They walked up the street to the marshal's office and found Martin Rainey waiting for them in front of the building.
"I heard shots," the mayor said with a worried frown on his beefy face.
His brother grunted and said, "I reckon everybody in town did. Sounded like a war for a second there." Dave nodded toward Tilghman. "Somebody tried to ventilate the marshal."
"How terrible! I hope you don't think such things happen all the time in Burnt Creek, Marshal Tilghman. I'd like to believe that we're more civilized than that."
"No, I figure this was a special case," Tilghman said. "Whoever it was, he was after me, probably because I came to look into the rustling that's been going on."
"I thought we'd established that rustling isn't that big a problem around here," Martin said with a frown.
"Maybe not. But if that's true, why would somebody try to blow a hole in me?"
Tilghman saw the glance that passed between the brothers. He had them thinking that they had overplayed their hand and aroused his suspicions, when in truth he had never been convinced by the game they were playing. But if there was a chance he might cause dissension in the ranks of his enemies, he wasn't going to pass up the opportunity.
Dave grunted and said, "Come on inside and we'll talk about it."
"Actually, Marshal, I've decided that I'm pretty tired," Tilghman said. "And there's not much to say besides what I've already told you. I think I'll just go on over to the hotel and get some rest, if that's all right."
"Why, sure, whatever you want," Dave said. "If you have any more problems, let me know."
Martin said sharply, "I'm sure Marshal Tilghman won't have the same sort of problem again. Whoever shot at him, the man is long gone now and I doubt if he'll come back."
Tilghman said, "Hope you're right, Mayor," and turned away to hide the grin that briefly stretched across his face. From the sound of it, bushwhacking him had been Dave's idea, and Martin wasn't any too happy about it.
He walked across the street to the hotel and left the brothers behind him to go into the marshal's office and wrangle over what they ought to do next.
One thing he was reasonably sure of: whatever they decided wouldn't be good for him and his investigation. They couldn't afford to leave him alone and let him continue with the job that had brought him here.
He had already stirred up trouble just by being here. Starting tomorrow he would poke the hive a little harder and see how many bees came flying out.
He would have to be careful, though. Some of these bees had double-barreled stingers.
The clerk behind the desk in the lobby gave him a friendly nod when he came in.
"Evening, Marshal Tilghman," the man said. "How are you enjoying your stay in Burnt Creek so far?"
"Fine and dandy," Tilghman said, and it would have taken a keen ear to hear the underlying tone of dry humor in his words. He got his room key from the man and headed upstairs.
Before leaving earlier, he had taken the precaution of wedging a tiny piece of broken matchstick into the gap between the door of his room and the jamb. Nobody would notice it if they weren't looking for it, especially in the relatively dim light of the corridor.
As he came up to the door, though, Tilghman saw that the telltale bit of wood was missing. Somebody had gone into his room while he was out.
Whoever it was might even still be in there.
Since he had already encountered somebody wielding a shotgun earlier tonight, he was acutely aware of how much damage such a weapon could do. At close range, it could fire a load of buckshot through the thin panels of the door.
So when he inserted the key into the lock and turned it with a metallic rattle, he had it in his outstretched left arm and was standing well to the right of the door itself. His other hand rested on the butt of the Colt on his hip.
No shots blasted from inside the room. That wasn't enough to convince Tilghman nobody was in there waiting to ambush him again. He threw the door open and went in low and fast, gun in hand now and tracking from side to side, ready to erupt with smoke, flame, and lead.
He noticed that somebody had lit the lamp on the little table beside the bed. Just as his senses registered that, he heard a frightened gasp from his right and swung in that direction. His finger was taut on the trigger, needing only the least bit more pressure for the gun to fire.
Tilghman stopped squeezing the trigger just in time. He stared in surprise over the Colt's barrel at a face lightly dusted with freckles. Big blue eyes stared back at him in fright.
"Casey!" Tilghman exclaimed in disgust. He was a little shaken, too, by the knowledge of just how close he had come to shooting her. "What in blue blazes are you doing here?"
For a second she seemed to be still too scared to speak. Then she swallowed hard and forced out an answer.
"I want to help you," she said. "I want to help you round up Cal Rainey and his gang."
Chapter 7
Well, that was a relief, anyway, thought Tilghman. When he'd first seen the uninvited visitor in his room and realized who she was, he had thought for an instant she had something unsavory in mind. That would have been flattering in a way, but not anything Tilghman would have cared to explore.
But as far as her helping him carry out his assignment . . . that he was interested in.
He lowered the Colt and slipped it back in its holster as he eased the door closed behind him.
"Or would you rather I left it open?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow.
Casey smiled.
"I think I trust you not to do anything improper, Marshal Tilghman," she said. "You're known for your high moral standards . . . as well as for being hell on lawbreakers."
Despite the smile on her face, he saw worry lurking in her eyes. Something was bothering her bad enough to make her sneak up here and let herself into his room. He assumed that since she worked in the hotel, she wouldn't have a lot of trouble getting her hands on a key that let her into the rooms.
He took off his hat and tossed it on the bed.
"Why don't you tell me exactly what it is that brings you here?" he suggested.
"You're after Cal Rainey's bunch, aren't you?"
"I'm after whoever is responsible for the rustling and general thievery that's been going on around here."
"That's Cal Rainey," Casey said.
"His brothers claim there's not really a rustling problem."
Casey rolled her blue eyes and asked, "What do you expect them to say? They're Cal's brothers. Besides . . . " She lowered her voice. "You didn't hear it from me, but I wouldn't be surprised if Marshal Rainey and the mayor know a lot more about what Cal's been doing than they're letting on."
That was exactly what Tilghman thought too, but he didn't mention that to Casey. Instead, he pulled another chair over and told her, "Have a seat, Miss . . . I'm afraid I don't know your last name."
"It's Spencer. Casey Spencer." She sat down and folded her hands in her lap rather primly.
Tilghman turned the other chair around and straddled it. He said, "What's your connection with Cal Rainey's gang?"
"What makes you think I'm connected with them?"
"You seem to know what they've been up to," Tilghman replied with a shrug. "And you've got to have a good reason for wanting me to bring them to justice."
"You mean besides it being the right thing to do?"
"I don't doubt that folks sometimes do things just because they're right. But it's a lot easier if taking action benefits them in some way, too."
The worry broke free in Casey's eyes then, in the form of tears that reflected the lamplight. She blinked them back, dabbed at her eyes with the back of a hand, and said, "It's a boy. A young man, really. A . . . a friend of mine."
"Maybe a little more than a friend?"
"We talked about getting married. But he said we couldn't do it on a cowhand's wages, and he insisted no wife of his was going to work in a hotel. Then he quit his riding job, and the last few times he's come arou
nd, he's had money. I can only think of one way he might've gotten it."
"What's this young fella's name?"
"Boone Scanlon."
"You realize that if I break up the gang and arrest them, Boone's liable to wind up behind bars, too."
Casey's chin lifted a little. She said, "I know. That's better than him winding up as a hardened criminal, being a fugitive all his life, and finally being shot or hanged at a young age. He's basically a good man, Marshal. I know he can't have done anything too terrible so far. If . . . if he's sent to prison for a few years, that'll be bad, but he can serve his time and when he gets out, the two of us can make a fresh start somewhere."
Tilghman thought a couple of things were wrong with her way of looking at the situation. For one, if she was right about Boone Scanlon being part of Cal Rainey's gang, she had no way of knowing just how bad he was. He might have committed crimes already that would put a hangman's noose around his neck. For another, even if her belief in Scanlon's basic goodness was justified, once he was an ex-convict they would have a lot harder time starting over than she supposed.
But hope came naturally to the young, he reminded himself, and on rare occasions things even worked out the way folks wanted them to.
Anyway, his job was to put an end to the lawlessness in the area, by whatever means were necessary. If that meant crushing the dreams of a young woman, he supposed he could do it.
Didn't mean he had to like it, though.
"All right," he said. "Tell me everything you know. I can't make any promises where your friend's concerned, though."
"I understand. Just . . . if there's any way you can help him . . . "
"I'll do what I can," Tilghman said, then grimaced slightly as he realized he had just made a promise after telling her he couldn't.
"Thank you," Casey said. "Boone used to ride for a rancher named Driscoll. Then a friend of his quit and went to work for Cal Rainey on the Boxed CR spread. It's not much of a ranch, but Rainey and the men who work for him always seem to have plenty of money."
Tilghman nodded. That was pretty suspicious, all right, but it wasn't evidence.
"I think Boone got it in his head that he could make some fast money by working for Rainey, too, so he drew his time from Mr. Driscoll about a month ago. Since then I've only seen him a few times, but he seemed . . . different."
"Different how?"
"Harder. Like he didn't care about people anymore. Except for me. He was still nice to me. He told me it wouldn't be long before we could get married, but that we'd have to leave Burnt Creek when we did. He didn't want to stay around these parts anymore."
Tilghman could understand that. Scanlon must be afraid that his connection to the rustlers would come to light if he tried to stay around Burnt Creek.
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"It's been about a week," Casey said.
"Did he drop any hints about what the gang was planning to do next?"
If Tilghman could catch them in the act of committing a crime, it would make his job a little easier. He would have justification then for any actions he might have to take.
"No, not really, but like I said, he told me it wouldn't be long. That means they're about to do something else illegal, doesn't it?"
"More than likely," Tilghman agreed.
"I wish you could stop them before . . . before things get even worse for Boone."
"I need more to go on than that," he told her. "Can you remember anything at all he might have said? Anything that seemed suspicious or not like him?"
Casey frowned as she obviously thought hard, trying to remember everything Scanlon had said to her. The frown didn't make her any less pretty.
Finally, after a long moment, she said, "He mentioned something about the Devil's Hand."
The name struck a very faint chord in Tilghman's memory, but he couldn't come up with what it meant.
"What's the Devil's Hand?" he asked.
"It's a rock formation northwest of here in the Gypsum Hills. Actually, it's a series of ridges, shaped and arranged like the fingers of a man's hand if they were splayed out a little. But because they're so rugged and gnarled, people started calling the whole area the Devil's Hand."
Tilghman remembered hearing about the place now. He had never been there, but it was supposed to be a pretty inhospitable area, not much better than badlands.
"Is that part of Cal Rainey's range?"
"I don't think it belongs to anybody," Casey said. "It's not really good for farming or ranching, although I suppose you could graze some cattle on it. The ridges are mostly rock, but there's a little grass between them. That's what I've heard people say, anyway. I've never actually been there."
Tilghman's keen mind worked quickly. From the sound of it, there was nothing in the Devil's Hand for Cal Rainey and his gang to rob . . . but they might be putting it to a different purpose. He had figured they were selling off the rustled stock as they stole it, but it was possible they had been gathering the cattle into a bigger herd, one that would net them a larger payoff from the beef dealers when they finally drove the herd north into Kansas. If that was the case, they would need a place to keep all those stolen cattle . . .
And the Devil's Hand might work just fine as a temporary refuge.
Tilghman's pulse quickened. If such a herd really was there and he could tie it to Cal Rainey, it wouldn't just serve as proof of Rainey's guilt. He might be able to recover the rustled stock as well and return the cows to their rightful owners. He would have to call in help to handle that, but it could be done.
That would be a good way to wrap up the assignment. Marshal Nix couldn't ask for any better results. The first step, Tilghman told himself, was to check out the Devil's Hand and make sure those cows were there.
Those thoughts flashed through Tilghman's mind in a matter of seconds. He nodded and told Casey, "I'll look into it."
"Thank you. And if there's any way to help Boone . . . "
"We'll see," Tilghman said, keeping his response vague. He stood up, moved over to the door, and went on, "You'd better be going now, but before you do, let me take a gander outside to make sure nobody's in the hall."
"You don't want anyone to see me leaving your room."
"I reckon it'd be better that way. Neither of us need the gossip. We both have jobs to do."
He opened the door a few inches, checked the hallway as best he could, and when he didn't see anyone, he pulled the door back more and stuck his head out. The corridor was empty all the way up and down.
He stepped back and motioned for Casey to leave. She moved to do so, but she paused just before stepping through the door. Taking Tilghman by surprise, she raised herself on her toes and kissed his cheek, brushing her lips across his leathery skin.
"Thank you, Marshal," she whispered.
"Save your thanks until I've actually done something."
"I know you'll help Boone. I have confidence in you."
Tilghman didn't say anything else as Casey hurried soft-footed toward the landing, but he was confident, too. Confident that he would do his job.
Even if it meant putting Boone Scanlon's neck in a noose and breaking Casey Spencer's heart.
Chapter 8
The attempt on his life was enough to make Tilghman even more careful than usual. He propped a chair under the doorknob, heaped up the covers in the middle of the bed with a couple of pillows under them to make it look like he was sleeping there, and stretched out on the floor on the far side of the bed instead, with his Colt and Winchester right beside him. It wasn't the most comfortable place in the world to sleep, but he had spent nights in worse situations.
His precautions weren't really needed. Nothing happened except that he was a little stiff the next morning. He pulled on his clothes and went downstairs with a plan in mind, the first step of which was to get a good breakfast and a pot of coffee inside him.
Casey was working in the dining room. She gave him a brief, perfunctory smile
as he came in and sat down. No one would have been able to tell by looking at her that she had been in his room the night before. She came over to him and said, "Good morning, Marshal. Do you want coffee?"
"Yes, ma'am," he told her. "And a big plate of whatever you've got in the kitchen for breakfast."
"Ham, eggs, and biscuits."
"Sounds good to me."
She brought the coffee, and while Tilghman was sipping his first cup, Marshal Dave Rainey came into the dining room and looked around. Tilghman figured Rainey was looking for him, and sure enough, the local lawman spotted him and came straight across the room toward his table.
"Any more trouble last night, Marshal?" Rainey asked.
"Not a bit," Tilghman replied. He nodded toward the empty chair on the other side of the table. "Care to join me?"
"Don't mind if I do," Rainey said as he took off his hat and pulled out the chair.
Tilghman caught Casey's eye and signaled for her to bring another cup.
"You're starting back to Guthrie today?" Rainey asked.
"I'll be riding out in a little while, after I've had my breakfast," Tilghman said.
That wasn't a lie. He would be leaving Burnt Creek, all right. But he wasn't heading for the territorial capital, although he intended to start in that direction. Once he was out of sight of the settlement, he would swing around, skirt it well to the north, and ride for the Devil's Hand.
Casey brought the extra cup, poured coffee for Rainey, and asked, "Will you be having breakfast as well, Marshal?"
"No, thanks, I already ate," he told her. "Just the coffee will be fine."
"All right." She smiled at Tilghman, again just an expression of professional politeness, and told him, "Your food will be out soon, Marshal."
After she was gone, Rainey commented, "Pretty girl."
"I suppose. I'm a married man."
"Didn't strike you blind when you said 'I do', did it?" Rainey asked with a grin.
West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels Page 4