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

by James Reasoner

  "No need to be sorry, just don't do it again," she answered.

  "Sure won't," Turnbo answered with a smile. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about what happened the day of the robbery?"

  "Not at all. I'll be glad to do anything I can do to help catch those men."

  "Appreciate that," Turnbo answered. "I'm not gonna ask you for a description of the robbers, since everyone pretty much agrees on their appearances. Just tell me anything else you might remember or anything distinctive you might have noticed about any of those men."

  "Certainly. I went to the bank that day to make a deposit. I was at the counter when the robbers burst in. They ordered everyone to lie down on the floor. I wasn't about to give them my money without a fight. When one of them, I believe he was the leader, the tall and skinny one who was givin' the orders, attempted to push me aside I grabbed his arm and tried to get his gun. He knocked me down, but not before I ripped open the sleeve of his shirt. It was a dark green shirt, and it wasn't very well made to rip that easy, I can tell you that. A seamstress notices such things."

  "What else happened?"

  "Well, the shirt tore, and that's when I noticed the mark on that man's right forearm."

  "A mark. What kind of mark?"

  "Seemed like a birthmark of some sort. Dark, oval shaped, pretty large. About the size of a mouse, I'd say. On the outside of his right arm, just a bit more than halfway between his elbow and wrist."

  "Miz Tate, that's a very important piece of information. It may well help identify one of the holdup men. Can you think of anything else about that man or any of the others?"

  "Not really. After I tore his shirt, he knocked me to the floor. Pointed his gun at me and told me if I moved he'd shoot me on the spot, woman or no woman, didn't matter to him. Wish I could tell you more. Also wish I'd had a gun that day. I'd have shot that man right between his eyes."

  "I'm sure you would have," Turnbo said. He chuckled. "As far as tellin' me more, don't you worry about that. You've been very helpful," Turnbo assured her. "You've given me something definite to go on. I'm much obliged."

  "Glad I could be of help," Sara answered. She looked the Ranger up and down. "Just wish I was thirty years younger, Ranger. Those men wouldn't have gotten my money if I were . . . and I'd ask you to dinner."

  Turnbo laughed. "If I weren't in such a hurry I'd take you up on that offer," he said. "But I've got to keep after those renegades."

  "Well, if you ever come back to Brady, Ranger, the offer stands," Sara said.

  "I'll remember that," Turnbo answered. "In the meantime, if you remember anything else, tell Sheriff Owens here. He'll get word to me. Now we'll let you get back to your work. Good afternoon."

  "I'll do just that," Sara promised. "Good-bye, Ranger, and good luck. Good-bye, Sheriff."

  "Afternoon, Sara."

  "Told you she was a feisty ol' gal," Owens said as soon as they left the shop.

  "She sure is all of that, and then some." Turnbo agreed. "She'd do to ride the river with anytime. More importantly, her recallin' that birthmark just might be the break I've been lookin' for. I've seen a man with that same mark somewhere. Just wish I could remember when and where."

  "It'll come to you," Owens answered. "Meanwhile, from the looks of you, it appears you haven't had a good meal since leavin' San Angelo. How about some drinks and a good steak?"

  "That sure sounds good," Turnbo said. "And I am famished. Eaten nothin' but cold bacon and hardtack for three days now."

  "Then let's wet your throat and fill your belly. We'll head for Buster's Saloon. Best drinks and grub in town."

  * * *

  Turnbo and Owens were halfway through their meal when the Ranger slammed his mug of beer down, with an oath.

  "What is it, Ranger?" Owens asked.

  "I just remembered where I saw the man wearin' that birthmark!" Turnbo answered.

  "Where?"

  "I'll tell you in a minute, soon as you answer one question for me. Was there a travelin' show here in Brady durin' or just about the time of the robbery? Would've been a bunch of men and several women."

  "Now that you mention it, yes, there was. Came into town a few days before, left the day after," Owens answered. "You think those were the people behind the robbery?"

  "I'm almost certain of it," Turnbo said. "Saw their show up in San Angelo. One of their acts was excerpts from Shakespeare plays."

  "Never did go for that high-falutin' stuff," Owens interrupted. "I did see the show, but didn't much care for it, except for the dancers of course. Those gals sure had some fine-lookin' legs. And that Tangela Peele. What a voice."

  "Don't matter none. Just hear me out," Turnbo urged. "Durin' that part of the show, the actors wore period costumes and their arms were exposed. That's when I saw the birthmark Miz Tate recalled. The leader of the outfit is a tall, skinny hombre named Ross Lucast. He's the one with the birthmark. Kinda surprised that didn't come to me soon as Miz Tate told me about the mark. Plus, one of the witnesses said the leader squinted, as if he needed spectacles. Lucast wears spectacles, but I'd wager he takes them off when robbin' a bank. Another witness said the leader was kind of jumpy, and couldn't seem to keep still. That sounds like Lucast too. And now that I think on it, some of the other actors match the descriptions of the men we're lookin' for. They've gotta be the hombres I'm after."

  "I sure wouldn't bet against that," Owens said. "What's your next move?"

  "First off, I'm gonna head for the Western Union office. I'll send wires to all the places where robberies occurred, to see if Lucast and his troupe were in town when the banks were held up. Second, do you happen to recollect where that outfit was headed next?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do. Lucast mentioned they were headed for Junction."

  "Good. I'll send my messages, wait for replies, then start off for Junction first thing in the morning."

  "What about wirin' the law down in Junction to pick up that bunch, or any Rangers down that way?"

  "There aren't any Rangers anywhere near that territory at the moment." Turnbo said. "I will telegraph Headquarters about Lucast and his bunch, just in case they happen to give me the slip. And I am gonna wire the Kimble County sheriff down there to keep an eye on 'em, but not to pick them up quite yet. Unless they commit an actual crime within the boundaries of Kimble, he doesn't have jurisdiction anyway. Besides, I don't know if they'll still have any of the stolen money on them or not. Sure don't want to spook those boys before I have a chance to recover at least some of those funds. I also want to make sure I have proof that'll put them in jail for a long time, or more likely hang them. Besides, mebbe I'll have some good luck for once. Lucast and his bunch can't travel very fast with those old rigs they use for haulin' all their actin' stuff. I might catch up to them before they reach Junction."

  "Makes sense," Owens agreed.

  Turnbo downed the rest of his beer.

  "Let's head to the telegraph office."

  Chapter 8

  It was three hours after nightfall when Turnbo approached the outskirts of Junction, two and a half days after leaving Brady. For most of this day, he'd been following the South Llano River as it meandered through the rolling plains and low hills.

  "We'll be in town soon, Hat," he told his weary horse, leaning forward to pat the paint's shoulder. "Wish I could put you up soon as we get there, but I've gotta check with the sheriff and see if Lucast and his outfit have arrived. If they have, I'll need you. But I'll get you settled in a stall and fed soon as I can, pard, I promise."

  To be honest with himself, Turnbo would have to admit he was just as tired as his horse. Rest had to wait though, until he caught up with Ross Lucast and his partners. The replies to the telegrams he'd sent all confirmed Lucast's theatrical troupe had been in every town just about the time when a bank holdup occurred. With his quarry almost in hand, he couldn't chance them slipping away just so he could catch a few hours shut-eye.

  Turnbo rode for another mile, and then un
expectedly he spotted a familiar object pulled off to the side of the trail, partially obscured by a screen of cottonwoods and scrub willows. He reined his horse to a halt.

  "Whoa, Hat. That looks like one of Lucast's wagons. Doggone that moon. It had to pick right now to go behind those clouds. We'll have to move in closer. Easy now. Real quiet, pal."

  The dim light, which the almost new moon had provided, failed when it disappeared behind a screen of thickening clouds. Turnbo heeled his horse into a slow, shuffling walk until he could make out the wagon more clearly. He could now see it was parked in a clearing along the riverbank. Across a small creek from the wagons was a corral, where several mules were dozing or munching on hay. A short distance beyond that was a darkened barn, apparently a livery stable from the faded lettering Turnbo could barely make out painted on its side.

  "That sure is one of Lucast's rigs," he murmured. "In fact, there's all three of em. Those are his animals, too. Looks like nobody's around. Hat, we're goin' in for a closer look. If there isn't anyone with those wagons, I'm gonna do some snoopin'."

  Turnbo dismounted and walked to the edge of the brush, leading his horse. He took several minutes to study the wagons.

  "Sure enough seems like those wagons are empty," Turnbo whispered. "I'm gonna leave you here in the bushes where you'll be hard to spot, Hat. You keep quiet, hear?" He tied the horse loosely to a cottonwood branch, and then patted his muzzle. Hat fell to pulling leaves from the tree, chewing happily.

  "Reckon you'll be fine here. I'll be back quick as I can."

  Turnbo worked his way cautiously toward the wagons. Sure hope no one's with those rigs so I can search inside 'em, he thought. If there is, I'll just have to say I was ridin' through, recognized the outfit, and stopped to say Howdy.

  Turnbo reached the wagons unmolested. He looked around once more to make sure he was unobserved, then ducked into the first rig. It took him less than fifteen minutes to make a quick search, which turned up nothing. He left that wagon, looked around to make sure no one was approaching, and then headed for the next wagon.

  The second wagon was the one which contained the sets, props, and costumes for the show. Turnbo started looking through racks of clothing and mostly empty shelves of props and masks. That done, he knelt alongside a large chest. This was locked; however on the shelf above it were several thin-bladed knives. Turnbo took one of those and used it to pick the lock. To his disappointment, the chest held nothing but swords and scabbards. He closed the top and fastened the lock.

  "So far, nothing," he muttered. "Well, here's hopin' I find something in the last rig."

  Turnbo exited the second wagon, checked to make sure there was still no one in sight, then headed for the last. He didn't see the dim figure of a man emerge from between the two wagons, nor hear his almost silent footsteps. He finally sensed danger, a moment too late. As he reached for his gun, a blunt object struck the back of his head with a dull thud, crushing his Stetson. Turnbo pitched to the dirt.

  * * *

  Ross Lucast was deep in a game of poker at the Crossroads Saloon. He had already won several hands, and the cards he held at the moment also looked to be practically unbeatable. His brow furrowed in concentration while he considered raising his bet. He didn't notice Morey Banton walk up, nor hear him call his name the first time. Banton raised his voice and tried again.

  "Ross."

  Lucast looked up from his cards.

  "Morey, what is it?" he said, irritation plain in his voice. "Can't you see I'm busy here?"

  "Ross, I need to speak with you for a moment, in private," Banton said.

  "Whatever it is, it'll just have to wait," Lucast answered. "I'm ridin' a hot streak right now."

  "It's real important, Ross," Banton replied.

  "Morey, I said I can't talk right now. Go have a few drinks, then come back in a couple of hours. Better yet, go to bed, and we'll talk in the morning. I'm certain whatever's on your mind will keep until then."

  Lucast turned his attention back to his cards. Morey put a hand on his arm.

  "Ross, it can't wait," he insisted. "I need to talk to you, right now."

  Lucast gave a deep sigh.

  "Gentlemen," he said to his fellow players. "I apologize for the intrusion, but evidently my associate here has urgent business which must be addressed immediately. With your kind permission, I need to see what exactly is so vital. I assure you I will return as quickly as possible to our little game."

  "Go right ahead," Deputy Marshal Hank Brady said. "Mebbe it'll give the rest of us a chance to win for a change. Luck seems to have been on your side all evening. You've been cleanin' up tonight, Mr. Lucast. You can take all the time you need. Right, boys?"

  The other players murmured their assent.

  Ross threw his cards face-down on the table and pushed back his chair.

  "All right, Morey, let's go outside and you can tell me what's on your mind," he said, coming to his feet.

  Banton led Lucast out of the saloon and into a side alley.

  "This better be important, Morey, or I'm gonna be real upset about you takin' me away from my card game," Lucast said. "I had to throw in four kings just now."

  "What I'm gonna tell you is far more important than four kings, Ross." Banton answered. "I had to go back to the wagons to retrieve some tools to fix that broken backdrop. You remember that Texas Ranger from up in San Angelo?"

  "You mean Ranger Turnbo, the one who was with Sheriff Spears?"

  "That's the one. Anyway, I found him snoopin' around the wagons."

  "Turnbo was searching our wagons? You're certain of that? Perhaps he was just looking for us about something connected to the trial."

  "No, he sure wasn't," Banton said. "He was lookin' for something more'n that. I'll guarantee it."

  "That could only mean one thing. Somehow he must've connected us to the bank robberies," Lucast said, with a curse. "Where's he at now?"

  "In the prop wagon. I bashed him over the head with a hammer and knocked him cold. Then I hauled him into the rig, tied him real tight, and gagged him so he can't call out."

  Lucast cursed again.

  "What are we gonna do?" Banton asked.

  "One thing's for certain, we've gotta change our plans," Lucast said. "We don't dare hold up the bank here in Junction now. If the Ranger is wise to us, he's probably already notified the local law to be ready for a bank robbery."

  "That means we have to leave right away. We can't chance stayin' around town," Banton said.

  "Let me think for a minute," Lucast answered. "If we pull out now, that'll just bring more suspicion on us. I'd wager the Ranger doesn't have enough proof to arrest us, at least not quite yet. If he did, he would already have notified the sheriff to pick us up. That's probably why he was searching the wagons, looking for more evidence."

  "So you think we should just stay put? That's taking an awful long chance, Ross," Banton said. "What about the Ranger? You want me to kill him?"

  "I know, I know. However, we don't have much choice. We'll stay just long enough to put on our show, then roll out right after that. If that Ranger has contacted the sheriff, they'll be expectin' him any time now. We've got to leave before the sheriff starts wonderin' why he hasn't turned up. As far as killin' the Ranger, no, at least not yet," Lucast said. "We're too close to town, and someone might come up with the body no matter how well we hid it. Besides, if things turn bad, we might be able to use him for a hostage, if it comes to that. Morey, are you positive he can't get loose?"

  "Ross, you hurt my feelings," Banton answered. "How long have I been doin' rope tricks as part of my act? That Ranger's trussed up like a hog bein' taken to market, and the wagon's padlocked shut. He ain't goin' nowhere, except mebbe to Hell when we send him there."

  "Good, Morey, that's good. Listen, you go back and double-check the wagon. We'll wait until we're a good distance from town before we kill the Ranger. By the time his body's discovered, if it's found at all, we'll be long gone. I figure we
'll head straight for New Orleans, or perhaps Baton Rouge. I've been corresponding with a friend about taking our show on a Mississippi riverboat. I guess now's the right time to take him up on his offer."

  "All right, Ross. That everything?"

  "For now. Wait a minute, I just thought of something. That Ranger's horse has got to be around there somewhere."

  "You want me to get rid of it?"

  "No, we can't. If you kill that animal, someone'd be bound to notice the buzzards circlin' the carcass and start asking questions about a dead horse and what happened to its rider. No, just find that animal and hide it well. Wherever you put it, make sure it has plenty of grass and enough water so it won't call out. Better put it somewhere out of town a mile or so. We'll pick up the horse when we head out. Since it seems the Ranger hadn't made it to town yet, we don't have to worry about anyone recognizing that horse as his. We can sell it later, once we're rid of Turnbo."

  "Then what?"

  "After you make certain the Ranger is secure and his horse is hidden, you hightail it back to the hotel and go to bed like nothin's happened."

  "What about the others? They'll have to know."

  "They won't have to know anything right off. Since all our stuff is already at the theater, no one needs to get into that prop wagon until we're ready to leave town. I'll decide when to tell the others. You just do as I told you. Now, I'd better get back to my poker game, before the other players start wonderin' what happened to me. You do exactly what I said. I'll see you at breakfast."

  Chapter 9

  Turnbo gradually regained consciousness; at least he was pretty sure he had. He was confined in a place which was pitch black, so dark he wasn't even certain his eyes had opened, let alone be able to make out any of the details of his surroundings. However, the throbbing in his head soon convinced him he was indeed at least somewhat awake. In addition, his back ached horribly and burning pain was shooting through his wrists and ankles. He was drenched with sweat, and the heat in his prison was so thick he could barely breath. His mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton.