“How the hell are you so sure?” Bat said.
“Because Kate Kerrigan owns most of West Texas. And listen up, if you throw in with me, she’s the gal that will make all three of us rich.”
Sky Boswell said, “How do you figure that?”
“Blackmail,” McKenzie said. “I can wring money out of her until she’s parted with every last cent she has.”
“What the hell has this to do with cousin Jesse?” Sky said.
“Everything,” McKenzie said. “If the balloon thing came down in this part of West Texas the only place for a hundred miles around where a man could find help is the Kerrigan Ranch. That Mosely feller is either still there or Kate Kerrigan knows which way he went.”
“Mighty thin,” Sky said.
“Could be, but how successful has your search been so far?” McKenzie said.
Sky opened his mouth to speak but Bat talked over him. “What’s this blackmail idea of yours, McKenzie?”
“There’s been a drought and famine in central Mexico,” the man answered. “They say in Durango alone five thousand have died of starvation in the past few weeks.”
“What’s that to me?” Bat said.
“Maybe a great deal,” McKenzie said. “The word’s gotten around that a white man, me, is promising to lead Mexicans to a better place, a land flowing with milk and honey, as the Good Book says.”
“I’m still not catching your drift,” Bat said. A fat black fly droned around the room and a rat rustled in a shadowed corner. Beams of dusty light angled from four small, rectangular windows cut into the top of the outside wall and illuminated the monkish cell with a dull saffron glow.
Slide McKenzie poured mescal into the three cups and then said, “Within a week I can have ten thousand people gathered here and—”
Sky said, “That’s a heap of greasers.”
McKenzie nodded. “Damn right it is, especially if you’re a rancher and they’re fanning out across your range like locusts. You know how much damage ten thousand hungry people could do to the Kerrigan Ranch? How many cattle they’d slaughter? Hell, it would be like the Battle of Gettysburg.”
“You’re a slick-talking man, McKenzie, but I still don’t see what’s in it for me and Sky,” Bat said.
“That’s where the blackmail comes in,” McKenzie said. “I tell Kate Kerrigan that this disaster can be avoided quite simply. All she has to do is pay me a hundred thousand dollars and I’ll keep the Mexicans away. But that’s only the start. Come the spring roundup I’ll squeeze her again . . . and again . . . and finally I’ll take her ranch from her.”
“And when she comes looking for you with a dozen riders and a rope you’ll need protection,” Bat said.
“Right. That’s where you and your brothers come into the picture. But Kate Kerrigan won’t come hunting me with a hanging posse, not if she values her range. If I have to light a shuck in a hurry I’ll take ten thousand with me and head straight for her big mansion.”
Bat looked at his brother. “What do you think?”
Sky said, “I think we do what we came here to do in the first place and that’s the reckoning for Jesse. He’s lying cold in his grave, his spirit unavenged, and this fool wants to take us on a wild goose chase. We don’t make war on ranchers, Bat. Hell, they’re our bread and butter.”
Bat Boswell studied on that for a few silent moments and then said, “We want half of what you get from the Kerrigan woman.”
“Damn it, Bat,” Sky said.
“Half, McKenzie,” Bat said.
McKenzie’s mouth stretched. “Done and done, Bat. And now that we’re partners call me Slide.”
“McKenzie, you try to sell us out and I’ll kill you. Understand?”
“Sure, Bat, sure. We’re partners, now and for always.”
“You’re a sorry piece of trash, McKenzie, and we ain’t partners, now and never,” Bat said. “Just you make sure you keep your end of the bargain.”
“And if there’s killing to be done?” McKenzie said.
“Me and Sky will do it. Now get out there and find us a woman, the younger the better.”
“No more killing, Bat,” McKenzie said. “Them Mexicans are worked up as it is.”
“Hell, man, we want to screw her, not shoot her,” Sky Boswell said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Boy, you got a screw loose in your thinking assembly,” Frank Cobb said. “You’ll never find a gas . . . a gas whatever you call it out there on the range.”
“Hydrogen cylinder it’s called, and I have to find it or I’m stuck here,” Josiah Mosely said. “The Indian shot up the one I was using, and I’ve only got that one spare.”
“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Kerrigan to sell you a hoss?” Frank said. “Hoss will take you anywhere you want to go.”
“I don’t have any money and, besides, you know I can’t ride.”
“What about the red balloon thing?”
“You mean the envelope?”
“It’s torn to shreds.”
“Not completely. Even though the envelope is made of silk it can be repaired with some time and effort.”
Frank shook his head. “All right, you can take the buckboard, but bring it back in one piece. If you damage the wagon or the horse I swear I’ll take it out of your hide.”
“I can drive a wagon, Mr. Cobb. I won’t damage it.”
“See you don’t,” Frank said.
As he did every morning just after sunup Frank turned on his heel and walked in the direction of the bunkhouse to assign the hands their chores for the day. The air smelled fresh of winter grass as the new day came in clean, but there was a spatter of rain in the north wind and the raw iron tang of the coming winter cold.
Josiah Mosely hitched a grade mare to the buckboard and swung south, following the route of the errant balloon. As it happened, the flat land revealed the whereabouts of the hydrogen cylinder surprisingly quickly, after less than an hour’s search. The envelope was tangled around the dead, bone-white cottonwood and badly ripped, like a tattered scarlet dress covering a skeleton. But the basket was more or less intact and that cheered Mosely considerably. He loaded the basket and the ragged envelope into the buckboard and then headed back in the direction of the Kerrigan ranch house.
Mosely decided to make a detour that took him close to Buffalo Bill’s tent city, a decision that would lead to a chain of events he could not foresee . . . a winter of murder and terror that threatened to destroy the Wild West show and involve Kate Kerrigan in the hunt for a killer.
* * *
Josiah Mosely halted the buckboard and kicked on the brake. He removed his round glasses, polished them on a piece of yellow cloth he took from his pocket, and rubbed away the grit they’d picked up on the trail. Once he replaced the glasses he blinked and then surveyed the endless rows of canvas tents on the grass, like a fleet of weathered men o’ war under full sail on a green sea. Now and then a blanket-wrapped Indian stepped into his line of vision and once he saw a pretty girl stop, reach under the neckline of her blouse, and make an adjustment to some intimate garment.
Mosely was thrilled. Savage Indians, pretty girls with their hands in secret places, the aroma of animals, tame and wild, and the fine, savory odors from the cooking tent. In all his life, from ground or sky level, he’d never seen or smelled the like.
“What the hell are you doing, four eyes?”
Mosely turned and saw three men facing him. They looked like cowboys but bore no resemblance to the bearded, mud-spattered waddies he’d seen around the Kerrigan place. The trio were scrubbed up and dressed as neat as whiskey drummers in expensive range duds, fancy boots, and wide-brimmed white hats that no working puncher could afford. Mosely figured they looked like actors playing the parts of cowboys, and then it dawned on him that that’s exactly what they were, except at one time they’d probably worked as real punchers.
Then the biggest of the three, a tall redheaded man with massive shoulders, spoke again. “I asked you a que
stion, mister.”
Mosely smiled. “Just watching the circus.”
“Circus?” the redhead said. “You calling Buffalo Bill’s Wild West a circus?”
“I saw a circus one time,” Mosely said. “This looks pretty much the same.”
The big man’s eyes opened wide and his mouth stretched in a grimace. “Git the hell down from there, boy,” he said. “Seems to me you need some schooling in manners.”
“You’re not one to school anybody,” Mosely said, his anger flaring. “I think, sir, you have the makings of a bully and a braggart.”
Now the redhead exploded, and he did a little dance of rage. “Git the hell down from there!” he yelled. His companions grinned and one of them said, “Spank his butt, Davy.”
“I will not bandy words with fools,” Mosely said. He let off the wagon brake and started to roll forward. The man called Davy was big and he was fast. He covered the distance to the wagon in three quick steps and dragged Mosely from the seat. Mosely had sand and in a desperate attempt to regain his balance he tried to push the cowboy away from him. As immobile as a full-grown loblolly pine, Davy didn’t budge. Grinning, he backhanded Mosely across the face and then landed a punch to his belly. The young man groaned and started to fall, but Davy held him upright and pulled his face so close to his own he hit Mosely with his spittle as he said, “What were you looking at, boy? Say it. Say Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.”
Gasping his words, Mosely said, “A circus . . . circus . . .”
Davy turned his head and said to his companions, “You boys want a piece of this?”
There are bullies in every walk of life, and that day Josiah Mosely was unfortunate enough to run into three of them. As the two others stepped toward him, he knew he was in for a terrible beating, and all because a trio of lowlifes wanted some fun. It was unfair, Mosely decided. But sometimes the fates that hound a man don’t give a damn if a thing is fair or not.
Davy hauled Mosely to his feet and held him in place as a hard-faced youngster he called Andy cocked his fist, his glittering blue eyes fixed on Mosely’s chin. His punch never landed.
A hickory ax handle crashed down on Andy’s forearm with the force of a ten-ton drop hammer, shattering the ulna and radius bones like matchwood. Andy screamed, but his shrieking cry of mortal agony was drowned out by the cougar screech war cry of a Cheyenne Dog Soldier.
Cloud Passing charged among the three toughs like a buzz saw, striking out with the ax handle like a war club, the thud-thud-thud of wood striking bone as loud as a bass drum. Andy had backed out of the fight, clutching his splintered arm, grimacing in pain. Both the other cowboys were down. Davy, his head bloody, writhed and chawed up the ground, the second, a bearded towhead, lay on his back, squealing like a piglet trapped under a gate as he tried in vain to ward off the Indian’s smashing blows.
“No!” Mosely yelled. “You’re killing them.”
Despite feeling groggy from the beating he’d taken, the young man stepped between Cloud Passing and the downed men. Mosely stared into the black fire of the Indian’s eyes and said, “It’s over. They’ve had enough.”
Cheyenne warriors were notional, and Cloud Passing proved it by making no argument. He lowered the ax handle and said, “Mose-ly, you are my friend.” He nodded. “Yes, it is done.”
But no one ever said a Cheyenne Dog Soldier was not one to carry a grudge. As the hurting towhead crawled away Cloud Passing kicked him hard in the butt.
Josiah Mosely didn’t see it coming and neither did the Indian.
Suddenly a net sailed through the air like a gigantic bat and settled over Cloud Passing. The rope attached to the net jerked tight and the Indian fell on his back. As he struggled, hopelessly tangled, four big, club-wielding roustabouts pounced on the outraged Cheyenne and one of them, as Irish as the pigs of Docherty, said, “Lie still, ye damned Hindoo, or I’ll break every bane in your body.”
“Lafferty, belay that.” Bill Cody stepped into the cursing, kicking fray and said, “He’s the best damned Indian I’ve got, and I don’t want him hurt.”
His club poised, Lafferty said, “Then what do we do with him, your honor?”
Bill thought for a moment, then said, “Put him in the cage with the black bear. That will quiet him down.” Bill’s eyes moved to his hurting, battered cowboys and he shook his head. “Then collect all the parts of those three and see if you can assemble one whole cowboy out of them.” Bill threw back his head, spread his arms, and said to the uncaring sky, “Lord almighty, times are coming down hard enough. I sure as hell don’t need this.”
As he and the other roustabouts dragged Cloud Passing to his feet, Lafferty said, “Say a prayer to the holy Saint Jude, your honor.”
“Who is he?” Bill said.
“The patron saint of lost causes and hopeless cases,” Lafferty said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You’ve no call to do that, Kate,” Frank Cobb said, his scowl betraying his irritation. “I’ll take Mosely down to the bunkhouse and Doc Finney can patch him up.”
Kate Kerrigan’s left eyebrow arched. “Really? I knew Buff Finney was a top hand, but I didn’t realize he was also a physician.”
“He isn’t. But when he was a kid he worked for a boxing promoter over New Orleans way and was teached how to patch up cuts and bruises.”
“He was teached, Frank? Surely you mean he was taught?” Kate said.
“Well, whatever it is, Mosely ain’t badly hurt. Let Doc do it.”
Josiah Mosely’s battered face moved stiffly as he said, “Frank is right, Mrs. Kerrigan. This is no task for a lady.”
“As far as I know, patching up wounded menfolk has always been the task of ladies,” Kate said. “Now hold still. This will sting like the dickens.”
Frank shook his head. “You’re babying the boy, Kate. He has to be a man and learn to stand up for himself sometime.”
“I had an unfortunate experience with the three toughs who attacked poor Mr. Mosely,” Kate said. “They are—”
Frank was instantly alert, his face an odd mix of concern and anger. “What kind of experience?”
Kate smiled. “Nothing too serious. Just talk.”
“You sure that’s all it was?”
“Yes, I’m sure. And as far as I can tell, they’ve already been punished enough. Frank Butler, Annie Oakley’s husband, says one of the cowboys has a broken arm, and the others are in a bad way. Bill’s wild Indian is caged up with a bear, and Frank says the bear doesn’t much care for his company.”
Mosely said, “The Indian thinks he owes me because I wouldn’t let you hang him, Frank.”
“Yeah, well, in future, maybe you should learn to stand on your own two feet and fight back, Mosely,” Frank said. “You can’t always count on Indians saving your hide.”
“Mr. Mosely, a word to the wise—the Indian had left the Cody compound and was trespassing on my range, so Frank had the right to hang him,” Kate said. “But I’m glad he did not. As for the question of saving your hide, several of my riders, including Frank and my son Trace, are expert hands with the revolver. I’m sure any one of them would be pleased to teach you to shoot.”
“Sure, I’ll teach you,” Frank said. “So long as you pony up with the money for the cartridges. A box of a hundred rounds doesn’t come cheap.”
Mosely said, “You are both very kind, but I think I’ll leave the shooting to others more suited for it.”
Frank nodded. “For once I agree with you, boy. You’ll never be a shootist. I can tell by looking at you and them little hands of yours. Besides, it takes sand to swap lead with a man, and in my book you just don’t cut it.”
Mosely was patched up, his face covered in iodine and small bandages, and Jazmin Salas, Kate’s cook, ended further conversation when she crossed the kitchen floor with a tray of coffee and sandwiches.
But Kate thought she saw hurt in Mosely’s eyes and she had the last word. “Don’t take what Frank says to heart, Josiah. Not every man
is cut out to be a revolver fighter.”
* * *
Dinner that evening was to be a grand affair.
Jazmine Salas, with help from the assistant cook
and scullery maids, had prepared a meal that Kate was confident would be to Bill Cody’s taste. The menu was simple, yet, to Kate’s mind at least, as sophisticated as any served in the nation that night. She studied the bill of fare for the tenth time that evening and decided it was crackerjack.
SAVORY
Angels on Horseback
SOUP
Scotch Broth à la Queen Victoria
FISH
Baked Texas Trout
POULTRY
Pheasant Mandarin
MEAT
Veal Escallops with Mushroom
VEGETABLE
Winter carrots Vichy and Potatoes à la Parisienne
DESSERT
Peach Cobbler with Caramel Sauce
But not everyone would have the peach dessert. A privileged few would receive a piece of the coveted Sponge Cake à la Kate Kerrigan.
That evening the lamps were turned up all over the Kerrigan house from the downstairs servants’ quarters to the upstairs family rooms where Kate was entertaining Buffalo Bill Cody, Annie Oakley and her husband Frank Butler, several of the show’s top riders, and Ingrid Hult and her assistant Ducking Jim Benson. Her tall sons Trace and Quinn were in attendance at the dinner, as were her teenage daughters Ivy and Shannon, pretty girls who got more than their fair share of attention from Bill’s young cowboys and from Ducking Jim, who surprised everyone with his fine tenor voice when he sang “So Pretty a Face” and “The Gondolier’s Song,” then music hall favorites. Kate, wearing an evening dress of sapphire satin, sat at the head of the dining table, Bill on her right, Frank Cobb on her left. Earlier, after she’d ministered to Josiah Mosely, she’d baked the sponge cake, only one since the effort had left her quite used up. There were fourteen diners, excluding herself, at the table, and a single sponge cake for dessert would not go far, so she limited the treat to Buffalo Bill, Mr. and Mrs. Butler, Ingrid Hult and Ducking Jim and Frank Cobb. Frank offered—rather too quickly, Kate thought—to forgo his piece and surrender it to someone else, perhaps one of the girls. He said he’d content himself with Jazmin Salas’s peach cobbler with caramel sauce, but Kate would not hear of it. She noted his crushed expression and said, “Frank, your most gallant sacrifice is much appreciated, and as a reward I’ll make sure you receive the largest piece of cake.” But Frank looked more disheartened than ever and Kate was very pleased with him. One of the finer traits of a gentleman is to make sacrifices for others, and Frank did seem so very disappointed that his chivalrous beau gest had been foiled.
Hate Thy Neighbor Page 6