The Red River Ring

by Randy D. Smith

  “Good place for it,” Thad said softly.

  “Careful, Thad,” Del said.

  Pommel studied both men. He could tell that Del was unsure of whether he could speak bluntly. He leaned close to the table and spoke softly.

  “Bent’s no friend of mine. I’m here to learn some things. Whatever either of you have to say will go no further.”

  Dell nodded. “Go ahead, Thad. I can’t imagine this hombre riding with the likes of them.”

  “They call Bent, Black Tom. The name’s got nothing to do with his looks. He’s a bad one and capable of anything. Colredge ain’t no better. What Bent does with his guns, Colredge does with pen and ink. They’ve swindled and hood winked just about every property owner in a fifty-mile circle of Pampa. Ain’t nothing goes on without their approval and nothing gets done without their say-so.”

  “What about the law?” Pommel asked after a drink of his beer.

  “Ain’t no law in Pampa except Black Tom’s law. He owns the sheriff, the judges and the town marshal. A neighbor of mine named Maddock went to the Rangers to ask for help. We never saw Maddock again and no Ranger ever darkened our door.”

  “I never knew a bunch of Texans to take something like this lying down. I’m surprised you fellows didn’t have a yard party with hemp and oak,” Pommel said.

  “Tom Bent’s got forty riders. They’re some of the meanest, no accounts you ever laid eyes on. Gun hands all,” Del said. “Besides that, Bent brings money into town and spends it. He keeps this town and several of the merchants afloat. He and Colredge own the bank and manage it all. Those that play along do well. Those that don’t either move on or disappear.”

  “What about you two?”

  “At our age it ain’t that hard to sort of disappear. All I’m looking for is a sunny porch and a rocking chair. As long as I can manage, I ain’t about to buck the Ring,” Del said as Thad nodded agreement.

  “The Ring?” Pommel asked.

  “They are called the Red River Ring by those too scared to call them by name. Probably cause they control the Red and all the land surrounding it.”

  “Then what stops them?” Pommel asked.

  “An old kraut in Silverton named Blomberg has enough sway with Austin and enough wealth to hold them back. He’s backed up by a bunch of small ranchers along the Palo Duro. Blomberg isn’t strong enough to come up here and clean out the Ring and the Ring can’t manage to take on Blomberg and the ranchers. So, they chip away at the ranchers along the Palo Duro. One of those ranches is controlled by your sons.”

  “I thought you weren’t sure of what was going on?” Pommel asked abruptly.

  “I just now put it together,” Del said triumphantly. “Actually I knew the ranch was run by the McMurphy brothers and blurted that they was your sons just to see how you reacted.”

  “Now we both got secrets,” Pommel said with a steel eyed stare that caused Del Hammond to twist uncomfortably in his chair. “Nobody needs to know who I am or what I’m doing.”

  “Sure,” Del said uncomfortably. “I get your drift. Thad and me got nothing to tell anyone hereabouts.”

  “Right,” Thad said with a firm nod.

  Pommel smiled and took a last swig of beer. “Hell, I know that. You boys got nothing to do but time. I didn’t mean to put you off.”

  “No offense taken,” Del said with a sigh of relief as Thad nodded.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around in ten or twelve years,” Pommel said as he rose from the table. “The next two is on me, fellows.”

  He tossed another eagle on the bar and signaled to the bartender that it went for a round for the boys as he left the building.

  Thad leaned back in his chair and sighed. “That fellow’s eyes could melt lead. Hell, he’s as scary as Black Tom.”

  “He’s one hell of a trail boss. They say he was the best there was,” Del said. “The trouble is that he always worked out of east Texas. I never knew he had interests out here, much less a bunch of sons. There’s more going on here than a feller can figure.”

  “You gonna find out?” Thad asked.

  Del smiled and shook his head. “Hell, no. I don’t want to know nothing. The less I know the less I can tell and the happier he and I will both be.”

  Thad nodded.

  It was easy enough to find Colredge’s office. Colredge and Bent Land, Grain and Cattle was painted on the second story windows above the mortuary. A narrow enclosed hall stairway behind a street door in the middle of the building led to the second story office.

  Pommel entered the office without knocking. A male bookkeeper rose from his desk and asked uncomfortably if he could be of help.

  “I’m looking for Nab Colredge,” Pommel said eyeing the door behind the bookkeeper.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the bookkeeper asked uncomfortably.

  “Do I need one?” Pommel asked.

  “Uh, no, I guess you don’t. We’re about ready to close for the day. May I tell him who you are?”

  “Soap Withers.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Withers. I’ll tell him you’re wanting to see him.”

  The bookkeeper went through the door. He returned quickly with a smile.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Withers. Go right in. Mr. Colredge says he’s eager to see you.”

  The smile left Colredge’s face when Pommel stepped through the door. He glanced toward a second man sitting near a window and appeared confused. Colredge was a balding, well-dressed man in his fifties with a gray handle bar mustache. The other man was in his thirties, short, dark, slim. A pair of Colt revolvers were hanging from his hips butt forward, each holster on a separate belt crossed over the other.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. I thought my secretary stated that you were Soap Withers,” Colredge said.

  “I’m a friend of Soap’s. I guess the secretary misunderstood,” Pommel said.

  “What can I do for you?” Colredge asked.

  Pommel eyed the man by the window and stepped to the side to give him an angle to view both men at the same time. “Soap says you’re looking for gun hands. Men willing to do hard labor and ask no questions for a hundred dollars.”

  “Soap talks too much,” the man at the window said.

  “I’m always looking for riders,” Colredge said as he slowly opened his desk center drawer.

  “I’m your man,” Pommel said.

  “You appear to be a well dressed man. Perhaps a little too well dressed for the line of work I have in mind,” Colredge said after a pause.

  “Maybe I’m just good at my job,” Pommel said.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” the man at the window said.

  “I didn’t throw it. I guess I don’t know yours either.”

  “This is Burt Blake. He runs a freighting and stage company here in Pampa for me,” Colredge said.

  Pommel eyed Blake closely. “He’s pretty well heeled for a freight clerk.”

  “Tough country. I protect the line’s interests,” Blake answered.

  “Always wondered why some fellers saw fit to carry two pistols. Always wondered if they couldn’t get the job done with just one,” Pommel said.

  Blake smiled coldly. “Some fellows can take on bigger jobs than other fellows.”

  Pommel nodded and smiled. “My name’s Pommel McMurphy. I used to trail boss out of the Plateau country. Trail driving’s dried up with the railroads and I’m looking for work.”

  Blake laughed softly and shook his head. “And Soap Withers sent you to us?”

  Colredge slowly slid his hand toward the open drawer. “Where is Soap?”

  “Soap’s buried under a mesquite tree near twenty-mile oak on the Palo Duro.”

  Blake stiffened in his chair. Colredge moved his hand back from the drawer.

  “He died of a drafty shirt. Somebody put a hole clean through it. All the way in one side and out the back.”

  Colredge smiled uneasily. “Soap should have been more careful.”

  Pommel placed
one foot on a chair by Colredge’s desk, leaned on his knee, tipped back his hat and smiled. “That’s what he said to me. Said he should have been more careful. There he was trying to do one job and ended up getting aced by another with a similar plot in mind.”

  “What plot was that?” Colredge asked uneasily.

  Pommel stepped around the desk, looked down at Colredge and slowly closed the center drawer. “Bushwhackers come in all sizes and types. Some are dressed like bums and have to scramble for every penny. Others come well dressed, don’t much need the money, and just plain enjoy the sport of it all. One kind is slinky and doesn’t do very well. The other kind is careful, good at the work and don’t miss. It’s that second kind to worry about. He’ll give one warning, mostly out of sport, then he’ll just shoot the son-of-a-bitch the first chance he gets.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Colredge said harshly.

  “How about you, two-gun? Will you keep that in mind as well?”

  Blake’s hands closed on the arms of his chair. He wondered how clear his guns were and whether he could clear leather from a sitting position. He nodded slowly.

  “You might make it with the left pistol but the right is wedged under the chair arm. No wait, now my right is your left. Kind of confusing, ain’t it?” Pommel said coldly.

  “Maybe I should stand up,” Blake said.

  “Better do it fast two-gun. I’ll blow you through that window if you’re too slow.”

  Blake sat uneasily for a few tense moments then slowly shook his head.

  Pommel smiled and slowly went for the door. “Well, I sure enjoyed our visit. I hope you boys got as much out of it as I did. I wouldn’t come through this door for a spell until I was sure the stairway was clear. It’s dark and a fellow could fall or something.”

  “Perhaps we’ll run into each other again,” Colredge said.

  “Hope not. They’ll be some dying to do if that happens. But then, if you and the Ring steer clear of the Palo Duro, you shouldn’t have to worry.”

  The door closed and Pommel was gone.

  Colredge sat in a pale stare at the door. Blake examined the position of his holsters, turned his chair and watched the street below.

  “Shit, that was a surprise,” Colredge finally said.

  “Never did see him leave. You suppose he’s waiting in the stairway?” Blake asked.

  “No, he’ll pack out. He made his show and gave his warning. That’s all he intended.”

  “What now?”

  “Tom won’t be back for several days. Get McPherson and some of the boys. See if you can find where this guy is laid up. I will feel a lot easier if you can shoot his ass off.”

  “What about the raid?”

  “Soap didn’t know about the raid so he couldn’t have told. Tom wants to close out the McMurphys in one big hit. This guy’s showing up won’t change that a bit. We need to move fast before any other sons-a-bitches come out of the woodwork.”

  “What do you know about this guy?”

  “Nothing. He left long before I came here. Tom knows something about him and of course there’s the connection with Pac.”

  “What do you suppose Tom will do?”

  “What does Tom always do?”

  “Right. I’ll get the boys and see if we can break his trail in the morning.”

  “You do that.”

  Colredge opened his desk drawer and lifted a Remington .41 double barrel derringer to the desk top. He opened it and checked the loads. It was loaded.

  Chapter V

  I

  The gunsmith shop had a lamp lit so Pommel decided that he needed to pay a visit before leaving town. He had no idea how long it would be before he would see a settlement again.

  A dark headed, portly man was sitting at a workbench working on the internal mechanisms of a revolver. He turned his swivel chair and removed his magnifying glasses.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

  “I need two or three boxes of .44/40 Winchester cartridges,” Pommel answered. “I want to look at your long range rifles if you have any for sale.”

  “Ain’t got much in the way of Winchesters. I got a couple of new Ballard Sporting rifles and some odds and ends.”

  Pommel’s eyes ranged over the small arrangement of rifles scattered along the wall behind the counter. “What about the three-band Enfield? Is it for sale?”

  “Sure is. Not many are interested in those old muzzleloaders now-a-days, especially infantry rifles.” The gunsmith drew down an exceptionally well cared for rifle-musket and handed it over. “I don’t know how many were carried in the war but it was a bunch.”

  Pommel examined it carefully. It was a standard issue Three-band Enfield .577 caliber infantry rifle with elevated sights and sling.

  “I took it in trade from a fellow who said he used it for guard duty at Brownsville. He said that he doubted the gun had been fired a hundred times,” the gunsmith said. “You got an interest in such a thing?”

  “I carried one just like it for three years a while back,” Pommel said. “In the right hands it can knock a man out of the saddle at six hundred yards.”

  “Sounds like you know.”

  “I do. Have you any Minie balls for it?”

  “Only a few but I got a bullet mold, tin of percussion caps and some bar lead I can throw in. If you’ll take it, I’d let the works go for five dollars.”

  “That don’t sound like much for a gun in such good shape,” Pommel said.

  “Nobody wants these guns anymore. Everyone wants a cartridge model or a carbine. It might sit on the shelf for years before anyone else took an interest in it. I sell them. I ain’t got no interest in collecting them,” the gunsmith said with a smile.

  “I’m in the same saddle,” Pommel said. “Twenty years ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated but for what I have in mind, I’m going to need a good long-range repeater.”

  “Long-range repeater, huh? You talk like a man who appreciates a fine rifle. How much are you willing to spend?”

  “What have you got?” Pommel asked.

  “Just a minute, I’ll get it,” the gunsmith said.

  He stepped into a back room and returned with one of the finest Model 1873 Winchesters McMurphy had ever seen.

  “I bought this Winchester Model 1873 Sporting Rifle from a spike hunter when he needed a grub stake,” the gunsmith said as he carefully placed the long blue rifle on the counter. “One thing about those buffalo hunters. They knew their rifles. He claimed he ordered this one from the factory. It’s got a thirty inch octagon barrel, buckhorn rear sights adjustable to four hundred yards, pistol grip hand checkered walnut butt stock and some of the finest case hardening I’ve ever seen on a receiver. It doesn’t have an ounce of rust or a scratch on it. I doubt there is a finer ’73 in West Texas.”

  “What’s the caliber?” Pommel asked as he lifted the Winchester and admired the tiger striped walnut forearm and stock.

  “It’s a .44/40 Winchester Centerfire just like your Remington. The spike hunter claimed it was his backup rifle to his Sharps. You know, in case of trouble. Look what he had engraved on the brass plate on the bottom of the receiver.”

  Pommel turned the rifle and smiled as he read the engraving. “Gravedigger. Seems appropriate.”

  “I ain’t claiming it’s a one-in-a-thousand rifle, but if it ain’t, it should be. It will group five rounds inside an inch at a hundred yards.”

  “How much?” Pommel asked.

  The gunsmith hesitated before answering. “I’ve got to have two hundred dollars for it. I think the right man will pay the price.”

  Pommel smiled as he levered the action and drew the rifle to his shoulder. It was a big gun, heavy, finely crafted, and smooth. “He will. Throw in three boxes of cartridges and a cartridge belt and I’ll give you two – ten.”

  “Mister, I like the way you think. Heck, I’ll throw in a horn loop scabbard if you pay in coin.”

  “Deal,” Pommel said as he drew a coin pur
se from his vest and counted out four fifty-dollar Eagles and a ten-dollar bill.

  “Most men would have hesitated. They wouldn’t have realized the value of such a gun,” the gunsmith said as he placed a scabbard on the counter. “If you don’t mind my asking, what do you want this Winchester for?”

  Pommel began pushing .44-40 cartridges through the loading gate. “I know what it will do. I have a Remington revolving carbine on my saddle but I’m going to need something that can shoot a ways. I got plenty of firepower for close in shooting.”

  “Yes, sir. I was admiring that Remington revolver in your holster. I haven’t seen very many nickel-plated revolvers in these parts. You work for Bent and Colredge?”

  “Why do you ask?” Pommel asked shaking his head.

  “Most of those boys like their guns. They tend to carry the better stuff.”

  “What about Burt Blake?”

  “He’s a gun hand, that’s for sure. One of the fastest around.”

  “Who’s the fastest?”

  “Ain’t no one faster than Pac McMurphy. I never seen anyone who can draw and fire so accurately with such speed. He carries a little double action .41 Colt Lightning. He can make it dance.”

  “Is he a gunman?”

  “Naw, I doubt Pac has ever shot a thing other than varmints, tin cans and bottles. But he practices everyday and I’ve seen him in action.”

  “Up here?”

  “Sure, he rides into Pampa every week or so.”

  “I thought the McMurphys were on the outs with this town,” Pommel said.

  “Not Pac. Those other two wouldn’t set foot in Pampa but Pac gets along real good with Tom Bent. They’ve been friends ever since Pac was just a pup.”

  Pommel thanked the gunsmith, gathered his goods and loaded his saddle bags. After securing the scabbard to the horn and slipping the Winchester crossways through the loop, he climbed aboard the sorrel stud. After he was clear from town and had time to daydream, his thoughts drifted to Pac McMurphy. With everything that was going on he didn’t understand why Pac would set foot near Pampa. Pommel wondered if the lad was being used or if he was just no good. Whatever the reason for his being in Pampa, he could be used in a trap or as a hostage. The other alternative was that Pac was in league with the Ring, perhaps working to undermine his brothers to win control of the ranch. He needed to confide in someone. He thought of Mary. After all he was her boy. He spurred his sorrel on. He wanted to make the hill country before dawn. He was certain that Colredge would send riders after him.