Lawless Land

by Dusty Richards

  Then the glow from a lamp shone up in the cross network of trusses. He wouldn’t dare risk looking over at them for a while. They might be suspicious and searching to be sure they were alone.

  “What’s the game?”

  “Five-card stud. You feeling lucky, Herb?”

  They were going to play cards? He made a sour face at the discovery. He hated—detested—gambling, in any shape or form. In the first six months of his service he had been fleeced by card sharks and gamblers until he couldn’t stand even the mention of cards or dice. So they were using the company warehouse for a poker den—damn. How long would they play? All night? He hoped not. He couldn’t give himself away by coming down. Then his cover would be blown.

  “Ralston, you seen that new girl over at Hattie’s?”

  “The brunette?”

  “Yeah, calls herself Hurricane.” The ruffle of cards being shuffled was audible.

  “I like the china dolls at Susie’s.”

  “Raise you two bits. When’re them guys going to get here?”

  “Hell, you know they have to borrow a team and wagon from the livery. Some teamster has to leave them for the night, then they use them for free. And it has to be all clear.”

  Sam T. looked over the edge and smiled; his bladder could wait a little while longer. So they even used a team without the owner’s permission to haul off the goods. Some poor teamster got up the next morning and couldn’t figure why his rested animals weren’t pulling like they should. He took out a pad and pencil, licked the lead and wrote Herbie and Ralston. There was a bald-headed man without a cap and the other guy had on a bowler and wore overalls.

  “I’m going to take my money this weekend and throw me a helluva time at Marie’s cathouse.”

  “Them prettier?”

  “Yeah, they sure are, and expensive.”

  “Cost yeah what? Hey, I raise fifty cents.”

  “Well, gawdamn, you must have a royal flush.”

  “Hey, I hear horses.”

  “Yeah, they’re here now. Close this game down. And Fennie said no damn horseshoes this time. He’s got four barrels of them that he can’t sell.”

  Who was Fennie? Sam T. caught movement out of the corner of his eyes. He half turned to see a large warehouse rat heading down the beam toward him. Rats made his skin crawl. Go away! He reached inside his coat and drew out his .30-caliber Colt.

  If he shot the fuzzy critter, they’d sure know he was up there and might start shooting at him. Go away! The rat advanced, baring his teeth. You come much closer, I’ll bean you with this gun barrel. He tried to decide where the men were down below. Oh, damn, what a time for a rat to challenge him. Must be a thirty-foot fall to the crates and boxes.

  “About time you got here. What’ve you been doing?”

  “Hell, we had to find some horses and a wagon. This old boy owned this team like to never have left the stables.”

  “Get this hardware and kegs of nails on the wagon. We ain’t got all night.”

  The rat started for him. Sam raised the pistol. One chance would be all he had to hit it. Sam T. waited until the last moment, then made a swipe and connected. The angry rat was hurled off in space. Quickly, Sam T. drew back and huddled on his small platform after the smack of the critter hitting below.

  “What was that?”

  “A gawdamn rat. It’s raining rats in here.”

  “He fall off from up there?”

  “Unless he had wings, by God, he did.”

  “I never heard of a rat falling off nothing.”

  Now you did. Sam T. closed his fist on the Colt and held his breath. Close call, and it wasn’t over yet. He wished they’d finish stealing and get out so he could climb down and empty his bladder.

  “That’s enough. Fennie says you load it too full, you draw suspicion. Besides, these horses are really tired; he must have drove them hard today.”

  “Yeah, see you next Thursday night.”

  Sam T. thought to himself, You crooks will see each other, all right—next Thursday and the one after that. Because, gentlemen, you will be in Denver City’s finest jail, getting ready for some long stretches in the state pen. He holstered his Colt in the shoulder harness.

  “Yeah, sure. We’ll be here. You don’t be so damn late coming next time.”

  “We going to play some more cards?”

  Sam T.’s heart stopped. He looked at the ceiling for divine help. No more gambling.

  “Naw, my old lady’s pissed about me being gone so much.”

  “The rest of you?”

  “No. Not tonight.”

  “See you, Curly.”

  The light went out below and Sam T. stretched his arms over his head. Give them a few more minutes to get away from the building, and he would pick his way across the trusses and down the ladder.

  Detective work was supposed to be interesting. Of late, it had lost most of its charm for him. In the winter months it was even worse, freezing to death out in the snow during a stakeout, combing the slums for some wanted person. He had a bellyful of city life. He could recall loping his mount in the clear air of the Ozarks, no sooty smoke or stinking garbage piled all over.

  Outside in the moonlight at last, he vented his distressed bladder and watched the rats scurrying about the alley in the starlight. That one probably survived his blow and the fall. They were hard to kill. Good thing he didn’t need to share the beam again with him. Next time, Mr. Rat might bite him.

  He pulled out his pencil and added Curly and Fennie to his list. Still had the police to contact. Old Man Keaton would sure be shocked that his long-term employees were the ones looting his warehouse. Oh, well, the rats were on the inside as well as the outside. His appetite whetted for some food, Sam T. hurried off for the Elephant Bar.

  By midmorning the next day, Sam T. oversaw two of Denver’s finest as they escorted the four Keaton employees out into the wagon parked at the back docks.

  “I can’t believe it. Those men have worked for me for years. Why, Herbie’s been here over ten years,” the short man in the tailor-made suit said with a wag of his head.

  “Probably been stealing that long too,” Sam T. added. The police had them loaded. Time to move to the next place. “You will excuse me, Mr. Keaton. I’m going over with these officers to the warehouse where Curly said the goods were being stashed. We have a search warrant.”

  “You’ve done a very excellent job, Mayes.”

  “Thanks. Great Western Detective likes to serve our customers.”

  “Oh, I’ll tell my friends.”

  At the next warehouse, Sam T. recognized the voices of the two from the night before, who, under some pressure, admitted to their guilt. With the pair in cuffs, he was about to leave, when a tall, well-dressed man entered and walked over to speak to him.

  “What’s going on here?” the man asked rather stoically.

  Sam T. looked him up and down. “Your name Fennie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Fennie, you’re under arrest. Officer, here is the ringleader.” He waved one of the patrolmen over.

  “You can’t do this to me!” Fennie protested. “I know the mayor, the councilmen—”

  “Yeah, and maybe they’ll mail you cookies in the state pen too.” Sam T. looked around, satisfied the police had things under control, then went outside and caught a cab to the office.

  In the bright midday sun, he dug out the money to pay the driver. The sparkling red-brick, three-story building looked like a shrine except for the gaudy yellow letters, THE GREAT WESTERN DETECTIVE AGENCY smeared across the front like a circus sign. He entered the main office, waved at the various clerks busy at their desks and headed for his own cubbyhole.

  “Morning, Mr. Mayes. Getting to work kinda late, ain’t yeah?” The office boy shoved a telegram at him.

  Sam T. ignored his mouth, thanked him and pocketed the envelope. He planned to deal with the message later. Less than three hours of sleep; he had been up more than half the nigh
t. On his desk was a memo; he had to make a preliminary court appearance in a few hours. He checked the large clock on the wall—in two hours he needed to be in court. After not having a bath in two days, the odor of the musty warehouse clung to him.

  “That wire might be important,” the boy shouted after him.

  Oh, yes, he received important cables every day. Probably some sheriff off yonder wanted him to look for a fugitive supposed to be in Denver. He searched his desk for the file on the jewel robbery. That was what the hearing was about—he absently slipped the envelope out and tore it open.

  It was from Major Bowen in Prescott, Arizona:

  SAM T.—HAVE JOB FOR YOU IN ARIZONA—STATEWIDE MARSHAL—CAN YOU COME AT ONCE. GERALD BOWEN.

  He blinked, went to the sunlight streaming in the window and reread the part about going to work in Arizona. He shook his head, beat the paper on his other hand. Thank God he didn’t have to do this stuffy detective work any longer.

  “Good news?” the nosy boy asked from the corner of his stall wall.

  “Damn good news.” And he smiled to himself.

  “You inherit a fortune or something like that?”

  “No, but I suspect I just inherited a new lease on life.”

  “Huh?” The boy made a face that he didn’t understand.

  “Never mind; get Shannon over here. He’s got to be in court at two for me. I’ve got a good lead to follow.”

  “Yes, sir. But you sure don’t make sense.”

  Didn’t intend to explain it to you, you little smartass. He needed to get everything ready for Shannon to handle the case. One of the newly hired men could learn how to do it. They would have to do lots of things around here when he was gone—to Arizona. Whew, he could hardly wait to tell Shirley the good news. They could go to Prescott together; she didn’t have any family ties here. He wet his lips and shook his head, still taken aback by the wire. Major Bowen, you are a prince of a guy, like always. It would be good to see him again. It had been years.

  He left the court detail in Shannon’s hands with brief instructions, went out the front door and two blocks away stopped off in front of Lou’s Bathhouse. From the sidewalk, he took a quick look at the towering front wall of the Rockies. Still some snow up there on the high peaks. Then he pushed inside the spicy-smelling shop. He smiled at the friendly Chinaman who always bowed and talked pidgin English at forty miles an hour.

  “I need a bath, and give these clothes a pressing.”

  “Yes. Yes. Have you white shirt all ready ironed for you, Mr. Mayes.”

  “Good.”

  In the backroom, Sam T. settled into the tin tub of steaming water. The bathhouse was so hot and humid it made him sleepy. Maybe he should go home and nap before he went to Shirley’s. No, he wanted to tell her the great news. She would be excited. He’d have to wire the major and tell him he was coming. He found himself so relaxed, he closed his eyes for a second.

  “You very tired, Mr. Mayes?” It was Lou’s daughter Lee with a back scrubber brush in her hand who awoke him. The first time Lee came in to scrub his back while he was bathing, he about died from embarrassment. But the girl acted very proper and didn’t seem to mind naked men half as bad as naked men were shocked to see her. He never heard a bad word said about her, and she sure did get his back scrubbed.

  “I’m fine, Lee,” he said. “Just enjoying the bathwater.”

  She proceeded to scrub his back with the brush. When she finished, she leaned over and smiled at him. “You plenty clean now.”

  “Thanks,” he said and flexed his stiff back muscles. Sitting on those boards in the loft for hours hadn’t helped his back a lot.

  When she left the room, he stood and reached for a towel. His clothes should be ready by this time. He dried off and Lou stuck his head in and hung up his suit and pants.

  “Make clothes much better.”

  “Thanks, my friend,” he said to the bowing Chinaman.

  He arrived at Shirley’s front door in midafternoon. The sweet flowery aftershave surrounded him like a a patch of flowers. Whew, he could get tired pretty quick of that odor.

  “Why, Samuel? Whatever are you doing here at this time of day?” She stood back in the doorway looking a little aghast.

  What was wrong with her? Did she have someone else in there?

  “I had to come by to tell you some good news.” He handed her the bottle of champagne. She read the label, then blinked her eyes as if in distress. He’d brought her bottles like this before. What was so wrong with this one?

  “My, such fine champagne.” She grinned at him as if to make up for her coldness. “Oh, my. Come inside. I am so sorry, but you took me unawares. I’m not dressed—”

  “You look wonderful.”

  “Not quite. My hair …” She ran her fingers through the piles of curly locks that streamed down to her shoulders

  “Trust me, you look great.” He reached out and caught her by the waist, closed the door behind them. She didn’t have her corset on either; he knew that by touch. Good, he liked things raw so he could feel her ribs and flesh under the dress.

  Their mouths met and then she pushed herself loose. “I guess I’m not ready for this. Excuse me. What is this good news?”

  “Let’s go in and open the champagne first.” He herded her into the dining room.

  She found the glasses in the sideboard and set them out. He popped the cork with a minimum of outburst and poured the pale bubbly.

  “We are going to Arizona!” he said and raised the glass.

  “Arizona?”

  “Yes.” He bent over and kissed her on the cheek. “I have a new job in Arizona. Aren’t you excited?”

  “Well, yes, for you. Doing what?” She looked bewildered at the notion.

  “Marshal’s job working for an ex-commander of mine, Gerald Bowen.”

  “Is it a good job? What will he pay you?”

  “Hell, girl, I have no idea, but aren’t you thrilled?”

  “Quite frankly, no.”

  “You don’t know the major. Well, he’s a great guy and he’s asking me to come out there.”

  “And do what? Be some hick town marshal? You have your future to think about, Samuel. Our future.”

  “I just figured our future would be in Arizona.”

  “Samuel, that is a territory. It still has wild Indians running all over it. If you think I am going to—wait!” She held up her hands to ward him off. “You finish your drink. Let me go and get decently dressed and then we will discuss it.”

  She guided him to the sofa. “You look tired.”

  “I’ve been up … oh, quite a while. All right, you go dress if it makes you feel better and then we can talk some more.” He tossed down his drink, handed her the glass and slumped on the couch. Through his half-opened eyes he studied her shapely backside going down the hallway. Great girl—he’d convince her. She would see it his way—little woman needed some talking to, was all.

  His head slumped, he shut his eyes and fell sound asleep.

  CHAPTER 4

  LAMAS and Black stood by the corral in the darkness. The sound of a guitar being strummed floated on the warm night air. Some cowboy on the long porch played a tune.

  “Clanton needs cattle very badly,” Lamas said softly. His back against the poles, he looked toward the lit open door and windows of Clanton’s rambling house. Overhead a spray of stars filled the inky sky. Lamas’s thoughts were not on the Texan or their conversation, but rather on a lusty woman who lived nearby that he planned to lie with later. All this robbery business had separated him from female company for too long and the thought of her made desire rise in his groin.

  “That means there ain’t any around handy to steal,” Black said with sarcasm in his tone.

  “Yes, or he would have rustled them.” Lamas grinned. He knew how much Black distrusted the old man.

  “So what do we do?”

  “Find out where they are at.”

  “The cattle?”

&n
bsp; “Yes. It’s late in the season for anyone to be driving them out of Texas, but there could be a herd coming. You go find out. I will meet you at the San Bernardino Spring with the others in two days.”

  “You calling all the men back?” Black frowned at him.

  “No, they need the rest. Besides it would take too long to get them back here.” Lamas shook his head at the notion. “Send word to that border cathouse for Sanchez Sarge and Jimmy to meet me at San Bernardino Spring, the five of us can handle one herd of cattle.”

  “Two thousand cattle?”

  “Whatever. You are the cow man, amigo. That is lots of money, my friend.”

  “He pays us ten, then he gets twenty-five or more from the army.”

  “Oh, he must rework the brands, amigo.” Lamas clapped the big man on the arm to reassure him the deal was not all bad. Why worry what the old goat made off of them?

  “That ain’t no trick to change a brand.” Black made a sour face in the starlight. “But I’ll saddle up at daybreak, go tell them others where to meet you and go find them if they’re some cattle coming.”

  “Good. Be careful. I count on you.”

  “There’s word that Diego Fernandez got snakebit and died at a water hole,” Black said.

  “We will miss him. How did you learn that?”

  “One of Clanton’s cowboys bought that fancy holster off some bronco Apache come down through here, needed money. I saw it hanging in the bunkhouse and got to asking questions. It’s sure enough the one I told Diego he could have from that rancher. The Injun told the cowhand the story about finding his body and a dead snake he must have killed after it bit him.”

  “He was good soldier. I feared he was dead or he would have been at the woodcutters’ cabin.”

  “Me too. He was sure loyal to you. I better get some sleep. Me and ole Roanie’s got lots of ground to cover come daylight.”

  “Vaya con Dios,” Lamas said.

  “Same to you.” Black sauntered off in his high heel boots for the bunkhouse portion.