Shadow River (18 page)

He waited and waited, relying strictly on the coyotes' behavior. Had they simply decided it was time to go on, they would have drifted away slower, one and two at a time. But they weren't walking away, they were fleeing, he told himself. Nothing made creatures of the wild flee like the coming of man.

And there they were.

He saw the silhouettes of horses and riders emerge against the sky, cross the crest of low sand and submerge once more back down into the lower puddle of blackness. He counted eight, six of them riding single file, two riding abreast, thirty yards out. Indians, white men? Mexicans . . . ? He had no idea. They had risen and fallen steadily, none of them clearly enough to be identified by horse, hat or clothing.

He lay flat and still, gauging by the speed of their passing how far they were. He continued listening closely, his finger on the trigger of his cocked rifle, hoping that Burke, Montana and their horses stayed as quiet as stone until whoever was out there had long gone on their way.

As motionless as a dead man, he held his lone vigil across the roll and the sweep of the sandy terrain, of stone and upreaching cactus. He remained in place even as a dim wreath of light swathed the land and mantled the eastern hill line gray-gold on the far edge of vision.

Behind him, Montana rose just before dawn and ventured forward, rifle in hand.

“Jones?” he said quietly. “Are you all right there?” He remained as crouched as he'd been earlier.

The silence broken, Sam looked back over his shoulder and let the hammer down on his Winchester.

“I'm all right,” Sam replied quietly. “We nearly had some company. The coyotes warned me.” He pushed himself to his feet and dusted the front of himself. “Stay back twenty feet and keep me covered,” he added. “Let's go out and see what they're riding.”

“I've got you,” Montana said. “I'll wake this drunken sot up too, if I can.”

As Sam walked out across the sand, Montana stepped over and shook Burke by his shoulder.

“I'm awake,” Burke said after Montana's third hand shake. “Jesus, who hit me?”

“Nobody hit you,” said Montana. “Wake up. Somebody rode by. Jones is gone out to see who's out there. We need to lag back and keep him covered.”

“Aw, man, Montana,” Burke groaned, sitting up, holding his throbbing, hammering head with one hand while he fished for the bottle in his saddlebags with his other.

“Get it done, Clyde,” Montana said. “He might walk himself right into a gun battle.”

“I'm coming,” said Burke. He stared at the half bottle of bourbon with a confused look on his face. Finally he shook his head and took a long swig, the conversation with Madson coming back to him. “I made a bad mistake,” he said.

“Come on, tell me later,” said Montana. “Jones needs backing.”

Burke staggered to his feet, jerked his Colt from its place under the edge of the saddlebags and hurried staggering along behind Montana.

They walked forward warily until they saw Sam wave them toward him. When they reached him, he had stooped down over the tracks of unshod horses.

“Apache,” he said quietly. “The tremors must've sent them down here. Ordinarily they stay up where it's easier to leave no hoofprints.”

Burke looked back toward the camp, seeing the horses in the grainy rising light of the desert.

“Jesus, I was knocked-out drunk,” he said. “'Paches riding this close?”

“Don't worry, Clyde,” Sam said. “I had you covered.”

Burke gave the two of them a hangdog look.

“Obliged, again, to you, Jones,” he said.

Sam saw a dark expression pass across Burke's drunk- en, bloodshot eyes.
What is it? Remorse, shame?
He wasn't sure, Sam told himself. But he was sure it had to do with meeting with Bell Madson. He watched Burke look away, avoiding both his and Montana's eyes as the hungover gunman pushed his hair back from his face.

“Let's get some coffee and goat meat in our bellies,” said Sam, pushing the matter aside, rather than tipping Burke that he saw what was at work here. “We've got a long ride to Agua Fría.”

“I'm wondering,” said Burke, “do we need to be robbing something this soon? We've all three got gold laid up. Why are we doing this? We could be off celebrating.”

“I've never heard you talk this way before a robbery, Clyde,” said Montana. “Did you fall off your saddle and hit your head?”

“Naw, damn it, Montana,” Burke said, catching himself, looking away again. “I was just wondering, is all.” He shrugged.

“Well, don't wonder on an empty belly,” said Montana. “It's the worst thing a man can do.”

At daylight the three drank coffee boiled over a low smokeless fire and ate more goat meat, this time with hardtack from the supplies. Sam and Montana kept a watchful eye on the rolling desert floor in the direction of the unshod horses. Burke sat near the fire, blanket-wrapped but still shivering, his arms hugging around his drawn knees. He drank his coffee laced heavily with rye whiskey to still the drumbeat in his head and the feel of snakes and squirrels fighting in his belly.

“How'd your palavering go with Madson?” Montana asked.

Burke shook his bowed head and cut his bloodshot eyes to Montana and Sam.

“I wish you hadn't asked,” he said in a shaky voice. He sipped the strong hot liquid and lowered his head again.

Sam and Montana looked at each other.

“Yeah, but I did ask,” Montana pressed. “So, how did it go? I see there was no shortage of beverage on hand.” With a thin smile, he continued tormenting the suffering gunman. “Did he get you drunk and take advantage? Because if he did . . .”

“What—? Hell no,” said Burke, jumpy and shaking. “I mean, yeah, sure we drank us some of his fine bourbon. He told me all about the robbery, our jobs and all.” He paused, then let out a breath and said to Sam, “Look, Jones, you're not going to like it—neither did I. But Madson's got you relaying fresh horses for us.”

The three fell silent. Sam sipped his coffee, deciding how to best respond to Burke's words. Finally Montana ventured a comment.

“Did he say why he's doing that?” he asked as if outraged. “Did you tell him what a good man Jones is?”

“Hell, of course I told him about Jones,” Burke said. “He said just because you and I know Jones is a good hand doesn't mean that he does.” Burke shrugged. “I couldn't very well tell him about Jones without spilling what we were up to out there, now, could I?” he posed, getting irritated and red-faced.

Montana considered it, realizing Burke was right.

“Damn it, this stinks like rotten fish!” he said. “If Jones is staking our horses, then so am I.” He finished his coffee and slung the grounds from his tin cup.

Burke swung his bowed aching head back and forth slowly, his rye-laced coffee steaming in his hand.

“Jones, Montana's right. This is a stinking deal for you. I wouldn't blame you if you rolled up and rode off. Maybe we'd meet you down the trail and stick back together someplace.” He turned his bloodshot eyes to Sam, but only managed to look him in the face for a second. He looked away.

Sam sipped his coffee and took a deep breath.

“What is the big job?” he asked.

“He never said,” Burke replied. “But if it's in Agua Fría, there's nothing worth robbing there except
Banco Nacional
.”

“
Banco Nacional de Méjico,” Montana said. He gave a short grin. “I knew somebody would rob it someday. I never thought I'd be a part of it.”

Sam, watching and listening, realized that robbing the bank would draw
federales
on the outlaws' trail immediately. He needed a way to keep himself in the game without appearing too humiliated by being the relay man for fresh horses.

“In that case, my job providing horses is a whole bigger thing than it sounded like at first,” he said.

The two snapped their eyes to him.

“You mean you're all right with doing it?” Montana asked, sounding surprised.

Burke looked almost disappointed.

“Don't do it, Jones,” he said. “Leave this one alone. Meet us later on, like I just said. I'll even share a piece of my cut with you.”

Montana looked stunned at hearing Burke offer a part of his share of the robbery.

“Man! You really did fall on your head last night,” he said.

“I'm just trying to do what I figure is right for all of us,” he said. He looked at Sam. “You're not going to take the lowest rung on the ladder and work for chicken feed. Ain't I right?”

“Huh-uh, you're wrong, Clyde. I'll do it—but just this once,” Sam said, turning down Burke's offer for part of his cut. He gave a shrug. “We've got to look at it from Madson's point, a big job, he's never ridden with me. Who says he's supposed to trust me right from the get-go?”

“But we both vouched for you,” Montana said.

“Obliged,” Sam said, “but maybe you shouldn't have.” He stood and slung the grounds from his empty cup.

“That's a hell of a thing to say,” Montana replied. “We faced bears, soldiers, Apache, earthquakes and landslides—”

“And Bell Madson knows none of that,” Sam said, cutting Montana short. “Let's not start all over on this,” he said. He looked at Burke. He had to ask himself why Burke would offer a part of his cut for him to ride away now and meet up after the robbery. He didn't like the only answer he could come up with. “Madson wants a horseman, I'm his man,” Sam added. “How many horses and where does he want them?”

“There's a man named Ace Turpin runs a horse spread near Fuego Pequeño—we'll go there with you, then split up,” Burke said. He drew a small pouch of gold coins from inside his shirt and pitched it to Sam. “He'll have seven horses strung and waiting,” he added, his hangover seeming to be under better control. “Take them just off the trail below Mesa Rocoso, twenty miles from Agua Fría. There's a cave there at the base of the mesa. Be waiting for us, ready to switch horses.”

Having caught the pouch of coins, Sam hefted it on his palm. They felt light, different; they made a dull sound.

“Anything else?” he asked. As he inquired, he opened the drawstring on the pouch.

“One thing,” said Burke, “because of the size of this job, you need to kill Turpin. Madson wants nobody alive who might have his name on their tongue.”

Sam shook the contents of the pouch out onto his palm and saw it wasn't gold at all, only iron screw washers.

“I told him you'd have no qualms doing that,” Burke said.

Sam just looked at him, scooping the washers back into the pouch.

“Madson said the only men he's known of you killing is outlaws, Raymond Segert and his own men,” Burke continued. “Said killing Turpin would say something for you, gain his trust, so to speak.”

“Save your breath, Clyde. I understand,” Sam said quietly. “I'll do it.” He drew the string on the pouch and put it away inside his shirt.

“You
will
?” Burke looked surprised.

The three stood and dusted the seats of their trousers. Burke finished the whiskey-laced coffee in a gulp while Sam and Montana put out the fire with their boots.

“What'd I say?” said Sam. He started toward the horses. “How far to Fuego Pequeño?”

“Three days on the sand flats,” said Montana. “More on the hill trails.”

“Let's pull up and get riding, then,” Sam said. “I've got relay horses to gather.”

•   •   •

Fuego Pequeño (Little Fire)
Three days later

At seventy-five feet, Sam, Burke and the Montana Kid spread out abreast facing the adobe and weathered plank shack standing at the end of a sandy narrow path. The trail wound through a sand lot strewn with pale clump grass, prickly pear, cholla and nopal cactus, all of it presided over by a small herd of lank and wandering Mexican cattle. Beside the shack stood a corral; inside stood a string of horses tied to the gatepost. At the gate stood a man holding a shotgun, a black beard hanging on to his chest. He straightened at the sight of the three riders.

“We'll ride on in with you, Jones,” Burke offered.

“Why?” Sam fired back sharply. “Do I look like a newcomer at this?”

“No,” said Burke. “I was just offering. Looks like Ace Turpin is sporting a shotgun.” Instead of nudging his horse forward as he'd planned, he drew up and sat staring straight ahead.

“Means nothing to me,” Sam said, keeping his voice hard. “You can wait here and still see all you want to see.” He put his dun forward at a walk. Montana moved his horse over beside Burke, leading the white barb supply horse beside him. The two sat watching.

“How many times you say Jones'll shoot him?” Montana said, staring straight ahead, squinting against the sun's glare.

Burke considered it.

“Three times at least,” he said. “I figure he won't take a chance with that shotgun staring at him.”

“Huh-uh, one shot is all, I figure,” said Montana. He raised his voice for Sam to hear. “I've come to know Jones as a fragile sort. He'd not waste three bullets when one will do the job, shotgun or no.”

Sam looked back over his shoulder and rode on. He wasn't going to kill this Ace Turpin. He'd already decided that much, he reminded himself. His plan was to lure Turpin out of sight, knock him in the head, fire a shot in the ground and get the horses out of there before the man regained consciousness.

Simple enough, he told himself. Yet he began seeing a snag in his plan as soon as he got within twenty feet of the man and recognized the moon face hidden beneath the long black beard. He didn't recognize him by the name of Ace Turpin. He knew the man as Henry Tabbs, a man he had escorted to Yuma Prison a year ago. As soon as the bearded face looked familiar to him, he ducked the brim of his sombrero enough to keep his face partly hidden.

“Are you Madson's horse man?” the bearded man asked. He held the shotgun in a way that it could be easily raised and fired at a split second's notice.

“I am,” Sam said. Keeping his sombrero brim low, he swung down from the saddle and walked forward. This didn't change anything, he told himself. He only had to keep his face shielded a little in the black shade of his sombrero and go on with his plan. “I see you've got the horses ready and waiting,” he added, walking along the corral fence, checking the animals as he went.

“I don't fool around,” the man said with a straight harsh grin that showed Sam a familiar gap left by a missing front tooth.

Yep, Henry Tabb. . . .
Sam walked back, stepped inside the corral gate and continued looking the horses over. They were fine, strong animals, no question about it. He raised a hoof on a silver-gray, checked it, set it down—lifted the lip on a big roan, checked the wear on its teeth, then rubbed its muzzle and went on.

“What's your name, mister?” Henry Tabbs asked, following along beside him.

“No offense,” Sam said quietly. “I don't use one on a deal like this.” He reached inside his shirt, pulled out the pouch of phony coins and held it up for the man to see. “Here's all you'll need to know. I'm the man who brought you this gold.”

Henry Tabbs, aka Ace Turpin, grinned again.

“At least we're speaking the same language, amigo,” he said. He started to reach for the coin pouch, but Sam expertly moved it away from him and kept it close to his chest as he stepped away, inspecting the horses some more.

The bearded man stood watch, giving Sam a curious look as if pondering something familiar about him. The sound of his voice? He wasn't sure.

“Have I seen you before?” he asked.

“Not that I can recall,” Sam said. He turned back to the man, needing to get this done before Tabbs' memory caught up to him. Gesturing a nod toward the rear of the shack, he said, “Let's get in some shade while you count this.” He held the pouch back up for the man to see.

“Sounds good to me,” said Tabbs. He turned around to walk, but only took a step before he stopped and froze. “Damn it, I know you!” he said, already turning back to Sam, the shotgun coming up into play. Sam heard it cock. “You're that damn Ranger from Nogales!”

This changed everything. Sam's Colt was up and cocked. It caught Tabbs as he turned. Sam's bullet nailed the man dead center in his forehead and sent him spilling backward onto the dirt. A bloody mist settled on him. The string of horses stirred, wanting to bolt, but only for a second. Sam stepped over to them, his Colt smoking in his hand. He rubbed the first horse's muzzle, patted down its withers. He settled the skittish animal and, with it, the rest of the string.

This wasn't what he'd wanted at all, he thought, looking over at Henry Tabbs. But this was how the hand had played itself out. He couldn't let the man turn and kill him.
No, sir. . . .

Seeing Sam shoot the bearded man, Burke and Montana rode forward quickly and slid their horses to a halt outside the corral. They stretched up in their stirrups and looked over the corral fence at the body lying dead in the dirt. Sam walked out of the corral, replacing his spent cartridge and slipping the bone-handled Colt into its holster.

“You were right, Jones,” Burke said. “You're no newcomer. We both saw you kill him faster than a cat can scratch its behind.”

“Is that what you'll tell Madson?” Sam said stiffly. He stepped up atop the dun and turned it to the corral gate.

Montana and Burke—neither one answered. They watched as Sam stepped the dun inside the corral, untied the string and led the horses out. He stopped in front of the two gunmen.

Montana stepped his horse and the barb forward.

“You'll be needing these supplies more than we will,” he said. He handed Sam the barb's lead rope. Sam held it with the other lead rope.

“Obliged,” said Sam. He sat gazing coolly at Burke, seeing the same troubled look in his eyes he'd seen ever since Burke had returned mindless and drunk from Shadow River. Burke was sober three days now—still the look was there, Sam noted. “Anything we need to talk about before we split up?” he asked Burke.

Burke returned his gaze, keeping himself steady, not revealing a thing.

“No. We've done all the talking we need to,” he said with a note of resolve in his voice. “We'll be seeing you at Mesa Rocoso.”

“Then Rocky Mesa it is,” Sam said, translating the name. He touched the brim of his sombrero toward Burke, then toward the Montana Kid.