That loyalty ran both ways.
Smoke saw Cal picking himself up and recognized the burning intensity and determination in the young man’s eyes as he took off his hat and used it to slap some of the dust from his clothes. “Why don’t we switch it around and go double or nothing?” he suggested to Pearlie. “Cal looks like he’s gonna get back on that horse, but I’ve decided there’s no way he can ride it.”
“That boy can plumb do whatever he sets his mind to,” Pearlie said with a stubborn look on his face. “I ain’t got two saddles, though, so I can’t go double or nothin’.”
“Forget the saddle,” Smoke said, enjoying the bantering with one of his oldest friends. “If you win, I’ll ask Sally to make a double batch of bear sign. If you win, they might get a little stale before you could finish them off—”
Pearlie grunted. “Not much chance o’ that. I’d have all them buzzards in cowboy hats swarmin’ around me, beggin’ me to share. But what if you win the bet?”
“Then no bear sign for you.”
Pearlie’s eyes widened in horror. “You mean—”
“I mean you’ll have to give me your word of honor you won’t eat any doughnuts until we get back from Arizona.”
“But that . . . that just ain’t fair! You can’t ask a fella to give up somethin’ he loves so much, ’specially at Christmastime!”
Smoke’s broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “It’s up to you.”
Pearlie glanced into the corral, where Cal was taking a deep breath. The young puncher strode toward the big black horse. The cowboys who had jumped into the corral had caught the horse and were holding tightly to its harness.
“Let me back on there,” Cal said.
“Better not, kid,” one of the men said. “This devil’s liable to kill you if you try to ride him again.”
“No, he won’t. I’m gonna get the best of him this time.”
“I’ll take that bet, Smoke,” Pearlie said.
Smoke nodded to the punchers, who were looking at him to see if he wanted Cal to take another crack at the horse. They continued hanging on tightly to the animal’s harness as Cal put his foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle.
“Come on, Cal! You can do it!” Then the foreman added under his breath, “I got a hell of a lot ridin’ on this.”
The cowboys let go of the harness and stepped back hurriedly.
Instantly, the horse started pitching and swapping ends. Cal clamped his knees against the horse’s flanks and hung on for dear life.
It was a wild ride, and with every bone-jarring, tooth-rattling maneuver by the horse, the men around the corral shouted encouragement to Cal. Smoke thought the youngster looked a little green around the gills, although it was hard to say for sure with so much dust in the air.
Smoke had been to several cowboy contests called rodeos that had sprung up in recent years. In those competitions, a man had to ride a bucking bronc for a certain amount of time in order to qualify for a prize. There was no such time limit on the Sugarloaf. Cal would have surpassed it several times over already. No matter how long the ride seemed to Smoke, he was sure it felt a lot longer to Cal. The young puncher was the one who was taking the pounding.
Only two possible outcomes existed for that battle of man against horse. Cal might be thrown again, or the horse would give up and turn gentle. Despite the bet Smoke had made with Pearlie, he honestly figured Cal was going to emerge victorious. He hoped so.
The horse began to look like it was weakening. Cal looked like he was about to be sick or pass out. Which of the combatants would give up first?
The horse’s gyrations slowed. Its head drooped. It gave a couple more halfhearted bucks, then came to a stop. A shudder ran through its powerful body. Cal slumped in the saddle, but wasn’t letting his guard down. The horse could be trying to trick him into relaxing, then the animal would explode into action again.
That proved not to be the case. When Cal pressed his heels against the horse’s flanks, it started walking slowly around the corral. After a few steps, its head came up, but it continued to cooperate. Smoke was glad to see that the horse’s spirit wasn’t broken. It had just decided the smart thing was to be on the same side as its rider.
Several of the men whooped in excitement.
Pearlie slapped Smoke on the back. “He done it! I knew the boy could stick! And I get a double batch o’ bear sign outta the deal!”
Smoke laughed. “I happen to know Sally’s planning on frying up a big mess of them anyway, bet or no bet.”
Pearlie stared. “You was just funnin’ me?”
“That’s right.”
Pearlie looked at him for a moment longer, then threw his head back and guffawed. “You sure enough know my weak spot, Smoke. When I thought about losin’ out on them bear sign, it plumb give me the fantods.”
Smoke clapped a hand on Pearlie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go congratulate Cal on that ride?”
“I reckon I’ll do that.”
While Pearlie climbed over the corral fence, Smoke turned toward the ranch house. He stopped short at the sight of a man sitting several yards away on a big gray stallion. With all the commotion in the corral, Smoke hadn’t heard the rider come up. That wasn’t good. He had too many enemies to be letting anyone sneak up on him, ever.
It was no enemy, though. A grin creased Preacher’s leathery face as the old mountain man said, “I got your letter, Smoke. Headin’ out to Arizona for Christmas sounds plumb nice!”
CHAPTER 8
There weren’t many things in life Tom Ballard liked better than being in the newspaper office late at night with the work all done, the press running in the back room, and the satisfying knowledge that in the morning a new edition of the Courier would be on the streets of Tucson. If he was the sort of man who smoked, he would have propped his feet on the desk, fired up a cheroot, and sighed in contentment.
That feeling lasted all of ten seconds or so.
He thought about Avery Tuttle and his good mood vanished. Ballard scowled. Thinking about Avery Tuttle roused all sorts of feelings in him. First was resentment at the way Tuttle lorded it over other folks in town, including Ballard. Some men felt like having more money made them better than everybody else. Avery Tuttle definitely fell into that camp.
Then there was anger. Tuttle had started his own newspaper, in direct competition with the Courier, after Ballard began editorializing about how one man shouldn’t own half the businesses in town and have his greedy eye on the others. So far, Ballard had been able to stave off Tuttle’s attempt to put him out of business, but there was no denying that Tuttle had a lot deeper pockets than he did.
Next came worry. Ballard knew he might not be able to withstand having Tuttle as an enemy forever. Tuttle had a reputation. He claimed he was just a sharp businessman, but everybody in town knew he was downright ruthless.
That thought led to fear . . . not fear for himself. He knew what he’d been letting himself in for when he had decided that Tuttle had been getting everything his own way for long enough.
No, Ballard was afraid for his wife Louise and their two children. What might Tuttle do to them if he got tired of the annoyance that the Courier had become? Some of Tuttle’s enemies had disappeared from Tucson in the past. It was rumored they had packed up and left town in the middle of the night, but Ballard wondered if they’d had some help with that . . . and if they had only gone as far as a shallow grave in the desert.
He didn’t want to believe that Tuttle would go so far as to strike at an innocent woman and children, but in his darker moments—like the one that had just come over him—Ballard couldn’t swear that wouldn’t happen.
And if it did, it would be his fault for making such a powerful, vicious enemy.
As Ballard sat at his desk, he became aware that the press’s clanking and clattering had stopped. In its place, he heard profane muttering from Edgar Torrance.
Ballard stood up and went to the open doorway betw
een the office and the press room. “What’s wrong, Edgar?”
“One o’ the damn gears is stripped.” Torrance was a stocky man around sixty with sparse, graying red hair and a beard of the same shade.
“We have some replacements, don’t we? You can fix it.”
“Yeah, but it’ll take me half the night. The paper’ll be late gettin’ out in the mornin’.”
“It can’t be helped,” Ballard told his assistant with a shake of his head. “People will just have to wait a few hours longer to read the news.”
Torrance grunted. “Maybe it’s a good thing. It’ll be that much longer ’fore Tuttle sees that you’re breathin’ fire about him again and sends his gunnies after you.”
“We still have a free press in this country, and Tuttle knows it. He’s not going to send any gunmen after me.”
“You sure about that? I’ve seen Smiler Coe lookin’ at you on the street. He was practically lickin’ his chops, like a dog eyein’ a big ol’ steak. Only time Coe looks like that is when he’s fixin’ to kill somebody.”
“The law’s never arrested Coe, at least not around here,” Ballard pointed out.
“That’s because he’s smart enough to do all his killin’ outside ’o town where there’s no witnesses.”
Edgar might have a point there, Ballard thought. He’d heard rumors connecting Coe to some of Avery Tuttle’s rivals who had dropped out of sight. But the law still required proof, or at least witnesses, and there weren’t any.
He thought about Louise and Tom Jr. and Alice, and then he thought about Smiler Coe leering that killer’s grin at them, and his blood seemed to turn to ice in his veins.
But he had gone too far in his opposition to Tuttle for him to back down. For one thing, Tuttle would never believe it and would remain suspicious of him. The only alternative that might actually work would be to leave Tucson and go far, far away.
The thought of running away stuck in Ballard’s craw. He didn’t know if he could bring himself to do it, even for his family’s sake. And they wouldn’t want him to, he was sure of that. Louise had always supported him in everything he’d done, all the way.
Ballard nodded toward the press. “Just get to work on that, Edgar. I’ll give you a hand if you want.”
“Naw, ain’t necessary. You just spend your time tryin’ to figure out how we can afford some more modern equipment around here that don’t break down all the time.”
That would be a good thing, all right, Ballard thought. If he had some capital, he could turn the Courier into a more up-to-date newspaper . . . The sound of the office door opening broke into his musing. No great loss, he thought, since those dreams were hopeless, anyway.
He turned, wondering who could be coming in that late at night. Technically, the Courier’s office had been closed for hours, although he usually didn’t lock the door as long as he was there. He began to feel a little apprehensive as he swung around.
Late-night visitors usually didn’t bode well for anyone.
He saw instantly that his hunch was right. Three men stood just inside the office. Ballard recognized them. Sam Brant, Nelse Andersen, and Phil Deere. They didn’t have quite as bad a reputation as Smiler Coe, but they were friends with the gunman and, like Coe, worked for Avery Tuttle.
“How can I help you men?” Ballard asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. It was possible they weren’t there to cause trouble. Not likely, but he supposed stranger things had happened.
“Thought we’d come by and see if we could get an early copy of the paper.” Andersen was a lean, wiry man with such pale hair, eyes, and skin he could almost be taken for an albino.
“Yeah,” Brant added. He was shorter and rounder than Andersen, and as hairy as an ape. “The boss is eager to see what you’ve got to say about him this week.”
“The paper will be on sale tomorrow.” Ballard almost added At its usual time, but then he remembered the stripped gear on the printing press and the delay it was going to cause. No point in explaining that, though.
“Mr. Tuttle wants to see it tonight.” Deere was almost as pale as Andersen, but his hair and the beard stubble on his cheeks and jaw were black as midnight and seemed even darker because of the contrast with his skin.
Ballard shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t accommodate Mr. Tuttle, but he’ll just have to read the Courier at the same time everyone else does.”
A harsh laugh came from Brant. “You think folks actually read that rag o’ yours, Ballard? From what I hear, they just use it for cleanin’ their boots.”
Ballard kept a tight rein on his temper. “If that’s the case, then Tuttle shouldn’t mind if he can’t get a copy until tomorrow.”
As a matter of fact, Edgar Torrance had run off quite a few copies before the press broke down. Ballard had seen them stacked on the big worktable in the back room. He could have gone back there and gotten one of them for Tuttle’s men. But he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction, and he certainly wasn’t going to cooperate with Avery Tuttle’s high-handed demands.
Andersen was probably the most cunning of the trio. He cocked his head to the side a little. “I don’t hear the press running. Usually it is on the night before you publish a paper, isn’t it?”
“The paper will be out tomorrow. You don’t have to worry about that.” Ballard didn’t want to tell them about the mechanical difficulty. He knew that would please Tuttle, and he was stubborn enough not to want to do that.
“What I’m worried about,” Brant said as he eased toward Ballard, “is that that big mouth of yours is gonna get you in bad trouble one of these days.”
Ballard knew the man was trying to intimidate him. He was determined not to let the tactic work, but apprehension stirred inside him anyway. “On the contrary, I’ve always considered myself rather soft-spoken,” he managed to say.
“A man can have a big mouth in what he writes, too,” Andersen snapped. “And when he writes lies and spreads them around for all the world to see, he can expect trouble because of it.”
“I print only the truth, and if anyone can prove otherwise, by God I’d like to see it!” Despite his nervousness, Ballard was getting angry. He didn’t like it when anyone challenged his journalistic integrity.
All three men moved close. Ballard started to feel crowded.
“Tell us what’s gonna be in tomorrow’s paper,” Phil Deere said. There was a definite warning tone in his voice.
Edgar Torrance stepped into the doorway between the office and the press room. He had a shotgun in his hands, the twin barrels pointed in the general direction of Anderson, Deere, and Brant. “Thanks for letting me take a little time to clear this old scattergun of mine, Mr. Ballard. It’s loaded and in perfect workin’ order now. I’ll get back to the press in a minute.” Torrance looked at the three toughs as if he were just noticing they were there. “What are you boys doin’ here in the middle of the night?”
Each of the three packed a handgun, but the irons were holstered and even the fastest draw would have a hard time beating a finger already on the trigger. Andersen, Deere, and Brant weren’t even the fastest who worked for Avery Tuttle. That honor belonged to Smiler Coe.
“Thought we’d see if we could get a paper,” Andersen said tightly.
“Tomorrow,” Torrance said. “But I reckon the boss has already explained that to you.”
Brant’s lips drew back from his teeth so he looked like a snarling beast, especially with the hairy pelt he sported. “I don’t like people pointin’ guns at me.”
“I ain’t pointin’ it at you,” Torrance said. “I only point guns at things I intend to shoot right away. Is that what I’m gonna be doin’ here?”
Andersen jerked his head toward the front door. “Come on, fellas. Let’s get out of here.”
“You can get your paper tomorrow,” Ballard couldn’t resist saying as the three men left the office with surly looks on their faces.
When the men were gone, Torrance lowered the shotgun
. “That bunch don’t have the brains to figure their way out of a paper sack. If they did, they might be dangerous.”
Ballard blew out a breath. “They felt sort of dangerous to me.”
“That’s what they wanted you to think. When you’re scared of ’em, you’ve done half their work for them.”
“I know. Anyway, it’s not like any of them are Smiler Coe.”
“If Coe had been here, I might not ’ve come out with this Greener,” Torrance admitted. “He’s pure hell on the shoot.”
Ballard leaned against his desk. “Actually, I’m sort of glad they came here and tried to scare me. It shows that Tuttle is taking me seriously. He thinks if I can get enough people to pay attention, I might pose a real threat to him.”
“Yeah . . . or maybe he ought to just wait a while.”
Ballard frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m pretty sure I can get that press goin’ again in a little while, but later tonight, or next week, or sometime soon, it’s gonna break down again. You can count on that, boss. It ain’t a matter of if. It’s a matter of when.”
“So you’re saying—”
“I’m sayin’ that if you can’t get some better equipment in here, you won’t be a threat to Tuttle because you won’t be publishin’ a newspaper anymore.”
Ballard sighed. “I was afraid of that. I knew this day was coming.”
“Then I hope you’ve got a good plan figured out.”
“Oh, I have a plan. I’m just not sure it’s a good one.”
CHAPTER 9
Louise Ballard was the most beautiful woman her husband had ever seen. He had thought that the first time he’d laid eyes on her twelve years earlier, back in Kansas City when she was still Louise Montgomery, the daughter of a successful merchant, and he was a brand-new reporter without a penny to his name. Her golden hair, her blue eyes, her exquisitely inviting lips had taken his breath away. She had shocked him by agreeing to let him court her. He had been even more surprised—but grateful and very, very happy—when that courtship had turned into love.
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