by Eric Red
“We’re stopping that cattle drive, one way or the other. Failure is not an option. The only way those steers are getting to the cattlemen’s auction is with us driving them in with the Bar T brand stamped on their asses. Follow my orders and we’ll all be getting a fat bonus. Just remember this: Calhoun is the boss, but he can’t be here and for this operation he put me in charge, so that means out here on the trail, I’m the boss.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Any more questions?”
“Just one.” Moore shifted uncomfortably. “Those wranglers of Mrs. Holdridge’s she says were murdered. Did Calhoun have anything to do with that? Did you?”
“That’s the second time today somebody’s asked me that question,” Starborough snapped, brow furrowed in visible agitation. He turned away from Moore and stalked back to his horse, saddled up, and signaled the others with a wave of his arm. Moore and the rest of the posse mounted their horses and rode after their boss.
All day Calhoun’s seasoned operatives rode with stealth, shadowing the cattle drive, riding parallel to the five hundred head of steers, never closer than a mile away, invisible to the Bar H outfit but sticking to Laura Holdridge’s herd like glue.
CHAPTER 13
At a full gallop, Cole Starborough’s posse got ahead of Laura Holdridge’s herd fairly quickly because the cattle moved much slower. Calhoun’s operatives had the advantage of speed and the necessity of haste—the canyon pass was on the map, and her outfit would need to get the cattle across it, so it was important Cole got there first.
An hour later the posse had ridden up a wide natural trail of rock and dirt between a mountain to one side and a towering column of granite jutting against the sky on the other. Starborough put up his hand for his operatives to stop and the posse halted. He turned his horse to face them, pointing on ahead where the trail continued through the woods and grasslands. “Ride due east half a mile and wait for me. I’ll be there directly,” he said, adding with a nasty grin, “and cover your ears.”
As the fourteen riders galloped off, Cole dismounted and grabbed a six-stick cluster of dynamite from his saddlebag, setting the dynamite on the ground and tying on a very long fuse. Striking a match, he lit the fuse and as it burned down in sizzling sputters of sparks toward the high explosives, Starborough was away on his horse.
* * *
As the procession of longhorn steers cleared a rise, the granite pinnacle of the pass came into view. In the driver’s seat of her covered wagon, Laura Holdridge pointed at the trailhead and yelled to her wranglers, “There’s the pass, boys, we’re a third of the way to Cheyenne, right on schedule—”
Before she could finish her sentence came a deafening explosion; the air was sledgehammered by a colossal low-register boom that shook the ground, making the horses rear and spooking the cattle, who felt the jarring shock wave beneath their hooves. The rovers all saw it, struggling to control their horses: far off in the distance, before their startled eyes, the granite peak of the canyon pass blew up in a massive detonation of dynamite. It was there, then it was gone. The surprised outfit looked on in disbelief as the top of the massif disintegrated in great turbulent clouds of flying rocks and dirt that shot skyward, raining down in an endless shower of stone and gravel. When the smoke began to clear as the echo of the blast faded, the pass lay in rubble.
Exchanging alarmed, grim glances with Noose and Brubaker on their horses, Laura then cracked the whip on the team pulling her wagon, her rig still in motion, yelling at the rovers to push on, and the outfit kept driving the herd, heading toward the pass to survey the damage and see if it was as bad as they all feared.
It was worse.
The ride took them fifteen minutes, and when they got there, Joe Noose knew exactly what they would find, that there was no longer any way through. Jumping out of the covered wagon after pulling her team to a standstill, Laura Holdridge walked slowly ahead past the halted horses of her dismayed wranglers, coughing in the thick hanging smoke and dust. It cleared to show that the blasted pass lay in a fifty-foot-high pile of rubble, the trail buried beneath tons of boulders and big rocks; an impassable barrier the cattle drive could not hope to penetrate.
“The damn posse did this,” said Noose.
“Damn right that damn posse did this,” agreed Laura. “That hatchet man of Calhoun’s, Cole Starborough he said his name was, well, he probably set the dynamite and lit the fuse himself. I knew that man was the type to play dirty. Well, I got news for him! He don’t know me if he thinks I’m gonna let this slow me down! If he thinks destroying this one trail means we can’t go no farther he better think again, because there’s lots of trails, and if we can’t find one, we’ll make one! It’s gonna take more than a few sticks of dynamite to stop us from getting this herd to Cheyenne! Turn these cows south, boys!”
She didn’t have to tell her crew twice. They had plenty of heart. With whoops and hollers, the wranglers began steering the five hundred cows down an embankment.
Joe smiled as he watched the outfit’s unflappable, indefatigable spirit; in the face of any obstacle, these men just took it in stride and pushed on, and it gave him fresh admiration for both the rovers and their trail boss.
“I hope that posse sees this ain’t stopping our progress, not for one damn second,” a tight-jawed defiant Laura crowed. “Especially that Starborough character.”
“He’s probably watching us right now,” observed Joe, riding along with the herd.
“Then I hope he sees this!” She grinned as she lifted her arm high.
And held up her upraised middle finger.
* * *
At that very minute, Cole Starborough was indeed watching the outfit through his pair of field glasses half a mile up the trail, his icy grin of triumph frozen on his dashing face when he saw the cattlewoman’s rude hand gesture. He lowered the spyglass with a frowning scowl.
“Think they’re gonna give up and turn around?” wondered Earl Moore, sitting on the horse beside him, his tone of voice indicating he thought the question rhetorical.
“No, I do not,” replied Cole, handing him the binoculars. “But neither am I.”
“What’s our next move?”
“We ride ten miles to the next county, same place they’re going but we’ll get there a lot quicker. I intend to have a few words with the local sheriff in Rawlins.” His duster flapping, Cole Starborough swung his huge steed around and charged off with the posse at full gallop right behind him.
* * *
The posse reached the outskirts of the town of Rawlins after an hour of easy riding across country. Cole halted them on the field outside of town, telling them it would be easier for him to talk to the sheriff alone, and for his operatives to wait. The gentleman henchman didn’t seem to think this would take long.
He rode off alone into town, making a calculated impressive entrance aboard his stallion that always struck awe in the yokels, who regarded him like a king in their midst. Starborough saw the heads of the local farmers turn as he rode off alone on his big black quarterhorse in his custom leather saddle, in his expensive duster and bowler hat that made him look like an English gentleman. Cole was a peacock by nature, and liked being a dashing and formidable blade. The act wouldn’t fool anybody back in Virginia, but here in the West, folks ate it up. Starborough was so glad he had gone west. The frontier suited his nature.
“Sheriff, my name is Cole Starborough and I work for Crispin Calhoun of the Calhoun Cattle Company and Bar T Ranch. May I present my card?”
The henchman smoothly withdrew an embossed business card. The sheriff took it and slipped it in his pocket. “A little far west, aincha, son?”
“I don’t understand.”
“The cattle auction’s in Cheyenne in a few weeks. I thought Calhoun and every other cattleman doesn’t miss that every year.”
“That’s quite true, Sheriff.” Cole sized up the lawman as one of the rural irascible peace officers he had plenty of experience handling.
“So that’s why I asked what you’re doing this far west of Cheyenne, when you should be on the other side of the state,” Sheriff Roberts said.
“Yes, I will be going there directly. But first, I need to report a crime, Sheriff.”
Sheriff Roberts looked up.
“Well, you came to the right place.” The lawman pointed to the badge on his chest, and gave a big smile. “I’m the sheriff and that’s my job.” He turned toward the small single-story brick building and gestured Cole to follow along. “Come on in and I’ll take your report.”
Dumb hick, Starborough thought, every bit the gentleman as he politely followed the lawman into the sheriff’s office, removing his hat as he entered.
He sat across from the sheriff’s desk and nodded to the three deputies cleaning guns and washing out the empty jail cell. Crackers. But it helped that the sheriff had a few deputies for the task Cole came here to give him.
Truth was, Cole Starborough loved the West but hated the cowboys and regular people who lived there, people whom he considered uneducated, ignorant, and beneath him. Cole was a highly educated man but he didn’t come out West to make friends, he came because it was lawless. The American frontier was the last savage, untamed place where a real man could indulge his true nature, in blood up to his elbows, and make his fortune. He could let the beast in himself loose and take what he wanted; his cattleman boss had given him his opportunity, and let Cole Starborough off the leash.
“‘Nature red in tooth and claw,’” Cole muttered to himself, lost in thought.
“What did you say, son?” Sheriff Roberts looked up from getting his pencil and paper out of the drawer. “Okay now, let’s see.”
The lawman was staring at him, brows knitting, with a look of fascination. Cole raised his eyebrow. “Is there a problem, Sheriff?”
“Son, anybody ever tell you that you look like General Custer?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, sir.”
“You are both handsome devils.”
“Funny you should mention that. George Armstrong Custer was in the class ahead of me at West Point.”
“You went to West Point?”
“Indeed I did. Custer and I have blond hair and favor the same mustache and hairstyle, so both of us were mistaken for each other all the time back attending school in Virginia. Excellent fellow.”
“Bet you wish you were as great a general as he was, huh?”
Cole’s eyes hardened. “My grades were higher than Custer’s. George was at the bottom of his class when he graduated in ’61, did you know that?” Sheriff Roberts shook his head. “Myself, I was in the top third of my class when I left school.”
“You didn’t graduate from West Point?”
Starborough slowly shook his head.
“A prestigious school like that, why not?”
“Two reasons. First, I wanted to get in the cattle business because that’s where the money is and I knew my military training would come in handy out here on the frontier, as it has proven to be. I am junior partner in the fastest-growing cattle ranch in these United States, and I expect to make my fortune before I’m fifty.”
The small-town working-class Wyoming sheriff was unimpressed by a fancy man bragging about money. “And the other?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Reason. You said there were two reasons you left West Point.”
“I didn’t want to end up like Custer.”
“How so?”
“With a hundred arrows up my ass and a hundred dollars in my wallet.”
Roberts’s mouth dropped.
Cole’s face broke into a brilliant dashing grin flashing pearly rows of sharpened sharklike teeth. Sheriff Roberts couldn’t tell if Calhoun’s foreman was making a joke or not, but figured he must be, because showing that kind of disrespect to a great general in the Indian wars and American hero in Wyoming, so near the Little Big Horn River, was begging to get punched in the mouth. On the other hand, getting his fist anywhere near those disturbing razor-sharp teeth could cost you a handful of fingers, so it all evened out. Anyway, the small talk was over.
“You came here saying you had a crime to report, Mr. Starborough. State your business.”
“Yes, Sheriff. As you know, the cattle business is a highly organized profession and in my position as Crispin Calhoun’s junior partner I am fully informed on every detail of legal and illegal activity among my cattlemen counterparts.”
“Get to the point.”
“For the ethics of the industry, Mr. Calhoun believes, as I do, it is the responsibility of the cattle business to police itself; therefore, when we learn of illegal activity among members of our profession, it is our responsibility to report it to the authorities, and that, Sheriff Roberts, sir, is why I am here today.”
“Go on.”
“You need to know that a cattle drive is coming through your county today with stolen cattle in the herd. The trail boss is named Laura Holdridge of the Bar H Ranch in Consequence, an outfit notorious for criminal activity, and stealing rustled cattle is just the beginning of her crimes . . .”
Now Cole had Sheriff Roberts’s full attention. The lawman was writing down every damn lie that Starborough told him.
CHAPTER 14
It was a two-hour ride out to Puzzleface Ranch, and Deputy Nate Sweet rode alone, journeying west of the town of Jackson to where the spread lay on the banks of the Snake River a mile east of the Teton Pass.
It was a very secluded and private piece of property; the big ranch house and corral were cradled in the bosom of a deep verdant valley surrounded by a forest of aspen and birch trees that came into view long before the tall gate with a wooden “P” atop did. As the deputy rode up the dirt path into the ranch, he spotted six saddled horses in the corral; the women at the house enjoying Puzzleface’s hospitality no doubt were the owners.
Deputy Sweet had gotten to know Puzzleface quite well a few months ago while Marshal Bess Sugarland was off hunting a serial killer with Joe Noose; he knew things about the enigmatic figure the lady marshal did not know, and the truth about Puzzleface would surprise and even astound her.
Deputy Sweet knew Puzzleface’s secret, but had given his word he would never tell, and Nate was a man of his word. The whole ride over, he struggled with the rightness of this. Because he believed Bess needed to know who Puzzleface was, if she was going to be able to enforce the law, and it was his duty as a sworn Deputy U.S. Marshal for him to tell her. Everybody in Jackson Hole had the wrong idea about Puzzleface. So did Bess. Those kinds of misunderstandings meant things could go sideways in a hurry and people could get hurt. It was going to come down to his duty or his word—he couldn’t honor both—and that’s why he was here, because Deputy Sweet needed to talk to Puzzleface directly.
The slight figure on the big horse came into view as the lawman rode up the path toward the house . . . Puzzleface waited, ready to intercept him.
From a distance Sweet could already recognize the trademark black waxed mustache, goatee, and sideburns, but was not yet close enough to see the facial scar that gave “Puzzleface” Taylor his nom de guerre. Puzzleface wasn’t short, wasn’t tall, of medium build and height. The man whose horse blocked his path had the elegant air of a dandy, dressed, as usual, in a well-tailored black coat over a green silk vest, a ruffled white shirt, red suspenders, and worn-out polished cowboy boots. No gun belt was visible because Puzzleface, who was never heeled, didn’t wear one, the deputy already knew. A weathered Stetson with a brim that had lost its shape sat on his small head. There was something of the riverboat gambler in his appearance and Puzzleface always took pride in his grooming. He remained in his saddle on his big Arabian that was a lot of horse for a little man, and watched Sweet approach.
The deputy rode up and they exchanged a friendly handshake.
Laying eyes on Puzzleface for the first time in weeks, Sweet was again struck how the face staring back at him captured your attention; behind the heavy go
atee and waxed mustache, Puzzleface Taylor had a fine bone structure with generous lips and surprisingly sensitive brown eyes in a delicate face marred by the jagged scar shaped like a jigsaw running from his left cheek, through the top and bottom of the left side of his lip, to the chin. The scar was the first thing you saw, but once you got past that you noticed the eyes, and those soulful eyes pulled you in. “What brings you out here, Nate?”
“Marshal’s back,” the deputy replied.
“I see.” Puzzleface swung his gaze to meet Sweet’s in the opposite saddle. “Does she know my secret?”
“No.”
“She doesn’t know who I am?”
“I didn’t tell her. Nobody else could have told her. Only Doctor Jane and me know.”
“You gave your word.”
“Relax. I didn’t tell the marshal anything.” Yet he almost added.
Ever observant, the gambler picked up on the slight hesitation in the way the lawman’s lips moved, so his own reply was measured and careful. “Good. She doesn’t know.”
“But . . .”
“What?”
“But Bess needs to know.”
Fiercely Puzzleface shook his head no, as Nate knew that he would the whole ride down, but Sweet had to say his piece.
“Listen to me. Now Marshal Bess is back, she’s the law in town, not me, I’m just her deputy, not wearing the marshal badge no more. That was just temporary while she was away on assignment. Marshal Bess is the law, she’s in charge if there’s trouble, and there is . . .”
Sliding a glance across the horses to the deputy who paused for emphasis, the gambler’s circumspect gaze clouded with caution as the lawman continued.
“If there’s trouble, it’s the marshal who has to handle it. She needs to be informed about you if she’s going to protect your person and your property, because right now in Jackson there’s loads of misunderstanding where you’re concerned, and plenty of folks in town have got the wrong idea about you. And the marshal’s one of them.”
Shifting uncomfortably in the saddle, the small man simply shrugged. “I’m not bothering anyone, Nate. I’m a peaceful human being. Don’t even own a gun. I bought the Puzzleface Ranch from my legitimate gambling winnings, and live quietly on my spread with a few women who are staying in my house.”