Blood on the Verde River (26 page)

Impatient to cross, Chet fired his pistol in the air to wake Lee, the ferry man. A light soon came on from the other side of the river.

A man in his late forties brought the vessel across. “I was coming. It will take two trips to get all your horses across. The last guy complained about it, but he had too many horses.”

“What was his name?” Chet asked, riding his horse onto the ferry barge.

“Olaf something. And Jimbo.”

“And Riley?”

“Yeah. You know them?”

Jesus rode onto the ferry, leading two of the packhorses as Chet continued asking questions. “Did they have Joseph Smith's horses?”

“Yes. Olaf said the man got a wagon ride and sold him the horses so he could get home faster.”

“How long ago were they here?”

“Mid-afternoon. They rode west to Joseph's Lake.”

“We can find them.”

“What did they do?” asked Lee.

“Murdered Joseph Smith. We buried him about ten hours ago. I have a letter from his wife in St. David that we found on him.”

“Those bastards. They said he sold them his horse and gear because he caught a ride with an Indian in a wagon.”

“Lee, those men are wanted for robbing a stage in Arizona.” Chet was upset by the man's obvious lack of concern for their lawlessness.

“I don't enforce the law. I ferry people across the river. At least, those that have the money. The rest can swim.”

“How much money do you think Smith had on him?”

“Maybe a thousand dollars.”

“Really?”

“He said he would pay off what he owed and have money to live on for several years.”

Chet did some mental figuring. “Maybe even more than that. How far is it to the base of the mountains?”

“Fifty-sixty miles across House Rock Valley.”

“Thanks Lee. They won't cross it before dark.” Chet turned to Jesus. “When we get all the horses across, will you take the packhorses and follow us? I want me and Cole to try to catch them before they get into those mountains. Take your time. We may ruin two good horses, but I want those killers.”

Jesus nodded and smiled in the predawn light. “I understand. I'll come with the pack animals.”

When Cole and the rest of the animals came across, Chet explained his plan to capture the Marconis before they got away. Cole agreed in the faint light of sunup pinking the mountaintops in Navajo country. They refilled their canteens before setting out.

“Take your time,” Chet reminded Jesus, and he agreed.

Chet and Cole left in a hard run uphill from the river to the flat valley with the tall red cliffs running east and west on their right-hand side. Bunch grass and sagebrush covered the open, rolling country and dim wagon tracks formed a road westward.

“Not bad range country,” Cole said when they reined the horses down to a walk to cool some.

“I noticed that, too. But it would be hell to find a market for cattle up here.”

“I never thought about it when I came to Preskitt, but most ranchers who needed help could only hire day help. The fact that they had no sales was the reason, wasn't it?”

“Lots of cattle and no place to sell them is right. Railroads will change things, but that may be too late. That's why we are so proud of the Navajo beef deal. They could change their minds and get a new supplier. All we have now is script for our troubles.”

“Tell me more about these killers we're after,” Cole said.

“Pig farmers from over on Tonto Creek. Real rough people, I understand. Their place stinks bad.”

“They held up the stage. You went to help that Deputy Roamer?”

“I caught up to his posse over in Bloody Basin. The robbers—the Marconis—were headed for Rye.” Chet told Cole the story of Jesus recognizing the hoofprint of the crooked legged horse. “Jesus found the horse hitched at a saloon. We captured John Marconi there and he had hundred-dollar bills with serial numbers that showed they came from the robbery. Someone tipped the others off before we got to the hog farm and the other three fled.”

“I see why you bring Jesus along. He's a sharp guy.”

“He'll do his share to find things out, I promise.”

“Can we catch them today?” Cole asked.

“Let's get going again. I want them arrested before they get away this time.”

They left in a gallop. The sun soon warmed up the land and they pushed on. Creosote smell in his nose, wind in his face, Chet made the roan run hard. They only had one chance to catch the Marconis.

Midday, he wondered if they'd made any distance. They dismounted, and as they walked their horses for half a mile, Chet asked Cole where he had lived in Texas.

“Oh, before my dad died, we had a good farm east of Dallas. He must have been a good farmer. I recall crops of tall corn, watermelons, and beans—green and pinto. He could plow more land in a day with his mules than any of our neighbors. That might have killed him. Mom couldn't plow. She was a small woman and I was a boy of maybe ten.

“We sold the farm and went south of Waco to buy an angora goat deal and some sheep. I hated that, but we had to eat. When I was fourteen, Mr. Ackens came by and offered me the cook's helper job to go to Kansas. Twelve dollars a month. Why, I'd make about seventy dollars he said. Maw told me, ‘You can go, but don't spend your money. We will need it this winter to buy food.'

“I agreed. Pa had a good saddle and bridle. From the undertaker, Ma bought a pair of used boots that fit me for fifty cents and he threw in a weathered old cowboy hat I wore. She gave me her blue silk scarf for a kerchief and I was proud of it. Mr. Ackens armed me with an old .44 cap and ball pistol that sprayed hot lead out the side at anyone standing beside me. Between the cylinder and barrel was lots of daylight from wear. I learned how to clean and to shoot it when we had time. Mathieu the cook showed me how to do that before the herd arrived and we had time to practice shooting tin cans.

“In a few weeks, I could bust bottles and tin cans. One big baby got homesick and struck out one night. I knew he was a quitter. Then Bruce Taylor's horse fell in hole and Bruce broke his leg in the spill. He had to ride in the chuck wagon and then a black boy, Ethen, who was a real good cowboy, got snake bit and died. So I got promoted to cowhand. I could ride and figured, ‘how hard could this be.' It was little sleep, stampedes, and lots of riding, but you know. You took cattle to Abilene, too.”

Chet and Cole mounted up and ran their dried horses hard again for miles, chewed on dry jerky, and watered their horses at water holes. Hours later, the weak sun had made a long swing across House Rock Valley. In the distance, they saw a fire and some stick figures standing among some horses.

Chet signaled to stop. “That may be them. Get your Winchester out. Ride more to the side so we aren't easy targets.”

“You bet, boss.”

Smoke from a pistol rose in the air. They were way out of the range, but Chet felt certain only criminals would shoot at men who weren't Indians approaching them.

He wheeled up on a rise and so did Cole. “Try a long shot at them. Elevate your rifle and give it a try.” From his saddlebags, he slipped the brass telescope out and looked through it at the three bearded men dressed in black clothes floured in dust.

Cole made the shot and Chet watched one of them go down.

“Did I get him?”

“Yes. In the leg. I think that will cool their desire to fight.” Chet continued his observation through the telescope. “All right! They are waving at us that they surrender. But it could be a trick.”

“I'll be ready for them. I'd never thought about elevating my gun. Thanks for that tip.”

Chet chuckled. “Beats the hell out of me how we found them this far north. I guess it's because it is the only way across the Grand Canyon except way south and west down by Nevada. Watch them close. They could be sneaky, especially with a murder sentence on them, too.”

Reined up, he stood in the stirrups and ordered, “Lay flat on the ground, arms way out. One move and you won't live to see the light of day again.”

When they rode up close, Cole waited for them to dismount, holding his six-gun on them.

“Jimbo's shot,” the older, bearded man said.

Chet had no sympathy. “Olaf, so was Joseph Smith. In the back of his head and left for the buzzards over in Navajo country.”

“We don't know any Joseph Smith.”

“I wouldn't either if I'd shot him.” Chet removed a gun and big knife from the silent youngest one. “You must be Riley.”

“I don't have to tell you shit.”

Chet hauled off and kicked him hard in the guts. Riley screamed, holding his stomach and rolled off the small pistol concealed by his body on the ground.

“One wrong move and we'll shoot all of you. Hear me?” Chet growled.

“Yes,” Olaf confirmed.

“Oh, you killed me,” Riley moaned. He began coughing and rolling on the ground.

Chet jerked him up by his collar, tore it half off, and had to get another hold. “Your life is paid for. I don't have to take you in and I may still string you up, chop your head off, put it in a gunny sack, and get the Wells Fargo reward.”

“Y-you can't do that.”

“You just try me, boy. Just try me.” Still steaming mad, Chet put the cuffs on him behind his back and began to search him. He found five dollars. Then he shoved him to the ground, roughly pulled off his boots and tipped them upside down. Bills rained out of them. “Is that Joseph Smith's money?”

“I don't know him.”

“You should. You three killed him. What else did you find on him?” When there was no answer, Chet handed Cole a set of cuffs for the old man.

Once cuffed, Cole searched him. “More money and a deal addressed to Joseph Smith.” He flipped it out to read it. “A receipt from a bank for three thousand dollars. No wonder they killed him.”

Chet nodded. “Handcuff this wounded guy and split his pants. We'll look at that wound.”

“Oh Gods, it hurts. Don't touch it,” screamed the third outlaw.

“You should have asked that before you robbed the stage, pistol whipped that guy for his horse, and murdered Joseph Smith.”

By sundown, Jesus arrived with the packhorses. Chet had collected over six thousand dollars, none which looked like the Wells Fargo loot. So they must have been murdering and robbing others on the way so that the law could never prove anything. At least Smith's wife in St. David would get her share.

Jesus built a fire and cooked them a good supper of stew. He'd bought a beef roast earlier from Lee's wife. Then the question arose,
what to do with their prisoners?

The Marconis had ten head of good horses, no doubt some were Joseph Smith's, plus two packhorses, and four saddled and probably stolen somewhere along their back trail. Wagging all the horses and the prisoners into Honey Grove might scare off the kidnappers in Utah. They didn't need to know Chet was an U.S. deputy marshal.

In the firelight, he began to examine the contents of the saddlebags. One belonged to a cowboy named Chuck Shaw according to the mail in it. He had a saddle made in San Antonio. A damn well-made saddle. The letter was from his sister in Texas.

A second letter, one he'd started to Rachael, was unfinished.

“Where did you kill Chuck Shaw?” Chet asked the three.

“We never killed no one,” Riley said.

“I ought to kick all three of you to death. Right here is the evidence. He had money. You killed and robbed him.”

“Get one thing straight,” Olaf said. “None of us can read.”

Washing dishes, Jesus shook his head. “You mean none of you can read?”