Nest of Vipers (9781101613283) (6 page)

ELEVEN

Just before Brad fell into slumber, his gaze fixed on a lone star. He wondered if it might be Felicity and if she was sparkling and winking at him as a way of saying good night. It was a foolish thought, he knew, but he dreamed of her that night and when he awoke before dawn, he thought she was lying next to him. He could feel a slight pressure on his blanket and it seemed that her spirit had somehow come to him and her ghostly hand had touched him.

He got up quietly and shivered in the morning chill. Joe and Julio were still asleep, and the fire had turned to ashes with a few tiny coals glimmering under the gray mounds of ash. He walked away from the camp to relieve himself and check the drag marks of trees that had been hauled away after being cut.

The star he had seen the night before was gone, moved to another place in the sky, or maybe, he thought, that had been a sign from Felicity that had disappeared as soon as he had fallen asleep.

He missed her. He missed her terribly, and he no longer thought about the way she had died but the way she had lived. Now, it was like a hole had been ripped out of the universe, leaving an empty hollow place in its fabric where she had once been, alive, breathing, and loving. He could hear her voice in his head, but everywhere he looked there was that empty hole where she should have been but was no longer. His thoughts twisted him up inside, and he had to summon his willpower to keep from sobbing. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to hold her in his arms. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to ride up over the bluffs and into the timber with a tablecloth, a basket of food, and a bottle of wine so that they could spend an afternoon away from the ranch and Leadville, all the cares and worries of the civilized world. As they had done more than once, he reflected. Moments remembered; moments gone. Forever.

He walked back to camp and put more wood on the ashes. He stirred the small coals with a stick and saw smoke rise from beneath the thin claws of the squaw wood. Some of the twig-like fingers caught fire and blossomed tiny flames. He blew on the coals and they flared up, heated the skinny limbs, and burst into flame. He added firewood once the flames were raging and this wood caught fire, too, and he felt the welcome warmth as he piled on more dry logs.

Julio woke up first and fixed coffee to set on the fire. Then he walked away to relieve himself. Joe sat up and threw his blanket aside, his features lit by the firelight, his face orange and shadowy, his clothes painted with the same dancing colors.

“Mornin', Brad, you sleep all right?”

“Fair enough. You?”

“Like a log,” Joe said. He stood up, reached down, and picked up his gun belt. He strapped it on and walked to the fire. Steam began to spool out of the pot in a cloudy mist. “Mmm. Coffee smells good.”

Julio walked up. “The coffee she is not yet cooked.”

“I'll wait,” Joe said as he gave the air another sniff.

“Let's saddle up,” Brad said. “I think it's going to be a long day.”

The three men bridled and saddled their horses, tucked the hobbles in their saddlebags. They ground-tied their horses while they drank coffee and warmed themselves by the fire.

They tore down their lean-tos and kicked dirt on the fire to put it out. When they rode away, there was little trace of their overnight presence.

Julio and Joe followed Brad as he tracked a log up the slope. Within fifteen minutes they began to hear the sounds of an ax striking a tree trunk, the buzzing sound of a crosscut saw and the voices of men. All around them were fresh stumps and drag marks.

Men were trimming branches from fallen trees with hatchets and saws. Horses pulled on chains attached to logs. One man stood out when they rode into the logging camp. He was tall and muscled, wearing red long johns under his pants and no shirt. He wore suspenders and smoked a corncob pipe. He held an ax in his hand and barked orders to the men who used the horses to skid logs onto a loading ramp. A large wagon stood under the ramp and men were using picks to roll the logs on the platform down onto the wagon.

“Howdy,” Brad said to the man with the ax.

“Hunters?” the man asked.

“Yeah, we're hunting,” Brad said. “I'm Brad Storm. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure. I'm Claude Miller, boss of this worthless outfit.”

“It looks like you've done some damage up here.”

“We cut down only the biggest and tallest,” Claude said.

Brad stepped out of the saddle. He held up a hand to keep Joe and Julio mounted.

“You got some fine horses here, Claude,” Brad said.

“We go through horses like shit through a tin horn,” Claude said. “We buy 'em, wear 'em out, and buy more. They're worth every penny.”

“Where do you buy your horses, might I ask?” Brad said in his most polite tone of voice.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe drift away toward some of the skid horses. Julio held his ground, watching the loggers fell trees up on a ridge across from the loading ramp.

“Man out of Cheyenne come by one day and asked if we needed horses. Offered to supply all we needed at fifty bucks a head.”

“What's the man's name?”

Claude lifted a work boot and placed it on a stump in front of him. He wore no hat, but there was a red bandanna tied around his forehead. He had large hands that were callused and gnarled.

“Jordan Killdeer. He's a Cherokee half-breed. He made good on his offer, for sure.”

“And does he bring the horses to you himself?” Brad asked.

“Nope. He sends some men with a string of horses, and I get to pick out the ones I want. I pay the men and they take the horses I don't buy someplace else.”

“Do you know the names of the men who bring you the horses?” Brad asked.

“Say, feller, you interested in huntin' or horses?”

“Both,” Brad said. “I'm just curious. I might want to buy some horses for myself.”

“Well, sir.” Claude puffed on his pipe and blew smoke from his nose and the corners of his mouth. “They's usually three or four men what brings the horses to me. One of 'em's called Curly, but I don't know his real name. He's as bald as a billiard ball. 'Nother one calls himself Nelson Canby. He seems to be kind of the boss. They call him Nels, and another one is Abel Avery. Tell you the truth, I never did get the name of another feller who sometimes comes with 'em. I think they called him Slim or Slick or somethin' like that. Don't none of 'em look much like horse traders. More like hard cases, you ask me.”

“Mind if we look at some of your horses? I might be interested in meeting Killdeer or the men who bring you the horses you buy.”

“Help yourself,” Claude said. “Long as you don't hold up none of the work.” He took his foot down from the stump and walked over to a tree that had been skidded there and began to trim the limbs. He worked fast and hit hard and made short work of the job.

“Jethro, you can skid this'n up to the loading ramp,” he called to a man who was leading one of the skid horses.

Brad climbed back up in the saddle and motioned for Julio to follow him.

They rode up alongside, Joe who was looking at some horses tethered to a fallen tree. They were in harness and had blinders on their bridles.

“You checking the brands, Joe?” Brad asked, keeping his voice pitched low, just above a whisper.

“Yep,” Joe said. “They're all wearin' different brands. And all the brands look like double stamps.”

“What's that?” Brad asked.

“Like somebody used a running iron to change the brands. So it's hard to figure out right off just what the original brand was.”

“Damn,” Brad said. “I was hoping we could find original brands and maybe find out who the thieves are.”

“Well, take a look at that horse closest to us,” Joe said. “That brand on its hips looks smeared. It's got a slight shadow in the marking, which makes me think somebody took a hot iron and changed the brand.”

Brad looked at the brand. It did appear to be slightly askew, as if it had been altered. The brand that showed was a Bar E. The bar was fat, and there was a tiny streak of hair showing at its center. The “E” was wavery, like something that could be seen in the bottom of a glass of water if the glass was jiggled a little.

Brad took the papers from his pocket that Cliff had given him. He looked down at the list of brands from the various ranchers who'd had horses stolen from them.

“I think,” Joe said, “that the ‘E' once was originally an ‘F.' They just took a running iron and put a bottom on the ‘F' to make it into an ‘E.'”

“There's a Bar F listed here,” Brad said.

“Yeah, that's Malcolm Foster. He lost twenty head.”

“What about the other brands?” Brad asked.

There was a dun with a cropped mane and tail that had what appeared to be a fresh brand on its hip. The edges of the brand were scabbed over and Brad saw traces of red in the hide there, which might have been blood.

“That dun bears the brand of the Circle J,” Joe said. “And it sure looks like somebody switched it with a running iron. Hair ain't growed back much and you can see meat showin' under the markings.”

Brad studied the list of ranch brands.

“There's a Box I here,” Brad said. “The letter I closed in by a square.”

“That's Jerry Iverson's brand,” Joe said. “You look real close and can see where the circle is fatter on the corners. Somebody turned that box into a circle and added a pigtail at the bottom to turn it into a ‘J.'”

“Well, that's enough for me,” Brad said. “I learned from the boss there who is head man in this horse-thieving business.”

“Who would that be?” Joe asked.

“A half-breed name of Jordan Killdeer. Ever heard of him?”

“Nope. Name doesn't ring no bell.”

“I also got the names of some of the men who are probably doing Killdeer's dirty work for him. I'm going to write them down on this paper before I forget them.”

Brad pulled out a pencil and began to write down the names.

Claude walked over to them.

“See any you like?” he asked Brad.

“I was wondering if you know where this Killdeer has his headquarters. I might want to talk to him.”

“Oh, he's from up in Cheyenne,” Claude said. “I think he has a ranch up there and a saloon and gambling hall of some sort, and maybe owns a hotel.”

“Thanks, Claude. I just might look in on Killdeer and look at some of his stock.”

“You want horses for hunting?” Claude asked.

“I'm thinking of opening a guide operation to take hunters up here for deer and elk in the fall,” Brad lied.

“Well, Jordan's got all kinds of horses. You just might find what you're lookin' for.”

Claude drew smoke through the pipe stem and blew a cloud from his mouth. He snapped one of his suspenders and smiled with satisfaction.

“So long, Claude,” Brad said. “Thanks for talking with me.”

“Always glad to be of help to a stranger,” he said.

They waved good-bye to Claude and rode out of the logging camp. They climbed ever higher, crossed a ridge, and went down another slope.

“Now what?” Joe asked.

“Now, we ride to Wild Horse Valley. We may not find anything there, but at least we know more than we did this morning when we woke up.”

“Will we make it there today?” Joe asked.

Brad shook his head.

“Just look at all those hills and those mountain peaks, Joe,” he said. “There's no end to them. We've got a ride ahead of us that's more than a stretch of the legs.”

Joe sighed. “It burns me that we found some of the stolen horses and can't do a damned thing about it. Claude probably bought them in good faith and has no idea where they came from.”

“I'm sure you're right, Joe. No, we can't do anything about those horses we just saw, but we just might find the thieves, and we can sure as hell go after Jordan Killdeer.”

“When?” Joe asked.

“When the time comes,” Brad said.

He looked out over the vast expanse of hills and mountains. The land seemed to roll on and on like some mighty ocean, all green and shining in the golden blaze of the sun. It was enough to fill up a man and make him never want to leave such a grand place.

For as far as he could see, the country seemed like a hidden and untouched Eden.

Virgin timber everywhere he looked, and if a man wasn't real careful, the land could swallow him up and none other would ever find him.

TWELVE

As he rode, Brad felt as if Felicity were riding with him. He could almost feel her arms around his waist and her breasts pressing against his back. He sensed her presence in the very air of the mountains, and he was gripped by a deep sadness that his feelings were just empty illusions.

He could even smell Felicity's perfume. The scent of lilacs was in the air.

Felicity's favorite perfume.

They stopped at a small spring-fed stream that coursed through a narrow valley, to water their horses and fill their canteens. As they let their horses drink and blow, Joe stepped up to Brad with a worried look on his face.

“You know, Brad,” he said, “I been thinkin' that maybe we could have wrapped up this case this mornin'.”

“Oh? How so?” Brad asked.

“Well, we could have hauled Claude Miller back down to Denver and had him testify in front of a judge about the whole shebang. The judge would've issued search and arrest warrants, sent U.S. marshals up to Cheyenne, arrested Jordan Killdeer, and maybe gone after his hired men.”

“You think that would have wrapped up this case, Joe?” Brad said.

“Yeah, I do, kinda.”

“Kinda is right,” Brad said. “You think a judge would arrest Killdeer on the say-so of one man?”

“Well, we could've run the horses down to the stockyards and penned 'em up as evidence. That would have cinched it, in my estimation.”

Water gurgled into the mouth of Brad's uncorked canteen until it was full. Brad stood up and put the stopper back in the canteen.

“One man's testimony, Joe,” he said. “A half-dozen horses that you might have to slaughter to check the brands under the hide for proof. I disagree with you. We don't have a case yet. Leastwise, no case we can prove.”

“I think we do,” Joe said stubbornly.

Brad hung his canteen on his saddle horn. His eyes glinted a savage blue in the sunlight.

“We have a small amount of evidence that we can't use just yet,” Brad said. “A witness who may or may not testify.”

“Miller seemed cooperative enough.”

“Yeah, because he was in his own element, the logging camp. He probably wouldn't be too happy with us if he we took him away from his work and ran the horses he bought on good faith down to the stockyards and butchered them to see if the brands were changed. He might be right hostile even and tell us all to go to hell.”

Julio sauntered over with both of his canteens filled as the argument between Joe and Brad heated up and their voices grew louder.

“You got somethin' to say, Julio?” Joe snapped.

“No,” Julio said, “I got nothin' to say. I am not a real detective. I am only a poor vaquero. I do not know nothing about the law, but I think we do not have much to show a judge. A few horses maybe, and a man who bought them from some thieves.”

“That's all we have, Joe, just as Julio laid it out.”

“Hell, neither one of you is worth your salt as detectives in my book.” Joe's anger rose as he faced both men who were disagreeing with him.

“No, we're not either of us bona fide detectives, Joe. We're cattlemen. But Harry hired me to solve this case and that's what I aim to do.”

“I was hired, too, and I'm an experienced range detective.” Joe was adamant.

“You want to ride back and ask Claude to go before a judge in Denver and drive those stolen horses down there, go right ahead, Joe.”

Brad walked away to retrieve Ginger at the stream.

“You know I can't do that by myself,” Joe yelled after him.

Brad pulled on the reins and Ginger lifted his head and turned around to follow him.

“Then, Joe,” he said, “I guess you're stuck with me and Julio. If you don't like it, you can ride on back and turn in your chit.”

“Is that your final decision, Brad?”

“No, it's not my final decision, Joe. It's just one I have to make right now. I expect I'll have to make a few more before we get what we're after.”

“Damn you, Storm. You're a stubborn bastard.”

“So, now you bring my parents into it, eh, Joe? Well, a desperate man who thinks he's in the right will just shave himself down to a nub and cuss at whoever doesn't agree with him.”

“I, ah, I didn't really mean you were a bastard, Brad.”

“Then don't call me one. Saddle up and ride with me, Joe, or ride off. I don't really give a damn which.”

Brad hauled himself into the saddle. Julio got Chato and pulled himself into the saddle. Joe stood there, thinking for several moments. Finally, he jerked his horse's reins and mounted up.

“I'll ride a ways with you, Brad, but when we get back to town, I'm goin' to write a full report about this conversation. I think you're wrong and I mean to let Harry and Cliff know how you wasted expense money.”

“Suit yourself, Joe,” Brad said as Joe climbed into his saddle. “But you either go along with me willingly or I'll fire you from the case.”

“You'd do that to me, Brad?”

“I would,” Brad said. “Right now, Joe, you're on a mighty thin rope.”

Joe opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind. Brad gave him one more searing look, then rode off down the valley.

Late in the afternoon they heard a distant boom from somewhere up ahead. They all stopped to listen. They were in thick timber on one of the ridges.

“What was that, I wonder?” Joe said.

“Sounded like a blast,” Brad said. “Dynamite. There's a little river up yonder in a wide valley. We just might be heading for one of those mining camps.”

There was another explosion and another loud boom that echoed, this time, until it faded out.

“Yes,” Julio said, “that is dynamite.”

“No mistake,” Joe said.

Brad turned his horse and they rode upward onto another hill that gave him a view of the surrounding terrain. In the distance he saw the white shoulders of limestone bluffs.

“Yonder lies the mining camp,” he said, pointing to the cliffs.

“I see the bare bones of some bluffs,” Joe said. “Don't see no camp.”

“There's a little creek runs under those bluffs,” Brad said. “I've run across prospectors panning in that creek. One of 'em must've found some color in his pan.”

“How far away is it?” Joe asked.

“As the crow flies, Joe, not far,” Brad said. “But, we aren't crows and we can't fly, so it'll take us better than an hour or so to make it to those bluffs.”

“I'm game. Let's see what's goin' on over there.”

“That's just what we're going to do, Joe. Glad you agree with me.”

Brad smiled at this small victory.

Joe tried to smile back, but it just wasn't in him. He snorted and put spurs to his horse's flanks.

Julio grinned like a Halloween jack-o'-lantern.