The Killing Season (35 page)

“Got no idea,” Grimes said. “You might try the county courthouse.”

The suggestion proved valid, but when Nathan found the house, it was locked, and as best he could tell, vacant. As a last resort, he went to Shanklin's freight yard. Finally, when it seemed nobody was around, he climbed the steps to the dock, only to come face-to-face with a man leaving the office.

“I'm looking for a gent named Shanklin,” Nathan said.

“He ain't here,” the man said. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing,” said Nathan. “I'll try another time. When will he be returning?”

“He never bothers tellin' anybody and I ain't sure it's any of your business.”

Nathan left, unsure as to his next move. Finally he returned to the county courthouse and inquired about freight lines. He was given the names of three, including Clell Shanklin's. He called on Moore's Freight first, finding the owner, Carlyle Moore, was out of town. Calling on Colbert Lines, he found Taylor Colbert available but uncooperative.

“I got nothin' to say about Shanklin,” Colbert said. “Now you go about your business and I'll go about mine.”

Finally, not having any other leads, Nathan called on Sheriff Red Brodie, introducing himself and revealing his position with AT and SF.

“I really need to talk to Clell Shanklin,” Nathan said, “since he has a hauling contract with the mines up near Denver.”

“I reckon he's in Denver,” Brodie said. “The whole town's been talking about him, but his freightin' business had nothin' to do with it. He's been sparkin' the Gavin gal since she was nineteen, and everybody reckoned they'd end up tyin' the knot. Well, a little more'n a week ago, the gal just plumb disappeared. Day before yesterday, old Shanklin just ups and marries Elsa, the gal's mother. She closed that cafe pronto, and her and Shanklin lit out for Denver. I reckon nobody will be seein' him for a while.”

“Thanks, Sheriff,” said Nathan. He went to the railroad dispatcher's office and sent a telegram to Foster Hagerman, at Dodge City:

He signed his name and waited for a response. Within minutes, he had the names of four mines and their superintendents. He then went to a livery and rented a horse and saddle.

“How far to Denver?” he asked the liveryman.

“Hunnert and fifty mile.”

Nathan rode out. The silver mines, as he recalled, were all south of Denver. He really had no idea what he might learn, but he was accomplishing nothing in Pueblo. If nothing else, he might be told of what might be expected in future shipments. He recalled that some shipments left from Denver, on the Kansas-Pacific, which was far more convenient. The hauling of some shipments to Pueblo was for the purpose of confusing train robbers, which accomplished nothing if Shanklin was in cahoots with them. Nathan wondered if the contract involving shipments from Denver was also owned by Shanklin. That was one thing he hoped to learn by visiting the mines in question. He rode into Colorado Springs before sundown and took a room there for the night. At first light he was on the trail. Many of the mines nearest Denver still produced gold, although they were playing out. The silver was being taken from four principal lodes, and they weren't that widely separated. Nathan hoped he might gather all four superintendents and question them at the same time, rather than meeting them one at a time.

Nathan rode to each of the four mines, identified himself, and arranged to meet with all four mine superintendents at the largest of the mines, the Silver Slipper. There was a miner's shack at the Silver Slipper, and Nathan was given a bunk for the night. Following breakfast, he met with superintendents representing the four mines. There was Bammister of the Silver Slipper, Knowles of the Five Star, Ledbetter of the Half Moon, and Chapman of the Faro.

“Gents,” said Nathan, “I'm here on behalf of the AT and SF. We're concerned about getting your shipments to Kansas City. We avoided a robbery last time by a last-minute change of schedule, sending your shipment a day early. I'd like to know, for our sake and yours, how and when the next shipment will be going.”

“October fifth,” Bammister said, “by the Kansas-Pacific.”

“Who has your hauling contract from the mines to the railroad?” Nathan asked.

“Shanklin,” Bammister replied. “Same as the shipments on the AT and SF.”

“Suppose I tell you that we suspect Shanklin of selling you out to thieves?”

“I'd want to see some proof,” said Knowles. “He turned in a low bid for the job.”

“I don't have any proof,” Nathan said, “but with your help, I believe I can get some.”

“Depends on what we got to do,” said Ledbetter.

“You'll go ahead with your shipment from Denver as planned,” Nathan said, “but with some changes. Shanklin will deliver that shipment. Those bags will be loaded with sand and sealed. The real shipment, about which Shanklin will know nothing, will go to Kansas City on the AT and SF. I'll bring a wagon and some line riders from Pueblo on October first and your shipment will go out on schedule.”

“So we send a bogus shipment and a genuine shipment,” Chapman said, “and you're telling us that the real one will go through, while the bogus one is stolen.”

“That's what I'm telling you,” said Nathan. “Send your genuine shipment from Denver, and you'll lose it. Can you afford the risk?”

“Hell, no,” Bammister said. “I know you ain't rode all the way up here without good reason. If Shanklin's sellin' us out, we need to know. I say we go with Stone's plan.”

“Damn right,” the others agreed in one voice. “Go with the AT and SF.”

“Damn it, Elsa, I know what I'm doing,” Clell Shanklin said irritably. “Gonzolos and his boys was mad as hell when that last shipment slipped through a day early. Now I got to redeem myself, and this Kansas-Pacific shipment should do it.”

“This time, you can't blame it on Melanie,” Elsa snapped. “I can't believe she's gone.”

“I told you what she had to say when I broke up with her,” Shanklin lied. “She knows it's you and me, and she's gone off to sulk. She wants nothing more to do with you. Why do you reckon you've had no answer to your telegrams?”

“I suppose I'm getting what I deserve,” said Elsa. “Ten days ago, I had a business of my own, a life of my own, and a daughter. Now all I have are the clothes on my back, a room in a grubby plains hotel, and a husband who's a damned thief.”

Shanklin laughed. “Elsa, Elsa, you took me for better or worse, and you knew what the ‘worse' was, goin' in. I'm a thief, but by God, I tried all the other ways, and you know what I got? A few mules, some secondhand wagons, and a never-ending drudgery of hauling other men's silver and gold. I aim to end up rich or dead.”

“And I have an idea which it's going to be,” said Elsa. “How much longer do we have to squat here, waiting for this mangy coyote of a Mexican outlaw?”

“Chapa will be here when he gets here,” Shanklin said, “and if you're smart, you'll be a mite more cautious how you speak of him when he's around. Chapa doesn't appreciate disloyalty, and whatever you think of our plans, you'll do well to keep your mouth shut.”

 

When Chapa Gonzolos arrived, he stared at Elsa for a long moment, his expressionless black eyes roaming over her. He was every bit the Spaniard, with flat-crowned black hat, polished black boots, and black frock coat. His trousers were dark, and instead of a belt, there was a crimson sash around his middle. His shirt was white, with frills, and he had a rawhide thong around his neck. Down his back, Indian-fashion, hung a formidable Bowie knife. While he had no visible weapon, there was an ominous bulge beneath his coat, under each armpit. He spoke in clipped, precise English, lapsing into Spanish only when his venomous temper got the best of him. Few men who had fallen victim to his rapid-fire Spanish had lived to talk about it. Following his initial rude stare, he turned his attention to Shanklin, ignoring Elsa.

“Ah, Senor Shanklin, the
mulo
hombre whose trains run on silent tracks and whose silver is so fine the eye cannot see.”

“Damn it, Chapa,” Shanklin said, “that wasn't my fault. The information was good when I gave it to you. The railroad changed the schedule at the last minute.”

“You will see that it does not happen a second time,” said Gonzolos. He didn't speak of the consequences, nor did he need to. Clell Shanklin understood. He swallowed hard and spoke.

“The next shipment goes out October fifth, on the Kansas-Pacific,” Shanklin said, “and you should stop the train a hundred miles west of here, just after it leaves Colorado. You will need two wagons. You will be four hundred and twenty-five miles east of Santa Fe.”

“Seventeen days,” said Gonzolos. “Time enough for the law to follow.”

“The nearest town will be Hays, where we are right now,” Shanklin replied. “Six men only. One to drive each wagon, the other four as guards. The rest of your men will follow the wagons, prepared for the
emboscada.”

Gonzolos nodded, and without another word, stepped out the door.

“God,” said Elsa, “he gives me the creeps. He reminds me of an undertaker.”

Shanklin laughed. “Under certain circumstances, that's what he is.”

“And you're going to double-cross him,” Elsa said.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Shanklin, “but not money-wise. We'll be riding to Santa Fe for our share of the money, and as far as Chapa knows, I'll return to Pueblo and continue hauling for the mines. That's to prevent
him
from double-crossing me. He expects me to be there, feeding him information on future mine shipments. But all I need is one good stake, and we'll be on our way to California.”

“I've heard that before,” Elsa said. “Melanie threw that in my face five years ago.”

“She lost the faith,” said Shanklin. “She could have been where you are right now.”

Elsa laughed. “Lucky me.”

“When I leave Pueblo October first,” Nathan said, “I will need at least half a dozen armed men to guard the shipment on the return trip, and one teamster to drive the second wagon. I aim for us to reach the mines Sunday. We'll load and immediately begin the drive south. We should be in Pueblo October seventh.”

“Then we'll get the shipment on the six o'clock eastbound the next morning,” said Foster Hagerman. “I'll arrange to have the men and the wagons ready when you reach the terminal in Pueblo.”

Nathan had gone immediately to Hagerman's office upon returning to Dodge. He now was faced with the unpleasant duty of telling Melanie Gavin her mother had married Clell Shanklin. It was early afternoon, and he found Melanie reading copies of the various newspapers. She was pleased to see him and he was pleased with her welcome.

“What did you learn?” she asked.

“Nothing good,” he said. He went ahead and told her about Elsa Gavin and Shanklin, of their going to Denver, of the closing of the Starlight Cafe.

“It's a shock,” she said. “I don't know whether to laugh or to cry.”

“Maybe you should laugh,” he said. “Before this is over, I reckon your mother will be crying enough for both of you.”

“I'm sorry for her,” said Melanie, “but there's nothing I can do.” She got to her feet and lifted the dress neck-high. “Look, the bruises are gone.”

“So they are,” he said, “and so is the one on your face. Have you been eating while I was away?”

“Oh, yes. I've been having breakfast with Sheriff Harrington, and Mr. Hagerman from the railroad took me to supper. They have been very, very kind.”

“Well, Hagerman's out of luck tonight,” said Nathan, “because I'm taking you out to supper. I've missed the food at Delmonico's.”

The last rays of the setting sun spread crimson fingers across the western sky as they left the Dodge House. The sudden thunder of gunfire seemed unusually loud in the quiet of the evening, and a slug slammed into the door frame just inches from Nathan's head. But the bushwhacker didn't get a chance for a second shot. Nathan drew, and his return fire was a continuous sound, like the rolling of a drum. He ran toward the narrow passage between two buildings, and when he reached the rear of the structures, the wounded gunman was stumbling down the alley.

“That's far enough,” Nathan shouted. “You're covered. Drop your gun.”

But the bushwhacker turned and fired again. The slug kicked up dirt at Nathan's feet, and before the man could fire again, Nathan fired once. The gunman stumbled back against the wall of a store building and slid slowly to the ground.

“Nathan,” Melanie cried, running toward him, “are you all right?”

“Yes,” said Nathan.

He was reloading his Colt when Sheriff Harrington and half a dozen other men came down the alley.

“Again?” Harrington asked.

“Again,” said Nathan, “but I don't know if it's the same man. I reckon I'll have to pay the Dodge House for a new door frame.”

“Might as well see who he is, if we can,” Sheriff Harrington said, kneeling beside the dead man. Removing a thin wallet from a hip pocket, he opened it and whistled.

“Who is he?” Nathan asked.

“Curt Limbaugh,” said Harrington.