by Ralph Cotton
“Yeah,” said Lane with regret. “Coots is a good man. He saved my life. Now it looks like I’ve gotten him killed—Hatton too, for that matter. I led them down into a dead end. I tried to get them out, and this is the outcome.”
“We saw it,” Dahl said quietly. “You did the best you could.”
Lane stared at him. “I don’t need anybody telling me I did the best I could,” he said. “Are you going to stop pointing your gun at me?”
Dahl lowered his rifle and uncocked its hammer, now that he saw Lane realized they were on the same side. “I suppose you’re going after them?” he said to the young deputy.
“Yes,” Lane said in a short, clipped tone. He stepped forward and held out his hand toward Farris. “If you’ve been watching, you know that’s my horse. I’ll be taking it back now, much obliged,” he added courteously, yet in a firm voice that offered no further discussion on the matter.
Farris gave Dahl a look for approval and, upon getting it, handed the horse’s reins over to Lane. “I’m afraid the animal has taken a bullet graze,” he said.
Lane looked at the bloody streak across the horse’s rump. “I’ll attend to it,” he said. “It’s high enough up that it won’t hurt to ride him.”
“We’re going after him too,” Dahl said.
“I figured as much,” said Lane.
“We’d all have a better chance if we stuck together up here,” Dahl said.
“I work alone,” Lane said bluntly.
“So do I,” said Dahl. “But we’re going to be shooting at each other if neither of us knows what the other is doing.”
“If you know what happened at the stage depot,” said Lane, “you’ll know that my only interest was to get the men who killed my sheriff. Now I’ve got to make things right for Coots here. Now that this Hatton fellow is captured, I feel like I owe him something too.”
Coots called out in a weak voice from where he lay leaning against the rock, “Nobody owes me anything. . . . I came for Norman and Oscar.”
“For who?” Farris ask with a puzzled look.
“Never mind.” Lane shook his head. “Norman was his pal. Oscar was Norman’s dog. I expect we all fight for our own reasons.” Lane paused, then looked at Dahl as if stricken by an idea. “Here’s a deal for you, Teacher,” he said. “You and I will ride together provided Farris here stays behind and looks after Coots.”
“I don’t need . . . anybody looking after me,” Coots said, almost rising to his feet. “I’m after the men who killed Norman and Oscar.”
“Please, take it easy, Mr. Coots,” said Farris, stepping forward and stooping down over the wounded teamster. Farris looked up at Dahl in agreement. “I’ll stay here, if this is what it’s going to take to get Mr. Hatton back alive.”
“You heard him, Deputy,” said Dahl. “We’re all after the same men. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Lane nodded, but he looked at Dahl and asked, “What are you getting out of this, Teacher? Is Hatton paying you?”
“He paid me for killing Curly Joe Hobbs and his men after they killed Hatton’s daughter,” said Dahl. “But that was a while back. I’m doing this because I told Hatton I would.”
“Oh . . . ?” Lane considered it.
“It’s true, Deputy Lane,” said Farris. “Mr. Dahl isn’t paid for being here. He’s here because I told him Mr. Hatton needed his help.”
Lane looked skeptical, checked his horse closer, then checked the saddle cinch and tacking, thinking as he went about his task. Finally he turned to Dahl and said with resolve, “Newton is mine as soon as we get him in our sights.”
“Who?” Dahl asked.
“Bobby Candles,” said Lane. “He went by the name Newton. He’s the one who killed Sheriff Morgan. When the time comes, I want you to leave him to me.”
“He’s all yours,” said Dahl. “Let’s ride, while we’ve still got daylight.” He gave Farris and Coots a look.
“You needn’t worry about us, Mr. Dahl,” said Farris. “We’re going to be just fine here. If Mr. Coots improves, who knows, we may even venture forward.”
“Don’t do anything foolish, Farris,” said Dahl, he and Lane ready to turn their horses to the trail.
“Something foolish . . . ? Oh no, sir, not I,” said Farris.
Coots and Farris watched as the two rode away along the dusty trail. When they were out of sight, Farris said to Coots, “How badly are you wounded, Mr. Coots?”
“I’m not wounded,” said Coots. “I’m nicked, scraped, burned and battered. But I told you, I can ride.” He scooted upright against the rock, drew a big Colt and jiggled it in his hand. “I didn’t come all this way to kill these snakes just to let a few bullet grazes set me down.”
Farris smiled and said, “Nor did I, sir.” He arched a bushy gray eyebrow and said in an almost guarded tone, “The fact is, I only came to find Mr. Hatton. But now that he’s in these scoundrels’ hands, I’m ready to make a fight of it.”
Coots looked him up and down and asked, “Have you ever been in a gunfight?”
“Oh no, sir, never,” said Farris.
“Good,” said Coots. “It’s about time you were.”
Emmen and Brady Shay stopped their horses at the edge of Robber’s Roost and watched as Bobby Candles and the three desert bandits rode into sight from beneath a steep hillside of cactus and standing rock. As the four riders drew nearer, Emmen turned to four town guards sitting atop their horses behind him.
To the man nearest him, he said, “Zero, back these three up, give us some breathing room.”
Brady added, “Keep your eyes open. Candles is quicker than a cat.”
“Yes, sir,” said Zero Paige, the town guard Candles had approached an hour earlier and told he needed to see the Shays.
When Candles rode closer he said over his shoulder to the three bandits, “You men stop here. Keep an eye on the town guards while I talk to Emmen.”
As Candles’ horse stepped even closer, Emmen Shay said, “Before you even start, Bobby, let me warn you, Big Chicago and his men are in town. It sounded to me like there’s bad blood between yas.”
“There is?” Candles gave a shrug. “Then it’s news to me, Emmen. I did some work with Big Chicago and his men, and then we all split up.” He gestured a nod toward the three men behind him. “I’ve been working with these three ever since.”
Emmen and Brady both eyed Candles suspiciously. “You know how it works here, Bobby,” Emmen said. “Brady and I rule the Roost. If you start any trouble here, you’re dead. We take no sides.”
“I understand that,” said Candles. “I’m not here looking to start any trouble,” he lied. “Me and my men are looking to lie low, hide out, same as everybody else who comes here.”
“Hiding out is an expensive thing to do, Bobby,” said Emmen. “Not everybody can afford it.”
“We can,” said Candles. He took out the three stacks of money from inside his coat and flashed them long enough to prove his solvency. Then he put the money away, smiled and said, “Of course if you think it’s best we move on, that’s what we’ll do.”
“We won’t hear of it, Bobby,” Emmen said. He gave an oily grin. “What kind of men would me and brother Brady be if we let you ride away from here without first spending all that money?” He jerked a nod toward the three bandits and asked, “Who’s your pards here?”
“It so happens these men are neighbors of yours, Emmen,” said Candles. “This is Dad Lodi, Frank Dorsey and Pie Sucio.”
The Shays stared at the three.
“I’ve heard of Dad Lodi and Frank Dorsey,” said Emmens. “These two used to charge folks for drinking at a water hole the other side of Saverine Pass.”
“We still do,” Dad Lodi said proudly, touching the brim of his faded, battered hat.
“Sometimes double,” said Dorsey, with a flat, serious expression. “I don’t call it selling water. I like to think we sell peace of mind. Once folks pay us, they can drink with no fear of getting shot in the head.”
“Perhaps you have also heard of me, eh?” the Mexican cut in. “In English, Pie Sucio means—”
“I know what it means,” said Emmen Shay, cutting him off. To Candles he said, “How long are you and these men planning on visiting the Roost?” He reached out and rubbed his thick fingers and thumb together toward Candles.
Candles grinned and relaxed. Nudging his horse forward, he pulled a stack of the money from inside his coat and held it out to Emmen Shay. “Long enough to win all your money, nail all your whores and drink all your whiskey,” he said.
Satisfied with the money, Emmen passed it on to Brady, who riffled it himself and put it away. “You’ll find rooms at the Embassy Hotel,” Brady said. “I’ll have them stick a whore and a bottle of rye in each of your rooms—first bottle’s on the house. If you wear the whore out, send her down. We’ll send up a fresh one.”
“Obliged, Emmen,” Candles said with a touch of his hat brim.
“Don’t mention it,” said Emmen. “Just get in there and show us how fast you can spend your money.”
“Oh, wait. . . .” Candles hesitated and took on a troubled countenance.
“What is it, Bobby?” asked Emmen.
“I told you there’s no bad blood between me and Big Chicago, far as I’m concerned.” He paused, then said, “Is it safe to say he feels the same?”
“Chicago knows the rules here, same as everybody else,” said Emmen.
“Sure, he knows the rules,” said Candles. “My question is, will he abide by them?”
“He’d better,” said Emmen, “else he’ll find himself on a mighty hard spot.” He turned his horse and added, “I told you, Bobby, brother Brady and I rule the Roost. Anybody who doesn’t like it, they’d be well advised to pass us by and keep headed north.”
“That’s good enough for us,” Candles said with a faint smile and a tip of his hat.
Chapter 19
No sooner had the Shays arrived back at their office above the saloon than Brady looked down from the side window and saw Cree Carter and three dust-streaked town guards step down from their saddles. “Jesus, what now?” he said, watching Carter jerk Hatton to the ground and give him a kick. The three guards helped the two badly wounded riflemen across an alley and through the back door of a doctor’s office.
Stepping over beside his brother and looking down, Emmen called out through the open window, “Carter, what the hell went on out there?” He eyed the hatless man lying curled on the ground as he spoke. “It sounded like Bull Run all over again.”
Carter nudged Hatton with his boot toe and replied up to the Shays, “He’s no bull, but he was damn sure on the run—till we stopped him, that is.” He paused and pulled Hatton to his feet. “You’re not going to believe who I’ve got here.”
“Don’t even think you’re going to have me guess, Cree,” Emmen said in a warning tone of voice.
“Sorry,” said Carter. He shook Hatton by his shoulder and said, “This is none other than J. Fenwick—”
“I’m J. Fenwick Hatton,” said Hatton, cutting short the introduction.
The Shays looked at each other in rapt silence for a moment until Brady whispered, “My God . . .”
Carter said, “Did you hear me up there?”
“Yes, we heard you, Cree,” Emmen cut in. “Bring him up here. Let’s take a better look at him. Use the private stairs,” he added in afterthought.
“Holy Moses, brother,” Brady said to Emmen as Carter gave Hatton a push toward a small private door that opened to a hidden stairwell up the rear of the building. “Do you suppose that could actually be J. Fenwick Hatton?”
“If it’s not, you will never have seen a man die so quickly in your life,” said Emmen. He glared at his brother. “And I’m talking about Cree Carter, not the sumbitch he has in tow.”
Moments later the two heard boots in the hall. When Brady opened the office door, Carter gave Hatton a hard shove forward, then stepped in behind him, accompanied by Zero Paige, who had joined Carter at the bottom of the stairs.
“Here he is, Emmen,” said Carter, “Mr. J. Fenwick Hatton, unless the sumbitch is lying.”
“Is he wounded?” Brady asked, looking Hatton up and down.
“Naw,” said Cree, shoving Hatton again, this time even harder. “He’s a little battered from the trail and carrying a few bullet nicks, but otherwise he’s fit as a French fiddle.”
“Damn, Cree, take it easy,” said Brady Shay, catching Hatton to keep him from falling to the floor.
Emmen stood up from behind his desk and picked up a copy of the Denver Star. Studying the newspaper as he stepped around his desk, he gave Hatton a close look and said, “It’s him, sure as hell.”
“Yes, it is I,” said Hatton. “Wouldn’t I be quite the fool to impersonate myself?”
Emmen and Brady gave each other a puzzled look. Then Emmen took control by jabbing a finger in Hatton’s chest and saying, “Look, Mr. J. Fenwick-by-God-Hatton. In this office, you speak when you’re spoken to.”
Even with his wrists tied together in front of him, Hatton made a lunge at Emmen. But Carter and Paige caught him from behind.
“He’s been hateful and belligerent ever since we caught him,” said Carter. “Say the word and Zero and I will scatter his teeth for him.”
“You need to settle yourself down, Hatton,” said Emmen Shay. “It looks like you and us are going to be spending some time together.”
“I don’t get it, brother Emmen,” said Brady. “What do you have in mind?”
Emmen stepped over to his brother and looped an arm around his broad shoulder. “If there was one thing I have learned over the years, it is this.” He raised his fingers and his cigar for emphasis and continued. “When you are fortunate enough to get your hands around a rich man’s throat, do not turn it loose until he has spit forth a fountain of gold.”
“You will rot in hell, sir,” Hatton said, his fists balled tightly, “before you ever see a dollar of Hatton gold.”
“Aye, you say that now and it’s understandable,” said Emmen with a dark chuckle. “But let’s see how you feel when we’ve cleaved off a couple of your fingers and ask you again, real nice-like.”
“We’re going to hold him for ransom?” Carter asked, he and Zero Paige grinning at each other.
“Hell, yes,” Carter said, speaking out of turn in his excitement. “That’s the only natural thing to do with a rich bastard like this.”
Emmen walked over to Carter and Paige with a dark expression and said, “Both of yas, get out of here. My brother and I have things to talk about.”
Carter knew he’d made a mistake, yet he hesitated and said, “But, Emmen, I brought him to you. That’s got to be worth something in all this.”
“You’re right, Cree,” said Emmen, with a second of consideration. “Stay where you are.” He walked behind his desk, picked up a big Army Colt from an open desk drawer, walked back and shot Carter in the forehead.
“Lord God!” Zero Paige stood stunned.
Emmen swung the pistol toward Paige from only four feet away. “Whoa, wait, Emmen!” Paige said, talking fast, his eyes wide in terror. “I didn’t catch him. I didn’t bring him here. I had nothing to do with it. I’ve got nothing coming!”
Emmen lowered the big Colt and uncocked the hammer. “I’m so happy to hear you say that, Zero,” he said. “Now go get a bucket of water and a scrub brush.” He grinned. “My brother and I would still like to talk.”
“Yes, sir,” said Paige. He turned and hurried out the door.
Hatton stood staring down at the body on the floor at his feet. Brady walked over with a long boot knife in his fist and a strange smile on his face. “Hold out your wrists, Hatton.”
Hatton did as he was told and watched the knife blade slash through the hemp rope, freeing his hands. “Now sit down over there,” said Brady, pointing the knife toward a large, straight-back chair.
As soon as Hatton sa
t down, Emmen stepped over, slapped one handcuff around his wrist and cuffed its mate to the chair arm. “Just so you don’t turn rabbit on us, Mr. Hatton,” he said.
Hatton stared up at him with no sign of fear in his eyes.
“Now, let me ask you,” Emmen said to Hatton, taking the knife from Brady’s hand. “If you were to pen a letter to the person most likely to send us, say . . . two hundred thousand dollars, rather than have us cut you into strips and feed you to coyotes, who would that person be?”
“Go to hell, sir,” Hatton replied stubbornly.
“My goodness, brother Emmen,” said Brady, “two hundred thousand dollars? That is a powerful lot of money.”
“Yes, it is,” said Emmen. “But how many times do you suppose an opportunity like this will come our way, brother Brady? It’s two hundred thousand or nothing. We either turn this into our biggest deal ever or we forget it. We spend the rest of our lives serving up whores, drink and dope to every hard case who makes it here ahead of the law.”
“I will die, sir, before I see a dollar of my money in the hands of a rat like you,” said Hatton.
“Then die you surely will,” said Emmen Shay, gripping the knife in his fist, “but not before you beg me to kill you.”
Inside the Gold Poke Saloon, Big Chicago stood at a long ornate bar, each arm slung around the naked shoulders of a young prostitute. “My, my,” Chicago laughed. “I haven’t been here two hours. Look at all the friends I’ve made.” Along the bar the rest of the men stood with women of their own. In front of the men stood bottles of rye, mescal and tequila, along with open leather pouches of Mexican-grown cocaine, marijuana and dried peyote cactus buttons. A whole roasted goat had been brought in, still sizzling, and set atop the bar, a big carving knife stuck in its ribs.
“I was never treated this well upon returning home from the war,” Baldhead Paul remarked morosely to a bare-breasted young woman who stood stroking the top of his shiny head as she fed him peyote buttons.
“You poor thing,” she cooed sympathetically. “Here, have another. This will make up for it.” She reached out, picked up a third peyote button and popped it into Paul’s mouth. He swallowed it with a drunken cross-eyed leer and washed it down with a swig of mescal.