I don’t wanna have to be the one to put lead in a person that ain’t totin’ a full load,” Jack said. “So what the hell are we gonna do when we catch up with him?”
“Knock a leg out from under him, I reckon,” Charlie said, swinging into the saddle. “If we can. But I’ll tell you all this: Hubby points a gun at me, ticked or not, it’ll be the last time he ever points a gun at anybody.”
* * *
“I talk to you boys?” the voice came out of the darkness behind them and both Sam and Matt spun in a crouch, their hands filled with .44’s.
“Whoa, boys, whoa!” the stranger said quickly, holding his hands out wide. “I’m friendly. I’m a detective from the Pinkerton Agency.”
The street was deserted and the town quiet. Matt clicked open his watch; it was near midnight. “You pick a strange time to want to talk, mister.”
“I been trying to catch up with you. Shall we sit on the bench?”
They sat. “I hear tell you boys helped dig the bodies out of the rubble.”<
br />
“One body,” Sam corrected. “That of Robert Harris.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
Both brothers nodded their heads. “Yes,” Matt said. “Same height, weight, ring on his hand. What was left of his boots and spurs was still by the bed.”
The detective sighed. “Well, that’s it, then. The damn railroad lost the bodies!” He explained that.
“I’m sorry we can’t help you,” Sam said. “But Robert Harris is buried right up there in the town’s cemetery, and Denise Raner was taken back to the Lightning ranch for burial.”
“Have you talked to Doctor Lemmon?” Matt asked.
“Yes. He said the same thing. Robert Harris was killed in the fire, sleeping by the side of Denise Raner. Several whiskey bottles—what was left of them—were found by the bed, as well as several bottles of laudanum. The poor wretches slept through the entire tragedy. And that was probably a blessing.” He stood up and reached into his vest pocket. “Gentlemen, here is my card. Who knows, you may want to contact the agency about something in the future.” He smiled. “If I do say so myself, we are known for doing fine work.” He walked off into the night, back to his room at the boardinghouse.
“Let’s hit the sack,” Sam suggested.
“Yeah. I think tomorrow we’ll be in the saddle early—looking for Hubby.”
* * *
Dewey Vernon went back to the ranch to take charge of matters, and Charlie asked Louis Longmont to join Jimmy Byrant in town to help look after things. Jack and Charlie, Matt and Sam were in the saddle just after dawn, heading out to try and pick up Hubby’s tracks. Hubby might have preferred to be known as a fool, but he was anything but when it came to throwing off his pursuers. Time and again, the men had to backtrack in order to pick up Hubby’s tracks. But before long it became clear to the trackers where Hubby was going: straight north to the Box H ranch.
“Why?” Jack mused from the saddle as they walked their horses.
“Millie,” Matt said. “Dewey said that he believed Hubby was responsible for the rapes that have occurred in this area over the years. Has to be.”
The men quickened their pace. When they hit Box H range, they found a hand who was rounding up strays.
“Get back to the house, Boswell,” Jack told the cowboy. “Get several of the boys and stay with Miss Millie and Becky. Don’t let them out of your sight.”
The cowboy had heard nothing about the killings of the previous night. He sat his saddle with his mouth hanging open as Jack explained.
“Jesus!” he said. “I’m gone.”
The men resumed their tracking. An hour later, Matt shouted, “Over here!”
“What the devil . . . ?” Charlie said, looking down at the tracks.
“Hubby met with two other riders here,” Matt said, getting down to inspect the bootprints. “One of them has a small foot and doesn’t weigh very much. A woman or a child, I’d guess.”
The men dismounted and studied the bootprints. The larger prints had that V-shaped cut on the sole, the smaller print was clean of the cut.
“They stood here for a long time,” Jack said. “Even built them a little fire for coffee.”
“They done their call to nature over here,” Charlie said. “And one went over yonder behind them bushes,” he said, pointing to the far side of the camp.
“So it’s a woman with them,” Sam said. “A woman. But who . . . ?”
Matt sat down on a log and took off his hat. He scratched his head, trying to pin down that elusive little scrap of information that kept dodging around in the dark corners of his brain. He recalled the first time he and Sam had visited Pete Harris and his family at the ranch. They’d had fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy and pie that Millie had baked. Robert had passed Matt the gravy bowl with his right hand, Matt recalled. And . . . there had been no ring on that hand. The ring was on his left hand. The body he had helped pull from the charred tangle after the hotel fire had worn a ring on his right hand.
Matt stood up and plopped his hat back on his head. He startled everybody by saying, “Robert Harris and Denise Raner didn’t die in that hotel fire the other night. That’s who Hubby met right here.”
“What?” Charlie said.
“This has been a triple-cross right down the line,” Matt said, walking the camp and talking as much to himself as to the others. “I’ll bet everyone a hundred dollars that Robert and Denise were in cahoots with Chrisman and Dale. After that so-called confession of Robert’s, Chrisman and Dale backed out of their arrangement with Robert and Denise and left them swingin’ alone in the breeze, taking the blame. Robert and Denise killed that man and woman who was staying at the hotel and burned it down.”
“Why?” Jack asked.
“To assume the identities of the dead couple, maybe?” Sam offered.
“Could be,” Charlie said. “Or maybe they was plannin’ on burnin’ it down and somebody beat them to it by minutes. Somebody hired by Chrisman and Dale to kill Robert and Denise and then burn the hotel down around them.”
“Why are you so sure Robert is alive?” Jack asked.
“The ring on his hand. It was on the dead man’s right hand.”
“Yeah,” Jack said thoughtfully. “Robert wore a ring on his left hand.”
“Let’s head for the ranch pronto,” Charlie said. “The way this is workin’ out, Red Raley and his bunch are probably takin’ money from Hugo, Dale an’ Chrisman, and just maybe they might be in cahoots with Robert and Denise, too.”
“Takin’ money from everybody and plannin’ on gettin’ the last laugh when all the gunsmoke and deception blows away,” Jack said. “That works for me.”
* * *
The hands of the Box H had taken their battle positions, ringing the house. They had all laid in a store of food and water and ammo and fortified their positions with logs, stones, and bales of hay. The horses were secure in the barn. The ranch appeared deserted. The children Pete and Becky had taken in to raise were in their rooms, safe from stray bullets.
“Blake and Frisco and Lane, dead,” Pete muttered. “Killed by Hubby. Who is in cahoots with my son and Denise, who I thought were dead. And those are strangers buried in the grave in town and out at Hugo’s ranch.” He shook his head and took a sip of coffee. “You’re right about the ring, Matt. I was so filled with grief I didn’t . . . I didn’t notice it. Grief and anger and disappointment,” he added.
“Hubby gives me goosebumps,” Millie said. “I never have liked the way he looks at me. And I’ll tell you all something: Hubby isn’t nearly as dumb as he makes out to be. Even when we were kids I saw that a lot of his so-called backward ways were nothing but an act. He figured out very young that if he acted goofy, he could get away with a lot more without punishment. He’s just as smart as a lot of people.”
“Here’s something else,” Sam said. “How many men on Hugo’s payroll are actually working for Dale and Chrisman? Or working for Red Rally?”
“Interestin’ thought,” Charlie said. “Now let’s think about this while we’re playin’ guessin’ games: I’m wonderin’ if Dale plans on killin’ Chrisman, and if Chrisman plans on killin’ Dale when this is near’bouts wrapped up.”
“Good Lord!” Pete said. “This thing has more twists than a snake.”
“If Red Raley is planning a real double-cross,” Becky said, “is it possible that he has plans of attacking the town . . . perhaps after killing Hugo? If I’m reading your theories correctly, that is.”
Pete looked at his wife. “It’s damn sure something to think about.”
“And whose side is Hugo’s son, Carl on?” Jack tossed that into the hat.
“I got a headache,” Pete said.
“I’m hungry,” Matt said.
“Me, too,” Sam said.
Pete looked at the brothers. “What else is new?”
Twenty-four
Robert and Denise and Hubby had seen the lawmen riding for the ranch and changed directions. They rode b
ack for the town, nearing there at mid-afternoon. Robert wrote a short note and Hubby found a town boy playing in the dirt just outside town and gave him a dollar to take the note to Chrisman. The boy found Chrisman alone in the back of his saloon and handed it to him.
CHRISMAN, DALE IS PLANNING TO KILL YOU. MEET ME AT THE CRICK OUTSIDE OF TOWN AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. HURRY, YOUR LIFE IS IN DANGER.
It was signed, Red.
“That dirty . . .” Chrisman bit back the oath and walked to the livery, saddling his horse and riding out of town, staying on the back streets so Dale wouldn’t spot him.
At the creek, he looked around him. He could see no one. “Red!” he softly called. “Red, where are you?”
“Over here,” Robert called. “In the trees. Come on. Hurry, man.”
Chrisman almost had a heart attack when he came face to face with Robert Harris and Denise. He sputtered and finally managed to gasp, “But . . . you two are dead!”
“No,” Denise said. “But we were in that alley watching you slip into the hotel that night. Robert went to the back door and saw you go into the rooms we had rented. You did what we were planning to do. Thanks a lot, Chrisman.”
“But the bodies . . . ?”
“They were already dead,” Robert said. “I wasn’t hurt nearly as bad as I let on. I was pouring the laudanum out, just like Denise was pouring the whiskey out. I killed them both and planted them in my bed.”
Chrisman looked at Hubby. “You killed your own father.”
“Big deal,” Hubby said. “I’ve kilt lots of people.”
“What . . . are you going to do with me?” Chrisman asked, although he had a pretty good idea.
“You’re going to tell us where the gold and silver veins are,” Denise said.
“No, I won’t.”
Hubby smiled and slobbered. “Oh, I bet you a dollar you will.”
* * *
Louis Longmont was lounging in front of the sheriff’s office when a farmer rattled up in a wagon. “It’s Chrisman!” he yelled. “I found him in the road, back near the crick. Looks like Injuns got him. He’s in a bad way.”
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