by Ralph Cotton
Dahl slipped a glance to the sheriff, seeing that the seasoned lawman needed nothing spelled out for him. Tucker knew what Dahl did for a living. He only returned Dahl’s gaze without revealing anything he might be thinking.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” Dahl replied, the expectant look still on his face.
“Good,” said Farris. He paused and looked back and forth between the sheriff and Dahl. “Then allow me to get right to the purpose of my visit.” His gaze went to Sheriff Tucker and lingered for just a moment.
“Gentlemen,” said the sheriff, taking a hint, cutting a searching glance toward the busy bar, “if you’ll excuse me. I need to speak with the owner for a moment.”
“Yes, of course,” said Farris. He gave a courteous nod.
The two watched Sheriff Tucker stand up from the table and walk away toward the bar. As soon as the lawman was out of sight, Farris leaned forward, needing no more prompting. “It’s about Mr. Hatton, sir,” he said quickly. “Since his last meeting with you, Chester Goines has robbed three of his business interests.”
Dahl just looked at him.
Farris went on. “He and Curly Joe Hobbs’ old gang robbed the Cottonwood Territorial Savings Bank, which Mr. Hatton personally had insured through his railroad. He robbed Chase’s Hotel in Rocking—another investment enterprise of Hatton Enterprises—and burned it to the ground.” He paused as if to collect himself before proceeding. “Less than a week ago, he and his men robbed a stagecoach carrying a sizable amount of Mr. Hatton’s money across the badlands into Arizona Territory.”
“A sizable amount?” Dahl asked.
“Yes, two hundred thousand dollars to be exact, sir,” Farris said, his eyes widening a little at the mention of such a large mount.
Dahl sat quietly. Two hundred thousand dollars was indeed an unusually large amount of money to be shipped by stagecoach across the lawless badlands, especially for a man who knew the dangers of frontier transportation the way Hatton did, Dahl thought. But he made no further comment on the matter.
“As soon as Mr. Hatton received word about the stagecoach robbery,” said Farris, “he went wild. I tried to reason with him, to make him realize that Big Chicago might have no idea these places he robbed were a part of Hatton Enterprises.”
“He wouldn’t listen?” Dahl asked.
“No, not for a moment,” said Farris. “Usually Mr. Hatton understands that with all of his frontier holdings he is bound to cross paths with thieves and murderers like Chester Goines now and then. But this time he only became morose, inconsolable. I pleaded with him to contact you, sir, but he would have none of it. The following day he left, by himself, on his private rail car. He said he would hunt down Big Chicago himself and kill him.” He paused, then added with finality, “I’m afraid he has quite lost his mind.”
“I agree with you, it is probably coincidental that Big Chicago robbed anything belonging to Hatton Enterprises.” He considered it further, then asked Farris, “Will he cool down after a while?” Dahl had already begun sensing a dangerous situation in the making, a man like Hatton, a killer like Big Chicago.
“I’m afraid he will not. I have never seen him this way, sir,” said Farris. “I would never have come all this way if I thought there was the remotest possibility of him regaining his—”
“Of course you wouldn’t, Farris,” said Dahl. “Please forgive me.” He knew he was being asked to go out to search the badlands for Hatton, to talk sense to him, to stop him or help him. “Go on, finish what you’re telling me. Then tell me what can I do for you,” he said.
“Yes, sir, thank you.” Farris nodded. “I have never seen Mr. Hatton this way. After all that happened, after all the expense, and in spite of how badly he wanted the slayers of his daughter punished . . .” He paused and leaned in closer as if sharing a secret. “After hearing about the stage robbery, he took Curly Joe’s head, the string of ears, and he burned them, each and every one.”
Dahl studied his worried eyes, then said, “I’ve had that happen before, Farris. Don’t let that by itself concern you.”
“You—you have, sir?” Farris asked, piqued with interest.
Dahl offered, “A man like Hatton loses a loved one, often the first thing he thinks of is getting revenge. But afterward, when he realizes that no amount of staring into the pickled face, or at that dried string of trophies, is going to bring back the one he lost, he gets to where he no longer wants the reminders under the same roof with him.”
“Oh yes . . . I see,” said Farris, rubbing his chin in contemplation. He raised his eyes back to Dahl’s, looking a little less worried now, and said, “I daresay, sir, I even recall you told him you wished those grizzly souvenirs might help him. It was as if you already knew they wouldn’t.”
Dahl only nodded. He sipped the rest of the whiskey from his shot glass and asked, “Any other peculiar behavior you may have noticed before he left?”
“Yes,” said Farris. “Ever since employing you to hunt down his daughter’s killers, he has become more interested in learning to shoot firearms than he has been in running his many business interests.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “I’m not talking about gaming rifles or fowling pieces. He has always been an excellent shot in the fields and on the sporting ranges. I’m talking about those kinds of firearms.”
He gestured toward the Colt under Dahl’s left arm. “He has been carrying a Colt like the one there on your hip. He not only practices firing it, but drawing it quickly as well. The way men in your line of work must do.” He paused again, then added in a lowered voice, “I’m afraid he’s gotten quite good at it.”
“I see,” said Dahl. “It’s unusual for a man like Hatton to take an interest in gunfighting—unusual, yet not unheard of.”
“From everything you’re saying,” said Farris, “should I take it you are not in agreement with me on the severity of this matter?”
“No, Farris,” said Dahl. “Rest assured that I am with you all the way. I knew before I rode here that I was going to kill Big Chicago if that’s what Mr. Hatton, or you in his absence, required of me.”
“Oh, I see, sir,” said Farris, “and I might add more than just a little relieved.” He stopped and said curiously, “But if I may, sir, why are you going so willingly, to answer such an unusual request?”
“I gave him my word,” Dahl said flatly.
“I see, sir,” said Farris. “That is most commendable of you.”
Dahl saw Sheriff Tucker look their way from the corner of the busy bar, and he gestured a nod for the lawman to rejoin them. Once Tucker was back, standing at the table, Dahl stood up himself and said, “Sheriff, will you keep an eye on Lilly and my place while I’m away for a while? I have some cattle coming most any time.”
“I’ll look after everything,” said Tucker. Dahl could see by the gleam in the sheriff’s eyes that the lawman would have forfeited a month’s pay just to ride along with him. But Tucker knew Dahl worked alone.
“Obliged, Sheriff,” said Dahl. He looked at Farris and said, “I brought along my bedroll and my guns. I’m ready to ride.”
“Splendid, sir,” said Farris. “In anticipation of your saying yes, I took the liberty of securing myself a horse, a firearm and range clothes. All I need to procure for myself is a bedroll and I’ll be—”
“Whoa, hold on,” said Dahl. “I always work alone.”
“But, sir, I must accompany you,” said Farris. “I do so with only the slightest hope that Mr. Hatton will listen to me, as he has on past occasions. I’m afraid if I’m not there, he will be most difficult.”
Dahl looked at the sheriff and saw the trace of a wry smile on his face. “I have an extra bedroll, if that’s all that’s needed,” the sheriff said.
“Obliged, Sheriff,” Dahl said in a flat tone.
Tucker offered quietly, “I want you to know I’d ride with you at the drop of a hat were it not for how easily Silver City can blow out of control.”
“I appreciate th
at, Sheriff,” said Dahl. “But if you rode with me, who could I count on to watch Lilly and my place here?”
“Well spoken, Dahl,” said Tucker, with a touch of his fingers to his hat brim.
Part 3
Chapter 15
James Earl Coots stared out from the corner of an open window as a lone rider made his way across the stretch of flatlands, leading a pack mule behind him. Shotgun in hand, Coots remained out of sight until the man stepped down from his sweat-streaked horse and hitched it to the rail.
“I’ll be hornswoggled,” Coots said under his breath, recognizing the man in the new but dirt-coated riding duster. “Mr. J. Fenwick Hatton himself . . . ,” he said as if in awe. He uncocked his shotgun and stepped forward, taking his battered hat from a peg beside the door.
At the sound of Coots’ boots on the plank porch, Hatton looked up from untying a cargo rope on the mule’s back. He saw the attendant looking down at him. Before Hatton could say anything, Coots said, “Howdy, Mr. Hatton. Welcome to the relay station—your relay station, that is.”
Hatton scrutinized him closely. “Do you work for me, sir?” He held an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth.
“In a manner of speaking I do,” said Coots. “I haul freight to and from here. I’m James Earl Coots. I was a good friend of Norman Beale’s . . . and Oscar, of course.”
“Yes, I see,” said Hatton.
Seeing the rope in Hatton’s hand, Coots stepped down from the porch toward him. “Here, allow me to get that for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coots,” Hatton replied. “These are Norman’s usual monthly supplies. I decided to bring them out myself since I was headed this way.” He stepped aside and let the attendant untie the load of canvas-wrapped supplies from the mule’s back.
“Obliged, sir,” said Coots, knowing there was more to Hatton being here than delivering supplies. “I suppose you’re wondering how come I recognized you?” He loosened the ropes as he spoke. “The fact is, I saw an etching of you in a newspaper a while back.” As soon as he said it, he realized the artist’s rendering of Hatton had been published along with the story of his daughter’s death during a bank robbery, and he dropped the matter.
“I understand,” Hatton said. He struck a match on the hitch rail, lit his cigar and looked all around as Coots shouldered the canvas-wrapped bundle of supplies. “I see the company has already taken the attacked coach on across the badlands?”
“A relief driver and guard came out and took it away yesterday,” said Coots. He turned and walked up onto the porch with the supplies.
“I understand a young deputy from Cottonwood killed two of them?” Hatton asked.
“It’s a fact he did,” said Coots. “I dragged them out back and piled stones over them. I can uncover them if you feel like taking yourself a look-see.” His face turned grim in remembrance. “I wish he would’ve killed every last one of them thieving, murdering dogs. Norman and Oscar didn’t deserve this, not to mention those two good stage men, Charlie Stevens and Milton Donahue.”
“Yes, tragic,” said Hatton, but he seemed to pass over the dead employees with only minimum remorse. “I’m told the young deputy was mistakenly stabbed by a hysterical female passenger.”
“Yes, he was,” said Coots. “The young woman was full of remorse over it. She left on the relief stage. Deputy Lane didn’t blame her for stabbing him.”
“I see,” Hatton said, considering the matter. “That speaks well for the deputy’s character.” Then he looked all around and said to Coots, “I should like to shake this young deputy’s hand if he is well enough to do so. Where is he convalescing?”
“Convalescing?” Coots swept a hand toward the distant hills west of them. “Out there somewhere, I expect.”
“I beg your pardon?” Hatton said curiously.
“What I mean is he didn’t do any convalescing here,” said Coots. “We got him into the bed. I offered to ride all the way to the Animas Range and bring the doctor from the mine company. But he wouldn’t hear of it. Said if anything important had been stuck, he’d be dead before the doctor got here.”
“And . . . ?” Hatton stared at him with rapt interest, cigar in hand. Finally he said with a look of stunned disbelief, “Are you telling me he has had no treatment for his wounds?”
“None that I know of.” Coots shrugged. “He poured three long drinks from my whiskey jug and had me pull the knife out. The next morning, he was saddled up and gone before I could even think of what it might take to stop him.”
“Gone in pursuit of the men who did this, no doubt?” Hatton asked.
“That’s what he said,” Coots replied. “They killed his sheriff. It sounded like he thought most highly of Sheriff Morgan.”
“My goodness,” said Hatton, “I’m searching for those same men. . . .” He pondered things for a moment, then said to Coots, “Do you know this country, Mr. Coots?”
“I’m a teamster, Mr. Hatton, I know every trail, road, shortcut and pig path between here and—”
“I would like you to travel with me, Mr. Coots,” Hatton said, cutting him off. “I need someone who can help me find this young deputy. Can you track, sir?”
“As well as the next man,” Coots said. “But what about these relay horses here? Who’ll take care of them? I stuck around to watch them till somebody showed up. To tell the truth, I was headed after them snakes myself once these horses were in good hands.”
“The weekly stage will be here this afternoon and leave first thing in the morning,” said Hatton. “I’ll leave them a signed message. They will take these relay horses with them.”
“A signed message?” Coots asked. “You mean we won’t be here this evening? We’re leaving today, before the stage arrives and takes on fresh horses?”
“Yes, exactly,” said Hatton. “I don’t plan on being here an hour from now, not if your horses are watered and grained and trail-worthy. If this wounded young man is already on these killers’ trail, can we offer any less of ourselves?”
Coots said, “No, sir, not once you put it that way. As for our horses being trail worthy, Norman Beale took pride in keeping these animals ready to ride at all times.”
“Splendid,” Hatton said. “I’ll quill a message while you go pack your roll. Until we return, this station is officially closed.”
Before dark, Hatton and Coots had ridden across the rocky sand flats, following the tracks of the deputy’s horse all the way from the hitch rail, until the single set of hooves blended into a collection of hoofprints all headed for the jagged, distant hill line. As the last wreath of fiery sunlight fell behind the western edge of the earth, the two dusty riders stepped down from their saddles midtrail and stared down at the shadowy ground.
Coots took out a short torch, lit it and held it down, casting a circle of flickering light around their feet and their horses’ hooves. “It’s been a long while since I’ve tracked anything of a night, Mr. Hatton,” he said. “I only hope I still have the knack for it.”
“I have the utmost confidence in you, Mr. Coots,” Hatton replied.
“I’m proud to hear that, sir,” said Coots, examining the belly of the earth as closely as a man prospecting for gold. “I’ll do my best not to let you down.”
“Thank you,” said Hatton. “I must ask, how will you keep the deputy’s horse singled out from among these others? I’m most eager to acquire the skills that allow me to track a man by his horse’s hoofprints.”
Coots gave Hatton a tired but self-assured smile and said, “In this case, Deputy Lane’s horse is wearing store-bought American Forge Brand number-seven shoes.” He squatted down and guided the torch among the overlapping prints. “I recognized them as soon as I looked at his tracks out front at the hitch rail.” He pointed with the tip of his gloved finger to the thin imprint of a 7 in the corner of a shoe print. “Note also, sir, that this print is always on top of the others,” he added studiously.
“Yes, I see . . . a good thing to know,” said
Hatton, not sounding overly impressed now that he saw the simplicity of Coots’ tracking method.
“His tracks will veer away from all these others when the fellow he’s after does the same.” He gave Hatton a look and pointed out with a raised finger, “Keep in mind that these tracks were not made by men all traveling together at the same time. Some of these men were on this trail ahead of the others. A good tracker has to know how and when to sort them out and discern them, almost like a Gypsy reading tea leaves.”
“Yes, of course, I see what you mean,” Hatton said, sounding a bit more impressed now that he began to realize how it worked. The two stood and mounted and rode on, Coots holding the torch low and to the side, casting a dim glow of light on the shadowy trail full of hoofprints.
Two miles farther along the rocky trail, Coots stopped his horse and said, “Hold it, sir.” He looked all around and backed the animal a few steps, Hatton right beside him.
“What are we doing?” Hatton asked, looking back and forth in the flickering light.
When Coots held out the torch toward two sets of prints veering away from the others and out onto a maze of rocky hillsides, he said almost with a sigh, “Looks like Deputy Lane managed to single out his man. There he goes after him.” Coots grinned and said to the ground, “Good job, Deputy.”
“Yes. Even with the killer having an overnight start on him. Outstanding!” Hatton said, sounding more impressed.
“To his credit,” said Coots, “Lane knew the man he was after would veer away from these other tracks sooner or later. The deputy caught this man when two of his outlaw pals thought they’d killed him. So it’s likely he’s following them for his share of the money, but staying back until he can get his hands on it without getting himself killed.”
“Yes, of course,” Hatton repeated, feeling as if he’d just learned one more thing he might need to know about staying alive on this harsh frontier.
The two continued on throughout the night, finding themselves meandering almost aimlessly at times the same way Candles had done, and Deputy Lane behind him. As daylight encroached on the dark western horizon, the two found themselves at the water hole where Candles’ hoofprints had been joined by three other sets. Atop some of those prints, the deputy’s number 7s appeared to hang back as if to observe and calculate the situation.