Slash started walking slowly toward the man, frowning with keen interest. His heart was beginning to quicken. “What sort of owlhoots, Dodge?”
CHAPTER 23
“Beats me what sort of owlhoots they were.” Dodge had set a shot glass on the bar. He held up the bottle and glanced at Slash and Pecos, brows raised. “Splash of the good stuff? I hear this is damn near twelve dollars a bottle. Earl’s had it fer—”
“Enough about the brandy,” Slash said, walking up to the bar and resting his fists on top of it, leaning slightly forward toward the old-timer standing behind it. “Finish tellin’ about these dead owlhoots.”
“Yeah,” Pecos said, walking up to the bar now as well. “Tell us what you know about these dead fellas, old-timer.”
“All right, all right.” Dodge carefully filled his glass, then set the bottle down beside it. “All I know is they come through this way once every couple of months. They pass my cabin on their way here. Been comin’ an’ goin’ nearly two years now. Always the same bunch.”
“Just these five?” Slash asked.
“No, not just these five. A whole bunch.”
“How many?” Hattie said, stepping up between Slash and Pecos, giving each man a haughty shove with the backs of her gloved hands so she could stand between them, facing Dodge. “A dozen?”
“A dozen or more,” Dodge said, carefully lifting the glass to his lips and taking a delicate sip, careful not to let any of the precious liquid dribble down the side of the glass. “How’d you know?”
“Holy cow,” Pecos said, softly, glancing at Slash.
“I’ll say ‘holy cow,’ ” Hattie said, placing her hands atop the bar, pressing her fingers into the scarred, liquor-stained wood. She pressed her fingers down so hard the tips turned white. “They wouldn’t happen to be carrying gold, would they—these dozen cutthroats. Stolen gold?”
“I don’t know what it is they’re carryin’. All I know is they usually got ’em a big beefy pack mule, an’ whatever they’re carryin’ in the pack frame is covered up good and tight with a tarpaulin, an’ they don’t let it out of their sight. They always stop here for drinks and food, and they always leave five men behind. Not always these five. Just five. Them five stay here for a couple of days, drinkin’ an’ playin’ poker an’ whatnot, and then they ride on—in the same direction the others went.”
Hattie glanced at Pecos, then turned to Slash, her eyes wide and round. “It’s them.”
“Who?” asked Dodge.
“Holy cow,” Pecos said to Slash. “They must leave five behind to make sure they’re not bein’ followed.”
“Right careful,” Slash said, his breath coming faster now as he looked around at the dead men.
“Well, that explains why they were so touchy,” Hattie said.
Pecos wrinkled his nose at her. “I hope that learns you a lesson about not runnin’ your mouth off so much. You might just run it off at the wrong folks again, like you done here.”
“What are you talking about?” Hattie laughed with glee. “My sound detective work gave us the information we were so desperately seeking.”
Pecos gave her the woolly eyeball, snarling.
“All right, all right,” Slash said. “What’s done is done. The Pink’s right. At least now we know we’re on the right trail.” He glanced at the dead men strewn around the room. “And we even culled the herd.”
Pecos turned to Dodge. “Where did the others go? They took the gold, I’m assumin’.”
“All I know is they usually head north along Silver-tip Creek.”
“How long ago did they leave here?”
“Early yesterday mornin’. They pulled in last night, slept out in the barn. I know ’cause I was up in the loft. Earl lets me sleep up there when I’ve had too much to find my way home.”
“You were up in the loft when they were down below in the barn?” Slash asked with renewed interest.
“That’s right.” Dodge threw back the rest of his brandy, then carefully refilled the glass. “I was quiet as a church mouse. Didn’t want ’em to know I was up there. They frighten me—those fellas. A hard-lookin’ lot.”
“You must have overheard them talking,” Hattie said. “Did they say anything about where they were headed with the gold?”
“Not that I recall,” Dodge said. “Of course, I was three sheets to the wind, so . . .” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle.
“Come on, Dodge,” Slash prodded the old-timer. “You must have some idea where they headed.”
“You must have overheard something,” Hattie added.
Dodge held the refilled shot glass up close to his face and stared off, squinting, pondering. He shook his head and pursed his lips. “Nope. Sorry. All I remember is hearin’ what men usually say to one another. Mostly about cards an’ . . . well”—he glanced at Hattie with a sheepish half-grin—“women.”
“What a surprise.”
“Did they mention any names?” Pecos asked the man.
“None that I can recall. Sorry, fellas. Young lady.” Dodge scowled at the three standing before him. “Say, who are you, anyways? Bounty hunters?”
“Just call us concerned citizens,” Slash said, grabbing a shot glass from the pyramid on the bar to his right and pouring some of the old man’s brandy into it.
“Right good stuff,” Dodge said. “It comes all the way from . . .” He let his voice trail off and acquired another thoughtful expression. “Say, now . . .”
“What?” Pecos said, pouring some of the brandy into the glass that Slash had slid over to him.
“Spanish.”
“The brandy?” Slash said, throwing back half of his shot. “Them Spanish make damn good lightnin’—I’ll give ’em—”
“No,” Dodge said. “I heard one o’ them say somethin’ about Spanish. In the barn. When I was up in the loft.”
“Spanish what?” Pecos asked.
“I don’t know. Like I said, I’d imbibed a wee more than I should have, as I make a point of doing too often these days. But a fella gets bored, you see, with most of his life behind him.” Dodge raked a thoughtful hand down his tangled beard. “I remember it caught in my craw, though. That one word. But I don’t remember why.”
“Spanish?” Hattie said, incredulous.
“Just Spanish,” Slash said. “Nothing else?”
“As far as I can recall.” Dodge thought about it some more. “Seems to me it might have been another word with it, but I can’t recall, doggone it.” He raked a hand down his face. “You get to be my age, everything gives out on ya, gallblastit!”
“What’s north of here?” Pecos asked. Having polished off his shot of the brandy, he refilled his glass. “Any towns of any size?”
“Hell, no. Still wild up thataway. Oh, there’s a few minin’ camps, wood-cuttin’ camps. There’s a minin’ camp called Aspen up near the Maroon Bells—but that’s a far piece to the way north. Of course, there’s a trail that cuts west over to Utah and Salt Lake City.”
“Salt Lake City,” Hattie said. “Maybe that’s where they’re headed.”
Slash shook his head. “Too far away. If they come and go through here pretty often, they gotta be based somewhere near here. I’m guessin’ maybe a day’s, two days’ ride at the most.” He sipped his brandy, set the glass back down on the bar. “I reckon we just gotta keep ridin’. Maybe we can pick up their trail again north of here.”
“Doubt that,” said the old-timer. “It rains every afternoon up in these parts. Hell, we even had a little snow last night. Of course, it melted right off.”
“I need a horse,” Hattie said. “I reckon I’ll go pick out one of these dead men’s mounts.”
She turned away from the bar and strode toward the front of the room, pausing to look, grimacing, at the big dead Indian twin whose head Slash had cored like an apple. “Disgusting,” the girl said.
Pecos leaned forward on the bar, doffed his hat, and raked his hand back through his long hair. “Well, like
you said, at least we whittled ’em a down a piece. By five, anyways. And we know we’re headed in the right direction.”
“Yeah.” Slash dug his makings sack out of his shirt pocket and tossed it down on the bar. “That’s something, anyway.”
“Spanish,” Jupiter Dodge said, glowering down at the bottle of Spanish brandy on the bar before him, trying to jog his memory. “Spanish, Spanish, Spanish. . .”
“Shut up, old man!”
Dodge jerked his startled gaze toward the door.
Slash and Pecos did as well, for that’s the direction from which the harsh order had come. Whipping around, Slash dropped his hands to his two holstered Colts but stayed the motion when he saw the man standing in the saloon’s open doorway.
Not just the man, but Hattie Friendly as well. He’d obviously grabbed the girl when she’d stepped out of the saloon, and he held her now, one hand wrapped around her waist while he held a cocked six-shooter to her right temple.
The girl was as white as a sheet, her brown eyes wide and round.
“Hey, Slash!” the man cried. “Hey, Pecos! Fancy meetin’ you two way out here!”
Slash’s lower jaw loosened in shock when he recognized the round-faced man, a little taller than Hattie, holding the gun to her head. He wore a funnel-brimmed, tan Stetson, a collarless shirt, and snakeskin suspenders, which held his green whipcord trousers, patched at the knees, up on his lean hips. Two holsters hung low on his thighs from the crisscrossed cartridge belts buckled around his waist; one of the holsters was empty.
An exaggerated grin made his eyes bulge and flash, stretched his thin, chapped lips back from his brown-edged teeth.
“Well, now,” Pecos said. “Lookee there, Slash, it’s our old pal Otis Pettypiece.”
“What you up to, Otis?” Slash said, keeping his hands on his guns but leaving both Colts in their holsters.
“Can’t you see what I’m up to, Slash?” Otis said through his lunatic grin, keeping the barrel of his Colt Thunderer snugged taut against Hattie’s temple. “I’m about to sink a bullet into your purty little girl’s brain. An’ that’s what I’m gonna do, too, if’n you don’t toss both those purty hoglegs of yours over here toward the door. You, too, Pecos. Give up the Russian nice an’ easy, or she’s gonna join my dead friends you bloodied the place up with.”
“Your friends, eh?” Slash said, trying to keep his voice calm but hearing the strain in it. “Why don’t we have us a friendly talk, Otis?”
“Oh, we’ll talk, all right. I don’t know how friendly it’s gonna be, but we’ll talk, all right. After you’ve lightened your loads a little. Come on—throw ’em over here!”
“You ridin’ with this bunch, Otis?” Pecos asked, frowning at the dead men strewn around the room.
Both he and Slash had forgotten how long ago Otis Pettypiece had ridden with their own gang, the Snake River Marauders. As was typical of outlaw gangs, members came and went. As Pecos remembered, Otis had decided to drift off to California when most of the gang had headed for Kansas and Missouri after a robbery up in Dakota. Obviously, Otis hadn’t stayed on the coast.
Now here he was, threatening the life of the pretty Pink.
“Yeah, I’m ridin’ with ’em. Makin’ a damn better livin’ than I was makin’ with you an’ the Marauders. I was sacked out in the barn when I heard the shootin’.”
“Damn,” said Jupiter Dodge. “I thought they left behind six this time. I was wonderin’ where the other one was. I reckon I shoulda mentioned it,” he added with chagrin.
“You sure are gettin’ squishy in your thinker box, old man,” Slash growled, keeping his anxious gaze on his old friend, Otis Pettypiece.
“Yeah, well, you’ll be where I’m at someday,” Dodge fired back. “See how you like bein’ prodded about it by younkers like yourself!”
“Younker, hah!” Pettypiece chuckled, mockingly. “These two old dinosaurs might not be quite as old as you, old man, but they’re about to head over the divide if they don’t throw down them hoglegs right now!”
Slash glanced over Pettypiece’s right shoulder, as though spying someone moving up behind him. “Oh . . . is that so?” he said and nudged Pecos with his elbow.
Pecos glanced at him.
Pecos jerked his chin to indicate the yard behind Pettypiece and the Pink.
Pecos turned to the outlaw and grinned.
“What?” The outlaw kept his eyes on Slash and Pecos, but his smile grew brittle, then faded altogether. “What’s goin’ on? No, no! You’re up to your old tricks!”
“Just the same, Otis, I’d lower that Colt if I was you. Then our old pal Jack might spare your life instead of shootin’ you in the back of the head.” Slash raised his voice. “Ain’t that right, Jack?”
Pettypiece winced. Unable to help himself, he cast a quick look over his left shoulder. It was no more than a jerking movement of his head, but it gave Slash just enough time to whip up his right-hand Colt, aim, and fire just as Otis turned his head back forward. The .44-caliber round bored a hole through Pettypiece’s left eye, turning it to cherry jelly.
Pettypiece’s head snapped back. He fired his cocked Colt into the ceiling.
Hattie screamed and dropped to her knees, covering her head with her arms again.
Pettypiece fell straight back out the door and onto the raised boardwalk with a heavy thud. He lay shivering as though deeply chilled.
CHAPTER 24
“You okay, darlin’?” Slash asked Hattie.
She was staring back over her shoulder at the dead man on the boardwalk.
Slowly, she turned toward where Slash was lowering his smoking Colt, the blood starting to return to her cheeks, but her eyes still wide and glassy with shock. “Yes,” she said, drawing a breath. “Yes . . . I think so.”
Slash walked over and extended his hand to her. “You’d best sit down for a spell.”
“Yes,” Hattie said, placing her hand in Slash’s. “Yes, I think I’d better.”
When Slash had helped the girl into a nearby chair, Jupiter Dodge said from his station behind the bar, “Say, that was one helluva shot.” He frowned again, curiously. “Who in the hell are you two, anyway? I’m beginnin’ to wonder if you two might be Slash Braddock an’ the Pecos River Kid!”
“Us?” said Slash, feigning bemused incredulity. He looked at Pecos, and they both laughed.
The two former cutthroats stepped out onto the boardwalk and stared down at the dead man, who stared up at them through his one remaining eye, which remained wide open in death as though he were perusing the cloudless sky for the angel that would take him to heaven.
“Nice shootin’, Slash,” Pecos said. “But you should’ve left him alive so’s we coulda found out where the rest of his new gang headed with the gold.”
“What’d you want me to do? Nick his ear so he could still drill a hole through Hattie’s head?”
“That girl’s trouble,” Pecos said, staring down at the dead Otis Pettypiece.
He’d said it quietly enough that he’d thought only Slash had heard. He was wrong. Hattie had stepped quietly up behind him and Slash, and now she said, crisply and with no little air of offense, “Excuse me. I’m going to go and pick out that horse now.”
“Ah, hell,” Pecos said. “Why don’t you stay inside and rest up? I’ll saddle a hoss for you.”
Hattie strode quickly and stiffly across the yard toward the corral straight out from the cabin, swinging her arms, her hair winging out behind her. She turned her head and said in the same crisply offended tone as before, “I wouldn’t want to be any more trouble!”
She turned her head forward, continued toward the corral, and plucked a rope off a gate post.
Pecos turned toward Slash. “I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings.”
“She almost got more than her feelings hurt in there.” Slash jerked his head toward the saloon behind him. “She came damn close to saddling a cloud instead one of those gold-robbers’ horses.”
“Sh
e’s just young,” Pecos said, staring toward where the girl was moving around the corral, inspecting the horses that sidled apprehensively away from her. As she moved, she swung the loop at the rope’s end, gradually enlarging it.
“She’s green. She shouldn’t be out here. I’m surprised Pinkerton sent her. Or one of his field lieutenants. She may not have gotten herself killed today . . . or someone else killed today . . . but the day ain’t over.”
“Don’t you start on her now, Slash. I feel bad about what I said. An’ her hearin’.”
“That’s the trouble with you, partner,” Slash said. “Your heart’s too damn big.”
“Oh, come on. She’s just a kid!”
“You look out for her from now on, then, if she’s just a kid. Me, I’m gonna go in an’ have some more bear stew before we hit the trail. And another tug or two off Dodge’s brandy.”
“What the hell’s climbin’ your hump all of a sudden?” Pecos said as Slash stepped over the dead Indian twin and headed for the bar, where Jupiter remained, drinking the Spanish brandy. “You can’t be feelin’ bad about layin’ out ole Otis. You know what a copper-riveted peckerwood he always was. No one shed a tear when he lit out for California.”
“Shut up,” Slash said as he ladled up a fresh bowl of bear stew from the pot on the range behind the bar. “You’re interruptin’ my dinner!”
Dodge grinned. He stretched out an arm and pointed a finger at Slash, looking between him and Pecos standing in the doorway. “I was right, wasn’t I? Slash Braddock an’ the Pecos River Kid! In my very presence! I’ll be ding-dong-damned!”
Dodge lifted his leg and slapped his thigh.
Slash scowled at him, then kicked out a chair and sat down at a table. “Shut up, old-timer, or Slash Braddock an’ the Pecos River Kid are gonna make you dance!”
A Good Day for a Massacre Page 18