by Jack Ballas
Emily lay there staring at the rafters not far above her head. What caused Kelly to ask her about her feelings? Had she done something that would indicate she had feelings for Lingo? She sighed. Did she have feelings for the big man? She tried to push those thoughts from her mind, but she spent long hours staring into the dark.
10
BARTOW LED HIS two henchmen toward Chama. Out here on the flats a slight breeze stirred the cured-on-the-stem grass, and wafted the scents from the mountain slopes to the three men. Bartow explained what he wanted them to do. “See you brought your sawed-off Greeners like I told you. After I take care of my business in Chama, we’re gonna relieve the stage driver of whatever shipment he’s hauling outta Durango to the railhead.
“We need money. I’ve not found where Colter keeps his stash, an’ I’ve just about spent all I could find of his everyday expense money.” He reined in his horse and faced them. “I don’t think that stage’s gonna slow down when we try to stop it. It might if you damn fools hadn’t killed that one who drove the stage Colter’s daughter was on.” He shook his head. “Gonna make it a little harder. In case it doesn’t stop when we hail, it, I want the two of you to have your horses close by.” He shook his head. “No, I want you to stay on ’em an’ if he whips that team into a run, you’ll be able to chase ’im without losin’ any time.” He searched their faces. “If you have to, shoot the guy riding shotgun first, then take care of the driver. Got it?”
Bull pushed his hat to the back of his head. “What you gonna be doin’ while we put our butts in front o’ the scattergun that guard’s gonna be carryin’?”
Hot blood pushed to Bartow’s head. Who was this big dumb bastard to question him? He swallowed his anger and forced a cold smile. “Well, I’ll tell you, Mayben: I’m gonna be sittin’ behind a big rock with my Winchester trained on the two o’ you in case you mess this job up.”
Gates’s right hand eased along his thigh, then caressed the smooth leather of his holster.
Bartow’s eyes squinted. He pinned Shorty with eyes that felt like they were on fire. “Go ahead, Gates, make a grab for that gun an’ Mayben and I’ll have to do this job alone.”
Fear washed across the little bandit’s face. His hand moved away from his thigh. Bartow’s lips curled in contempt. He chuckled. “Afraid, Shorty?” He cut the chuckle short. “Tell you, when you decide you can beat this sleeve gun I carry, go ahead an’ try me. There’s nothing I’d like better than to put lead into that scrawny body o’ yours.” He reined his horse to the side. “You two get on toward Chama—I’ll ride behind.”
The rest of the way to town, Bartow made certain neither of the two got to his side, or behind; pure hatred had dripped from the eyes of each when he’d threatened Gates. He shrugged mentally. He’d never seen the day two dumb, Western hicks could take him, whether with guns or brains.
“Pull up in front of the saloon. I have enough to pay for a couple drinks apiece. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes. Right now I have business to take care of.” He reined his horse to the hitching rack in front of the general store. He’d been here before. The post office was in the rear.
After checking to see if he had mail, posting the letter he’d written before leaving the cabin, and ensuring he had the right information as to when the stagecoach from Durango would arrive, he headed for the saloon.
Lingo rousted Wes from his bunk before daylight the next morning. Trying not to disturb the girls asleep in the attic, Barnes stoked the fire in the stove while Wes brought in more wood, then readied the coffeepot so they could have a cup before leaving for the far end of the valley.
Then they went to the barn. There, they checked their lariats and saddles, took branding irons from the nails on the wall, saddled up, and rode to the hitching rack only a few feet in front of the porch. The smell of bacon frying stopped them in their tracks. Lingo grinned, then shrugged. “Well, we tried to let them sleep.”
Wes raised his eyebrows. “Sure glad they woke up though. My stomach was already growlin’, an’ givin’ me hell for not puttin’ some food down there.”
Lingo shot the kid a disgusted grin. “Wes, I don’t remember ever seein’ you when your stomach wasn’t growling.”
When they walked into the warm main room, the table was set, and Emily had only then put a platter of bacon, eggs, and a huge bowl of country-fried potatoes on the table. Kelly opened the oven door and took a tin of hot biscuits from it. She looked over her shoulder. “Emily ain’t never seen no branding done. Figgered you men needed help out yonder, so I told ’er we could keep the fire goin’, an’ the brandin’ irons hot for y’all.”
Lingo shook his head. “Tried to be quiet so’s not to waken you.” He smiled. “Gotta admit, we can use the help.”
While eating, Kelly suggested that Lingo and Wes go ahead and get the fire started while she and Emily cleaned up the kitchen, got out of their robes, and into work clothes. They’d be to the branding site before the irons got hot.
Lingo shook his head. “No, y’all hold up ’til in the mornin’. I figure we’ll ride to the end of the valley and haze all the young stuff back to this end. That way we’ll have plenty to keep us busy for a few days.”
The second day, late in the afternoon Emily’s stomach roiled at the sight and smell of burned hair and flesh, and while not about to get used to that, she marveled at the way the men worked together, one roping and holding the young calves down while the other applied the iron. Their horses also seemed to know what to do and when to do it. It was almost as if they and their horses had practiced working together all their lives; she said so.
Wes grinned. “Em, you go to any brandin’, you gonna see the same thing. Ain’t no cowboy what don’t know how to do his job, whether it’s ropin’, brandin’, keepin’ the irons hot”—he shrugged—“or whatever. Reckon any top hand can do it all.”
“Is that what you and Lingo’d be called?”
Wes looked at Lingo, then back to Emily. “Top hand?” He nodded. “I figger me an’ Lingo’d be able to hire out as top hands on any ranch in the country.”
Emily shook her head. “Well I declare, I b’lieve I learn more about you two men every day.”
They worked from sunup to sundown for five days, came in every night, tired, dirty, took turns bathing in the washtub, ate, and turned into their bunks about midnight, and got up the next day to do it all over again.
The night of the fifth man-killing day, at the supper table, Lingo told them he would go back to Silverton the next morning. Emily stared at him straight on. “You’re going to try to do this alone aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “Only ’til I know for sure what I’m doing, an’ who I’m fightin’, then I’ll yell for help.”
She didn’t break her gaze. “I noticed you and Wes worked together, you didn’t have to yell for help then. Help was already there.” She pulled her shoulders up, then lowered them. “Why not now?”
“ ’Cause when Wes and I work together, we don’t figure it to be dangerous work. This is.”
Kelly snorted. “Dangerous? Em, there ain’t no work more dangerous than cowboyin’. I’ve seed a many a cowboy git hurt, killed, doin’ the things they do every day, an’ they don’t think nothin’ of it. Why heck, a horse can throw ’em, a bull can stick a horn in ’em, a rattler can bite ’em, a horse can stumble, fall, an’ the saddlehorn can stick into their stomach.” She shrugged and spread her hands palms up. “They’s so many things a cowboy does that get ’em crippled or killed don’t nobody think on it much.”
Emily turned her eyes on Lingo, and very un-Emily-like, said, “Damn you, Lingo Barnes, you’d better think something of it. Anything happen to you I’d die.” She didn’t blush. She didn’t hedge on what she said. Her only reaction to her own words was to stare directly into his eyes, her look daring him to say something trite. He didn’t.
On the way to Silverton, and even after he got there, Lingo mulled over Emily’s words. Had they come from her
because of friendship, a feeling of debt for what he was doing for her . . . or had she a deeper feeling for him? He hoped for the latter.
Sam had been watching for the reappearance of Bartow and his henchmen; they’d not been back to town. Barnes studied on what Slagle told him, frowned, then looked at him. “Sam, I’m gonna go back up to Colter’s mine, take a harder look at it, see if there’s been anybody around there. If there has, there should be footprints, or something to tell me how many men we’re dealin’ with.”
Sam shook his head. “You ain’t gonna find no footprints up yonder. We had a gully-washer of a rain two days ago; figger it washed out any sign what mighta been left.”
Lingo shrugged. “That don’t make it much harder, I figure to have a closer look at it anyway.” He smiled. “An’ I guarantee you I’m gonna wipe out any sign I been pokin’ around there.”
The next day, to have an excuse for being in town, he went to the cafe and the general store and left an order for some merchandise to be delivered in a couple of weeks. The cafe owner had told him his patrons were beginning to growl about eating venison three meals a day. Then, about three hours until sundown, he left town at the opposite end from where he’d leave if going to Slagle’s cabin.
He circled, pulled up in back of Sam’s cabin, took care of his horse, put on moccasins, and headed into the woods. Again, he took a circuitous route to Colter’s mine, squatted in the trees long enough to make certain there was no one around, then went to the mine entrance.
Before stepping toward the massive wooden door, he studied the ground for tracks, but true to Slagle’s supposition, the rain had washed out any sign that anyone had ever been there, although there were some small indentations in the soft soil, as though someone with small feet, wearing mocassins, had been there. He shook his head. He could think of no reason why someone, maybe a woman, would be nosing around the mine. He shrugged off the only clue he’d found.
He stared at the door. What did he expect to find? He didn’t know what he looked for. The heavy door showed no sign that it had been opened. He looked at the hinges. They were well oiled and showed no sign of rust, but he figured they wouldn’t have, in that they were mounted such that the hinge-pins and the hinges themselves couldn’t be removed from the outside. Then he looked at the lock, frowned, and turned the lock such that it hung in its hasp on the side from which the door would open. Again, he studied the door, the area around it, frowned, shook his head, and backed toward the woods, carefully wiping out his track as he left.
Back at the cabin, he told Sam what he’d seen, shrugged, and admitted he found nothing to arouse his suspicions. “The way I rehung the lock might give me a hint that someone has been there, but hell, if anyone has been there the lock might just naturally fall back the way I placed it.” He slammed his fist against the table. “Dammit, Sam, I reckon I’m stumblin’ ’round in the dark. Don’t know what to look for; don’t even know if I see anything that I’ll recognize it of importance.”
“Settle down, young’un, we’ll find somethin’ soon. I figger if they is any chance Colter’s been harmed, that is, if he ain’t on a trip somewhere, we gonna find somethin’ what’ll send us off in the right direction.”
Barnes grimaced. “Hope so, Sam, I sure do want to be able to give that little girl some good news ’bout her pa.”
Slagle took a sip of coffee then looked at Lingo from lowered brows. “Reckon you think a mighty lot o’ that little woman, don’t you, son?” Then without waiting for a reply, he said, “You keep callin’ ’er ‘little girl;’ you better take a mighty close look at ’er, partner. She ain’t no little girl. She’s a full-grown, beautiful woman what any man would be mighty proud to call his’n.”
Lingo swallowed a knot in his throat, frowned into the bottom of his cup, then nodded. “Yeah, Sam. I know she’s full-grown. I know she’s beautiful. I know most any man would be mighty proud to call ’er his woman. An’ yeah, I think an awful lot of her. Suppose I’m beginnin’ to realize how much, an’ admit it to myself. Didn’t ever think there’d be anythin’ I thought as much of as Wes, Kelly, an’ the ranch.” He stood, poured their cups full, then sat. “B’lieve she sits right up yonder at the top of what I think most of.”
“You sayin’ you in love with ’er?”
Lingo shook his head. “Don’t even know what love is; wouldn’t know how to describe it, but all I can say is I have a mighty strong feelin’ for her. I feel mighty good when I can look across the room or the table an’ see her smile at me.” He shook his head. “Reckon what I miss most is the sharing. I enjoy sharin’ things with her.”
A laugh rumbled up from the bottom of Slagle’s chest. “Son, you mighta jest described what love really is. Think on it awhile.”
Lingo snorted to himself. Think on it awhile? Hell, that’s all he’d been thinking about—when he should have been concentrating on the problem of her father.
Bartow had been concentrating on an entirely different problem—the stagecoach. What would be the safest way to hold up the damned thing? He wanted what it carried, but he didn’t plan to stick his neck out very far. Finally, he nodded to himself. They’d do it the way he’d first thought. He never wanted to let either Gates or Mayben anywhere close to his back.
He wished he’d had time to ride to the end of track and send a telegram to D’Amato, but he didn’t want to stay away from the mine too long; Colter might die of thirst if Maddie failed to take care of him as he’d instructed her to do, even though he’d regained much of his health. He’d have to wait for his letter to get the results he desired.
The three had been riding toward Durango through most of the day. Now, a little after noon, he thought they’d better find a place to stop the stagecoach. He studied the trail ahead. After about another thirty minutes, he noticed two piles of boulders. The road ran between the two, then curved sharply to the right on the other side. He couldn’t have asked for a better place. The driver would have to slow the horses to make the curve without taking a chance on overturning.
He’d been riding behind Gates and Mayben; now he talked to their backs. “Those rocks up ahead. Stop this side of them, stay on your horses, and when the driver slows to come between them I want you, Mayben, to grab the reins and stop the team. You, Gates, drop the guy riding shotgun. I’ll shoot the driver. If they’re carryin’ passengers, kill ’em when the stage stops.”
Gates reined in and faced Bartow. “Reckon you gonna stay in them rocks where they ain’t gonna be no chance o’ catchin’ lead. Right?”
Bartow allowed a slow, cold smile to break the corners of his lips. “Damn, Gates, didn’t think you had enough sense to figure that out.” He wiped the smile away, squinted his eyes, and curled his lips. “An’ like you figured before, I’ll be where I can see that you carry it out the way I say.” He patted the stock of his rifle. “This baby’ll shoot a lot farther than my sleeve gun, an’ it’ll be pointed straight at you.”
They came up on the boulders. Bartow took his station close to the top of the pile where he could see in both directions. Gates and Mayben took station on the Chama side. Bartow thought they’d have close to an hour’s wait before the stage came into sight. He was right.
Just as Bartow thought, the driver slowed the horses to a walk before entering the narrow passage between the boulders. Mayben reined his horse alongside the lead horse. He made his move too quick.
Gates hadn’t time to bring his Greener to bear on the guy riding shotgun. A double-barreled roar from the shotgun in the stage’s boot, only a split second before Shorty fired, told him he didn’t have to look to know he no longer had a partner. The sounds of Bull’s horse bolting pushed into the back of Gates’s hearing. The shotgun guard lay sprawled across the seat. The charge in Gates’s Greener had done its job.
The driver grabbed for his handgun. He never got it out. He slumped into the bottom of the boot with Bartow’s rifle slug through his head. Now the frightened team took the bit in their teeth. From a slo
w walk, they went into an all-out run. Gates spurred his horse to catch them.
Two men hung outside the windows of the coach firing six-shooters. Shorty slowed his horse to stay out of six-gun range. He waited until their guns went silent, then spurred his horse alongside. They frenziedly pushed shells into the cylinder of their six-shooters. Gates, his horse at a dead run, thumbed off shots into the stage’s interior. The passengers would never finish loading their handguns.
He dug heels into his horse. The animal sprang ahead. Shorty came abreast the lead horse, leaned from his saddle, caught the reins in his right hand, and slowed his horse. The team slowed, then stopped.
Gates warily moved back to look in the coach. The two passengers lay slumped onto the floorboards, one lying half on the body of the other. He glanced toward the boulders. Bartow was only then climbing aboard his horse to come to him. The Easterner never glanced at the body of Bull Mayben lying in the dust at the foot of the boulders.
Blood rushed to Gates’s head; angry bile bubbled at the back of his throat. That bastard didn’t care that his partner was dead. Shorty swung his Colt in the direction of Bartow—but the Easterner’s rifle pointed directly at him, and even from the distance he sat his horse Gates could see Bartow’s smug smile. He didn’t know how he’d accomplish it, but he’d kill that slimy bastard someway, somehow, somewhere.
Bartow reined in his horse in front of Gates. “Climb to the boot and throw down the chest.”
Gates thought to tell him to go to hell, if he wanted the chest to climb up and throw it down himself, but with Bartow’s rifle still pointed at him, he climbed to the driver’s seat, pushed the bodies aside, looked under the seat—and there was no chest. “Ain’t no chest up here, Bartow. Looks like we done come up empty.”