Nemesis

by L. J. Martin

  I took my coffee and started away, and she called out, “You be back here in fifteen minutes and there’s side pork, biscuits, gravy, and a dollop of homemade apple butter.”

  “My pleasure, but we might ought to eat on the trail, as this fellow out in the sage don’t look to have too much time.”

  “Should I come with you?” she asked.

  “Nothing to do but haul him to the doc.”

  We got him loaded onto the bed of the grain wagon, but he didn’t last through the effort, and was going cold by the time McGregor got it turned in the brush and back to the house.

  The reverend paused before dismounting the seat and said a quiet prayer. I had my own thoughts on what I’d pray for the lowlife, but kept them to myself. If he was the Mexican known as Enrico Zaragosa, who Angel had told me was the Lazy Snake Mexican rider, and who was known as Rico to his chums, then I was another step closer climbing the ladder of revenge.

  It was polite of Rico to give up the ghost before we sat out to town, as it allowed us to set around a table to breakfast, albeit a little glum on the McGregor’s part as there was a stiffening Mexican just outside the kitchen door. As for me, it was all I could do not to break out in song.

  We saved enough for brindle top, Alfred, I guess he said was his handle, and I untied him and allowed him to eat, but I hoped doing so while under the gun would give him indigestion. Then I stoutly retied him for the trip to town.

  We were a sight, Reverend McGregor in frock coat and top hat with the traces, Maddy, at his side in a simple yellow calico dress and matching bonnet; Alfred with a bloody head bandage, the Mexican cadaver with a flat wide-brimmed hat resting on his chest—I’d removed the bandoliers as they held forty rounds for my new Yellow Boy—and Ranger, swaddled in a bloody wrap, all in the back of the grain wagon. And me astride Dusty, with an all but brand new 1866 Yellow Boy King’s Improved Winchester in the scabbard under my knee. About the only thing good I can say about ol’ Rico, the boy took good care of his weapons.

  I was beginning to like town. Since leaving lots of possessions behind in my Salmon country cabin, I’d acquired even more.

  For the first time, I was to meet Dr. Simon Ironsmith, who I was to learn was the barber, Isaac Ironsmith’s brother, and who’s office was in his fairly new house on the west end of town. I found it a little strange that Isaac had talked about damn near everything under the sun, but had not mentioned that his brother was the only doctor, dentist, and undertaker in the territory. Simon, too, was tall and white haired, but without the rosy red alcoholic nose. Which I found to be a good trait for a physician to fight shy of.

  He sprinkled a little alcohol on Alfred’s ear stub, which I quickly informed him was not the reason for the visit, and dressed it properly with a patch, then looked at Ranger’s chest wound, which was the reason we’d darkened his door. Informing me it was too late to stitch anything up, and that he wasn’t a dog doc but was happy as the dog seemed to have saved some human lives, he complimented me on stuffing the wound, said to watch out for proud flesh, and sent us on our way. We left the Mexican in Doc Ironside’s care, overpaid paid him with a ten dollar gold piece from Rico’s pocket—I doubt now if he’ll turn any dogs down as patients—and I excused myself for my office.

  Reverend McGregor was happy to accept half the other thirty Rico had in his pocket, saying the devil would hate to see Rico’s money go to doing the Lord’s work, and anything the devil hated was just fine with him. The McGregor’s headed to Mayor Pointer’s store for supplies. I planned to head there later myself, and was smiling as I could pay with Rico’s gold, and Rico wasn’t so rico anymore.

  It was still yet to reach nine o’clock in the morning, when I knew Natchez Pete’s trial was to begin, so, after depositing Alfred in a cell, I headed for the Mystic Palace.

  Judge Thorne was in the parlor sipping what I presumed to be coffee and reading a Leslie’s Illustrated, and I took the liberty of joining him. The Mystic had been built by a retired Whaler, who I had learned was back in Mystic, Connecticut. The place was fancy, as railroad towns go, and even had a small restaurant, but catered to guests only, so I’d avoided it. Judge Thorne was a guest.

  “Tag, you like a little tea?”

  “Never developed the taste for the stuff. Not enough bones in it for me.”

  “Coffee then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He yelled and a Chinaman appeared, and hustled away to fill the judge’s wishes.

  “I figured you’d be at the church?” The trial was to be held there as it was the only place in town with enough seating.

  “Trial’s put off. Still have a couple of witnesses who haven’t showed up yet.”

  “Good, then you might like to do me a favor?”

  “Which is,” he asked, showing a little interest.

  “You know that law abiding rancher you’re always bragging on?”

  He knew exactly who I meant, but played dumb. “I don’t brag on any rancher I know of, Tag.”

  “Colonel Dillon, who you say is not above the law.”

  He gave me a cold stare. And when I didn’t back down, spat out, “God damn it, Slade, you do that just to rile me? A hell of a way to ask a favor.”

  I smiled a little sheepishly. “You’re right, judge. It’s just that these old boys who think they own the country, and the law, and even the free graze, get my goat.”

  He seemed to calm down a little, so I continued. “I want to take a ride out to the Lazy Snake and have a chat with the Colonel.”

  “He’ll be in town next Sunday for church.”

  “Too long. I think I need to have this chat while things are fresh in my mind.”

  “What things?”

  The Chinaman arrived with my coffee, so I waited for him to leave.

  “How about him sending his boys into shoot me down in my bed.”

  “The hell you say, I don’t think Dillon—“

  “I just delivered another of his boys to the digger, and another newly hired hand to jail.”

  “Who?”

  “Who what?”

  “Who went to the digger?”

  “Lucky shot from my Army Colt put down a Mexican. Rico, I think he was called.”

  “You know this Mexican to be Rico, Dillon’s man?”

  “Nope, but I can’t think of anyone else who’s on the prod for me. They came right out to McGregor’s, held them at gunpoint, shot my dog, and I’m sure had intent to fill me full of lead.”

  “Let me finish my tea and my newspaper, and we’ll go take a look at this Mexican. I know most of Dillon’s men, by sight at least.”

  “Fine. I got a few things to pick up at Pointers, then I’ll walk you down.”

  I started out, and was stopped by the judge’s voice. “Slade, I have no reason to think Dillon is on the prod for you, to use your words. Just because you had a row with Cavanaugh—“

  “Twice, with the scum who’s supposed to be Dillon’s shooter—“

  “Who said that? Cavanaugh is a cowhand now, no matter his past.”

  “And I’m Saint Peter and you’re President Grant.”

  “There you go again, Slade. Don’t be smart.” Then he laughed, and added, “and how come you’re a saint and I’m a mere president?”

  I laughed as well, but continued on point. “He’s a shooter, if a damn dumb one, and Toole was Dillon’s man.”

  The judge got serious again. “That was over him cheating at cards. It had nothing to do with Dillon.”

  “Seems to me there’s a common thread showing up here. So you think that bunch who showed up last night just came for tea?”

  “Alright, alright. You go run your errand, I’ll finish my tea and paper, and we’ll go see if this Mexican is really Dillon’s man.”

  “Then you can visit the man I have in jail, who was with them last night, and then we can take a ride out to see this law abiding cattleman?”

  “If it’s like you say it is, we can.”

  I don�
��t know why I should, but I’m looking forward to going right into the hornet’s nest, and seeing the look on Dillon’s face when I’m on his own porch. I doubt if he’ll try anything with the judge along, but I’ll bet the temerity of my actions, that he’ll consider it a royal insult, will prod him into getting a little reckless—and I want them coming after me, for I have a plan. He’s damn sure irritated and out of sorts already, as I’m sure the rider who accompanied Rico to the McGregor’s was ol’ scar face Willy Stark, as one of the horses was shy a right rear shoe. And he would have ridden straight back to the Lazy Snake to report the fact he’d left Rico in the brush, probably thinking him dead.

  And I am pleased that his mistake turned out to be true. Two down, one out of commission again, maybe forever as that boot heel to the ribcage, with any luck, drove a rib splinter through a lung. Things are looking up.

  Should be an interesting afternoon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The judge seemed shocked to the core when he saw Rico, pennies on his eyes, in the pine box which Doc Ironsmith had already had delivered.

  “No need to talk to the other fella,” Thorne said. “This is Dillon’s man, and if you want me to ride out there with you, let’s head for Pettibone’s and get Phinias to rig up a buggy. I’m not riding one of those crowbaits he rents out.”

  Leaving Dusty with Phinias, placing my new Winchester on the floor of the buggy, I joined Judge Thorne to ride in style out to the Snake.

  It was a thirty minute trot to the Lazy Snake headquarters, twenty five of it on the ranch. I’d been told the place was in excess of a hundred thousand acres, and have no reason to doubt.

  A cowhand in a field not more than a mile from the house spotted us and rode over close enough to see faces, then without even a wave whipped up his pony and pounded away toward ranch headquarters.

  And the last half mile to the headquarters was imposing. The lane was lined with poplars and the last quarter mile of the fences were flat board, whitewashed, as were all the outbuildings…even the privies to serve the barn and bunkhouse and one smaller house I figured to be that of a foreman gleamed sparkling white in the sun.

  The house itself was two storied with a pair of full grown elms in it’s front yard, and I guessed the colonel had been impressed by the plantations in the south, which he’d obviously taken note of before he put the torch to them. Six well-milled columns rose across the front; were I a student of Roman or Greek architecture I’d venture a guess as to their design origin. He was a man who appreciated the finer things, as I should have surmised by the silk shirts and diamond stickpin.

  As we approached the hitching rail, a few feet in front of a white picket fence that enclosed the house, some of the local scum began to gather up behind, a few of them with work gloves, a few with bare hands and side arms ready for blood work, should it come to that. Arms folded in front of them were indications of our welcome. I felt like a laying hen trying to disguise myself as a chick in a golden eagle’s nest.

  “He’s a humble sort, ain’t he,” I said to the judge, who didn’t bother to answer.

  No one greeted us or said a word as we dismounted the buggy and walked up the pavement stones to the wide stairway leading to the railed porch. I could feel the judge’s palpable discomfort, and smiled inwardly. Maybe he was beginning to understand that Dillon was little more than a tyrant, who, as I had suggested often, thought himself above the law.

  I stopped short when I recognized Willy Stark, hard to miss with the ugly scar bisecting his cheek and I pulled up short. “Hey, Willy.”

  He looked a little stupid for a moment, then answered from five deep in the crowd. “Yeah.”

  “You get that rear shoe fixed yet?”

  “What rear shoe?”

  “The one your sorrel is missing. You got to be careful with something like that. Folks will know where you been and what you been doing.”

  He reddened in the face, but said no more, and I mounted the stairs.

  I rapped on the door, a little louder than might seem polite.

  It quickly swung aside.

  “Good afternoon, Chang,” the judge, who’d snatched his hat off a little too deferentially for my taste, said to the Chinese gentleman who stood politely aside and waved us in.

  “Gentleman of house…dressing,” Chang said, and led us into a sitting room, where a pot of hot coffee already rested, steaming, on a side table, along with three cups. The rider had wasted no time informing them of the coming “guests.”

  Chang poured a cup for each of us, offered sugar and crème which the judge accepted, then disappeared.

  It was ten minutes before Dillon strode in, dressed in soft wool pants, moccasins, and a smoking jacket over a silk shirt. The bulge at his side told me he was heeled, and I suspected a gambler’s pistol in a pocket of the jacket…he expected me, all right.

  “What brings you fellas this far out in the country?” he asked, shaking hands with the judge, ignoring me, and taking a seat across the room.

  “Seems the marshal here had a little trouble last night,” the judge offered, sipping his coffee.

  I heard the front door close softly, and saw Shank Cavanaugh and another Lazy Snake rider, a young blond fella with fine features, cross in front of the doorway, and heard the scraping of chair legs on the polished entry floor. Obviously, they were backup in case things got a little out of hand in the parlor.

  “How so?” Dillon asked, and walked over and poured himself a cup, giving an irritated look at the door where Chang had disappeared.

  “Tell him,” the judge said, directing his command to me.

  “Some might think it trouble, I thought of it as getting rid of some scum.”

  “How so?” Dillon asked again.

  “Five fellas, two of them Lazy Snake riders for sure, came calling in the black of night. One of them caught a slug in the back, one of the ones they accompanied, is in my jail, Stark’s right outside, he was one of the scum suckin’ pigs, and the other two are most likely cowering out in your bunkhouse, or somewhere hereabout, and someone’s been pickin’ buckshot out of one ol’ boy’s backside.”

  Dillon’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a tight line before he finally spoke.

  “Are you accusing Lazy Snake riders of something illegal. I fired Rico Zaragosa yesterday—“

  “I didn’t say who it was,” I said, smiling a little too broadly.

  “He’s the only Lazy Snake rider missing,” Dillon snapped.

  “So, you’ve got a hundred thousand or so acres and a half dozen range shacks and you know where every man is?”

  “I run this ranch, Slade, and yes, I know where every man is.”

  “And I guess you had supper with all the boys last night?”

  He turned to Thorne. “Are you part of this inquisition, judge?”

  “I rode out here with the marshal as he seemed to think it might not be safe for him to come alone.”

  Dillon guffawed. “Damn sure wouldn’t, he comes here accusing me and my men. I’d have him horsewhipped right now, were you not here.”

  “Thanks, judge,” I said, ignoring the colonel, “as I’d hate to have to put a bunch of ugly Lazy Snake boys in the ground, should they try and take a whip to me.”

  “Humph,” the colonel managed, then turned to the judge. “The fact is,” Dillon said, “we took delivery on a new bull yesterday, General Napoleon, a pure bred Aberdeen angus, an angus doddie, long of loin and weather resistant, all the way from back east. Bred by Ian MacTavish. I’d called all the boys in from the range to take place in the celebration. All but Enrico Zaragosa, who I fired day before yesterday.”

  “I guess it would be impolite to drink a fellas coffee and call him a liar.”

  “Damned impolite, and damned dangerous,” he said, fire in his eyes.

  But I kept it up. “You said, just a few minutes ago, you fired Rico yesterday, not day before yesterday. You having trouble keeping your facts straight, Dillon?”

&nbs
p; He sputtered, but merely glared.

  “Long of loin, eh,” I said. “Sounds like expensive hamburger.”

  “More than you’ll make in a lifetime, Slade,” he snapped. “Now get the hell out of my home.”

  “Tough country, hope he makes it,” I said, a casual smile crossed my face, which seemed to infuriate the Colonel even more.

  “You son-of-a-bitch, don’t you threaten me or mine, and no man calls me a liar.” He was on his feet, red in the face, his hand in the pocket of his smoking jacket. I lay a hand casually on the butt of my Army Colt, hoping he’d pull the pistol and not try my shoot-through-the-pocket trick.

  Cavanaugh and his cohort appeared in the doorway, but their iron was still holstered.

  “Enough,” Thorne snapped, also rising. “So, you deny any of your men were involved in this incident at the McGregor’s?”

  “You know better than to even ask that insulting question, judge,” Dillon said, spittle flying.

  “Well, he has spoken,” I said, rising at the same time, stressing the he as if it was the Lord to whom I was referring.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Colonel,” I said.

  “Thank Chang,” he said, “had I been sure it was you, he could have saved the grounds.”

  “Somehow, had you been sure it was me, I think it would have been rat poison,” I guffawed, and it seemed to irritate him even more, but his hand was out of the pocket.

  “Come again, judge,” he said, ignoring me, “and leave this son-of-a-bitch in town.” Then he turned to me. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out, Slade. And don’t be caught on Lazy Snake property ever again, soon as you cross the line back into town don’t ever head back. You’ll be shot for a trespasser you darken my door again.”

  “Damn, and the coffee was right fine. Thank Chang for me.” As I headed for the door, I said to the judge who was trailing behind, loud enough that Dillon could hear. “And you thought old man Dillon didn’t think he was above the law. What do you think now?”

  I pushed between Cavanaugh and the other fella, and got a good look at him for the first time. He was blue eyed, much the same eyes as Colonel Dillon had, only the Colonels were cold and icy, and this boy’s seemed wide and inquiring. I’ll bet he’s the colonel’s nephew, who Lizzy had mentioned. I was hoping to get a chance to give Dillon’s shooter another poke in the ribs, but he covered up and stepped back. I guess he’d had enough of me and his rib cage clashing.