West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels

by James Reasoner

  "How much money did they get?" Turnbo asked.

  "A little over five thousand dollars. Not a lot, I know, but for a town this size a considerable amount. Got the life savings of quite a few folks."

  "How about yourself?"

  "They put a crimp in my finances, that's for certain. Had to borrow money from the Cattlemen's Bank down in San Angelo to tide me over until I ship a bunch of beef. If anything else happens between now and when those cows hit the market, I'll be ruined."

  "Let's hope nothing does," Turnbo answered. He took a sip from his glass. "This is fine whiskey, by the way."

  "Glad you're enjoying it," Bacon answered.

  "I sure am. The cigar, too. Now, to get back to the robbery. Tell me what happened that day, best as you can recollect."

  "Sure. It was just about closing time. There weren't any customers in the place, so Jeremy had gotten an early start on closing his drawer and balancing the till. Three men came in, bandannas over their faces and guns drawn. Ordered me to drop my gunbelt, and then for me and Jeremy to get belly-down on the floor. Didn't have a chance to even try for my gun, not with two six-guns aimed smack at my belly, and the third at Jeremy's. Those sons of bitches would have gunned us down where we stood, I'm positive of that. Had no choice but to listen to those bastards. Soon's we hit the floor, they locked the door, then rifled the cash drawers and emptied the vault. Warned us if we tried to follow 'em they'd blow our heads off, then ran out the door. Fourth man was holdin' their horses. Soon as they ran out I was right behind 'em. I got a couple of shots off at them but didn't hit any of 'em, far as I could tell.

  “I sent Jeremy to San Angelo to get the sheriff while I went after that bunch, but no luck. By the time I got my horse saddled and tried to trail 'em, they were long gone. Sign petered out on a stretch of hardpan two miles out of town. Sheriff Spears did organize a posse to try and locate 'em, but didn't have any better luck than I did."

  "I see," Turnbo said. "How about descriptions? Anything unusual you can recall?"

  "Not really," Bacon said. "Only you could have knocked me over with a feather when they first walked in. Thought I was lookin' at myself for a minute. Except for the mask, hombre leadin' that outfit looked an awful lot like me. Same hair, eyes, build, even left-handed like I am."

  Turnbo gave a low chuckle. "First thing I thought when I walked in here, Mr. Bacon."

  "Lee."

  "All right, Lee. You fit the description that Sheriff Spears gave me of the leader of that bunch pretty well. How about the others?"

  "One was tow-headed, with blue eyes. The third was pretty chunky. He had kinda red hair and light green eyes."

  "Fits the descriptions from the other holdups, except a couple of them there was a fourth man involved," Turnbo said. "Any sign of another man, besides the one holdin' the horses?"

  "No sir, Ranger, there was just the three of 'em," Bacon asserted.

  "Okay, thanks. Jeremy, anything you can add?" Turnbo asked the teller.

  "Not much I can think of, Ranger, except this. The leader kept movin' around a lot, like he couldn't stay still for more'n a minute or two."

  "As if he was nervous, or mebbe afraid somethin' would go wrong?" Turnbo pressed.

  "No, not like that at all," Jeremy replied. "Only like he had a lot of energy or somethin'. He just couldn't stand still. Well, except that his gun never wavered. He held that big pearl-handled Remington .44 as level as you please. I'd say you could bet your hat he'd hit whatever or whoever he was aimin' at dead center."

  "He carried a Remington, not a Colt?"

  "That's right, a Remington. My dad's a gunsmith over to Eden, so I know quite a lot about weapons."

  "Thanks, Jeremy, that could be a real helpful piece of information," Turnbo said.

  "Glad to help, Ranger. Just wish I had more," Jeremy said.

  "That's all right, son. Now, is there anything else either of you can add?" Turnbo asked. "How about their horses?"

  "Nothing special from appearances," Bacon answered. "Three bays and a chestnut. No markings, leastwise none that would stand out from any of a thousand other broncs. Must've had plenty of bottom, though, because my black can outrun most any other horse in these parts. Couldn't catch up to that bunch, though . . . although they did get a good quarter-hour head start."

  "Well, I appreciate what you've been able to give me," Turnbo answered. "I'll be in town overnight if you think of anything else, or after that just get word to Sheriff Spears. I'm riding for Sterling City next."

  "You're gonna stay in town tonight? Where exactly?" Bacon asked. "There's no hotel and no livery stable."

  "Dunno yet. From what I saw of Grape Creek, I'll probably just throw my bedroll down somewhere that won't be in anyone's way," Turnbo said.

  "There's no need for that," Bacon answered. "You'll spend the night at my place. It's only a couple miles out of town, right on your way to Sterling City. My wife cooks up the best fried chicken this side of Mississippi. She should, since she's originally from Tupelo. Your horse'll get a good grainin' and a stall for the night, too."

  "I don't want to put you out," Turnbo said.

  "You're not puttin' us out at all," Bacon answered. "Laurie Ann'll be right grateful for some company. So that's settled. You'll ride out with me to the Rafter LB."

  "Much obliged."

  * * *

  With two full days to reach Sterling City, since the bank there wouldn't reopen until Monday. Turnbo took the time for a leisurely breakfast at the Bacon ranch before heading out. He'd camp somewhere halfway to his destination, and then get to town sometime Sunday afternoon.

  "Lee N. Bacon. Lean Bacon. His folks must've had a sense of humor to give him that handle, Hat," Turnbo said as the big paint ambled along. Hat snorted. "All right, a bad sense of humor, but a sense of humor nonetheless. Besides, you've got nothin' to complain about, horse. You got a bellyful of grain and plenty of hay last night and again this mornin'. I ate pretty darn good too. Bacon wasn't exaggeratin' when he said his wife's a fine cook. Best chuck I've had in a coon's age. Well, we'd both better make it last. Tonight'll be grass and creek water for you, beans and biscuits for me. C'mon, step up there."

  With the road being mostly level as it followed the North Concho River, the journey was easy. Turnbo rode until shortly before sunset. He stopped for the night alongside a small creek which drained into the North Concho, making his camp about two hundred yards off the main road. By the time he cared for Hat, picketed him to graze, and ate his own supper, it was almost full dark. He let the fire go out as he drank a last cup of coffee and smoked a final cigarette.

  "Not gonna be coolin' off much tonight, so I won't need that fire," he muttered to himself. "No sense attractin' unwanted attention."

  While the Comanches who once roamed this territory for years had long since been pushed out and forced onto reservations in Indian Territory, there were still a few renegades who wandered south from time to time, and also plenty of white and Mexican outlaws still plying their trade. Hat was an animal almost any of them would kill to steal, with no compunction. Turnbo tossed his cigarette butt into the fire's embers, and then poured the dregs from his mug over them. The only sign left of the small blaze was a thin tendril of smoke and steam rising into the night air. Turnbo rolled out his blankets, pulled off his boots, unbuckled his gunbelt and laid his Colt within easy reach, then slid into bed. A million stars pinpricked the clear night sky. He would not have to worry about a storm this evening.

  About two a.m., the sixth sense every Ranger developed awoke Turnbo from a sound sleep. The crickets and cicadas had fallen silent, and he was aware the frogs along the creek had stopped their croaking; then resumed as something, or more likely someone, headed in his direction, moving as silently as possible. Hat was straining at the end of his picket line, his ears pricked sharply forward. Turnbo picked up his gun. As he watched, a figure edged up to his horse and started to loosen the rope.

  "Hold it right there, mister!" Turnbo's v
oice cut through the inky blackness like the crack of a whip. The figure turned and fired.

  Turnbo had rolled away from his blankets as he shouted, and the would-be horse thief's bullet tore into his bedroll. Turnbo fired back at the gun's powder flash, aiming just above and to the left. A yelp of pain answered his shot when his bullet tore into the horse thief and slammed him backwards. Gun at the ready, Turnbo came to his feet and padded over to where the man lay, unmoving. His gun lay just beyond his outstretched hand. Turnbo kicked it away and hunkered alongside the outlaw.

  "He's sure enough dead," he muttered. Turnbo's snap shot had taken the horse thief squarely in the chest and punctured his heart. "Don't recognize this hombre. Mebbe he's carryin' somethin' that'll tell me who he is."

  Turnbo went through the man's shirt, vest, and pants pockets, and then rolled him onto his back to check his hip pockets, finding all empty except for some cigarette makings and a few dollars.

  "Not a shred of identity on him," he muttered. "Reckon he left a horse around here somewhere. Mebbe there'll be somethin' in his saddlebags. You wait here, Hat, while I try'n find his cayuse."

  Turnbo reloaded as he headed down the creek. He found the outlaw's horse tied to a cottonwood just off the main trail. The sorrel mare stood quietly while he approached and let him go through her rider's gear without making a fuss. Again, Turnbo's search for a clue to the man's identity came up empty.

  "Not a thing," Turnbo said. "Guess I'll have to just roll that hombre in his blankets and tote him into Sterling City. Mebbe someone there'll recognize him, although I doubt it. C'mon, horse."

  He untied the mare and led her back to where Hat was waiting. Using the dead man's lariat, he picketed her a short distance from his own horse, then unsaddled her and removed the blankets from the cantle. He rolled the dead man in those. That chore completed, he headed back to his own bedroll.

  "Seems I'll have to get these patched once I hit town," he said, looking at his bedroll. The outlaw's bullet had punched a hole through Turnbo's blankets. "Better havin' to patch my blankets up rather'n me, though. Especially since lookin' at where that bullet hit, I'd have a chunk of lead sittin' in my guts right about now. Guess I didn't hide myself as good as I thought I did. Well, nothin' more to be done for it. Might as well get some more sleep."

  Turnbo slid back under his covers, and within ten minutes was once again fast asleep.

  * * *

  With sudden, often violent death being common on the frontier, a man leading a horse carrying a wrapped body draped over it usually didn't cause much stir when he rode into town, except for idle curiosity. However, when that man wore a Ranger star, people took notice. Turnbo reached Sterling City early the next afternoon, and by the time he rode down the main street and reached the marshal's office, at least thirty people were tagging along at his horse's heels. Several of them shouted questions, which Turnbo answered with merely a strong glance. At that, the crowd subsided into silence.

  Sterling City's marshal had heard the commotion. He emerged from his office onto the board sidewalk, with a shotgun cocked and ready, just as Turnbo rode up. Seeing Turnbo's badge, he relaxed a bit but still held the gun crooked in his elbow, ready to bring level at a moment's notice.

  "Howdy, Ranger," he called. "Marshal Hayden Bourne."

  "Sergeant J.S. Turnbo."

  "Who's that you've got there?" Bourne questioned.

  "I'm hopin' you can tell me," Turnbo replied. He dismounted and looped Hat's reins over the rail. "Hombre tried to gun me and steal my horse last night, few miles back. Luckily, I got him first. Nothin' on him to say who he was, and I didn't recognize him. Mebbe you or someone in town will."

  He and Bourne went to the dead man. Turnbo unwrapped his head and lifted it so the marshal and bystanders could see his face.

  "Look familiar at all, Marshal?" he asked.

  "He sure does," Bourne answered. "That's Lacey Hanniford. Lives, or I guess I should say lived, about five miles west of town. Had a small spread there. I've suspected him of horse stealin' and cattle rustlin' for some time now, but could never come up with any proof. Guess I was right. That horse you've got him on matches the description of one stolen from the livery. Anyhow, he won't be doin' any more thievin'." He called to two of the bystanders. "Vince, Stanley."

  "Yeah, Marshal?" one answered.

  "Vince, round up Pat Toomey at the livery. Tell him his stolen mare's been recovered, and that he can pick her up at Doc Cosgrove's. Stanley, hurry down to the doc's and tell him I'm bringin' in a body."

  "Sure, Marshal."

  "Doc Cosgrove's also our coroner," Bourne explained.

  "Guess I'd better start buildin' a coffin for that jasper," another person called out.

  "Yeah, reckon you'd better, Tommy," Bourne agreed. "Start diggin' a grave, too. Soon's Doc's through with his autopsy and inquest, we'll plant Hanniford. Doc shouldn't take long, since what happened's pretty clear. We'll have Hanniford in the ground before nightfall."

  * * *

  As Marshal Bourne had said, Doctor Hugo Cosgrove's autopsy of Lacey Hanniford and the subsequent coroner's inquiry, which followed immediately, were mere formalities. The doctor made a perfunctory examination of Hanniford's body, not even bothering to dig the bullet out of his chest. He then declared the suspected horse thief and cattle rustler had met a justifiable end at the hands of Texas Ranger Sergeant J.S. Turnbo, while attempting to steal said Ranger's paint horse. The death certificate was signed and the body released to Tommy Lee Markham, the undertaker and hardware store owner.

  With close to eighty miles of hard travel still ahead of him before returning to San Angelo, as well as another stop in Bronte, Turnbo spent only a short while interviewing Marshal Bourne and the other witnesses to the robbery of the Sterling City Stockmen's Bank. Their accounts of the men involved and the method employed pretty much matched what Sheriff Spears and Lee Bacon had said. Turnbo rode out of Sterling City just as the sun was setting. With the moon nearly full, he used its light to travel for several hours, stopping for the night close to midnight. After a few hours sleep, he hit the trail again. His stop in Bronte yielded little additional information.

  "C'mon, Hat, I know you're tired, but so am I," Turnbo urged his fatigued gelding. "We've got to make it back to San Angelo by tonight, so I can be ready to testify at the trial tomorrow morning. Once we reach town, you'll get a good feedin' and at least a couple days rest, I promise you." Turnbo yawned. "That is, if I don't fall asleep myself before we reach town. Better get movin'."

  He kicked Hat into a reluctant trot. Despite the horse's exhaustion, the animal kept up that pace for several miles, until Turnbo pulled him back down to a walk. They finally reached San Angelo well after midnight. Not wanting to wake the livery stable hostler, Turnbo fed and watered his horse himself.

  "You can take it easy for a couple of days now, pard," Turnbo promised Hat, with a final swipe of the currycomb. "Now I'm gonna get myself some shut-eye. Have to be bright eyed and bushy tailed in that courtroom. I'll check on you later."

  The night clerk was slumped over the desk, sound asleep, when Turnbo reached the hotel, so he removed his room key from its hook himself and stumbled up the stairs, down the hallway, and into his room. Too worn out to even unbuckle his gunbelt, he merely pulled off his boots and fell face down on the bed, asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  Chapter 5

  Sheriff Spears was waiting for Turnbo when he arrived at the local lawman's office around seven-thirty the next morning.

  "Morning, J.S.," he said. "I was a bit worried you weren't gonna be back today. When I checked the livery stable during my last rounds yesterday evenin', your horse wasn't there, so I knew you still hadn't returned. Told ol' Hank to let me know if you got back. Same with Duke at the hotel, but I never heard from either one of 'em. What time'd you get back in?"

  "Way past midnight," Turnbo answered. "The hostler was sleepin' and I didn't want to bother him, so I cared for Hat myself. Same thing at
the hotel, clerk was asleep, so I just got my key and headed upstairs. I was so plumb tuckered out I barely got back to my room before fallin' asleep."

  "I understand," Spears said. "Coffee's hot on the stove. Grab yourself a cup."

  "I could sure use one. Thanks," Turnbo said. He took a mug from the shelf and filled it, then took out the makings and rolled a cigarette. The sheriff waited until he had the smoke lit before he continued.

  "You find out anything new about those bank robbers?" Spears asked.

  Turnbo took a swallow of his coffee before replying.

  "Not much. Only real new piece of information was that the head of the outfit uses a Remington, not a Colt. And he's left-handed." Turnbo took another gulp. "Jim, you make a real fine cup of coffee."

  "Thanks," Spears said. "Well, you might not've uncovered anything, but I've got some real good news. While you were gone, there was an attempted robbery of the First State Bank right here in San Angelo."

  Turnbo raised an eyebrow. The surprise on his face was plain.

  "Someone tried to rob a bank right here in San Angelo?"

  "That's right," Spears confirmed. "Only it wasn't just someone, it was three men. Dunno what they were thinkin', tryin' to pull off a holdup in the middle of town in broad daylight, but it sure didn't work. We got the whole bunch."

  "You captured all of 'em?"

  "Wish we had, but no. They came out of the bank shootin'. Bastards killed Gil Scott, one of my deputies, before we got them pinned down. They wouldn't surrender. Didn't give us a choice but to kill every last one of those sons of bitches. Serves 'em right, though, far as I'm concerned. Gil was a fine young man, one of the best. He was gonna be married to Fiona O'Brien, the bootmaker's daughter, in a week. Killin' those renegades also saves the bother and expense of a trial and hangin'."