by Ben Bridges
Slowly I reached down, picked it up and opened it out.
The breath caught sharply in my throat — for it was a ten thousand dollar note!
It is true that my mind had been dulled by liquor, but not so much that I could not immediately grasp the significance of my find.
According to the reports I had read at the time, John Kidd had been given just such a note in with the money he had taken from the Denver bank robbery the previous April. Since he could not hope to change it anywhere without drawing unwelcome attention to himself, it was assumed that he had either kept it as a memento, that he had traded it among his own kind for something of more use to him, or that he had thrown it away.
If this were that note, as seemed likely, then …
I stared at the bill, my thoughts thrown into a veritable maelstrom.
… then the fellow who had just been goading me must have been John Kidd himself!
The realization of it struck me like a slap in the face, and worked a sobering effect upon me. Abruptly I stuffed the bill into my pocket and left the saloon at a run, drawing all eyes to me. I slammed out through the batwing doors, nearly collided with two big miners on the boardwalk, leapt down into the dirt and scanned the street for sign of the outlaw.
I could see him nowhere.
A curse hissed out beneath my breath, and I was startled to find that my fists were bunched. The nerve of the fellow! I thought, breathing hard. But now that I considered it, I could see that it would be just like Kidd to risk his very liberty in order to play such a prank, for I have already mentioned his somewhat reckless nature, and the way in which such foolhardy actions had endeared him to the public at large.
But with that thought came another. Had our encounter been merely a prank? Or was it more in the way of a challenge? I turned slowly and went back into the saloon to settle my tab. Perhaps there was some truth in what he had said. It was only to be expected that the public would misconstrue my refusal to track him down as an act of cowardice.
And once they heard about tonight’s little episode, as Kidd himself would make sure they did, I would become a laughing-stock.
I could not allow that to happen.
I slapped some coins down on the bar, too preoccupied to pay much attention to the looks I was getting from The Mother Lode’s other patrons.
Outside, I mounted my horse and rode directly to Simon Black’s office. My mind was made up, and even though I was allowing my pride to over-rule my good common sense, I knew I could not walk away from Kidd’s challenge, not if I wanted to retain my good name.
It was fortunate for me that Black was a diligent man and that he had decided to work late, otherwise I would have had to wait until morning.
As it was, he appeared understandably surprised when I burst in upon him less than a quarter of an hour later and requested five minutes of his time. Graciously, however, and with some curiosity, I think, he bade me enter and closed the door behind him.
‘If your offer’s still open, Mr. Black,’ I said, ‘I’d like to take you up on it.’
; He frowned at me in the low, cozy light of the lamp on his big desk. ‘My dear sir … Whatever has happened to change your mind?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing. A personal matter. Is the offer still open?’
‘Why, of course. But … but what about that rather fundamental disagreement between us?’
‘I haven’t changed my mind about that,’ I told him. ‘I’ll not kill another man if I can help it. But you have my word on this much — if it’s at all possible, I’ll bring John Kidd in to stand trial for his crimes. That way, when the court gets through with him, you and your Association members should be able to watch him hang.’
I looked him over carefully.
‘Do you think they’d be satisfied with that?’ I asked.
He pondered it, and gradually what began as a slight inclination of the head turned into another of his emphatic nods. ‘Yes, Mr. Colter. I think I might be able to talk them around to that.’
I extended my right hand. ‘Then we have a deal?’ I asked neutrally.
He took my hand and we shook. ‘We have a deal, Mr. Colter,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Damned if we don’t!’
The next few days were taken up with organization, for it was just not possible to embark upon such a manhunt as this promised to be with any degree of speed. If we were to stand any chance of success, I must plan it like a military campaign, with little or nothing left to providence. And, just like a military campaign, I would have need of troops.
I knew better than to raise a small army, of course. To catch Kidd we would need to be light and maneuverable. So I asked Simon Black to find me the five best men he could, and about four days later they arrived in Fort Wray.
When I got my first good look at them, I was not immediately sure of the men he had chosen. They struck me as a motley collection, and their big-brimmed sombreros and Stetsons, their bright silk bandannas, flapping bull-hide chaps and spur-heavy stovepipe boots made them look better suited to range-work than the kind of undertaking I had in mind.
Three of them were in their late twenties or early thirties. According to Black they were all top hands, and he had evidently selected them as much for their abilities with handgun and rifle as for the loyalty they displayed to their respective brands.
Saul Yarbrough was a big, genial black man with a round, shiny face and an easy grin. When I shook hands with him I felt something of his prodigious strength, and when I looked into his eyes they told me that I could rely upon him implicitly. John Horan was sober and unsmiling, with eyes the color of gunsmoke, while Henry Morse was short and heavy-set. With a long mustache and a tuft of brown beard that projected comically from his squarish chin.
At some fifty years, Lemuel Winch was the oldest of the men. He was a big, powerful man of mixed blood, whose wiry hair was as shaggy and dishwater gray as his full beard. I had never seen a cowboy like him before — or since, for that matter. He favored a greasy hunting shirt, buckskin leggings and moccasins. He said very little, for it was his habit to chew constantly at a cud of molasses-cured tobacco. He gave absolutely nothing away, but in fairly short order I learned to trust his judgment, for he knew the country over which we would be moving, and at some time deep in his past I sensed that he had also gained some first-hand experience of the outlaw life as well.
Of them all, it was a young fellow named Bob Bancroft who concerned me the most. He was a personable enough man, but there was a certain immaturity about him that made me wonder if he was right for the job. His broad shoulders and lean, horseman’s hips made him a veritable wedge of a man, and his narrow, smooth face, well-spaced hazel eyes, straight nose and winning smile must have made him especially popular with the fairer sex. He wore a Peacemaker in a holster tied low around his left leg, and while he seemed agreeable enough, he appeared to feel that all of this was just a circus, an entertainment concocted for his own personal amusement.
How we managed to gather these men together and still maintain absolute secrecy I will never know, but certainly the need for secrecy was never more important than now. John Kidd had been remarkably well-informed at our earlier meeting. Apparently he knew everything there was to know about why I had come to Fort Wray. It could be that he had heard about the gunfight in which I had been involved, of course, and simply put two and two together. But more likely he had sympathizers in town, spying for him.
Well, that was fair enough. I needed as much information as I could get about my quarry, too, and following Dick Mills’ inquest, Simon Black arranged for me to meet with Max Taylor, the sheriff of Fort Wray. It was from him that I learned something more of Kidd and his gang.
At last I had my army and my information. All that remained was to finalize my plan of attack. But to attack at all, I must first locate my enemy.
Simon Black told me that a rancher down along the Arikaree by the name of Ed Buckhalter had been visited by Kidd and his men twice in the past six we
eks. On each occasion Buckhalter had refused to ‘donate’ any of his stock to the outlaws.
As a result, he had lost about twenty head of fine Hereford cattle a fortnight earlier, and it was Black’s conviction that he was due for another visit from Kidd, who would want to know if he had changed his mind about the deal he had proposed.
I decided there and then that Buckhalter’s ranch was as likely a starting-point as any. My army and I would hole up there and await Kidd’s visit. And when Kidd finally showed up …
We left Fort Wray and rode southeast later that very same day.
After the hurly-burly of town life, the great sweep of the open range was a revivifying tonic. These were the rich, elevated plains of Colorado, you see; level, grass-thick stretches broken here and there by low hills and bluffs, and the odd, distant tree. It was a land given over predominantly to the production of wheat, but cattle thrived there as well, and this is what made it ideal territory for Kidd and his cronies.
We kept going for what remained of the day. Lem Winch rode out ahead and the rest of us followed him in a loose bunch. Soon night began its powdery approach, and about forty miles from town we finally reached Buckhalter’s ranch.
In the rising moon- and star-light, the place was just a clutter of low buildings and pole fences. The bunkhouse was a long, rough-looking structure with a shingled roof and squares of smoky light at the small, high windows, while the main house was a rambling affair surrounded by tie-racks and porch overhangs.
We came in at a walk, past an old wagon up on blocks. The barn and other out-buildings were just huge pools of shadow to our left. A dog started yapping at the back of the house. Still out ahead, Winch raised his voice and called, ‘Ed! You in there?’
We brought our horses to a stop before the house, waiting. The early evening was quiet but for the distant bellow of cattle. Then I heard movement within the bunkhouse, men racing quickly across a board floor. At the same moment, the door to the main house swung open and a man’s silhouette came out onto the porch, a rifle held waist-high and trained on us.
‘Who is it?’ the man snapped, his voice high and feisty. ‘Identify yourselves.’
In that same instant, someone yanked the bunkhouse door open and I heard more rifles being levered.
Our horses fidgeted uneasily. Winch called, ‘What’s a matter, Ed — don’t you recognize me?’
The silhouette on the porch was silent for a moment. Then the man — obviously Buckhalter — said, ‘Lem?’
‘Wal, it’s a mite early for Santy Claus.’
There was relief in Buckhalter’s tone now, as he put down his long gun. ‘All right, boys,’ he called to the two men who had come out of the bunkhouse. ‘Put up your guns. It’s Lem Winch.’
As he came down into the dark yard, a girl appeared in the doorway behind him, carrying a lantern. She followed Buckhalter outside, an oval of buttery lamplight spilling drunkenly around her, and when she and Buckhalter came to a halt before Winch’s ragged, ugly-faced pony, she held the lantern high so that he could get a better look at us.
Buckhalter ran his troubled green eyes across us.
He was a tall, trim man of about five and forty years, dressed in a heavy flannel shirt and dark pants that were baggy at the knees. Holding his rifle in his left hand, he brought the right up and hooked a thumb into one of his thick suspenders.
Then he said, ‘I thought for a minute you was —’
‘Kidd?’
I had spoken before I realized it.
He looked at me and I said, ‘Has he been here, Mr. Buckhalter? Recently?’
He looked at me for some time. At length he said, ‘And who are you?’
Leaning forward, I handed him down a letter of introduction Simon Black had prepared for me on official Cattlemen’s Association notepaper.
While Buckhalter unfolded it, held it to the light and squinted at it, I felt the eyes of the girl on me, and glanced back at her.
She did not look away. The light washed down over the smooth planes of her face and set little lights glowing deep inside eyes as green as those of Buckhalter. She had a small nose that was appealingly snubbed, a wide, full mouth and a strong chin that swept back into the soft line of her throat. Her dark blonde hair spilled down over the shoulders of her thick shirt, and showed gold here and there where the light caught on all the twists and curls.
‘My daughter, Ruth,’ Buckhalter said suddenly, and I realized that he had finished reading the letter and put his eyes back onto me. When I looked down at him, he was offering his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Colter. And to answer your question — no, Kidd ain’t shown hide nor hair around here since he lifted some of my cattle two weeks ago. But take my word for it, he’s due. I can feel it.’
I looked over at Lem Winch. His smile revealed long, tobacco-stained teeth.
‘Now,’ said Buckhalter, thawing somewhat. ‘You fellers light and put up your horses. We got stew on, if you’re hungry.’
And so began the hardest job of all —just waiting.
But as you will see, we did not have to wait long before our man showed up.
Chapter Four
We quartered ourselves in the barn, and at my orders the horses were kept ready to ride at a moment’s notice.
But for the first three days nothing happened, and soon the waiting began to pall upon my men, who were not used to such inactivity. Bob Bancroft was the one who showed his impatience most of all, but it was Henry Morse who came over to me on the second day and asked if he might go and help Buckhalter’s men in their chores.
I shook my head. ‘Best we stay out of sight as much as we can, Henry,’ I replied. ‘If Kidd is as shrewd as I think he is, he’ll scout this place thoroughly before he rides in. First sign that something’s not right around here and he won’t show up.’
Henry clearly wasn’t happy about it, but apart from a little muttering, he just turned and walked away.
The men occupied themselves with endless games of poker or cribbage, although Winch kept apart from the rest and just sat cross-legged at the back of the barn, chewing and spitting, chewing and spitting. In the evenings we ate with Buckhalter’s waddies. He employed three men, and he also did much of the work around the place himself.
Time passed. I knew that we would be lucky indeed if anything happened right away. But by the dawn of the fourth day, I began to wonder if this was such a likely starting-point after all.
The day before, Winch had come to me with the suggestion that he ride out and scout the surrounding countryside for sign of our quarry. For all we knew, he said, Kidd might have quit this neck of the woods altogether, and we were just sitting around here on a fool’s errand.
I considered it. ‘Trouble is, if Kidd or one of his men spot you, they might guess what we’re up to.’
He treated me to another of his tobacco-stained smiles. ‘They won’t spot me, cap’n,’ he muttered, and somehow I believed him.
He rode out twenty minutes later, and uncannily he was soon lost to sight, having blended seamlessly with the surrounding country.
I was idling in the barn doorway around the middle of the fourth morning, watching the flat plains extending away to distant blue mountains, when Ruth Buckhalter came over to greet me. I had not had much to do with her following our arrival, but I had seen her around a few times and she had always accorded me an affable nod of greeting. Today she had eschewed her usual practical shirt and canvas pants and instead wore a smart gingham dress that displayed her hourglass figure to good advantage.
‘Good morning, Mr. Colter,’ she said as she came to a halt before me.
Henry Morse and John Horan were exercising our horses in the corral at the rear of the barn. As had become his custom, Saul Yarbrough was reading a book, frowning in concentration as his lips moved in a whisper. Bob Bancroft was sleeping with his hat pulled low over his eyes.
I dipped my head. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Daddy asked me to see if you would share supper with us
tonight. Your man Bancroft shot a couple of rabbits yesterday afternoon and I’m baking them in a pie.’
I’d heard that Bancroft had slipped away to do some foraging, even though he had known it was against my orders to go too far and risk drawing attention to himself. When the time was right I intended to discipline him over it, for he was of no use to me or any of us if he put our plan in jeopardy.
But to the girl I only said, ‘Thank you, ma’am. I’d be honored.’
‘Good. It’ll make a pleasant change. We don’t see much of you or your men.’
‘That’s the idea, Miss Buckhalter.’
‘I suppose so. But do you think you might bend the rules just long enough to walk me back to the house?’
I laughed. ‘The house is barely more than forty yards from here.’
She shrugged. ‘Well … we can always take the long way around.’
It should be all right, I thought. I had long since changed from my usual suit and string tie into Levis, a work-shirt and sheepskin jacket, so from a distance I would pass for just one more hired hand.
I said, ‘All right, then.’
I stepped out into the weak sunshine and we began a slow stroll that took us around the ranch-buildings and roughly parallel to the border where the dirt yard met the fine surrounding grassland.
‘They say you are a killer, Mr. Colter,’ the girl said, quite unexpectedly. ‘And yet I must say, you don’t strike me as such.’
‘You have met enough killers to be able to judge? I asked.
She smiled and shrugged again. ‘Daddy’s men say you killed a man in Fort Wray just last week.’
‘Daddy’s men seem to say a lot.’
She eyed me sidelong. ‘You’d sooner not talk about it,’ she guessed.
I nodded, and glanced down at her. ‘Perhaps we can talk about you instead.’
‘What would you like to know?’
‘Anything you would care to tell me.’
‘Well,’ she said, considering. ‘I am twenty three years old. My middle name is Catherine. Since my mother died in childbirth and Daddy never remarried, I have no brothers or sisters. I am a passably good cook, deft with a needle and thread, I can wash and iron and I knit and sing quite well, and one of these days Daddy says I am going to make someone a very good wife.’