by Dan Arnold
***
After nearly an hour of waiting and watching, seeing nothing of interest, we concluded there was only one way to find out if Henry and Harvey were down there at the ranch headquarters. We would have to go down and search. Wil and his deputies spread out to approach the buildings from all sides, as much as the lay of the land would allow. Ed and I had started straight down the ranch road when we heard a whistle and saw a man waiving his hat from the edge of the brush. We swung over that way and found Buckskin Charlie and Mike Mulligan waiting for us.
“Howdy John, Ed . . . ,” Charlie started. “We have good news and bad. The good news is we caught up to one of the robbers, a feller named Watson. The bad news is he’s dead. We jumped him last night just a few miles from Thorndyke. We disarmed him, but he had a little hideout gun in his vest pocket, and he pulled it. I had to shoot him, John. I’m sorry.”
“His mistake, not yours, Charlie,” I replied. “How in the world did you find us?”
“He lived long enough to tell us his name and where his family was. He was able to answer a few questions. John, you won’t believe this but he claimed that he was part of a gang run by the Thorndyke boys. He said that they had robbed several banks over the last several months and were putting the money into the Bank of Thorndyke.”
“Yeah, I learned some of that this morning. It fits with something their ranch foreman told me the last time I was here, several months ago, right before I arrested their father. The foreman said, every now and then, all of the Thorndyke boys would ride off together for parts unknown and might be gone for days. I didn’t give much thought to it at the time. Still, it doesn’t answer my question. How did you find us?”
“Mulligan and I brought Watson’s body on into Thorndyke. The deputy at the Sheriff’s office said we had just missed you, and you were headed out here. So, we came on out. When we didn’t see anyone down to the ranch there, we holed up in the brush to watch for you.”
“Yeah, we’ve been watching quite a while ourselves. Let’s ride on down there now.”
As we approached the complex of pens, barns, and, outbuildings, everything was quiet and appeared abandoned. I remembered how this place was bustling with activity when I first came here, and now it was just an empty place.
Not entirely empty.
On closer examination, two of the half-dozen horses on the place were travel-stained and weary. One was a bay gelding with one white forefoot and another was a chestnut gelding with no markings. The other horses were fresh and fit.
Wil and his deputies joined us as we stopped in front of the main house. The house was nothing special, just a single story clapboard building with three or four rooms and a broad porch across the front. “Didn’t see anything coming in—if they’re here, they’re in the house,” Wil said.
“I expect they’re long gone,” Charlie said.
“Yeah, I expect you’re right. If they were here they would have fired on us by now,” I added.
A quick search of the house proved that no one was there, and no one was living there at all. The house was virtually empty, but we found where some ammunition and some provisions were being stored. This indicated the ranch was a frequent stop for the outlaws.
“I figure we ought to burn it all down.” I said.
“What? No, why would you do that?” Wil asked.
“I don’t want the Thorndyke boys ever coming back here again. These old buildings are run down and in poor shape. The value is in the land. The state will sell this ranch and the new owners can build on it the way they want it.”
“No, I won’t let you do that,” Wil said. “You and your deputies need that ammunition and the coffee, beans, and canned goods. You just take all that with you.”
I nodded. “Okay, it’s your county. I’m just tired of those boys having the run of the land. I mean to see them stopped . . . permanently.”
“I understand that, John. I promise you they won’t get any peace in this county ever again. If they show up around here, they’ll have to answer to the law. Their days are numbered from now on.” I looked him in the eye. “I mean it, John.”
I nodded again. I could see he was telling me the truth.
When we got back outside, I looked around at the quiet setting and groaned. “Well, I guess we’ll have to try to pick up their trail.”
“Not much point in that now, John. They left on fresh horses, and they’ve been gone for hours. You, your horses and your deputies are about done in,” Wil said.
“Yeah, and you’re getting married on Saturday,” Charley said. “If I don’t get you back to Bear Creek in time for the wedding, I don’t like to think about what Miss Lora might do . . .”
For the first time in my life I hesitated. I’d always chased my prey till they couldn’t run any farther. I’d become well known for my relentless pursuit. If Yellow Horse were here to track them with me, I would keep after the outlaws, no matter how long or how far. But he was nowhere near now, and I did have a previous commitment. It was a personal and, in some ways, more important commitment. I hated to let the Thorndykes get away, but Wil and Charley were right. There was very little chance we could have any hope of getting on their trail, much less of catching up to them.
I smiled weakly. “Well, I guess we’ve done all we can at this point. One bank robber dead, the money accounted for, and their crooked banker in jail.”
“That and the Thorndyke brothers are running like cats with their tails on fire,” Ed added.
“I don’t think we should leave those spare horses here.” I said.
“You boys need fresh mounts,” Wil said. “Why don’t you swap your saddles onto um and lead your horses back with you?”
“Now that’s a good plan. We’ll deprive any of the others in the gang of fresh horses and save our mounts in the process.” Charley said.
I thought about it. I found the idea of riding back into Bear Creek on horses wearing the Diamond T brand of the Thorndyke ranch kind of amusing.
“I don’t know if that would be quite legal,” I said.
“I expect it is, and I recommend you do just that. Them horses gotta be moved somewhere. The way I see it, they’re part of the robbery scheme and you can legally confiscate um and dispose of um as you see fit,” Wil said.
“Whoooeee!” Charley whooped. “I like the idea of the Sheriff’s department having horses for us deputies to use, so’s we don’t have to use our own all the time.”
I nodded. I liked the idea myself. The problem would be getting the Alta Vista County commissioners to approve the expense of housing and maintaining them, just another part of the politics that was part and parcel of my job.
14.
Just after noon, having finished a fine lunch at the only sit down café in town, Charley, Mike Mulligan, Ed, and I rode out of Thorndyke under a hot sun. The café was currently housed in a platform tent as the building was under construction. The food was good, though not as good as it was at the Bon Ton, but, then again, we’d been mighty hungry. We would’ve eaten grease fried skunk and liked it well enough.
I’d sent telegrams to every lawman within a hundred miles, telling them to be on the lookout for the Thorndykes, and I’d sent one to Bear Creek to let the office know we were safe and headed home.
We were riding due west on horses sporting the Diamond T brand. Because we had also brought along all of the horses that had been at the Thorndyke ranch, we were ponying our own horses and one more beside us.
In panniers slung on a saddle, one of them carried the provisions we’d taken from the Diamond T. I was unhappy we were going back to Bear Creek without anything to show for the chase except some horses and supplies.
We left the corpse of the thief killed by Charley—to be buried in Thorndyke.
We’d ridden a little more than five miles when we saw riders coming up the road from the west. I was pleased to see it was the Robertson outfit. There were four riders in the group. Joe Robertson was a neighbor of Bill Courtney. Rob
ertson’s ‘Rafter R’ ranch lay directly to the north of Courtney’s ‘Bar C’ ranch. Joe and two of his hands had been in Bear Creek on the morning the bank was robbed. Charley had been happy to have them join the posse as Joe was an old hand in this country, having been here from the early days when white men were new to the land and life was uncertain. He’d built his ranch from nothing and buried his wife and two sons along the way. The two hands with him were capable men as well, or Joe would never have hired them. The fourth man in the group I didn’t know. When they got closer, I noticed the fourth man was bound.
After we greeted each other, Joe got straight to the point.
“We caught this feller up on Wilson’s mesa. Says his name is Russel, Tom Russel. Reckon he’s telling it wrong. Made up name, I expect. We followed his trail, pushing him hard that first day. A couple of hours before dark we were approaching Wilson’s mesa. Just below the mesa where all that exposed rock is, he figured to give us the slip. I expect he thought anybody following him wouldn’t be able to track him there. Lucky we know this country better than he does. I took a chance, thinking he would go down around the base of the mesa, sticking to that rocky ground and then swing east up into the pinõn and scrub oak. Me and the boys rode straight over the back side of the mesa and waited on the edge of the pinõns. Sure enough, just after dark he came trotting right up to us, and we had the drop on him from three sides. He thought about drawing on us, but I guess he knew he couldn’t get all three of us, especially with us already holding our guns on him. If he’d twitched, we would have blown him right out of his saddle. I could see he was calculating the odds. I expect he’s been in many a gun fight.”
I studied the man. He had a hard look to him, but the years were beginning to show, and the trip had taken some of the starch out of him. He had a heavy beard, long hair, no hat, and he was some beat up. He hung his head when he saw me looking at him.
“Joe, how did you know to bring him to Thorndyke?” I asked.
Joe Robertson grinned, and there was the look of the lobo wolf in his eyes.
“Well, somehow he got the idea we were going to hang him. Now, there ain’t no decent trees around Wilson’s mesa, but we were only a couple hours ride from the Rafter R. We tied his hands behind his back and took off at a pretty good clip. By the time we got to the ranch and threw a rope over the sign above the ranch gate, he was plumb glad to talk. He told us he was part of the Thorndyke gang, and they were all headed for the Thorndyke ranch where they had fresh horses and what not. We spent the night at the ranch. This morning, as we were getting mounted to ride over here, he tried to get away so he suffered a beat down. We just got on this road when we met you.”
He was looking at the horses we were leading.
“Looks like you pretty much cleaned them out. What happened to the others?”
I was tempted to hang my head as well, but I didn’t.
I met his eye.
“Two of the Thorndyke brothers got away. Charley and Mike here sent one of the others, a man named Watson, to meet his maker.”
When I said that, the bound outlaw’s head snapped up and he swore.
“Shit! Him and me were pards. Why’d you kill him?”
“It was him or me. He saddled that bronc and couldn’t make the ride.” Charley said.
“Is that right; did he have a chance?”
“He did—he had a hideout gun, and he pulled it on me quick like. Fortunately for me, I shoot a hell of a lot better than most folks, a little better than he did.”
I knew that was true. Most gunfights are not won by speed, but shot placement. Anybody can be fast, but it’s where the bullet strikes the target that counts.
Charlie is the best shot I’ve ever seen with a long gun or a handgun. He won’t squeeze the trigger till he knows exactly where his bullet is going. That doesn’t slow him down any though. He’s had more practice with firearms than anybody else I know. When he was in show business, he was billed as the fastest shot in the west, which was hoopla, but he is much faster than most men who carry a gun. He’s certainly faster than me, but then I don’t fancy myself a fast draw artist.
I spoke up.
“He made his play. I guess he didn’t want to hang. How about you? You knew the stakes when you bought into this game.”
The man looked me in the eye and said, “At least he had a chance. Like you said, we knew the stakes when we bought in. I sure will miss him though.” He looked back at Charley again. “Not many men could have beaten him once he had a gun in his hand. You and me have unfinished business.”
Charley nodded.
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I think you’re done. The days of settling things with gunfire are over. Still, if you get the chance, you go ahead and take it.”
There was sweat in my eyes and I was irritated, so I interrupted.
“Mr. Russel, was it you who killed the man in the bank.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know for sure who done it. Snooker, that was what Jim Ed Watson went by. . . Anyway, Snooker had the horses and I was watching the town from the front of the bank. When I heard the shot, I think the Thorndykes were already out of the bank. I didn’t see anybody shot and didn’t even know about it till these boys told me they were going to hang me for it.”
I was pretty sure it was the truth. He told it straight out and didn’t lie about any part of it; that I could see.
I looked over at Joe Robertson.
“We rounded up the crooked banker in Thorndyke. The money they stole is in his bank and will be recovered. The Thorndykes are running, and they’re running out of holes to hide in. We’re heading back to Alta Vista County, and we’ll take this man, Russel here, back for trial. Joe, y’all have done a fine job. I can’t thank you enough. Will you come back to Bear Creek with us?”
He shook his head.
“Nope, he’s all yours. Glad we could help out. It was just his bad luck he drifted over onto our home range with us hot on his heels. We’ll be heading back to the Rafter R now.”
We rode west from there on the road, in a more or less constant cloud of dust. I was wondering what had happened to the men who rode off south, tracking the fifth holdup man.
We spent that night camped out in a barn in Waller. I wanted to keep a low profile, and I hated to pay Spencer Wilson even one penny for a night’s stay in his flea trap hotel. We left his town at the crack of dawn, and rode into Bear Creek six hours later, at high noon on Friday.
We were a rough looking bunch of men as we rode into town. We’d had no bathing or shaving on the road, and we were covered with dust and travel stains.
The people on the streets and in the stores and what not, turned out to watch us ride up to the courthouse. They all appeared clean, polished, and sophisticated compared to us.
As we dismounted and stretched, the photographer from the Bear Creek Banner came running up carrying his big, new camera. I wasn’t about to stop and pose for a picture, so I hustled our prisoner into the jail.
Charley, Ed, and Mike Mulligan did pose though. They were photographed, standing by the horses, on the brick street with the courthouse in the background. The news photographer had them stand side by side with their weapons clearly evident; each of them was holding a rifle. They were a dirty, grim, and rough looking group of deputies. Charley, with his walrus mustache, and all three with their hats tilted back so you could see their white foreheads above their dirty and sunburned faces. I’ll bet everyone has seen that picture.
Once in the jail, I learned Scotty, Shorty, and Jack Harrison had lost their man. The deputies had followed the trail southeast; eventually they stopped for the night and had trouble finding fresh sign when they tried to pick up the trail the next day. Evidently the rider had doubled back and passed them in the night. What trail they found led them right back to the road. They thought the outlaw might’ve come right back into Bear Creek.
I thought about that.
Who was the man? Why would he
come back to town? Only one of the outlaws was unaccounted for. He’d not been seen at all. Was it possible that Homer Thorndyke could now be hiding out somewhere right under my nose in Bear Creek?
***
Later in the day I got a shave and a haircut in preparation for the wedding. All the local talk was about either the robbery or the wedding. It seemed like the wedding was the bigger story.
That evening Lora and I were sitting out on the back porch watching the stars come out.
“Consuela agreed to come back to work. I’ll start interviewing prospective boarders on Monday,” she said.
Lora was trying not to show the strain of worry she had experienced over the last week. My being gone almost the whole time I’d been back from California must’ve been really hard on her. It was hard to believe tomorrow would be our wedding day.
“Sounds good,” I said.
“What is it, John? You seem distracted. Are you worried about something? It isn’t the wedding is it? Do you still want to marry me?”
“Oh baby, I’m sorry! Of course I want to marry you. Tomorrow will be a wonderful day! You’re right though, I am a little distracted, and I have something to ask you. It might not be right. I mean . . . you might not . . . .”
“What is it, John? You can ask me anything, you know that.”
I looked down at the toes of my boots for a moment, gathering my thoughts.
“Have you heard about the children running loose in town? There’s been some stealing and what not.”
She nodded.
“Yes, I have. The church is forming a committee to discuss ways we can help. I plan to join in. Why do you ask?”
“Well, you see, there are these two little kids living in the hay loft at Al’s livery stable. They’ve been there for more than a week.
When I went by there, earlier today, I talked to Al. He’s worried something bad will happen to them or to the barn. It would be pretty easy for a lantern to get knocked over or something like that. A horse could kick, or . . . what if one of them falls out of the loft?”