by Jack Ballas
“I know how you feel, Miles, but knowin’ Lingo I’d bet all the gold I’ll take outta my mine in the next year he’s not far behind, an’ what he’s got planned for Bartow is a lot worse than a bullet. Hell, a bullet would end it too quick, too sudden. Let’s let the big man take care of it. And believe me, he is capable of taking care of a half-dozen like those two.”
The fire left Colter’s eyes and his shoulders slumped. “Slagle, I surely hope you’re right. I never wanted to see a man die before, but I tell you right now, that man we’re looking at is one I want to see suffer—slowly, after all he put me through.”
Sam, feeling the stiffness go out of the hand he grasped, nodded, and his voice soft, said, “I know. I unnerstan’, an’ I’ll tell you right now, Lingo’s got a mighty powerful reason to see ’im hang. I got an idear we ain’t got too long ’fore we see that man down yonder jerkin’ at the end o’ a rope. C’mon, let’s head for the valley.”
D’Amato, riding behind and a yard or so to the right of Bartow, reined in his horse, looked at the ground, then glanced at Bartow. He flicked his thumb to the side of the trail, then up the side of the mountain. “What’s up there? These tracks lead off the trail.”
Bartow shook his head. “You might see tracks leading off into the mountains anywhere along here. There’re mines all over the sides of these hills. Let’s get on down to my cabin. I need a drink.” He urged his horse toward town, then thought they’d have time for several drinks. Maddie probably wouldn’t be expecting him back this soon, and wouldn’t have cooked for anyone but herself.
He led them straight toward his cabin. When he again showed himself in town he wanted to be noticed coming from the direction of where he lived.
Still several yards from his cabin, D’Amato rode to his side. “What’s that stink in the air?”
Bartow reined his horse to a stop, sniffed, shook his head, and glanced around. “Don’t know. Somebody must have killed an animal of some kind and left it lay.” Then his gaze centered on his cabin. He stared at the door, and from the distance he sat his horse, a piece of paper looked to be tacked to its surface. His breath came in short gulps, his gut tightened, and his scalp tingled as though his hair stood on end. Something bad wrong must have happened. Maddie might have run away, or maybe she was dead—that smell could be the stink of a dead body, a human body. He hoped it was an animal, but either one was not anything he was prepared to find. He kicked his horse into a run, sprinted to the door, and tore the note from it. While he read, his world shattered. The old man had escaped. And where the hell was Maddie?
He frantically pulled the door toward him and ran inside. He gagged. Stink invaded his every sense, rotted flesh, long dead. Maybe it was Maddie. He covered his mouth and nose, glanced around the room, and saw Gates lying on the bed he usually used when not using Maddie to satisfy his needs. Gates lay in a black pool that could only be old dried blood. He stumbled to the bed and looked down at the short, bloated figure. The body had six holes in it, all in the chest. He turned toward the door, tripped, almost fell, caught his balance, and staggered out the door. D’Amato had not left his saddle.
The Italian stared at him a long moment while Bartow felt himself shrivel, shrink into himself. This might be the last straw his henchman would stand for, but a lie would not fix things now—only the truth and what it meant they must do.
Where was Maddie? He was certain she must be the one who’d killed Gates and then gone to the mine to free Colter. Then, without telling D’Amato what he’d discovered, he spun, and again entered his cabin.
He ran to the pegs on which Maddie’s clothes usually hung. Only bare wood showed. He looked for the food he’d left her money to buy. Nothing. His eyes flicked to the gun rack seeking the shotgun he’d left behind when he headed for Chama. Those pegs were empty also.
He stepped toward the door. He had to tell D’Amato what had happened and that they had to try to cross Red Mountain Pass. He stopped. D’Amato would kill him. He had not the slightest doubt the cold, ruthless Italian would wait until they got on the trail, slow his horse to drop behind so Bartow’s sleeve gun would be ahead of him, then he’d kill him and calmly turn his horse back toward Durango. D’Amato had no reason to think anyone would tie him to the mistreatment of Colter—or the muffed stage holdup.
If he was going to get rid of the Italian he had to do it before they left the cabin, and he had to get him close enough so the short-range gun would drop him without a chance.
“What’re you doing in there, Bartow? Come out here where I can see you, and don’t tell me something else has gone wrong.”
Bartow sprung the sleeve gun into his hand, then went to the center of the room so his voice wouldn’t come from close to the door. “Nothin’s wrong except Maddie’s gone and left a haunch of venison in here to rot. That’s what we smelled while riding in. C’mon in, I’ll cook us some dinner.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he ran to stand behind the door.
D’Amato cursed, then Bartow heard the sound of his horse plodding to the hitching post outside the steps, then the sloppy squishing of his shoes when he stepped to the thawing ground. The footsteps stopped. Bartow’s breath caught in his throat. What was the bastard doing? Then the stomping, scraping of the Italian’s feet while he obviously tried to rid his shoes of mud, another curse, then steps bringing him inside the cabin.
The footsteps stopped. “Where are you, you sneaking bastard?” D’Amato’s voice came out ragged, as though he knew he’d stepped into a trap.
A feeling of power came over Bartow. His chest felt as though it swelled to twice its size. He felt he could outsmart any man alive. His heart felt like it would push its way right through his shirt. “Right behind you. I’m gonna do to you what you planned to do to me. Turn around. Want you to see me when I give it to you.”
D’Amato stopped in his tracks, his head tilted back only a hair, but Bartow imagined the proud, cold look on his face. He turned, an inch at a time until he faced dead-on the muzzle of the already drawn sleeve gun, and he was only about six feet from its end. “Shoulda known to not trust you. Shoulda known before I left Baltimore to tell you to go to hell, but a quick, easy buck was more’n I could turn down.”
He grinned, and surprised, Bartow held his finger off the trigger until he realized D’Amato’s grin had no humor in it. The Italian’s lips twisted as though wrapped around ice. “Know what, Bartow? You gonna be the last to die. You won’t ever get outta this town. Whoever broke up our stage holdup is gonna be on your tail tighter’n an old maid’s corset.”
Before he could say more, Bartow’s gun belched, then belched again. The two bullets cut off any other words D’Amato had in his mind. One took him in the chest, the other took out his front teeth on the way through the back of his head.
Bartow, his hand trembling, lowered the pepperbox to his side, then opened the chamber, extracted the spent shells and shoved in two more. All the while, he stared at D’Amato, who seemed to return his stare through sightless eyes.
Bartow choked back bile and hot saliva that abruptly flooded the back of his throat. He gulped, gulped again, then ran to the door and emptied his stomach. He blamed his weakness on the stench that permeated the cabin, but deep in his brain, he knew better.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood there a moment. He shook his head. He’d not go back in the cabin. After a few moments of standing there he shivered—and only part of it was caused by the cold. He wanted to go back inside and build a warm fire, but that might only magnify the smell, and now there were two bodies to lie there and rot.
He tried to think if there was anything in the cabin he could not do without. After a long moment he shook his head. He’d taken about all he had of worth with him when he went to Chama to meet D’Amato.
Chama, that seemed so long ago, seemed like another world. Before Chama, he had Colter securely in his power, a gold mine with a rich vein almost in his grasp, a sorry woman to take care of him. What had caused
his world to unravel?
His thoughts centered on Maddie. Damn her. Where was she? He’d taken good care of the unappreciative bitch. Why would she leave him? Ah. He thought he had it figured. Gates must have come in the cabin and pushed himself on her, then when she shot him she’d been terrified, grabbed her clothes, and run. But where would she run to? She had little money, didn’t know anyone around here, and besides that, she would want to put Silverton as far behind as she could after killing Gates. And where was Colter?
He shook his head, cleared it of thoughts about people who had populated yesterday’s world. This was now. Colter had probably gone in town and spread the word about what he’d done to him, told them about Mayben, and what Mayben and Gates had been sent to do with Colter’s daughter.
He frowned. There was nowhere in Durango or Silverton that would be safe for him. The only place he could think of as safe lay across the pass, over in Grand Junction, from where he could go in any direction except south to Durango.
He glanced at the cabin, decided there wasn’t anything in it he wanted, then took the reins of his packhorse. He wanted to go into Silverton, have a drink, get himself a hotel room, and sleep until he’d had all of that he needed. He shook his head, blew the foul-smelling air from his throat and lungs, and rode to circle Silverton, then head toward Red Mountain Pass. The drink and good night’s sleep would have to wait. He had left D’Amato’s horse tied to the tie post in front of his cabin. He took his horse and the packhorse he’d taken to Chama with him.
He’d gone about a half-mile when he drew rein, pulled his brow into a deep frown, and glanced back toward his cabin. If those who stopped the stage holdup had followed him and D’Amato they would know there were two men who rode away from the stage—and there were two bodies back there in his cabin. He thought on that a few moments, gave a jerky nod, and headed back to his homestead.
He tied his horse alongside of D’Amato’s, stepped from the saddle, and holding his nose went inside.
He thought to swap his shoes for Gates’s boots. He tried on the small man’s boots, and couldn’t pull them past his instep; they were too small. He grunted. Hell, it didn’t make any difference. When he got through no one would be able to tell the difference between boots, shoes, Western or Eastern dress.
He twisted to go to the stove. A sloshing sounded outside. His throat tightened and dried, his neck muscles pulled into his shoulders. He’d left his rifle in the saddle scabbard. He thought to try to escape out the side window. He listened again. The sound of feet sucking on the muddy ground sounded again—but seemed farther from the cabin. He went to the window and peered around its edge. A huge bull elk grazed on the few blades of grass, then moved another few feet from the front of his cabin. Bartow’s breath escaped as though from a bellows. His hands trembled—he trembled all over.
He turned back into the room, only now he hurried. He looked frenziedly about until he saw that for which he searched—lamp oil.
He pulled a couple of armloads of firewood next to the stove, broke a few sticks of kindling into several lengths, put them into the stove, then threw several sticks of the firewood into the cold maw of the stove on top of the kindling, piled the remaining wood close, then sloshed about a cupful of the lamp oil into the stove, struck a lucifer on the side of the cast-iron firebox, and tossed the flaming stick onto the oil-soaked wood.
Despite the smell of Shorty’s rotting body, he stood there soaking up the welcome warmth the stove put out. After a few minutes his sense of smell dimmed. Perhaps he had gotten used to the stench. Every so often, he opened the door to the firebox and peered in.
When finally the fire had burned down to a bed of white-hot coals, he took the can of lamp oil and soaked Shorty’s and D’Amato’s bodies with all but enough to pour a puddle of it from them to the stove, then he opened the door to the firebox, took a couple of sticks of firewood, and using both hands stood behind the stove and toppled it to the floor. The coals fell onto the puddle of oil. Flames crawled toward Gates’s and D’Amato’s bodies.
14
BARNES AND CANTRELL got a good night’s sleep, and the next morning went to the livery, slung saddles across their horses’ backs, loaded the pack saddle, and cinched it down on the horse they’d chosen as a packhorse, then rode from Durango at a leisurely pace.
Cantrell slanted a questioning look across his shoulder at Lingo. “Don’t seem like you in any hurry to catch them men we’re chasin’.”
Barnes grinned, then shook his head. “Quint, I figure we got all the time in the world. They can go only in one direction if they don’t figure they’re safe in Silverton. Either way we gonna have ’em under our guns ’fore they know it.”
After about another half an hour, Lingo frowned and glanced at Cantrell. “Gonna tell you right now, Quint, I want Bartow alive. I don’t give a damn what we do with that other Easterner. He didn’t have anything to do with takin’ Emily Lou offa that stage.” He shrugged. “Far’s I’m concerned, soon’s we come up on ’em we can blow him to hell. It’s not like he hasn’t done anything, hell, he tried to rob the stage right along with Bartow and the two Easterners I shot.”
Cantrell’s eyes opened wide. He shook his head. “Umm-um. You mean you ain’t gonna hog all the fun? You mean you gonna let me have one o’ ’em? Damn, Lingo, you done got right generous since I last seen you.”
Barnes grinned, then nodded. “I don’t see how Elena puts up with you. You’ll have every beautiful blonde hair in her head a silvery gray in another year.”
“Nah, she’s too much like her mother, Venetia. Hell, she might even pout when she finds out what you an’ me done.” He chuckled. “Yep, figger that’s jest what she’s gonna do ’cause we didn’t let her go along an’ help.”
While they rode, Barnes studied the side of the trail. To his knowledge there were no mines off to the side and off to his left the mountain rose almost vertical to the trail. On the other side the Animas River gouged its way to more level ground beyond Durango. Still about a half an hour from Silverton he pulled in his horse, studied where several horses left the trail and headed for the river.
He twisted to look at Cantrell. “Hold up a few minutes, wantta see how many horses in this bunch. Those Easterners mighta decided to head up into the mountains toward my ranch.”
Cantrell hooked a leg around his saddlehorn, pulled out his pipe, and stuffed tobacco into its bowl. He nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”
Lingo followed the tracks as far as the river, only a couple of hundred yards off the road. At water’s edge, he swung his leg over his horse’s rump, stepped to the ground, and squatted next to the tracks. After studying the signs a few moments he decided there were three ridden horses and one carrying a pack. Obviously, the packhorse was the one being led. It had stayed behind the same horse from the trail to the river. He squinted at the tracks again, climbed back on his horse, and went back to where he’d left Cantrell. He shook his head. “Wasn’t what I figured it might be. There were three riders in the bunch and one packhorse. I don’t believe those two Easterners will hook up with Shorty Gates, or anybody else until they get to Silverton.” He reined his horse toward town, now only around the bend in the trail and about four miles down the slope from there.
As soon as they rounded the bend, Silverton huddled below them. Cantrell gave the town only a glance before he flicked a thumb off to the left of it. “Somebody’s cabin’s goin’ up in smoke down yonder. Lucky they ain’t ’nuff trees around it to start a forest fire.”
Lingo squinted into the distance. Slagle’s cabin was over in that direction. He glanced back to the town, then studied where each ravine or gulch would dig back into the hills. Finally satisfied that the fire burned several hundred yards from where Sam’s cabin stood, as well as being in a different gully, he let the pent-up air from his lungs.
He’d hate like hell for Sam to lose that cabin; it was well-built, and Sam took pride in the way he’d put it together. He shook his head. Eve
n though he felt relieved, Slagle’s good luck was someone else’s bad luck. He kept his horse headed toward Silverton.
He thought to go by Slagle’s cabin and bring him up-to-date on all that had happened since he last saw him, and that he was almost certain that Bartow was Gates’s and Mayben’s boss. Mentally, he shook his head. He wouldn’t do that because the big miner would sure as the devil want to join up with him and Cantrell, and Lingo wanted no part of putting Sam in a position to take a bullet. Nope, he and Quint would handle this alone.
He slanted a look across his shoulder at Cantrell. “If we luck out, the Easterner won’t figure anybody’s on to him. He just might stop in town.”
“Don’t bet on it, Lingo. You an’ me both know not to ever figger a man as bein’ dumb.” He grinned. “I always try to figger a man as bein’ smarter’n he really is, that way I ain’t never surprised by lettin’ ’im outsmart me.”
Barnes nodded. “We’ll stop an’ check the store an’ saloon anyway. We might luck out an’ not have to make that ride to the pass.”
Cantrell nodded and gave Lingo a thin-lipped smile. “Yeah, I’ll check the saloon while you waste time checkin’ that there general store.”
Lingo couldn’t squelch the laugh, it bubbled from between his teeth. “I reckon we’ll both check the saloon. If you figure to have a couple o’ drinks while I’m playin’ detective, you’ve just done what you said you’d never do.”
Quint’s grin widened. “An’ what is it I say I never do?”
“You just now figured me for bein’ dumber’n I am. You have a drink I’m gonna be right there beside you.”
Cantrell pulled his mouth down into a grimace. “Cain’t git away with nothin’ no more. ’Tween you an’ Elena, I figger I must be as easy to read as a deck o’ cards.” He kicked his horse into a lope. “Let’s git on down there an’ warm our insides.”