Badlanders (19 page)

T
he spot where Holland was shot was easy enough to find. They backtracked his horse.

The dead steer lay where it had fallen, its haunch only partially cut away. Flies had swarmed to the feast and rose in a cloud when Neal climbed down.

“Doesn't stink too bad yet,” Billy remarked.

“Give it a week,” Yeager said.

Jericho didn't say anything.

Neal had left the rest of the hands at the camp. Why put them in danger when there wasn't any need to? was his reasoning. He walked in a circle around the steer and over to where hoofprints led to the north. They were overlaid on tracks coming
from
the north. “He went back the way he came.”

“I have a feelin' about this,” Billy said. “We might get lucky this time.”

“Let's hope,” Yeager said.

Without being asked, Jericho assumed the lead. The tracks were plain enough that a ten-year-old could follow them, for the first mile, at least. Then, as before, the cow killer cut across rocky ground where his horse left
little sign. Jericho dismounted and searched on foot. He soon found scrape marks that pointed them to the northwest.

As they resumed their hunt, Neal slid his Winchester from the saddle scabbard, jacked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber, and slid the rifle into the scabbard again. He liked being prepared.

Several times Jericho climbed down to examine the ground. In each instance he said, “Lost the trail.” And in a minute or two he'd find it again.

Neal curbed his impatience. They mustn't slip up. They'd lost too many steers, and now one of their own.

The sun climbed and so did the temperature.

Jericho never once gave up. He stuck at it with the persistence of a coon hound on a scent.

This was the longest they'd ever been able to follow the killer's trail. Neal was encouraged, if guardedly so. They'd lost the sign too many times before to take anything for granted.

Then they came to a tableland with patches of green. The tracks pointed up a grassy incline.

Jericho drew rein at the bottom. “I don't like it,” he said, scanning the heights. “It's a good spot for an ambush.”

“Oh, hell,” Billy said. “The cow killer is so used to gettin' clean way, I bet you a dollar he doesn't know we're after him.”

“Listen to Jericho, kid,” Yeager said. “He's not wet behind the ears, like you.”

“Wet, am I?” Billy retorted, and tapped his spurs to his horse. Passing them, he glanced over his shoulder. “See? You're worried over nothin'.”

“Billy, wait,” Neal said. He trusted Jericho's instincts.

“The last one to the top is a rotten egg,” Billy said.

The boom of a heavy-caliber rifle was nearly simultaneous with part of Billy's head exploding in a shower of hair and brains. As if slammed by a battering ram, he was hurled from his saddle and crashed to earth in a heap.

“Hunt cover!” Neal bawled, hauling on his reins. He galloped toward a cluster of boulders, bent low to make less of a target.

The rifle boomed again and a horse squealed in agony.

Yeager's mount had been hit and plunged into a roll. Yeager kicked free of the stirrups and pushed at the saddle to get clear but didn't make it. The horse came down on top of him. There was the loud crack and crunch of bones, and he cried out. The next moment both he and his mount lay still in the dust, Yeager partly under his animal, his head bent at an angle no head was ever meant to bend.

Neal reached the boulders. Galloping behind one that would shield the buttermilk, he vaulted down, shucked his Winchester, darted to a smaller boulder, and crouched.

Jericho hadn't gone for the boulders. He was racing around the incline to the north, hanging on the offside, Comanche-fashion. In less than a minute he went around a bend and was lost to view.

Taking off his hat, Neal set it at his feet, then cautiously inched his head out.

He saw no one. Nothing moved. He started to pull back and the rifle boomed. The slug struck the boulder not a hand's width from his face, sending sharp slivers into his cheek.

Up above, someone cackled.

“Did I get you, you son of a bitch?”

Neal wasn't disposed to answer until he thought of Jericho, and how it might help him. “Not yet, you murderin' no-account.”

“Me?” the man shouted back. “You're the ones who killed him.”

“Killed who?”

“The best friend I ever had.”

Neal needed to keep the man talking. Cupping his hand to his mouth, he hollered, “What are you talkin' about, mister?”

“As if you don't know.”

“If I did, I wouldn't ask.” When the man didn't respond, Neal yelled, “If anyone's a killer here, it's you. You've shot I don't know how many steers, and now you've killed three men, besides.”

“They had it comin', them and your cows, both. I'd wipe out your whole outfit if I could. Lice meant a lot to me.”

“Lice?” Neal repeated in bewilderment. “What does he have to do with this?”

“You murdered him.”

Neal thought he had the man pinpointed; the shooter was behind a slab about sixty feet up. “Mister, you're loco. If not for him there wouldn't be a Diamond B.”

“I know he sold his place to you. He showed me the money and invited me to go drinkin' with him.”

“You and him were pards?”

“Didn't I already say that? Pay attention, you jackass.”

Neal was trying to make sense of it all. “You lived with Lice?”

“God, you're dumb,” the man replied. “I'm done talkin' to you.”

“Who are you?” Neal tried, but the killer didn't answer. Putting his hat back on, he flattened and crawled to a different boulder. He was looking for a way to reach the top without being spotted. He crawled to another, and yet one more, and warily poked his head out.

A gully looked promising. It was deep enough to hide him. To reach it he had to snake across ten feet of open space. Girding himself, he scrambled. He made it without being shot at.

The bottom was littered with rocks. Neal crawled slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. About halfway up, the gully took a sharp turn. He was almost to it when a gun muzzle was thrust practically in his face.

“So much as twitch and you're dead.”

Neal froze. It had never occurred to him that the killer might be working his way down. His Colt was in its holster, his Winchester at his side.

The rest of the rifle appeared, a face pressed to it. The wrinkled face of a man in his sixties, or older, wearing a floppy hat and a bear-hide coat. “I've got you now, you bastard,” he gloated.

The man rose onto his knees and told Neal to let go of the Winchester.

With no other choice, Neal did.

“Two fingers,” the man said. “Toss the six-gun.”

Again, Neal complied. He knew what a Sharps could do. That close, it would blow a hole in him the size of a melon. “Who are you?”

“What the hell do you care, you murderer?”

“You keep sayin' that,” Neal said. “But as God is my witness, I'd never have done Lice any harm. I liked the old coot.”

“You'd say anything to save your hide,” the man said in disgust.

“I'm not that kind.”

The old man chewed his lip while studying Neal intently, then gave a toss of his head. “No, you don't. You look honest enough, but looks don't always match the man.”

“Mister, if it wasn't for Lice, I wouldn't have the job I do. I wouldn't be married. I wouldn't be the happiest gent alive.”

“I almost believe you,” the man said.

“Tell me what this is about,” Neal said. “You can do that much, can't you?”

“All right. You listen, mister, and you listen good.” The man paused. “I've lived out here pretty near thirty years. I came to get away from folks. I don't like people much. Never have. And since no one else wanted to live in the Badlands, I had them all to myself until Lice came along. I struck up an acquaintance to find out why he settled so far from everywhere, and it turned out he didn't like people much, either. We became friends. I'd visit him now and again. I happened by the day after he sold his place. He couldn't stop grinnin'. He showed me
his money and said as how he was goin' into town to celebrate. He invited me to go along, but I declined. I'm not much for hard liquor, and like I said, I don't like to be around a lot of people.” He stopped, and scowled.

Neal glimpsed movement above and behind the old frontiersman. “Go on,” he urged.

“There's not much more. Except that Lice said he'd had a brainstorm. When he got back from town, he was fixin' to move deeper into the Badlands. Maybe live near me, if I didn't mind. I said hell no, I wouldn't. He rode off and that was the last I seen of him.”

“You think he was killed?”

“I know he was! He was supposed to be back the next mornin', and when he didn't show up the whole day, I rode into town to find out why. I went to the saloon and that gambler fella told me Lice never came for that drink. I said that was peculiar, and the gambler told me it sure was. He wondered how come the fancy city feller and the cowboy who went out to see Lice had come back just a few hours ago grinnin' as if they had a big secret. He told me that he asked how the sale went, and the city feller patted his saddlebags and said they got Lice's place real cheap.”

“Beaumont Adams told you that?”

“I never asked his name. But he suspicioned that they'd talked Lice into sellin', paid him the money so he'd sign his place over, then killed him and took the money back.”

“And you believed him?”

“It made sense,” the old man said. “So when all you cowboys came with your cows, I got back at you the only way I could think of.”

“By killin' our cattle,” Neal said.

“Now you know all there is,” the man said, and pressed his cheek to the Sharps. “Say your prayers, mister. You're about to meet your Maker.”

Not a dozen steps behind the old frontiersman, Jericho seemed to rise out of the ground. “Drop the buffalo gun, old-timer.”

The old man stiffened and whipped his head around. “Son of a bitch.”

“I won't say it twice,” Jericho said.

The man glanced at Neal, his face twisted in fury. “Damn all you cowboys, anyhow. You kept me talkin' so he could sneak up on me, didn't you?”

“Just do as he says,” Neal said.

“Like hell.” The old man spun, but he wasn't halfway around before Jericho fanned his pearl-handled Colt and fired two swift shots from the hip. The old man was jolted onto his bootheels, staggered, and toppled.

Grabbing the Sharps as the man fell, Neal sprang back. He had more questions he wanted to ask, but he would never get to ask them. “Damn.”

His Colt still trained on the motionless figure, Jericho came down. “I gave him his chance.”

“You did.”

“Who was he?”

“He never told me his handle.” Neal reclaimed his Colt and his Winchester while Jericho reloaded. “Did you hear what he told me?”

“I did.”

They left the old man there and walked down the gully. With Jericho's help, Neal tried to roll the dead animal off Yeager, but the horse was too heavy.

“We'll take Billy's body with us but have to come back with more hands for Yeager's.”

“What will you do about the other thing?” Jericho asked.

Neal had already come to a decision about that. “I'm payin' Beaumont Adams a visit.”

“I reckon I'll tag along.”

“Thought you might.” Neal managed to smile. “I'm obliged for savin' my bacon, by the way.”

“What are pards for?”

“That old man thought he was avengin' his.”

“If he was right about Lice,” Jericho said, “the gambler won't like you accusin' him of takin' the money.”

“I suspect he won't.”

“But you aim to brace him anyway?”

“I do.”

“There's liable to be trouble.”

“I expect so,” Neal said.

“Don't forget he has the law in his pocket, and his own gunnies, besides.”

“That he does.”

“Then it's root hog or die?”

“It is,” Neal said.

N
eal figured his new wife would understand. He set her down in the kitchen and explained about the old man, and about Lice going missing, and what Beaumont Adams had told Lice's friend. “Tomorrow I'm goin' into town to have a talk with him,” he concluded.

“I'm going with you,” Edana said.

“No. You're not.”

Edana sat back and folded her arms. “Not that again. I let you boss me once. I won't this time.”

“Edana—” Neal began.

“Hear me out. This involves me as much as it does you.”

“I must have missed that part.”

“Oh, really? My sister is living with Beaumont Adams. She'll probably be at his side when you question him. I have every right to be there. I'd like to know if the man she's given her heart to is a scoundrel.”

Neal would rather she didn't go. Then again, if both sisters were there, the gambler might be less likely to resort to his hardware. “I reckon you should, at that,” he said reluctantly.

That evening they sat on the porch to watch the sun set. It was becoming a tradition. Neal liked how some of the clouds glowed as if they were lit from within. “Right pretty,” he said.

Edana wasn't admiring the sky. She was staring absently at the porch, her forehead knit. “There's another reason I want to go with you.”

“I'm all ears,” Neal said.

“I haven't heard a word from Isolda since the wedding. Several times now I've had Stumpy ask her on my behalf if she'd like to come for supper some evening. She always says she's too busy.”

“Doin' what?”

“From what I hear, she and Adams have bought up a lot of businesses, and what with his saloons and all, they're well on their way to becoming rich.”

“Good for them,” Neal said, trying to sound sincere.

“Mayor Adams is a bit heavy-handed, they say,” Edana went on. “With Marshal Wratner to back him, there's nothing he can't do.”

“Imagine that.”

Edana raised her head. “You don't sound surprised.”

“That the bad element in a town takes it over to line their own pockets?” Neal shook his head. “I'm not.”

“Bad element,” Edana repeated. “That's a good way to describe them. Unfortunately that element includes my sister.”

Neal prudently stayed silent.

“Tell me something. You don't expect Adams to admit he killed Lice, do you?”

“Not if he has a brain, he won't.”

“Then why confront him? He'll only deny it. Where does that leave you? You can't have him arrested. You don't have any proof. Just the word of a half-crazed old man who went around shooting cattle.”

“Scar Wratner wouldn't arrest him, even if I had proof.”

“Then I ask you again, what purpose does confronting him serve?”

“I have to do it.”

“Explain it to me. I really and truly would like to understand.”

Neal pondered how best to do so.

“You hardly knew Lice. You met him only that once.”

“True.” Neal began to slowly rock. “You're right in that I hardly knew him. But he agreed to sell largely on my say-so that it was the smart thing to do. We wouldn't be sittin' here if not for him.”

“I savvy that much, as you would say.”

“Franklyn Wells had already hired me to be foreman. I didn't just persuade Lice on my own account. I did it because it was part of my job.”

“I get that, too.” The lines in Edana's brow deepened. “So you're saying that puts some sort of obligation on you? That you're responsible, in part, for what happened to Lice?”

“Obligation is a good way to put it,” Neal said.

“And you always take your obligations seriously.”

“I do.”

“Then I'll go along with whatever you want.”

Neal felt compelled to point out, “Your sister might get mad, me accusin' her sweetheart.”

“That's a polite way to describe him,” Edana said. “I regard him more as an unsavory character.”

“Out here we call them bad men.”

“That's a little harsh, isn't it? It's not as if he's an outlaw.”

“He murdered Lice. He shot that saloon owner and those other gents. Maybe you don't see that as bein' outside the law, but I do.”

“I didn't say that,” Edana said defensively. “It's just that he's so personable and friendly. And he has a wonderful sense of humor.”

“Maybe you should be the one livin' with him.”

Edana laughed. “No, thank you. I prefer a good man like you.”

“That's another thing,” Neal said. “Out here, when a
good man comes across a bad man doin' wrong, he does somethin' about it.”

“You're worrying me.”

“It has to be done.”

“We should take five or six of the hands along.”

“Jericho will do.”

“There's safety in numbers, they say.”

“And risk a full-blown battle with all those women and kids around?” Neal shook his head.

“It won't come to that, will it? Bloodshed, I mean?”

“That's up to Adams,” Neal said.

•   •   •

Beaumont had never had it so good. He had a beautiful lady for a partner, he was making money hand over fist, and he was the most powerful person in Whiskey Flats.

Beaumont had taken to being mayor like a cat taking to a bowl of milk. He ate up his newfound respect. Instead of being just another tinhorn, he was now “His Honor, the Mayor.” Men doffed their hats to him. Women smiled. His world was roses, and Beaumont couldn't be more pleased. With one exception. A thorn in his side that he couldn't seem to clip.

Now, striding along Main Street with Dyson and Stimms in his wake, Beaumont struggled to control his simmering anger. He came to the marshal's office and barged in without bothering to knock. “What in hell did you think you were doin'?”

Scar Wratner sat at a desk, his boots propped up. His hat was pushed back, and he was drinking Monongahela—straight from the bottle. Tuck sat on a stool, fiddling with a shoehorn. Grat was pinning a wanted poster up over by the window.

Blinking in surprise, Scar let his boots hit the floor. “Howdy to you, too, Mayor,” he said sarcastically.

Beaumont walked up to the desk. “I just heard about last night. Damn it, Wratner, you can't keep doin' things like this. It reflects badly on me. On my position as mayor.”

“Why, listen to you,” Scar sneered. “You sound just like a politician. Doesn't he, boys?”

“Sure does, Scar,” Tuck echoed.

“I won't have it, do you hear?” Beaumont said. “Isolda and I have worked too hard to have you spoil things.”

“You'd think I'd shot the parson, the way you're carryin' on. All I did was pistol-whip a drunk.”

“That drunk was Guthrie, the gent who runs the general store for me. And from what I hear, you did it because you got mad when a dove paid more attention to him than to you.”

“She's my dove,” Scar said. “It's my saloon.”

Beaumont put his hands flat on the desk. “You're only runnin' it for me. And from what I hear, lordin' it over everybody.”

“Listen to the kettle callin' the pot black.”

Beaumont was mad enough to shoot him. He went to slide his hands into the pockets of his frock coat.

“I wouldn't do that,” Scar said, setting the bottle down. “I'm wise to your tricks, remember?”

“I won't have you underminin' me,” Beaumont said. “Guthrie is the third hombre you've pistol-whipped since you pinned on that badge. Folks are talkin' behind our backs, sayin' you're unfit to be marshal and I was reckless to appoint you.”

“Let them jabber,” Scar said. “As if it matters.”

“That jabber can get you stripped of your tin,” Beaumont said. “People won't abide a rabid law dog.”

“I'm foamin' at the mouth now?”

“You might as well be,” Beaumont said. “Beatin' unarmed men half to death is stupid.”

“I don't like bein' insulted.”

“Then you should unplug those ears of yours. I can only protect you so far. Keep it up, and when a citizens' delegation shows up on my doorstep demandin' you be replaced, they'll get their wish.”

“So much for backin' my play if you had to,” Scar said. “Isn't that what you told me you'd do?”

“Backin' you is one thing,” Beaumont said. “Ruinin' things for Isolda and me is another.”

“How does the little lady feel about all this?”

“Don't bring her into it,” Beaumont said.

“Might as well,” Scar replied. “She's the real boss. You don't so much as belch without her say-so.”

Beaumont bristled at the suggestion he was tied to Isolda's apron strings. “It's a partnership, damn you.”

“Sort of like ours?” Scar said, and laughed.

“You've been warned.” Wheeling, Beaumont got out of there before Wratner said something that made him even madder. He was so incensed he stormed up the street with his head down and his fists clenched.

“Boss, look out!” Dyson said.

Beaumont jerked his head up. He'd nearly collided with a mother leading two children by either hand.

“Goodness gracious!” she exclaimed. “You almost walked into us.”

Beaumont bestowed his most charming smile, doffed his hat, and bowed. “My abject apologies, madam. I was entirely at fault.”

The children looked at him wide-eyed, but the mother smiled and blushed. “That's all right,” she said. “No harm done.”

Beaumont stepped aside so they could pass, and when they'd gone by, he replaced his hat and continued on. “That was close.”

“I don't reckon I've ever seen you so mad,” Dyson said.

“Me, either,” Stimms said.

“There are times, gentlemen,” Beaumont said, “when I regret pinnin' a star on that jackass.”

“You pinned it on him,” Dyson said. “You can take it away.”

“There's a notion,” Beaumont said. One he'd considered the last time Scar pistol-whipped someone. He'd advised Scar not to do it again, but the fool hadn't listened. Beaumont reckoned that the badge was to blame.
It had gone to Scar's head. Made Scar think he could get away with just about anything.

Still fuming when he reached the hotel, Beaumont paused to admire the large sign, done in a fine cursive according to Isolda's instructions.
B & I HOSTELRY
. Isolda said the name had a fancy sound to it. Beaumont didn't care what they called it so long as it made her happy.

The moment he stepped foot in the lobby, the desk clerk came around to ask if he could be of any assistance. Beaumont brushed him off with a wave of his hand and went up the stairs two at a stride.

Dyson and Stimms stayed in the lobby.

The entire top floor consisted of a single suite exclusively for Beaumont and Isolda. She'd seen to the furnishings, everything from Turkish tapestries to a four-poster bed.

Beaumont had never lived in such grand style.

“Isolda?” he called out.

“Over here.”

Beaumont veered to the balcony. “A little hot to be out in the sun, isn't it?” He was sweating profusely from his short walk.

Isolda was peering intently down at the far end of the street. “I happened to look out and noticed someone is paying our town a rare visit.” She pointed.

Beaumont looked. “I'll be damned.”

“My darling sister, her handsome husband, and their gun hand,” Isolda said with disdain. “I wonder what brought her in.”

“She probably came to see you,” Beaumont guessed. “Should we greet them with smiles?”

“Yes, let's,” Isolda said. “I can at least pretend to be the courteous hostess. Frankly I look forward to rubbing her nose in how well I'm doing.”

“You're all heart, darlin'.”

“Aren't I, though?” Isolda said.

They both laughed.