by Jack Ballas
Maddie checked the shelf, then laboriously tackled writing a list.
12
BARNES RODE TO the back of the livery, and took his horse inside. Bartow had hitched his horse at the front of Chama’s only cafe.
After Lingo told the hostler to grain feed his horse and give him a good brushing, he stood in the door of the stable and watched the cafe. After about thirty minutes Bartow came out and went directly to the stagecoach office, stayed there only a few minutes, then went in the saloon next door.
Barnes waited a few moments, long enough for the Easterner to get to the bar, or a table, then went to the stage station. The agent looked up from shuffling a stack of papers. “Help you, sir?”
Lingo nodded. “Maybe. There was a city man in here a little while ago; you mind tellin’ me what he was lookin’ for?”
The agent studied him a moment, then nodded. “Yep. Reckon I do mind. Don’t see as how his business is any o’ your’n.”
Barnes sighed, then smiled. “Yep, you’re right.” He turned as though to leave, then thought that maybe Cantrell’s name might make a difference. Quint Cantrell had married the daughter of the biggest rancher in the country. Ian McCord owned the Bar I-M, the BIM. McCord was the father of Elena, the girl Cantrell had married. He turned back, then frowned. “Told Mr. Cantrell I’d find out if the man had any money comin’ in on the stage. He’s been talkin’ ’bout buyin’ some o’ McCord’s cows. Quint wanted me to find out if he’s wastin’ ’is time talkin’ to the man.”
The agent’s attitude changed. From semibelligerent, he was all smiles. He cleared his throat. “Sorry I was so short with you, cowboy. I get a lot o’ questions that don’t seem to be nobody’s business.” He shook his head. “Naw, he wasn’t askin’ ’bout money comin’ in. He said as how he’s got some friends he figgers to be on the next stage. He wanted to know when I’d guess it’d be here.” He shrugged. “Told ’im it wuz gonna be sometime tomorrow. Couldn’t say ’zackly what time.”
Lingo frowned. “Wasn’t looking for money, huh?” He shook his head. “Reckon I’ll have to tell Quint I don’t know what kind o’ game the man’s playin’, but he ain’t got no money to buy cows.”
The agent smiled, a sort of fawning, weak thing to Lingo’s thinking. “Hope you’ll tell Mr. Cantrell I hep’ed you some.”
Barnes gave him a jerky nod. “You can bet on it.”
He left the stage office feeling a little guilty, then mentally shrugged. Hell, Quint wouldn’t mind him using his name to get information, especially when he told him his reason for asking.
When he left the stage office, his mouth set for a drink, even if it was rotgut whisky, he shook his head. If he faced the Easterner again, and he would if he went in the small saloon, it would result in a shoot-out. He had a lot more unanswered questions he intended to get answered before he wanted to face the sleeve gun.
Feeling comfortable that Bartow would stay in town overnight, Lingo rented a room in the hotel. He wanted a good hot meal, but figured he’d be too easy to spot if he went to the cafe. His saddlebags, slung across his shoulder, had jerky in them. That would have to be his meal.
The next morning, not worried that he’d miss hearing the stage come in with all the yelling, rattle of trace chains, and whip popping that always went on with a stagecoach arrival, Barnes sat inside the window of his room looking down on the street. He wanted a cup of coffee more than anything he could think of.
Sitting there, half dozing, his mind flitted from his ranch, to Marshal Nolan, Faye Barret, then back to his ranch. He wanted to be there with Wes, Kelly, and that small bundle of womanhood, Emily Lou. Damn, he missed her.
He shook his head. If he was at the mouth of the pass he’d never be able to get to the cabin. He had no doubt but that they were snowed in. Then he thought of Shorty Gates. It would have given him a lot of answers if the skinny gunman had been with Bartow. Where was Gates? After thinking, and worrying about Gates’s whereabouts, he figured if the pass was snow-blocked, then the little worm couldn’t get in any easier than he could.
He dozed awhile, then abruptly jerked awake. The sounds of the stage’s arrival jarred the quiet from the small town.
The bouncing, bumping vehicle pulled to a stop in front of the station. Bartow stood at its side. A man, and apparently his wife, were first off, then three men, all dressed much alike: dark suits, white shirts, black ties, black bowlers—and low-quarter shoes. They stepped from the stage, swatting dust from their coats and trousers. Lingo studied each of them closely. As far as he could tell, none of them were packing side arms—but then, looking at Bartow he couldn’t tell he packed a gun either.
The men the Easterner met waited for the driver to throw their luggage to the ground, then Bartow, not bothering to shake hands with but one of them, motioned toward the livery. The man he’d shaken hands with shook his head and motioned toward the sign that said SALOON.
Lingo rolled his eyes upward. He’d hoped they’d go to the livery, rent some horses, and leave town. He wanted a good hot meal. He’d have to wait awhile.
After they disappeared through the saloon’s doorway, he frowned. It looked like Bartow had recruited help. Help for what? Maybe he figured to have Gates show them where he and Mayben lost track of or had been driven from finding, Emily Lou. Too, since Mayben had been killed, and realizing that he needed more help than Gates, he’d had plenty of time to write to his peers back East to get help.
Barnes’s chest felt like one big hollow. He’d never been so convinced of anything with less to go on. Maybe his attitude stemmed from a total dislike of Bartow. Maybe he just flat out didn’t like cityfolk. No, that idea was not very smart; he’d had many friends back East when he was in college—all city boys. And, there was the matter of the sleeve gun. Now that was sneaky. It was like drawing your weapon, taking aim, and not allowing your opponent a chance to draw.
He shook his head. He admitted to himself that he just didn’t like the man. He’d try not to let his opinion color whatever action he had to take.
While Lingo sat at the window of his hotel room pondering reasons for his suspicions, Bartow brought his henchmen up to date, as far as he figured was necessary, on what was happening, and why he needed them. “There’s a woman in hiding around Durango or Silverton that I have to find. If she gets out of wherever she is, an’ talks, my whole operation will be in the sewer. If that happens, every damned one o’ us’ll be runnin’ from the law.”
D’Amato sliced him with a gaze. “You didn’t say there was any chance the law would close in on us.”
Bartow waved his hand as though to brush the idea aside. “The law out here is usually some yokel who got tired of lookin’ at the hind end of a bunch of cattle, or tired of swingin’ a single jack.”
“Don’t know what a single jack is, and don’t know why a man’d be lookin’ at the butt end of a bunch of cows, but I’m tellin’ you right now, if the law comes after us, this’s gonna cost you a bunch more money than you an’ me talked about.”
Bartow swallowed a couple of times to squelch his anger. He hadn’t expected to be braced by a man he’d considered a friend. He forced a smile. “Like I told you, the law isn’t much out here. Durango’s got one lawman, a marshal who keeps the peace in the saloons, an’ there’s a sheriff who patrols more territory than the whole state we come from.” He shrugged and spread his hands, palms up. “Hell, man, we don’t have anything to worry about. If either of them get in our way a rifle bullet will end that problem.”
D’Amato stared at Bartow a moment, his eyes black, flat, no expression in them, then he turned his eyes on the two men he’d brought with him: one squat and swarthy, the other pale, blond, and thin. “We play his game long’s it looks like we gonna make money outta it. If that ends—he ends. Got it?”
Bartow’s guts tightened. His chest felt hollow. A chill ran up his spine. D’Amato had changed. When he was about seventeen and still learning the ropes, he’d followed every suggestion Bar
tow made. He looked closer at the man he’d taught every crooked game he knew, then he looked at the two men D’Amato brought with him. The squat, swarthy one was called Rick Sinatra, and the other man—pale, blond—was Bob Clinton. Each of them was a seasoned thug. With D’Amato’s words, Bartow knew he’d lost control of his own game, and he’d better take it back right sudden. And the weapon he packed had only two bullets; he’d better get another soon, very soon.
He stared at the man he’d thought of as his friend. “D’Amato, don’t you ever threaten me again. You do an’ I’ll kill you quick as I would a rattlesnake.” He made his promise knowing the thug wouldn’t force the issue at this time. Greed controlled all of them, and as long as there was a chance to make a bundle, they’d follow, but as soon as they thought they knew how to win the game alone, and didn’t need him, he’d better have more up his sleeve than that pepperbox.
They knocked back their drinks, had one more each, then left the saloon. He led them to the livery. “I rented horses for you. Put your bags on that packhorse and let’s get outta here. We’ll sleep somewhere along the trail tonight an’ get on to Durango tomorrow.”
“Whatcha mean, sleep along the trail? We ain’t gonna have a hotel room tonight?” the pale one, Clinton, asked.
Bartow shook his head. “That’s somethin’ else you’re gonna have to get used to. Out here, when you can’t reach a town, you make camp and ride on the next day. Many times, you might have to camp out a week or more before reachin’ a town that might have a hotel.”
All three of his henchmen cursed, growled, and stared at him as though they’d like to spill his guts into the manure of the livery floor, but when he toed the stirrup to ride out, they did also.
They’d gone only a few feet out the door when Bartow reined in. “Any of you bring a rifle?”
As one, the three shook their heads.
Bartow reined toward the general store. “We’ll get each of you one. We’ll need them tomorrow afternoon. I have it in mind to hold up that stage you rode in on. It’ll be on its way back from Durango—an’ usually carries a shipment of gold when coming this way. We might as well take what it’s carryin’.”
“I like that idea, Bartow. We can always use extra money; but I’m telling you right now, there’d better be more to your game than holdin’ up stagecoaches.” If the other two were going to say anything, D’Amato’s words killed their opposition.
When they came out of the store, they each carried a new rifle, a saddle scabbard, and two boxes of shells. Bob Clinton glanced at Bartow. “Don’t know what the hell we’re gonna do with rifles, I don’t believe there’s a one of us ever fired one.”
“Well, if you can’t do anything else with them, you can scare the hell outta the shotgun guard.”
When they rode out, Lingo watched them go with a deep furrow between his brows. Another stage holdup? It sure looked like it. He let them get clear of town, then ran to the livery, saddled his horse, and followed.
He let the trail dictate how close he could ride to Bartow and his bunch without being seen. As soon as they rounded a bend, he’d ride to it and watch until they rode around another, then he’d follow the same routine.
When the sun dipped below the western mountains, he sat his horse within a quarter of a mile of a jumble of boulders, about halfway to Durango. When Bartow came abreast of the rocks, he led his men off the trail into a copse of pines, and there they made camp.
After taking care of their horses, Bartow led the three men to the rocks, and pointed at a man, then to a place among the rocks. After doing this with each of them they went back to camp.
Barnes, sitting out of sight, frowned. What was the Easterner doing? It looked like his guess had been right—they were setting up to make a holdup. Then he thought of the stage and nodded to himself. Yep, the stage would be due to come back this way tomorrow. He wondered what he could do. But first he wanted to make sure he was barking up the right tree. He’d have to snake his way up close to their camp before they crawled into their blankets and listen to what they talked about.
A ridge separated him from them. He looked up the slope, saw a place to make camp, shook his canteen to see if he had enough water for coffee, and kneed his horse to the spot he’d selected to make camp. Once he found out if he was right about their intending to hold up the stage he’d figure some way to stop them without killing Bartow. He had to keep the Easterner alive until he found Emily Lou’s father.
He built a small fire, cooked supper, ate, and checked his surroundings. He might be able to use the trees for cover to the edge of Bartow’s camp. A glance at his rifle and he shook his head. If they discovered him, he thought the gunplay would all be in close enough for a six-gun.
He then removed his spurs, checked his clothing and everything about him to make certain he had nothing on him that would rattle or make a noise. Then he put out his fire with what remained of his coffee and slipped into the darkness.
He moved through the trees, placing his feet softly to the ground, testing it for small branches that, if stepped on, would snap and cause a noise that might alert Bartow and his bunch. Small stones he pushed aside with the edge of his boot. The pine straw made noise no louder than a whisper. He moved slowly, his nerves loose, not tight like he’d experienced in the past. He wondered at that, then decided it was because the men he worked his way toward were not woodsmen. His study of them in Chama marked them as probably never having been off the streets of a city.
When still a hundred or so yards out, their fire, a large one, lit the surrounding woods like a beacon. He nodded to himself. He’d been right; only a tenderfoot would have a fire that large in these woods. His nerves tightened, pulling at his neck muscles. Maybe they’d go to sleep and let the fire burn to embers before they could ignite this entire side of Colorado. Too, the light thrown out by the fire made getting as close as he wanted more hazardous. Despite that danger he closed in on their camp.
Still fifty or more yards out, he relaxed a bit. Bartow and his imported thugs sat around the fire sharing a bottle—more than one. Lingo squinted to make sure, then he knew he was right. Each man had a bottle clutched in his fist; and none of them seemed to care a damn about who, or what, crept close to them from the woods. He moved in closer.
He slipped in behind the bole of a large tree and then tuned his ears to pick up their voices. Long before getting this close, he’d checked the wind direction—it blew toward him. The horses couldn’t give him away. Smoke smell permeated the air about him, and best of all, the breeze carried their voices as though he sat close to their fire.
Bartow, his speech slurred, was talking. “Don’t want any o’ you to get too nervous ’bout holdin’ up that stage tomorrow. Hell, you fire a couple o’ shots at it an’ the guard’ll throw down his shotgun, the driver’s gonna be mighty busy with the team of horses he’s gotta control, an’ any passengers aboard are gonna be too busy savin’ their own skin to give us any trouble.” He tilted his bottle and drank, pulled it down, shivered, coughed, cleared his throat, and let his eyes move over the huddled bunch. “Know none o’ you ever fired a rifle, but bein’ accurate with it isn’t the idea. The idea is to scare the hell outta them aboard that stage, an’ cause ’em to hold up their hands. Once they get their hands in the air, an’ away from their weapons, we can take care of them easy.”
From where Lingo stood, he could see Bartow’s grin slide off to the side. The man was drunk—down right drunk—but so were the rest of the imported thugs. They were believing what the Easterner told them. He grinned to himself. He knew how he could spoil their game, and hopefully keep the driver, guard, and passengers from harm. His grin faded. He didn’t know how much he might put his own skin in danger. He stepped back. He’d found what he came for.
He eased away from where he’d watched them, as careful leaving as he’d been coming. He never turned his back to their fire, and soon, considering their drunken condition, got far enough away that he turned and walked t
oward his own camp.
Now he had to figure a way to spoil their holdup attempt. He didn’t give a damn if he had to kill all of Bartow’s men, but he was determined not to fire a shot at Bartow.
He sat by the coals of his long-dead fire and thought about what he’d do on the morrow. Thinking back to the scene he’d witnessed when Bartow apparently assigned his henchmen their positions for the next day, he decided how he’d mess up their game. Finally he crawled between his blankets and went to sleep.
The next morning, a light rain moistened the dusty trail. Barnes fixed a breakfast of beans and bacon. He had no water for coffee. By the time he’d eaten, the trees dripped steadily onto his small fire, sending out sizzling sounds with each drop. He cast a sour glance at the poor excuse for a fire, and no coffee, then he walked to the edge of the trees and studied the pile of rocks from which he now knew Bartow intended to stage his holdup.
He checked the area around the site and could find no truly safe place to hide. He’d hoped for another pile of boulders well within rifle range of the rocks, but there was none. His next choice was a ridge or ravine—still nothing. He settled for a tree trunk, hoping that none of the Eastern thugs got lucky with a shot. He wasn’t sure the tree would stop a rifle bullet.
Although he figured the stage wouldn’t be along until after noon, he took up his station midmorning. His slicker had long since started leaking around the seams. His shoulders and back, wet, chilled him such that he shuddered. And while waiting it occurred to him that this was probably where Bull Mayben got his comeuppance, and he would have bet Bartow had a hand in that holdup also. If he had been involved in it, it would tie him into the abduction of Emily Lou. Still he waited.
He watched while Bartow made sure his men were where he wanted them to be. They hunkered down in the boulders. None of them had rain gear. Lingo smiled to himself. If he was chilled and wet, they had to be near frozen and miserable. He waited.