Diamond In The Rough (Bodie Kendrick - Bounty Hunter Book 3)

by Wayne D. Dundee

  “I’m nobody’s darling, and it’s for sure no one will ever mistake me for an angel,” the woman replied rather tartly. “And how many times do I have to tell you not to call me ‘Amy’?”

  “Not many more,” Crandall said, smiling lopsidedly. “I won’t be around much longer to keep making that mistake … But I sure would appreciate a puff or two before I go.”

  Kendrick thought he saw the girl’s chin quiver faintly before she abruptly withdrew her hands, leaving him to reach in and take over applying the pressure on Crandall’s wounds. The bleeding looked like it might have slowed somewhat, but it was hard to tell. And, even if it had, Kendrick feared it was as much a sign the man was nearly bled out as it was that the flow was actually being affected by their rudimentary treatment.

  As quick as she could, the girl dug out a bag of tobacco, the bloody rolling papers, and a small box of wooden matches. She found a dry paper and, with trembling, blood-streaked hands, fashioned a cigarette.

  When she leaned in to put it to the wounded man’s lips, however, she and Kendrick both realized it was too late.

  Crandall was dead.

  Chapter Three

  It took nearly until dusk to complete the remaining necessary tasks at the scene of the stage ambush.

  For starters, once he’d identified himself to them, Kendrick learned the names and some of the background on each of the survivors.

  The strawberry blonde, he found out, was Amelia (“don’t call me Amy”) Gailwood. She was a freelance writer from Chicago, she further explained, working on “the story of a lifetime”.

  The deceased pistoleer, also according to Miss Gailwood, had been a private detective named Hugh Crandall. She had hired him from an agency home-based in Denver, for the purpose of protection and also to assist her in the research for her story.

  The dark-skinned girl was called Faleejah. She was Egytian, as was the man accompanying her. His name was Kazmir. Each had a last name, but in both cases so difficult to pronounce that Kendrick didn’t bother trying to commit them to memory. The pair was in some way connected to the story Amelia Gailwood was working on, but no one seemed eager to go into exact details so Kendrick didn’t push it. It was made clear, however, that Faleejah had some sort of high standing in Egyptian society and Kazmir was attached to her as a member of the serving class.

  That left only the stagecoach crew—Hickory Dawson, the driver, and his late shotgun guard, Lenny Thorpe. Dawson was a widower who had learned his teamster skills from the U.S. Army and had worn the blue in the War Between the States. Thorpe, Dawson revealed, had worn the gray, yet the two of them had nevertheless gotten along without issue. As far as family or any other background information on his late partner, Dawson knew nothing.

  After that, there was work to be done.

  First, they buried Crandall and Lenny. Buried them good and deep and piled slabs of rock over the graves to prevent desert scavengers from getting at them. They also put up markers so the graves could be located again in case any kin turned up who might want to reclaim the bodies for a more formal burial. As it was, Amelia Gailwood said some appropriate words and even recited a couple passages from the Bible.

  As far as the ambushers who’d been killed, Kendrick explained he would be taking their bodies along to Lowdown, the stagecoach’s next scheduled stop. There he would turn them in for the reward on Gordo Lucas and perhaps the second man, too, in the event he also had a price on his head. Judging by the looks he got from the others, Kendrick could tell they didn’t care much for these intentions. But nobody said anything, not that it would have mattered if they did. Kendrick had told them all right up front how he made his living. If anybody didn’t like it, that was too damn bad.

  The hardest chore was freeing the rigging from the fallen leaders and then getting the rest of the team prepared for a four-horse pull the remaining distance to Lowdown. But, with evening descending by then, that would have to wait until morning. Dawson found a patch of sparse graze and hobbled the animals there for the night. From the coach’s spare water bag, he poured each of them a hatful to drink.

  Except for the stink-eye he’d gotten upon announcing his plans for the two dead ambushers, Kendrick was pleased to see that all members of the party were willing to pitch in without lament and do whatever they could to help make the best of their situation. Other than a groan or an audible gasp of pain now and then, the freshly injured Dawson held his own. As did Kazmir, who revealed a sturdy frame and a surprising measure of strength in spite of his fine garments and soft, uncallused hands that implied little prior exposure to physical labor.

  Even the delicate Faleejah, while the men were busy digging the graves and struggling with the horse rigging, saw to the task of preparing a camp site by pulling spare cushions and blankets from the coach and gathering kindling and greasewood from the surrounding area in order to build a fire.

  For her part, Amelia Gailwood had first gone over the ridge to retrieve Blockhead, Kendrick’s horse. After that she volunteered to return to a high point on the ridge and stand guard to warn of any sign of trouble in case Eckert and the other ambusher got the notion to circle back for another try. She took Lenny’s shotgun with her, assuring all that she was well versed in the use of such a weapon. Looking into the self-assured fire that danced in those deep blue eyes, Kendrick, for one, saw no reason to argue with her.

  By the time darkness enveloped them, it was a weary bunch that gathered around Faleejah’s crackling fire. From Kendrick’s supplies, they dined gratefully on beans, bacon, cans of sweet peaches, and strong, hot coffee.

  “Never got around to asking before,” said Kendrick, making mealtime small talk, “but since when did they start having stagecoach service through these parts?”

  “Started ‘er up about six months ago,” answered Dawson, wiping the back of one hand across his mouth. “As word spread about Lowdown’s silver boom, Ol’ Man Cavendish heard the clamor and saw the money to be made. You could practically see the dollar signs rollin’ in his eyeballs. So he had a couple coaches transferred down from one of his other operations—somewheres up in New Mexico, I think it was—and commenced to makin’ three runs a week between Wilcox and Lowdown.”

  Kendrick glanced up at the CAVENDISH STAGE LINE logo painted in gold leaf on the coach’s door.

  “You heard about the silver strike in Lowdown, right?”

  “Heard talk of it. Didn’t know how big a deal it was.”

  Dawson shrugged. “The old timers around town don’t figure it’s gonna last long. Nobody ever struck a hint of anything up in the Dos Cabezas before this.” He shrugged again. “All the same, it’s sure got folks in these parts—and new ones pourin’ every day—mighty excited.”

  “Based on what happened here today, it looks like some of the ones pourin’ in ain’t exactly the sort anybody’d welcome with open arms.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “You ever been hit by road agents before?”

  “Not on this run, no. Me and Lenny hired on right at the get-go and never had a lick of trouble before today.” Dawson’s face scrunched with a puzzled expression. “Can’t rightly figure what brought it on now, either. Ain’t like we’re carryin’ anything of value.”

  “Thank you for such a charming assessment of our worth, Mr. Dawson,” Amelia was quick to respond.

  Dawson squirmed with embarrassment. “Aw, for gosh sakes, Miss Gailwood, you know I didn’t mean it that way. A-course you folks have value.”

  “I’d like to think so.” Her crooked smile said she hadn’t really taken the driver’s initial remark seriously and was only poking a little fun at his expense.

  “I was talkin’ about non-person cargo,” Dawson said, insisting on explaining further. “You know, like a strongbox or something. All we’re carryin’ is a scrawny mail bag with only a handful of letters I could just as well have shoved in my pants pocket.”

  “Ever occasions when you do carry valuable cargo?” Kendrick sai
d. “Something that might have given these robbers the mistaken notion you had something like that on this trip?”

  “The mail bag is usually packed fuller than it is now. I suppose there are times it’s carrying an important message of some kind, or maybe an envelope with money in it that somebody’s sendin’ somebody else. But I wouldn’t know what or when, and I don’t see how anybody else could either. All the ore and big amounts of money for paying off the miners and such are transferred in and out by heavily guarded freight wagons. We just haul people coming or going.”

  “Once those ambushers had you stopped, they didn’t make any demands or say anything to indicate what they were after?”

  “Only talkin’ they did was with lead.”

  Kendrick drank some of his coffee. As he did so, he considered the fine fabric and the precise tailoring of the garments worn by Faleejah and Kazmir. He thought, too, of the hand-tooled chest and the fine craftsmanship of the valises that rode so cautiously stacked and carefully strapped down atop the coach. He cut his gaze to Amelia, whose own skirt and blouse were of good quality but not on a scale to match the clothing and trappings of her traveling companions. “How about your party, Miss Gailwood? Are any of you in possession of anything that might draw the attention of men who’d be willing to kill to get their hands on it?”

  For the first time since he’d laid eyes her, Kendrick saw the woman’s cool composure slip for a moment. She regained it quickly, though, and said, “That is a rather bold question, don’t you think?”

  Kendrick shrugged. “A question is a question. It’s how you find out things.”

  “While we’re very grateful for you involvement on our behalf this afternoon, sir, I hardly think that gives you the right to be impertinent.”

  “I’m a curious man. Especially after I’ve stuck my neck out and taken the risk of gettin’ it shot full of holes. If that makes me impertinent, then I guess I’m guilty as charged.”

  “Indeed.”

  “With that established, then, allow me one or two more questions. Then I’ll let it drop.”

  “I don’t see how I can stop you from asking.”

  “Okay. What about Crandall, the detective? Could it have been him those jaspers were interested in? Hard feelings over some past case he was involved with?”

  Amelia looked contemplative for a moment, then shook her head. “I can’t say for certain, of course—if Crandall had knowledge of such a threat, he likely would have kept it to himself. But he gave no indication of concern over anything along those lines, I know that much for sure.”

  She looked questioningly at the two Egyptians and they also shook their heads.

  Amelia swung her gaze back to Kendrick. “Crandall joined us south of Denver, in Pueblo. That’s the regional office he worked out of. Since you recognized two of the men who attacked us—one you killed, another who fled—is there anything in their background that might have run them afoul of trouble in the vicinity of Pueblo?”

  Kendrick shook his head. “Not that I know of. Far as I know, their stomping grounds never included any part of Colorado.”

  He wanted to ask why Amelia and the Egyptians needed a detective escort in the first place, but he knew that would be pushing too hard. So, as he’d promised, he let the questioning drop … For the time being.

  After a minute or so of quiet, Hickory Dawson broke it. “Speakin’ of Detective Crandall, did I hear you mention to him that you had a bottle of whiskey in your saddlebags, Kendrick?”

  “You heard right.”

  Dawson scratched the whisker stubble under his chin, making a sound like sandpaper scraping over rough wood. “Now it’s a sad fact,” he said, “that way too many fellas abuse whiskey. Reach for it at the drop of a hat, let their cravin’ for it start to take over just about everything else.”

  “Yeah. We’ve all known those types,” allowed Kendrick.

  “But on the other hand,” Dawson continued, “whiskey does have its proper uses. Take a body in mighty hurtful pain, for instance … “

  Kendrick grinned. “You’d sayin’ you could go for a slug of rye?”

  “Only for the pain, mind you. This shoulder’s startin’ to throb a mite. Thinkin’ a nip or two would dull the pain and allow me to sleep better when we turn in here shortly.”

  “No doubt it would, old timer.”

  Kendrick got up and went over to his saddle and other gear he’d stripped off Blockhead. From the saddlebags he pulled a bottle three-quarters full of amber liquid. Returning with it, he wasted no time sloshing a generous amount into Dawson’s coffee cup. Settling back onto the ground, crossing his legs Indian style, Kendrick next dumped some of the bottle’s contents into his own cup. With the bottle still raised, he looked around at the others.

  “Anybody else? Gonna get pretty brisk before daybreak. This’ll warm you right down to the bone and last at least part way through to morning.”

  He made the offer half-jokingly, not really expecting any takers. Faleejah and Kazmir declined as anticipated. But, to his surprise, Amelia didn’t hesitate to hold out her cup, saying, “Yes, I’ll take a little splash with my coffee. Thanks.”

  As he tipped the bottle once again, Kendrick looked into her eyes and saw a challenging, faintly impish gleam there. Nobody should ever, he told himself, be surprised by anything from this gal.

  Once everyone was done eating, Kazmir rose and collected the plates and utensils and took them for washing. Faleejah accompanied him but did nothing to actually soil her hands.

  Kendrick, Dawson, and Amelia remained seated by the fire, sipping the last of their whiskey-laced coffee.

  Seizing this as an opportunity to ask some questions of her own, Amelia said, “Were you on your way to Lowdown when you encountered us, Mr. Kendrick?”

  Kendrick nodded. “Matter of fact I was.”

  “But not for the silver?”

  “Not hardly. I grew up workin’ for an uncle who owned a lead mine in Illinois. I lit a shuck from there when the war broke out and made up my mind up real firm never to return to diggin’ in the ground again as a means of gettin’ by.”

  Amelia studied him in the pulsing light thrown by the fire. “So will you be staying in Lowdown, then?”

  “Not for long. Just long enough to follow up on what you might call a business lead.”

  “More of your kind of business?” There was no missing the disapproval in her tone.

  “The only kind of business I do,” Kendrick said flatly, meeting her gaze and holding it until she looked away.

  Chapter Four

  They rolled into Lowdown in the middle of the afternoon on the following day.

  Since it was twenty hours past their scheduled arrival time, they were greeted by a mixture of relief, apprehension, and irritation from those awaiting them at the stagecoach station. Three men on horseback were preparing to ride out and see what trouble had befallen them.

  When word spread about the ambush and the resulting deaths of four men—one of them the generally well-liked Lenny Thorpe—the anxiety over their delay quickly turned into concern and then a kind of angry excitement.

  Never a fan of people in a bunch—especially not an agitated bunch—Kendrick didn’t waste any time separating himself from the hubbub that ensued. He untied Blockhead from the rear boot of the stage and lead him off down the main street, toward the sheriff’s office, with the canvas-wrapped bodies of the two slain ambushers tied belly down across the saddle. Their passage hardly went unnoticed and Kendrick was fully aware of the stares and disapproving frowns aimed his way. But nobody tried to stop or even question him. The few who appeared like they might be considering it, took another look at his grim expression and found something else to fret about instead.

  As he strode along, Kendrick noted that neither Main Street nor the residential district off on the south side of town seemed to have changed much. He did spot a new hardware store specializing in mining tools and equipment. This had resulted in an expansion of the exist
ing general store, fighting for a share of that trade in addition to its other business. And the renamed Silvertip Hotel, to which the stage station was annexed, was adding on a third story. The town was much busier than before and obviously still growing. Some would call that progress, Kendrick reckoned, but he didn’t necessarily agree.

  For one thing, the kind of sudden growth spurt caused by a gold or silver strike seldom attracted the cream of the crop, people-wise. A good indication of this, in Lowdown’s case, could be seen in the area immediately to the north and west of the town’s previous boundaries. There, a jumble of hastily built shacks and tents of various sizes and condition had been erected and now spread like a rash on the land, reaching closer toward the Dos Cabezas Mountains, where the silver was discovered. Several of the shacks and tents served as living quarters for the diggers. But, Kendrick knew, sprinkled liberally amongst them would also be a number of establishments offering liquor, gambling, opium, and women—all primed to relieve the workers (not to mention any townsmen who might wander over) of their money just as soon as they showed signs of having any.

  Approaching the sheriff’s office and jail, Kendrick wondered if the same man was wearing the star these days. Next he found himself lacking a clear recollection of what the fellow’s name had been. Walters? Watkins? No … Watson, that was it. Ernie Watson. Short, bow-legged, pot-bellied. Wire-rimmed glasses with lenses so thick you could bounce a rock off them and the rock might end up the worse for wear. But despite this deceptive outer appearance, Watson had a core of rawhide and gristle. Kendrick had seen him in action once, against a pack of rowdy drunks. And when the action was over, “Ol’ Four Eyes”—as they’d been taunting him—was still standing, while the drunks had to be carried to their jail cells.