by Ralph Cotton
“I’m leaving the cuffs on and the rope around your arms,” Sam said. “If you try to make a run for it, I’ll yank your lead rope and you’ll hit the ground.”
“Yeah, and?” Phipps said as if not worried about being yanked from atop a running horse.
“And you’ll ride into Big Silver sidesaddle,” Sam warned.
“Sidesaddle . . . ?” Phipps gave him a look of disgust. “I’d sooner die and be dragged in on a rope.”
“Suit yourself,” Sam said coolly. “I’m just presenting your choices. How you arrive in Big Silver is up to you.” He reached down and started loosening the rope around the big outlaw’s knees.
Chapter 2
The Sonora Desert, Mexican badlands
“Hector, more whiskey,” Edsel Centrila said over his shoulder to Hector Mendoza. He handed his empty glass back to the middle-aged Mexican house servant.
“Sí, right away,” Hector Mendoza said. He took the whiskey glass and hurried to the office bar to refill it.
Edsel Centrila stood, cigar in hand, at the window of his office looking out across the cattle ranch he’d acquired in a land grant from the Mexican government ten years earlier. In the northeast beyond a line of blackened jagged hills lay the Mexico–United States border. To the west of his spread lay the Sonora Desert, carpeted by sand flats, occupied in perpetuity by meandering hill range and arid rock lands. Within the wavering heat saguaro cactus, tall and treelike, stared back at him with their spiny arms lifted to the white-hot sky as if held at gunpoint.
“Gracias,” he said when the Mexican brought the filled whiskey glass to him. “Send Charlie Knapp to me.”
“Sí, I send him,” the Mexican said. He waited for a second anticipating further orders.
“Then go to the barn and bring a couple of turnaround horses while I meet these two at the rail.” He nodded at two riders galloping out of the heat and white sunlight less than a hundred yards away. He recognized the two dust-covered men as the Cady brothers, Lyle and Ignacio.
“Shall I prepare room in the empty bunkhouse for them?” Hector asked, already turning toward the door.
“No,” said Centrila, “they won’t be staying long.”
As Hector Mendoza left for the barn, Centrila walked out of his office and stood on the wide stone porch of the hacienda, whiskey glass in hand, awaiting the two riders. When the Cady brothers drew closer and reined their horses down to a walk the last thirty yards, Centrila stepped down from the porch and stood at the hitch rail watching them, his right hand on his hip, close to the bone handle of a tall Colt standing in a tooled slim-jim holster.
“Howdy, Mr. Centrila,” said Lyle Cady, raising his hat an inch as he and his brother, Ignacio, stopped their horses ten feet away from the iron hitch rail. The two waited for an invitation before stepping down from their saddles. Their horses sniffed toward a horse trough full of water standing near the hitch rail.
“Howdy,” Centrila said with a growl in his voice. He gave a short jerk of his head toward the water trough and stood watching as the two led their horses over and let them drink.
“I’ll tell you first thing, Mr. Centrila,” said Lyle, letting out a tired breath. “This has been no easy ride for Iggy and me.”
“If you’re expecting to get more money, forget it,” said Centrila. “As long as this has taken, you’re lucky I don’t shoot the both of you.” As he spoke he looked the two up and down, noting the nicks and scars and bruises they had acquired since the last time he saw them. “What the hell happened anyway?” he demanded. “I sent you to get my money back from Sheriff Stone. You come back looking like you’ve been in a gun battle.”
Lyle Cady swallowed a dry knot in his throat when he saw Centrila’s hired gunman, Charlie Knapp, appear around the corner of the hacienda.
“The truth is, we have been in a gun battle. But that ain’t all that’s happened to us,” said Lyle. Beside him, Ignacio Cady turned and watched Knapp closely as his brother spoke. “We found Sheriff Stone like we said we would. He was on the trail with Ranger Burrack.”
“Sam Burrack.” Centrila considered the matter, then said, “All right, go on. Tell me how this caused you to come dragging in here a month late.” He took a deep breath and stood tapping his fingers on his gun butt. “Hadn’t been for the telegraph you sent last week, I’d have figured you collected my money from Stone and took off with it.”
“No, sir, we wouldn’t do that,” Lyle put in quickly. “Like I said in the telegraph, we didn’t get your money. Truth is, Sheriff Stone has gone plumb loco. He gets drunk and thinks he’s a wolf—”
“I don’t give a damn if he thinks he’s the president of the United Sates,” said Centrila, cutting him off. “I gave him money to bribe the judge and keep my son out of prison. Stone crawfished and never gave the money to the judge. My son, Harper, is behind bars, and I want him out.” He glared at the Cady brothers.
“It’s understandable you being upset,” Lyle said meekly. “I only wish I knew some way to—”
“You’re going to get Harper out of prison,” Centrila said, cutting the nervous Cady brother off again. He jerked his head toward Charlie Knapp, who stood watching and listening with a rifle hanging in his left hand. “Charlie’s set it up with some gunmen he knows. You two are going with him.”
“Mr. Centrila,” said Lyle, shaking his head a little, “there’s nothing that would please Iggy and me more than breaking Harper out of prison. But the thing is—”
“Good, I’m glad to hear that,” said Centrila, for the third time cutting him off. “I had already told Charlie to shoot you both if you tried to crawfish on me.” He gave a cruel grin. “You can understand how I feel about crawfishing after the way Sheriff Stone treated our deal.”
Lyle started to offer more on the matter, but Ignacio cut in before he could.
“We understand, sir,” he said, stepping over half between his brother and Centrila. “Breaking Harper out is the least we can do, as good as you’ve treated us. Say the word and we’ll kill Sheppard Stone while we’re at it, that crawfishing son of a bitch.”
“Indeed you will,” said Centrila, as if he’d planned everything before their arrival. He raised his cigar, took a deep draw, then blew gray smoke upward in a thin stream.
Lyle and Ignacio looked at each other curiously as Centrila gave them an evil grin and continued.
“Charlie will be riding along with you, to oversee things this time,” he said. He turned and looked at Knapp as Hector Mendoza led two fresh horses and Knapp’s already saddled black barb around the corner of the hacienda. “Charlie,” he said matter-of-factly, “if these two monkeys give you any trouble or try to cut out, I want you to kill them both in whatever manner you see fit.”
“My pleasure, boss,” said Knapp, touching his gloved fingers to the flat brim of his hat.
Seeing the Mexican house servant start changing their saddles and gear over to the fresh horses, Lyle Cady let out a tired dry breath.
“Mr. Centrila, I don’t mean to complain,” he said. “But my brother and I are as worn out and thirsty as our horses.” He eyed the whiskey glass in Centrila’s hand. “If we could get some grub in our bellies, something to drink and some rest—”
Centrila only stared at him. This time it was the sound of Knapp’s levering his rifle that cut him off.
Both Cadys turned warily and looked at the gunman as he stepped closer to them, holding his rifle aimed at them with one hand.
“Boys,” he said in a mild eerie voice, “let’s not get off on the wrong foot here. . . .”
The Mexican stepped back from the hastily saddled fresh horses. The Cadys’ tired horses, now bareback, still stood drinking at the trough.
“Where’s my manners?” said Centrila. “Hector, fill these gentlemen’s canteens for them.” He gestured toward the water trough, then smiled and said, “And bring me ano
ther whiskey, por favor.” He swished the remaining whiskey in his glass, raised the glass to his lips and drank it down.
Lyle and Ignacio Cady stood staring, hungry, thirsty and tired. Knapp reached up with the tip of his rifle barrel and tweaked it back and forth on Lyle’s earlobe.
“All right, you Cady brothers,” he said with a measure of contempt. “Let’s not impose on Mr. Centrila’s hospitality. You can fill your canteens along the way. Haul up out of here,” he demanded. “We’re going to ride all day, cover a lot of ground before sundown.”
The weary brothers turned to the saddled horses without reply.
Centrila grinned and stood watching as the three mounted and turned their horses toward the trail. He gave Knapp a nod when the gunman looked back over his shoulder at him. Then he spoke sidelong to the Mexican house servant.
“Hector, never mind the whiskey,” he said. “Lord Hargrove’s cattle buyer is coming today to see about purchasing all my cattle. Let’s make him feel welcome.”
“All of your cattle, señor?” Mendoza asked, surprised by the news.
“Every last head,” Centrila replied. He lifted his head and let out a stream of cigar smoke. “I’ve gone into the liquor and gaming business—for a while anyway. This happens to be a good time to sell cattle. I can always buy more when the market is down.” He smiled and drew on the cigar.
“Señor Centrila, I don’t know what to say. . . .” Mendoza gave a puzzled shrug.
“Don’t worry, Hector. Your job is safe,” the cattleman assured him. “The English only want the beef. They’re not interested in the land. I’m still the big bull here.” He looked at the Mexican and saw relief in his dark eyes. “Anyway, the deal is done. I’ve already purchased a saloon. I’ve got men taking possession until I get there.” He gazed off in reflection and smiled to himself in satisfaction.
Big Silver, Arizona Badlands
In the late afternoon, Sheriff Sheppard Stone stood on the boardwalk out in front of his office and watched workers take down the faded wooden sign atop the facade of the old Roi-Tan Saloon. He had not had a drink of whiskey or any other kind of hard liquor for a month. Not even a single sip of frothy beer, he reminded himself. Coincidently that was how long it had been since he rode with Sheriff Kay Deluna and the Ranger in pursuit of Bo Anson and his outlaws who had taken rail baron Curtis Siedell hostage. Being sober for a full month was certainly cause for celebration.
Don’t you think . . . ? a devilish voice asked inside him. He recognized that voice and knew full well where that question would take him if he weakened enough to follow it. Son of a bitch. . . . He let out a tight breath and raised his coffee cup to his lips, not sure if he was cursing the tormenting inner voice, or himself, or the sight of the bright new wooden sign being erected atop the saloon’s facade. The new sign read CENTRILA’S SILVER PALACE.
Yesterday, a faded wooden sign had been lowered from above the doors of Sergio Manuel’s cantina. Boards had been nailed up over the windows. Shortly after selling his business to Edsel Centrila, Sergio Manuel had vanished, money and all. The only drinking establishments left in town were Centrila’s Silver Palace and a run-down cantina, Mama Belleza’s, run by an elderly Mexican woman.
All right. . . . Stone let out another tight breath and sipped from his cup of coffee—this being his third full pot of the day, meaning he’d drunk—how many cups, ten, eleven since noon? Not to mention how much he’d drunk earlier during the day.
That’s a lot of coffee.
To hell with it. He’d been drinking more and more coffee. So what? He took another, larger sip and watched the workers nail and bolt the new sign into place. His fingers trembled a little as he dug down into his shirt pocket, inside a stiff little paper box, and fished out a cherry-flavored cough drop and stuck it inside his mouth.
More candy? again the devilish voice asked, taunting him.
No, it’s not candy, he countered.
Still, he smoothed down his shirt pocket and looked around as if making sure he hadn’t been seen. Since sobering up he’d gone around sucking on candy, hard rock, horehound, sugar plum sticks, anything he could get his hands on, like some spoiled schoolkid. Luckily two weeks ago the mercantile owner had set up a jar of loose Smith Brothers cough drops on the counter. Along with the jar of loose drops, he’d ordered some of the new stiff paper boxes like the one in his pocket—twenty pieces per box. He realized he was on his third box of the day. But he was sober, he reminded himself; that was the main thing.
He adjusted the big Colt standing holstered on his hip and looked away from the workers at the new Silver Palace Saloon and out at the three riders who had been galloping toward town from out across the sand flats for the past hour. At first all he’d seen was the distant rise of trail dust. Now that they’d drawn closer, riding up onto the main street, he recognized the Ranger’s big copper dun and the pearl-gray sombrero atop his head.
Figured I’d see you again before long, Ranger, he said to himself. A thin sliver of a smile came to his lips. He felt his pulse quicken a little. Even though he’d just then adjusted his Colt in its holster, he caught himself adjusting it again as he set his coffee cup on the window ledge and stepped down onto the dirt street, where he stood until the Ranger and his two prisoners slowed their horses to a walk and stopped ten feet from him. With a nod from Stone, the two handcuffed prisoners stepped their horses to the hitch rail.
Sheriff Stone eyed the two men in their saddles. He recognized them both as he walked past them to where Sam sat atop the dun with his rifle across his lap. He noted the blood on Freddie Dobbs’ shoulder, the missing shirtsleeve.
“Howdy, Ranger,” Stone said. He took the Ranger’s dun by its bridle and held it as Sam swung down from his saddle. “Where’d you run into these two sidewinders?”
“They were riding with Bern Able, robbing mine payrolls,” said Sam. He nodded at the canvas bag of money tied down atop his saddlebags. “There’s one bag from yesterday. There’s a smaller one inside it from the other day.”
Stone looked at the two prisoners again, then back at Sam.
“I’m going to guess that Bern Able didn’t take kindly to going to jail?” he queried.
“Yep, that’s true,” Sam said. “Neither did Suarez. They’re back there along the hill trail. I drug them off a ways.”
“Which one of the Suarez twins?” Stone asked, interested.
“Brandon, as far as I know,” Sam said. “That’s what Able called him. But it could be Sanford. I can’t tell the two apart.”
Stone nodded and looked around at the prisoners as if deciding whether or not Sanford “Sandy” Suarez would ride with these two.
“Sandy being a noted gunman, he might hold himself above the likes of this crowbait.”
“Take these cuffs off me, you drunken pig,” Boomer Phipps growled. “I’ll show you crowbait.” He jerked and strained his thick wrists against the handcuffs.
“That’s enough of that, Boomer,” Sam said. “Both of you get down and get inside.” He looked at Stone. “Freddie’s got a bullet in him that needs to be cut out.”
Stone gave him a look.
“I didn’t shoot him,” Sam said. “Suarez’s gun went off and nailed him before he died.”
“Just my luck I caught the bullet with my shoulder,” Dobbs said in a bitter tone. He and Boomer stepped down and stood beside their horses at the hitch rail.
“My offer still stands, Sheriff Whiskey-head,” Boomer Phipps taunted. “Take these cuffs off and I’ll clean this street with your hide.” He rattled the cuffs on his wrists.
Sam saw Stone start to take a step toward the big outlaw. But the seasoned lawman caught himself and took a deep breath.
“I’ll send for the doctor,” Stone said quietly, ignoring Boomer’s threat. He raised a hand and waved in a young man as the two prisoners stood looking the town over. Townsfolk had st
arted looking toward the sheriff’s office curiously.
When Stone had sent the young boy hurrying off to the doctor’s residence, he and Sam ushered the two prisoners inside the sheriff’s office.
“How’ve you been, Sheriff?” Sam asked, seeing a sour look come over Stone’s face as he gazed off through the window at the new saloon sign.
“Have I been staying sober, is what you’re wanting to ask me, Ranger?” Stone said.
“If I wanted to ask you that, I would have,” Sam said. He looked Stone up and down. “Something bothering you, Sheriff?” he asked, his tone no less bristly than the sheriff’s.
Stone let out a breath.
“Pay me no mind, Ranger,” he said. “I’ve been high-strung as a tomcat all day.” He gestured out the front window in the direction of the saloon. “We get these yahoos locked up, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Chapter 3
In a cell inside the sheriff’s office, a former army surgeon named Dr. Morris Tierney had laid out his surgical instruments on a small table the sheriff brought in and set up for him beside Dobbs’ bunk. Dobbs swallowed a lump in his throat and kept quiet, looking at the sharp cutting tools. After a quick inventory of his instruments the doctor poured a few drops of chloroform onto a folded cloth and pressed it over Freddie Dobbs’ nose and mouth. Boomer Phipps watched closely from an adjoining cell. Sheriff Stone and the Ranger watched from outside the cell until they were certain Dobbs was unconscious. As the doctor picked up and inspected the edge and point on a thin scalpel, Stone nodded toward the boardwalk and the two lawmen turned and walked out the front door. Noting the tremor in Stone’s hands, Sam looked him up and down as the sheriff fished a bag of tobacco from his shirt pocket and begin to roll himself a smoke.
“It’s nothing, Ranger,” Stone said, his hands settling a little as he smoothed a rolling paper and formed it in his fingers. “I’m used to pulling a cork after jailing a couple of hard cases. Riding dry takes some getting used to.” He bit the edge of the cloth drawstring tobacco pouch and pulled it open. “I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss it.”