by J. T. Edson
“Well, not that it surprises me, being the stupid bastard that he was, going by all you’ve told me, but Dell was wrong,” Pettigrew announced. His accent was that of a well-educated New Englander. “Counter isn’t going to meet whoever they’re bringing in at Brownsville, but I know where they’re getting together.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” replied the visitor. “Because I’ve learned who it is they’re sending for to help them and where he’s coming from, and I felt sure he wouldn’t be going all the way across to Brownsville to meet Counter. Once I’ve found out what kind of help we can get when we go to where they are meeting, we can fix it so he never reaches it alive.”
“They’ll just send somebody else to fetch Smith when he doesn’t meet Counter,” Pettigrew pointed out, looking as intently at the other man as he had been doing while standing near Dusty Fog at the reception.
“So we’ll get more money out of them for finding out who it is,” the visitor stated, showing no sign of being in any way surprised or put out by the scrutiny. “Then we’ll follow that one to Smith and kill them both when they meet up. By playing it that way, we’ll get a double payoff.”
“How come?” Pettigrew inquired.
“It’s the same as with Dell,” the visitor answered. “When we get him killed, we can pick up a bounty from somebody else as well as these fellers who’re hiring us to stop a cure being found for the Texas fever.”
“I don’t see how we can get paid off for Dell,” Pettigrew claimed.
“Easy enough,” the visitor asserted. “With the proof we’ve got to show that we’ve had it done, we’ll get the cash put on the lavender boy from the folks in Fort Worth who want his hide nailed to the wall.”
“So you told me this afternoon,” Pettigrew pointed out. “But what did the bunch who’ve hired us say about it happening?”
“I told them that I’d reason to think he was going to sell us—and them—out to the governor, so they said I’d acted for the best,” the other man answered. “Anyways, it’s much the same with the feller who Fog’s bringing in to guard Smith. There’s money to be made out of killing him.”
“That’s true. You said Dell told you he’s wanted by the law.”
“Turns out lavender boy was right about that, but the bounty gets paid only if he’s fetched in alive.”
“We don’t want to waste time and attract attention to ourselves by getting mixed up with any kind of deal like that,” Pettigrew declared.
“And we don’t need to be,” the other man replied. “I’m not thinking of handing him over to the law. There’s a feller down to Mexico who’ll pay well to have him dead. One way or another, this is going to prove a real profitable chore for us.”
Chapter Six – He Wants Both Hands Cut Off
“Hold it up!”
Being slightly ahead of his companion as they traveled west along a trail leading from Hereford, seat of Deaf Smith County, Texas, toward the border with New Mexico late on a pleasant mid-June afternoon, the taller of the two riders was able to see over the rim they were ascending before the other was in a position to do so. Stopping his horse as he spoke, his tone was more that of a command to an employee than a suggestion for the benefit of a friend.
“What’s up, Monte?” inquired the second horseman, who was an inch shorter and more thickset, as he duplicated the action by reining his mount to a halt.
“There’s a feller coming this way,” Albert “Monte” Parker answered, and opened the right-side pouch on his saddle. Raising the field glasses he extracted, he focused them and went on with satisfaction, “Now, that’s what I call real lucky!”
“You mean it’s him already?” Joel Daly asked, moving forward until he, too, could look at the rider approaching from the west along the trail.
“It’s him!” the taller rider confirmed in a voice that was assured and satisfied, having been given a description—but no name—and told how the man he was hired to kill could be located. Like his companion, he had not expected the meeting to come so soon. Still looking, he continued, “Clothes’re right, including the black gloves I was told he’d be wearing no matter what else he had on.”
“He’s too far off for me to see ’em,” the shorter man declared, having no such aid to vision. Then he glanced at his companion. “I wonder who it is’s wants him dead, ’n’ why.”
“All I need to know is I—we’re—being paid good money to do it,” Parker stated with a scowl that rendered his unprepossessing features even less pleasant. His response was caused by having a similar interest in the subject and a dislike for being unable to display superior knowledge to somebody he regarded as no more than an unimportant and disposable hired hand. “One thing I learned real early was never to get nosy over who’s doing the paying.”
Having a similarly wolfish look to their features, the two men wore the attire generally associated with cowhands from the Northern cattle-raising states. However, the clothing they had on notwithstanding—even without suggestions to the contrary offered by their conversation—to range-wise eyes, neither was likely to have any extensive knowledge of the everyday tasks performed by that hard-riding, hardworking, harder-playing fraternity. Rather, they showed indications, unmistakable to anybody who knew the West, that they earned their living from a willingness to use the Colt Peacemaker each was carrying in a low-tied holster on his gunbelt—that of Daly supplemented by a sheathed hunting knife on the left—and Winchester Model of 1873 rifles in the boots of their single-girthed saddles. Although each rig had a bedroll on the cantle, there was no coiled rope strapped to cither’s horn. Nor did the pair consider such an item, indispensable though it was to a cowhand, to be a necessary aid. They were, in fact, engaged upon a line of work that was ages old. Professional killers had been used since earliest times and, human nature being what it is, probably always will be. x
“I was thinking there’s sometimes money to be got from knowing who’s doing the hiring,” Daly explained, his unshaven face sullen. “’Specially when you know it’s not the jasper who’s given you the chore and it’s got to be done like this has.”
“Likely whoever’s paying us to make wolf bait of this jasper wants to know it’s been done afore he hands over the money,” Parker guessed, realizing which aspect of the affair had prompted the second comment. “Only, he figures it wouldn’t be healthy in more ways than one to have the body fetched in for him to look over.”
“So we could take everything the jasper’s toting on him, or his hosses and clothes, seeing it’s knowed what he’s riding and wearing. But hell’s teeth, Monte, what kind of feller is it’s wants blue windows put into him?”
“How’d you mean?”
“You know how I mean! I can see why he’d want the body hid so it don’t get found, but he wants both hands cut off ’n’ took to him. A man must have a whole heap of hate in him to ask for that!”
“Could be. Only, which being, I sure’s hell don’t want to get somebody that hate-filled riled up at me ’cause he figures I’m pushing my nose into his private doings, ’stead of just taking my pay and ‘tending to my own affairs.”
“Sure,” Daly grunted. “Only, wanting things done the way he does, could be that feller’s deck’s shy a few cards. Which being, I’m none too happy with the notion of working for a crazy man.”
“Don’t let that worry you none,” the taller rider advised grimly. “’Cause the fellers I—we’re—dealing with’s sane enough no matter what it might be with whoever he’s getting paid by, and he’s one man I sure don’t figure on riling.”
Having had similar misgivings on hearing the most unusual proof of success demanded by the man who wanted the killing done, Parker had felt it inadvisable to handle the task alone, and had negotiated the point through an intermediary. What was more, even without the bizarre terms imposed, he always had a disinclination to take unnecessary chances and preferred to have the odds in his favor. Therefore, he had asked his companion along because nobody else with whom
he had worked previously was available at such short notice. However, despite having for a second time changed an “I” to a “we,” he did not regard Daly as a partner. Nor had he any intention of sharing the payment once the task was completed.
“I’m right pleased to hear it!” Daly said, but without any great conviction, as his spurs nudged against the ribs of his horse. “Anyways, we ain’t going to be long over finishing this chore.”
“Stay put, goddamn it!” Parker commanded savagely. “What the hell do you reckon you’re doing?”
“Going to earn our pay,” the shorter hired killer answered, but he restrained his mount before he could ride past his companion. His manner became challenging as he inquired, “That’s what we’ve come out here for, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” the taller man admitted, and put a less hostile timbre into his voice as he continued. “Only, there ain’t no sense in making things harder than we have to, Joel. No matter what I was told by S—I got told, that jasper could know somebody’s gunning for him and be on the lookout for it. Even if he ain’t, he’s likely to watch anybody riding toward him real careful.”
“Uh-huh!” the shorter man grunted. Having no desire to provoke a confrontation with his companion, whom he knew to be quick-tempered and suspected was better with a gun than himself, he contrived to look mollified even though he was far from feeling it. “Do you know that jasper out there?”
“Like I told you, I wasn’t given no name,” Parker answered, and gestured with the aid to vision he had used. “I can’t bring to mind ever having seen him afore.”
“Give me the glasses,” Daly suggested, holding out his grubby right hand. “I might have, and it could help if we know exactly who and what we’re up against.”
“Here,” the taller hired gun said, appreciating the wisdom behind the request and wishing he had drawn the conclusion first.
Accepting and lining up the field glasses, being equally disinclined to take chances and willing to obey orders only if he was satisfied they would produce the desired results without undue danger to himself, Daly studied the intended victim. He needed only one glance to decide that he could not make an identification. Nevertheless, despite the considerable distance that separated them, he conceded that his companion had been right when claiming they could be up against somebody it would prove most unwise to treat with other than the greatest caution.
However, there was nothing about the appearance of the approaching man to suggest why the unknown employer wanted him dead, or had felt it necessary to issue the bizarre instructions for receiving proof of his demise. On the other hand, to anybody who had been around the range country as long as Daly, there was little doubt about the origins of the intended victim— even without hearing him speak.
Clearly tall, perhaps a couple of inches over six feet, the rider was as lean as a steer raised in the greasewood country and, even so far away, gave the impression of being just as whang-leather tough. Tanned by long exposure to the elements, the clean-shaven face—framed by neatly trimmed sideburns of reddish-brown hair that had recently been barbered—was too rugged to be termed handsome. Nevertheless, while it almost certainly displayed only such emotions as he wanted to be seen, its lines were indicative of strength of will and intelligence.
The suggestions of origins started with a low-crowned, wide-brimmed black hat steamed and molded into the style most favored by Texans. Less indicative, except that Daly remembered having seen something similar worn by Marvin Eldridge “Doc” Leroy in the days when the Wedge trail crew was one of many driving herds of half-wild longhorn cattle to the railroad in Kansas, xi was the rider’s unfastened brown coat. Its right side was stitched back to leave unimpeded access to a staghorn-handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker, which was butt forward in a form-fitting “Missouri Skin-Tite” holster attached to a broad black gunbelt buckled horizontally around his waist instead of sloping down to the right side. While not a rig frequently seen, it was a way of wearing a revolver favored by men who wished to foster the belief that they were very fast with a gun—or were.
Buttoned at the neck, the intended victim’s blue flannel shirt had a black string bow tie. They and his yellowish-brown Nankeen trousers were such as might have been worn by anybody engaged on some form of the ranching business in any of the cattle-raising states. However, the latter were tucked into black Wellington leg boots, with Kelly spurs on the heels and decorated by the five-pointed-star motif that was practically obligatory for a man born and making his living on the open ranges of Texas.3 The black gloves he wore were not heavy work gauntlets, but the kind frequently used by professional gamblers who had a need to ensure that their hands remained soft and supple.
The saddle upon which the man was seated with the easy grace of one who spent much time riding, his gloved left hand holding the split-end reins in a seemingly negligent fashion, was yet another sign of his connection with the Lone Star State. Although somewhat more fancily carved than one intended for rough work on the range, low of horn and double-girthed, it was designed to cope with the needs of cowhands who took pride in hanging on to whatever they roped, be it a steer, cow, calf, bull, horse, or man. A coiled manila rope was strapped to the left side of the horn and, beneath his near leg, a rifle of some kind—almost certainly a repeater rather than a single-shot model—rode in a saddle boot with its butt pointing to the rear to facilitate easy withdrawal on dismounting. The big blue roan gelding between his knees and the similarly equipped, equally large, blaze-faced bay—to the cantle of whose saddle was attached a bulky bedroll and war bag wrapped in a tarpaulin cover to protect them from the elements—were fine animals, albeit more suited to long traveling at a good speed than the agility required for dealing with half-wild and often fractious cattle.
Having examined the approaching would-be victim, Daly next studied the terrain between them. The scrutiny did not fill him with enthusiasm, or lead him to think the task was a sinecure. The top of the rim was completely bare, and even with the sun sinking toward the western horizon, any attempt to fire over it would result in whoever did so being skylined more prominently than he cared to contemplate. While there was some cover on the slope at the other side, none of it was close enough to the trail to guarantee that the comparatively short-ranged Winchester rifles he and Parker carried would make a certain hit. Should they open fire and miss, they were unlikely to be granted a second chance. Unless electing to make a fight, even leading the bay, the Texan—as Daly now designated him—was sufficiently well mounted to turn and outrun their horses. What was more, once alerted, he would make sure that he did not present another such easy opportunity.
However, about half a mile away, there was a small stream that needed to be forded by anybody using the trail. This struck Daly as being a much more suitable proposition than crossing anywhere closer at hand. Trees and bushes coated its banks on either side, offering a variety of hiding places. The problem was how to get there without being observed. Much as it went against the grain to admit that his companion was right again, he conceded that going forward on horseback was not the answer. Even if the Texan was not expecting trouble, he had an alert appearance that warned he instinctively maintained a close watch on his surroundings at all times and, unless he differed from the majority of people who needed to travel on the open ranges of the West, would keep a wary eye on anybody approaching him.
“Well!” Parker growled, breaking in upon his companion’s train of thought. “Do you know the son of a bitch?”
“I’ve never seen him afore,” Daly confessed reluctantly, surrendering the field glasses in response to an impatient gesture from their owner. “He sure looks like he knows which end the bullets come out of a gun, though.”
“Was you thinking of riding up ’n’ calling him out like you was in some fancy Louisiana duel, so he’s got a chance to use one?” the taller hired killer inquired sarcastically, despite agreeing with his partner’s assessment.
“No!” Daly answered, his voice
becoming surly. “It’s just that I don’t reckon we should make it any easier for him than we can help.”
“I’ll go along with you on that,” Parker conceded, forcing his mount to move backward until well beyond the top of the rim. Dismounting, he drew his Winchester from its saddle boot and glanced about him. “We’ll leave the hosses tied to that bush, sneak down to the stream, and lay for him. I don’t take any too kind’ to walking that far, but we’ll be able to ride coming back.”
Carrying out the instructions and arming himself with his rifle, Daly followed his companion over the rim and down the gentle slope at the other side. Having crawled across the top on their stomachs, they rose and adopted a crouching posture when they thought it was safe to do so. Then they descended more swiftly from one piece of cover to another. All the time, whether advancing or pausing briefly in concealment, they kept a careful watch on their intended victim.
Crossing some open ground about a hundred and fifty yards from their destination, the pair flushed a flock of bobwhite quail. Dropping flat immediately, they lay for a few seconds completely immobile. On raising their heads cautiously, what they saw came as a relief. For one thing, the birds had gone at an angle along the slope instead of downward where they could be scared into flying again. Even more important, the Texan showed no sign of either having been disturbed by the frightened quail or even noticing them. Instead, he was continuing to ride at the same unhurried pace along the trail. Satisfied it could be done without being detected, the pair resumed their interrupted advance.
“That’s better!” Parker breathed on arriving at the first of the bushes fringing the stream.
“Yeah!” Daly agreed just as quietly, also straightening up. “I thought he’d get spooked for sure when you scared up them goddamned bobwhites.”
“They was closer to you than me!” the taller hired killer claimed, despite both men having been equally at fault. However, as he wanted to keep the peace between them until after the job was over, he went on in a blatantly magnanimous fashion. “Anyways, Joel, there wasn’t no harm done. He never saw us.”