by Brett Waring
“Don’t see I have any choice,” Nash said. “No stage line out here, is there?”
“Hell, no. We’re at the butt-end of the world here. Everythin’s passes us by—’ceptin’ the damn trail herds, fillin’ a man’s house with dust so’s he’s eatin’ it and skimmin’ it off the top of every cup of coffee he drinks.”
Nash smiled faintly. He figured the telegraphist must be the town grouch. But sometimes the man who did all the bitching could be a good source of information—especially if he sat day after day in a telegraph shack at the edge of town, watching folk coming and going and noticing details that other folk might not see ...
Nash thumbed back his hat, built a cigarette and offered the tobacco sack and papers to the man. The telegraphist scowled and shook his head.
“An’ don’t you light that damn quirley in here, neither. I don’t want my shack fouled with your lousy tobacco smoke.”
Nash dropped the unlit cigarette into his shirt pocket with the tobacco sack. “Sorry. You got a lonely job.”
“You said a mouthful. Damn key ain’t hardly clattered in a week, till you come in. Oh, an’ that other hombre couple days back.”
“Oh? Only two messages goin’ out in a couple days? Things’re mighty slow, all right.”
“Too damn slow. Next thing, Western Union’ll close down this telegraph line an’ I’ll be out of a job.”
“Aw, I reckon they’ll keep it open. You must be busy when the trail herds come through—what with cattle agents arranging shipping and prices and so on ...?”
“Yeah. Ain’t bad in the season. Rest of the time key all but grows cobwebs on it.”
“What about this other hombre you was talking about?” Nash asked casually. “He a cattle buyer or trail herder?”
“Hell, no, just a drifter like you. Sourdough, I reckon. Had a burro with him, totin’ some kind of load.” The man leaned forward confidentially. “Might’ve had some gold with him, too. Kept lookin’ outside all the time to make sure the critter was still there.”
Nash nodded knowingly. “Aw, yeah, that was likely Shelton. Ran into him out in the hills, behind the Butterfield place. Tall hombre, face like an axe blade, moustache an’ hair coverin’ his ears ...?”
The telegraphist squinted at Nash and hesitated before replying. “Well, that was how he looked when he rode in. Just signed his wire ‘Shell’ so mebbe his name was Shelton. Din’t ask.”
Nash was tense but tried not to show it.
“What d’you mean he looked that way when he rode in?”
The man sighed—then scowled. “Hell, he looked different when he left. No moustache, hair shorter, new clothes, sideburns trimmed. Hardly recognized him. He had two new horses, too. Only that he was draggin’ the burro behind that I recognized him at all, really.”
“Which way did he head?”
“You’re askin’ a lotta questions, mister.”
Nash smiled, took out a five dollar gold piece and began to twist it casually between his fingers, making sure the light struck it and took the other’s attention.
“I’m interested. Like to know where he sent his wire and who to.”
The man shook his head, somewhat regretfully. “Agin’ Company regulations.”
“Sure. I understand. You keep records?”
The man’s eyes flicked-to a leather bound register beside his message key. Then he looked levelly at Nash.
“Any company worth its salt has to keep records.”
“Sure. Now why don’t you go wash your face or somethin’? You’re sort of sweating a lot in here an’ I notice that rain butt outside’s in the shade. Water ought to be nice an’ cool. Douse your head. Likely I’ll be gone by the time you get back.”
As he spoke, Nash let the coin roll from his fingers. It dropped off the counter onto the floor on the man’s side.
“Go cool off some. I’ll look for it. But I wouldn’t be surprised if I don’t find it ... Okay?”
The man nodded, deadpan. “Yeah. Okay.”
He lifted the counter flap and hurried outside. Nash stepped behind the counter, ignoring the gold piece that lay beside the leg of the operator’s chair, and opened the ledger. The message record was the most recent entry. He smiled faintly as he read the scrawled words.
Lonetree, Matador County, Brazos River. To Miss Laurie Nettleton. Message reads: On the way: Shell.
Clay Nash closed the register and hurried out of the shack. The operator was drying his head and face beside the rain butt.
As Nash mounted he said:
“Couldn’t find that gold piece. Maybe you’ll have better luck. Adios.”
“Adios, drifter. Don’t go raisin’ too much goddamn dust as you ride out of my yard now.”
Nash laughed and lifted a hand as he rode out.
He rested overnight in Middlewater, bought fresh supplies, and pulled out early the following morning.
It was a long, three-day ride down to Amarillo and he pushed his mount to the limit.
But it was all for nothing. He arrived too late for the weekly train south. He’d missed it by a day and a half. Nash swore—but stopped himself quickly, realizing there was nothing to be done. He could push on by horse, but he wouldn’t make good time in the rough country—and there was nowhere along the way he could pick up the train. They told him there was a nine-car freight due in and out again in three days, so he figured the best thing to do would be to wait for that.
Meantime, he sent another wire to Hume, notifying him of his whereabouts and went back to the railroad depot, where he found out that a man answering Shannon’s description had caught the train south, shipping his horses and mule in a boxcar.
And he paid the charge in gold—a small nugget.
At least he was on the right trail and Nash sent off another wire to Hume, suggesting he alert the Rangers and have them waiting when the train pulled in to Matador.
As it turned out, the move accomplished nothing.
The man answering Shannon’s description had paid the engineer to stop the train out on the Medicine Flats while he offloaded his horses and mule and disappeared into the distance, heading in the general direction of the Brazos River.
But it was enough for the Rangers to know that Shell Shannon was in their part of the country. The Troop Commander sent out a six-man patrol, searching Medicine Flats for some sign of the killer.
The patrol picked up his trail where he had quit the Amarillo train and followed it out across the brown-grassed flats. It led directly into rugged, boulder-shot country on the southern edge.
But all sign abruptly disappeared as if Shannon had suddenly sprouted wings and flown away.
The Rangers were totally puzzled by the absence of sign.
The tracks led into the boulder field and abruptly stopped in the middle of loose sand in the bottom of a dry wash. They stared at each other incredulously. It just wasn’t possible for the tracks to end as they did at that point. There was still five yards of sand in either direction before any sort of cover or hard ground was reached.
But the tracks stopped dead ...
“Well, I damn well know hosses don’t fly, nor do burros loaded down with over a hundred pounds of gold,” the senior Ranger said. “He’s cunnin’, is Shell Shannon. Lived with Injuns for a spell. He’s got their ways. Somehow he’s wiped out his tracks, but he had to go to cover either there, or there.”
The Ranger pointed to two rock-strewn areas.
“Or he could’ve doubled-back,” a man suggested.
The senior man scowled. “You think we been ridin’ with our eyes closed an’ our ears stuffed with cotton? We’d’ve seen or heard him if he’d doubled-back.”
“Not if he veered off into one of them draws yonder,” the man said, standing in the stirrups to point.
The senior man’s mouth tightened. “All right. You got the chore of lookin’ in there. Ben, you an’ Chuck take that rise. Alby, take the slope to the left, an’ you come with me, Pete. We work clear throu
gh this boulder field and meet up in Skull Gulch on the far side by sundown.”
He wheeled his mount and the men went their ways to begin their search for Shannon.
Ben and Chuck started up the rise and were soon lost to sight among the tall boulders.
Ben, short and fat, gestured that he would take the right hand side of one large clump.
Chuck nodded, slid his rifle out of its scabbard and rode off around the far side. He moved warily, a shell levered into the Winchester’s breech, his eyes roving every nook and cranny and shadow.
It took him ten minutes to encircle the clump. He expected to find Ben waiting for him.
But there was no sign of the chubby man, so Chuck shrugged, rested his rifle across his lap, hooked a leg over the saddlehorn and began to build a cigarette. He had just fired it up when he heard a sound from the rocks. He turned his head casually.
“Any luck, Ben?” he called.
There was no answer and, frowning, he put his boot back in the stirrup and slid the rifle into both hands, using his knees to guide his horse in among the rocks.
“Ben?”
Still there was no reply.
Chuck rode in slowly, then let out a choked cry as suddenly Ben’s body dropped in front of him—dangling at the end of a rope knotted about his neck.
The man’s eyes and tongue bulged in his blackened face and Chuck felt his gorge rise as he swung towards a small slithering sound to his right.
He caught a glimpse of a lean body hurtling at him, the flash of sunlight off a glittering steel blade, and then something burned across his throat and he convulsed as blood jetted from his severed jugular ...
Shannon kicked the body out of the saddle, caught the reins of the plunging horse and cut its throat as deftly and as effortlessly as he had slashed its rider’s.
He left it down on its knees, dying beside Chuck, and glanced up briefly to where Ben’s body swung slowly at the end of the rope.
Then he faded back silently into the shadows ...
Alby had dismounted to examine what looked like part of a hoof mark in some softer soil that had been caught up between some rocks. He knelt on one knee and leaned down to examine it more closely. Yes, he figured, it was a hoof mark all right. Looked more like that of a mule than a horse, though.
He was about to straighten and call the senior Ranger when suddenly something dropped onto his back, driving him face first into the rocks.
A knee ground into his spine and steel fingers locked beneath his chin, wrenching back his head.
He struggled feebly but he was helpless as Shannon bared his teeth and his muscles bulged until he heard the man’s spine snap dully—and Alby was nothing but limp, dead meat.
Once again, like the shadows that crept from the rocks as the sun sank down towards the west, Shannon faded silently from sight ...
The man who’d been sent to examine the draw was going to have to be left till last, Shannon figured, as he made his way from boulder to boulder, moving towards the senior Ranger and Pete.
So far he’d been lucky: he’d managed to kill the others without a sound. But he had to make sure the next two didn’t make any noise—or the man in the draw might be alerted and he could well make a run for it and get away.
If he did, he’d bring every Ranger in northwest Texas. And he sure as hell didn’t want that ...
Pete was easy. The man climbed to the top of a high boulder for a better view of the area. Shannon hefted a fist-sized rock, took careful aim—and threw it. The missile hit Pete between the shoulders and he got out no more than a grunt before he staggered, lost his footing and plunged into the rocks ...
The senior Ranger heard him fall and quickly rode towards him, dismounting and running up to the broken body spread-eagled among the jagged rocks.
Shannon crept around the boulder, slid out his knife and prepared to lunge at the Ranger. But the man turned just as Shannon made his strike and he was fast enough to throw up a protective arm that took the down-driving blade.
The man yelled in agony and palmed up his six-gun, shooting wildly. The lead ricocheted from the rock beside Shannon and he cursed, knowing the man in the draw would have been alerted.
The smoking Colt barrel swept around towards his face as he pulled the knife free of the Ranger’s arm and swung at him again. The man stumbled backwards and fell, his gun blasting.
Shannon kicked him in the head, swiftly scooped up the Colt and punched two bullets into the man’s chest.
Then he ran.
His keen ears had heard the galloping hoofs of the man’s horse as he swept out of the draw and back onto the flats.
The man knew gunfire meant that Shannon was still around, and that was good enough for him.
He aimed to ride for reinforcements.
But Shannon couldn’t allow that to happen.
He leapt from rock to rock, surefooted, making his way swiftly through the boulder field to the hidden ring of rocks where he had his horses and the burro.
He grabbed the big Remington from the rawhide sling on his mount and immediately started to climb the nearest rock. He slung the rifle across his shoulders and used both hands and feet to get to the top.
Already the galloping hoof beats of the fleeing Ranger had faded.
Shannon sprawled across the flat top of the high boulder and unslung the Remington as he searched the flats for sign of the Ranger.
He saw the horseman in the fading light, more than a half a mile out on the flats.
Shannon settled himself unhurriedly on the boulder, finding as comfortable a position as possible, and using the rifle sling wrapped around forearm and elbow to steady the weapon.
He cocked back the hammer and settled the butt against his cheek, sighting carefully through the flipped-up peephole.
He took his time, pushing the pronged butt firmly into his shoulder, his finger caressing the double-set trigger, taking up the first slack, holding—holding—then gently pressing for the actual let-off—and the crisp release of the hammer.
The big Remington jarred back against his shoulder. The heavy barrel hardly lifted at all as the high-powered bullet sped towards the fleeing Ranger—three-quarters of a mile away.
Shannon rose to a sitting position.
He’d allowed for drift and drop, and had aimed one length beyond the stretched-out horse.
He waited for all his calculations to come together.
Three seconds after firing, he saw the Ranger spill from the saddle in an untidy heap, flailing and rolling and somersaulting and raising a series of small dust clouds before skidding onto his face.
The riderless horse continued on its way for several yards before gradually coming to a halt. Then it turned and trotted back to sniff at its dead master.
Shannon casually reloaded, beaded the animal, and brought it down with a head shot.
He spent the time until dark searching out the other horses. Then he killed them all, dispassionately.
There’d be no Ranger horses finding their way back to the main camp to warn that something had gone wrong with the patrol.
Finally, he mounted his horse and, leading the spare and the laden mule, rode out of the boulder field and turned to the south east—riding quietly into the star-studded night ...
Six – Double Cross
Lonetree was way out on the western reaches of the Brazos River, a cow town on a route that many trail herders followed on their way north to the big beef markets in Kansas.
It was a rip-roarer in most cowboys’ books for it provided the ‘essentials’ of a popular trail town: gambling, booze, whores, and the excitement of spontaneous fist and gun fights that accompanied all of these things.
Another thing about Lonetree, was that it backed onto outlaw country—nudging territory that the men on the dodge figured as their own private stamping ground.
Occasionally, such men appeared on the streets of Lonetree and sometimes there were gunfights, between the outlaws themselves or between the
m and the local law, Sheriff Myron T. Marriner.
The lawman was as tough as any owlhoot who hit his town and he was a man who had a reputation for singling out the men with big bounties on their heads—and collecting those bounties.
Reports said that some of the men Marriner had downed had only a single bullet in them.
In the back.
No one probed too deeply to find out if it were true or not and those who knew for sure either kept the information to themselves or spoke about it in hushed whispers. For Myron T. Marriner wasn’t a man to cross.
He kept law and order in Lonetree to the satisfaction of the locals. That is, he broke up fights, threw drunks in the cells, and generally made the streets safe enough for women and kids to walk without fear.
The townsfolk were willing to forgive him a few shortcomings to preserve that pleasant state of affairs. For, before Marriner arrived, Lonetree had been wide open and everyone had suffered at the hands of the drunken cowmen as well as the owlhoots.
Marriner was a man in his middle thirties, hard-bitten and icy-eyed. He was a man who rarely smiled. It was said his taste in women was Oriental or colored, yet no one had seen him enter any of the whore houses—and they catered for all tastes.
He wore twin Colts in a buscadero rig, the two holsters slung from the same wide belt that had twin rows of cartridges encircling it.
He boasted that he had taken it from a bandido chief after wresting one of the guns from the man with his bare hands, ramming the barrel into the man’s mouth—and dropping hammer.
No-one doubted the story: they knew Marriner was tough enough to have done exactly that ...
His lithe, neatly-clothed figure swung along the evening boardwalks and he nodded to townsmen, touched a hand politely to the brim of his hat to townswomen, and pretended to draw and shoot at playing kids, using his thumb and forefinger as a ‘gun’.
The kids loved it and several followed behind him, copying his easy-swinging walk and the way his hands brushed in close to his guns at all times.