by Jack Ballas
He looked at the drink Sam had poured him, left it on the table, and decided if he was to think clearly, he’d better not have another drink until he solved the puzzle. He told Slagle his decision.
“Aw hell, Lingo, a leeetle old drink ain’t gonna hurt. You get all tangled up, I’ll hep ya git untangled.”
Barnes chuckled. He nodded, then grinned. “You know what that’d do, partner? Well the way I got it figured, it’d be two confused, two half-drunk neophytes trying to solve a pretty complicated puzzle.” He shook his head. “Neither o’ us has ever run up against a problem like this.”
Sam looked as though he’d lost his last friend. “Don’t reckon I got anybody to drink with no more.” His face brightened. “But gonna tell ya one thing, I ain’t never gonna be one o’ them neo-neo . . . whatever the hell you called us.”
Lingo couldn’t hold back the deep-chested, rumbling laugh. “Sam, soon’s we got a sensible answer to some o’ the questions we ask ourselves, I promise you we’re gonna get downright hootin’-owl drunk. Then we gonna go outta here an’ corner the stinkin’ trash that’d do somethin’ like this to a pretty”—he shook his head—“nope, more’n pretty, just downright beautiful little woman, then we gonna kick the livin’ hell outta him ’fore we get ’im hanged.” He looked slit-eyed at Sam. “An’ I’m here to tell ya, I’m gonna be the one to put the rope ’round his stinkin’ neck.” He stood, left his full glass of whisky on the table and headed for his bunk. If he’d turned to look at the table, he’d have seen Sam stare at the drink a moment, shake his head, pick the drink up, knock it back, then follow him toward their bunks.
Although getting late, Randall Bartow took another swallow from the cup of coffee in front of him, glanced at Maddie lying in bed, her mouth open, uttering small snores. He looked at her a few moments, stood, and walked out the door. He’d see how Colter was doing, see if he was able to withstand another series of punishing, torturous treatments.
He studied the surrounding area, then satisfied there was no one close, he headed for The Emily Lou Mine, about a half-mile away.
When about twenty yards from the door, he again checked to see if there might be anyone close by. Satisfied he was alone, he unlocked the door, went in, and pulled the door closed behind him. Only then did he light a lantern and carry it to the back room where he kept Colter, stretched out, arms and legs tied to the bedposts.
He stood looking at the old man. Colter stared back, no fear, no pain in his eyes, only muscles at the back of his jaw showing knots formed by tightly clamped teeth. “You’re still convinced you can withhold the information I want, aren’t you?”
Colter only stared, and gritted his teeth.
“I’ll tell you something, Colter, I’m getting damned tired of this, so tired that I’m thinking of doing away with you whether you tell me or not. After you’re outta the way, I’ll hire someone, a geologist, to find that vein for me.”
He pulled a chair to the bedside, sat and looked at his prisoner. “Gonna tell you, too, your daughter came out here. We took ’er off the stagecoach, but she got away. When we find ’er, I intend to kill ’er an’ hide her remains. That’ll clear the way for me to get a good forger to fix me up a deed to this mine.” He twisted his mouth into a smirk. “You see, I don’t really need to keep you alive. I can do it all without you.”
Colter’s face hardened. “You hurt Em, an’ this country won’t be big enough to hold you. Every man able to carry a weapon’ll be on your trail.” He nodded. “An’ they’ll know. Somehow the word always gets out, an’ when it does, you’d better be runnin’ like the slimy coyote you are.”
Bartow grinned down at his captive, then shrugged. “You might be right if I was the one who got rid of her.” His grin widened. “But I’m not as stupid as you seem to think. You see, when she’s done away with I intend to be miles from where it happens—with witnesses to prove it.” He shook his head. “I have a couple of men who are about as dumb as you think me to be who’ll do the job. The law will home in on them. The fact is, I intend to make sure there’s evidence pointing to them.” His face hardened. He checked the bindings on Colter’s arms and legs, turned toward the door, and left.
Colter listened for the scrape of the padlock against the stout oaken door. He knew how stout it was because he’d built it with his own hands. Even if he got his legs and hands free, he’d have to stumble around in the dark to find an ax, or a pick to attack the door. Bartow, when he’d let his true colors show, had taken matches, tobacco, everything from him. But that didn’t stop him from struggling with his bindings.
He already knew how brutal Bartow could be. His entire being shrank from the thought of what had been done to him, and would be done again as soon as the smooth Easterner thought he could withstand another bout of torture.
Colter pondered all his captor had told him. Only as a last resort would the greedy bastard hire someone to forge a deed; and only if Emily Lou was dead. Too, as long as she was out there, there was a chance someone would befriend her, help her. Bartow had made the mistake of his life telling him about her escape. That gave him hope, determination, to do whatever he had to to brace himself against the pain he knew only too well. He again struggled with his bindings.
Lingo awoke the next morning determined to attack his problem with his head rather than his gun and muscle. He had an idea that Mayben’s and Gates’s trail would be easy to trace, but they were only hirelings. The man who had hired them was the one he wanted—but who the hell was he?
Before throwing his covers off, he stared at the ceiling for several minutes. Was the man he wanted new to the area? If so, how had he found out about Colter’s new strike? Or maybe the man he wanted had been here all the time, and heard Em’s father brag about finding a rich vein. He mentally shook his head. He believed, only from knowing Emily, that her father would have been too cagey to mention a rich vein unless he already had control of the vein with his existing claim.
After pondering the puzzle another few minutes, he decided to try to find the names of any who’d shown up in the area in the last few months, then he’d try to backtrack and find out where they’d come from. He studied on that approach another few minutes, then smelling bacon frying, and knowing Sam was already up and about, he threw the covers back and crawled from his bunk.
He first poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat at the table and stared into his cup, not taking a swallow of it.
Slagle put a plate of bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes in front of him. Lingo didn’t reach for his fork. “What you thinkin’ ’bout, partner? Somethin’ I can hep you with?”
Barnes thoughts came back to where he was. He looked at Sam and nodded. “B’lieve so, Sam. If you’ll tell me what you take outta your mine every day, an’ let me pay you that amount for each day you miss workin’ cuz I need you to do the things I can’t do bein’ a stranger here in Silverton.”
“Wh-why hell, Lingo, what kind o’ friend you think I am? You want help, you got help, an’ I ain’t gonna listen to no more talk ’bout payin’ me. You listenin’ to what I’m sayin’?”
Barnes, a huge lump in his throat threatening to choke him, studied the big, brawny, red-faced man. How did anyone luck into making friends with a person like Sam? Most people went through life and made a lot of acquaintances, but if they made one true friend they were among the luckiest people in the world. And he counted himself extra lucky: He had Wes, Kelly, Em, and now Sam Slagle. He shook his head. He wouldn’t count Em among them; she was extra-special. He nodded. “I’m listenin’, Sam. All right, I’ll tell you what I have planned.”
Sam finished fixing his own breakfast and sat across the table from Lingo. “Let’s hear it.”
Barnes queried Slagle as to how well he knew the postmaster, and found they frequently met for a couple of drinks after the general store closed. The post office, located in the back of the store, was run by the owner, Ted Murchison.
“You figure Murchison will keep his mouth shut
’bout us checkin’ on people ’round here?”
“Lingo, that man’s as tight with a word as he is with a dollar. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night an’ figger I can hear old George Washington’s picture on one o’ them dollar bills squallin’ for hep ’cause Ted’s squeezin’ it so tight.” He nodded. “Yeah, he’ll keep ’is mouth shut.”
“All right. Here’s what I want you to do.” Lingo spelled out in detail what he wanted to know from Murchison, then took a bite of eggs, chewed, swallowed, and stood to pour them each a cup of coffee. “While you work on it from here, I’m gonna go to Durango, an’ work on the same thing from there. They know me down there, an’ I don’t figure on havin’ problems finding out answers to some of the questions we been kickin’ ’round.” He stood, and took his plates to the pump to wash them, then looked over his shoulder. “Not gonna leave ’til after dark. Don’t want anyone to see me leave your place.”
When Bartow walked away from the locked mine door, he thought on what he’d said to Colter. He realized he’d made a mistake in telling Colter about Emily Lou. That knowledge alone would give the old man hope—and the strength to continue withholding the information he sought. At the same time he decided he needed help, more help than those two stupid bastards Gates and Mayben had enough sense to give.
He pondered that problem a few moments and came up dry. He just flat didn’t know people in this area. He walked to a large spruce, raked needles into a pile and sat. Where could he get the kind of help he needed? Two or three men would be enough, men like he’d traveled with back East.
Back East. Maybe that was the answer. But bringing in more men would complicate his scheme. He thought on that a few moments, then decided they didn’t have to be a problem. He’d get rid of them, too, one at a time, and create a situation that would make it look like friends of Colter’s had somehow figured out their part in trying to get the mine—or maybe he could make it seem that Mayben and Gates had decided to take the mine for themselves.
Finally, he stood, and leaned against the tree. He’d send a telegram to Vic D’Amato, a man he wouldn’t trust as far as he could throw one of these mountains; but he needed him. He’d have him contact two more of his friends and come west. He’d tell him when and where to come. He’d meet them in Chama.
He thought on that a moment. Why Chama? He thought about that a few minutes and decided to keep any activity away from Durango or Silverton. The fact was, he’d ride to Chama to mail the letter. No one here knew where he was from, and he didn’t want them to. Some of these hicks might be intelligent enough to backtrack and find what his past had been. He didn’t want that. And, if his plans worked out, he wanted no one to tie him in with the three men he’d send for—or with Mayben and Gates for that matter.
9
LINGO ARRIVED IN Durango slightly before six the next morning, registered for a room at the hotel, and went to bed. His stomach growling for food wakened him at four o’clock. He packaged a change of clothing, went to the barbershop, got a shave, took a bath, dressed, and went to the same saloon in which he’d whipped Bull Mayben.
Inside, contrary to the way he was greeted by Mayben and Gates, the miners all wanted to buy him a drink. After all the backslapping and refusing one drink after the other, he stood at the bar drinking a beer. The man next to him was a talkative sort so Barnes listened.
The miner, Bob Single, had come to Durango from Virginia City, Montana, and had known a Bull Madden in the gold fields there. “Tell you, Mr. Barnes, that Madden wuzn’t the same man as this’n, but they wuz cut from the same bolt o’ cloth. The Bull Madden I knowed up yonder wuz part o’ the Henry Plummer gang what wuz robbin’ the miners o’ their poke.”
Lingo smiled. “Sounds like you have Mayben figured for that kind o’ man—one who’d not be too careful how he made a livin’?”
Single nodded. “That’s ’zackly how I got ’im figgered. I hear he lives up yonder in Silverton, but don’t do no minin’; fact is, he don’t do no work at all.” He shook his head. “Never seed a man what did no work an’ wuz still able to eat, ’less’n o’ course he wuz gittin’ money some other way.”
Lingo raised his eyebrows. “He doesn’t work for any miner or have a claim of his own?”
Single shook his head. “Nope. He don’t do nothin’.”
Lingo bought the miner a drink, talked to the man a few more minutes, and said he had to see another man on business—cow business—and left.
The conversation, mostly one-sided, had told him what he suspected. Mayben and Gates had some other way of earning a living. But someone was paying them, and that was where Lingo hit a stone wall. Who was their boss?
He glanced at his watch: after six. He thought to wait until the next morning to talk to the postmaster, then figured with the post office being located in the Wells Fargo office, maybe, if they expected a stage, the postmaster/station agent would be there. He angled across the street, then walked toward the livery. He lucked out—the glow of a lantern lit the window of the stage office.
“Howdy, Barnes, what you need? You figgerin’ on takin’ a trip?”
Lingo grinned. “Nope. Still got my horse. He’s not fast as one o’ your stages, but he don’t bounce me or my rear end around as much. I’ll keep on ridin’ ’im ’cept on long trips.”
He pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Tell you what I need. You had many Easterners come to this town lately, or any newcomers who didn’t look like they belonged in a minin’ town?”
The agent pulled his mouth to the side in a grimace. He nodded. “Hell yes, I see folks come in every time a stage comes in who look like they don’t b’long nowhere ’cept in a city. Ever’ one I look at I wonder how long it’ll be ’fore I see ’em catchin’ another stage outta here, most o’ them headin’ back East, an’ for most I hope it’ll be right soon. They’s some right slick willies amongst ’em.”
Lingo stared at the wall a moment, then looked at the agent. “If I brought you a list o’ names, any way you could find out where they come from?”
“Nope, most of ’em come into St. Louis, or other towns by rail, then switch to stagecoaches or another train, an’ they don’t have to give a name when they buy a ticket.” He shook his head. “Ain’t no way I got o’ findin’ out where they come from.” He frowned, and looked squinty-eyed at Barnes. “Why you want to know all this?”
Barnes shrugged. “I just wanted an answer about a man I met the other day. Nothin’ important.” He stepped toward the door. “Thanks anyway.”
After leaving the stage station, Lingo wandered down the street, went to the Animas River, listened to the water flow across the rocks, then went back into the middle of town.
Not getting any answers from Wells Fargo meant only a minor setback. He really hadn’t expected too much, but had hoped.
He glanced down the street and saw Marshal Nolan come out of one of the many watering holes. Wanting company, he hurried to catch him. “Howdy, Marshal, you ’bout through with your rounds?”
Nolan smiled. “Howdy, Barnes.” He nodded. “Yeah I’m through with this round. I’ll make a couple more ’fore the night’s over. Come on over to the office. We’ll have a cup o’ coffee.”
Lingo didn’t want coffee, especially that mud that Nolan let simmer from day to day on his stove, but thought he might ask how a lawman went about finding where people came from, and if they had anything on their backtrail to hide. Too, he wondered if the old timer had seen anything of Colter.
The visit was a bust. Nolan had little more than Wanted notices he could check, and no, he’d not seen hide nor hair of Em’s father. He didn’t bother to ask the marshal about Mayben and Gates, although certain they had Wanted notices out on them. He’d made up his mind to take care of them in his own way when the time came, but the person he wanted to find was their boss, and he was no closer to getting that answer now than when he’d first encountered the two men.
From the marshal’s office, he went to The Gold
en Eagle, had a nightcap, and went to the hotel and to bed. He thought, when he got back to Silverton, to watch The Emily Lou Mine and see who might be interested in it. He shrugged mentally. Hell, he could do that anytime. Nope, he’d check out his other options first, although he felt like he walked in a fog where they were concerned.
He kept thinking he’d forgotten to ask the station agent something, then nodded, remembering the station agent was also the postmaster. He figured if he gave the agent a name, the agent could watch for mail to that person, see where it was from, and feed that information to him. Then he could backtrack and try to find out things that might impact his finding Colter; and perhaps find out who had taken Em off the stage—or paid to have it done. But he wasn’t ready with names yet. To say he suspected anyone was way ahead of where he would admit to being. He had more checking to do.
He stared into the dark, his mind spinning from one option to another. If he was to check people out, he needed names, and right now he had only one name he wanted checked. He raised up, pushed the covers back, and lit the lamp.
A piece of paper was what he needed. He looked at the bedside table, saw no paper, looked around the room, still no paper, shook his head, and reached for his shirt. He had a scrap of paper and a stub of a pencil in one of the pockets. He wrote one name on the slip of paper; the Easterner Randall Bartow. Then he shook his head. He would make a helluva detective. He didn’t even have reason to suspect Bartow. He stuck the slip of paper in his shirt pocket, turned the lamp down, and crawled back under the covers.
The darkness, velvety black, shrouded Bartow. His mind had been on finding men to do the things he needed done. He’d forgotten for a few moments that these mountains were heavily populated with grizzlies and cougars. Now he pushed away from the tree against which he’d been leaning; his head swivelled from side to side as his eyes tried to penetrate the darkness. He shivered. The only weapon he had with him was the sleeve gun. It would not slow a bear or a mountain cat enough to keep them off him. He headed toward his cabin, his pace between a fast walk and a run.