Trail Hand (15 page)

Sonora and I parted company the next morning. I didn’t really expect him to get involved in my fight, but I did ask if he was going to stick around the fort.

“Any chance of you having a friendly chat with Chavez and his boys when they show up? You know, to help explain things.”

He shook his head. “Wouldn’t mind doing it for you, you know that, but I probably won’t be here long enough to get the chance. Gonna be leavin’ in a day or so. After all, I don’t want to wear out my welcome. Besides, I’m supposed to hook up with some friends o’ mine just south o’ here. Sorry, but it’s not likely we’ll cross trails with them
vaqueros
.”

That ended that. While it was possible the
vaqueros
might enter the fort and ask the right people about me, it was equally possible they’d just stock up quickly at the sutler’s store and ride out so as not to waste any time. Furthermore, even if they did talk to Nate, or one of the other officers, they probably wouldn’t trust the word of another
gringo
. I knew if that were the case and nothing else happened to change their mind, I’d still be in for it.

Sonora wished me luck as I rode out. I had been convinced ever since arriving at the fort that I knew where the herd was headed.
Don
Enrique
had intended to drive his horses to California because the price was especially high there. Rosa, also, had described in detail her uncle’s ranch in California, and how someone was trying to force him off his land.

Ordinary outlaws would have sold the horses the first chance they got. This bunch, however, had passed several towns and had turned down a generous and seemingly opportune offer by Major Gilbert. When combined with what Pete Evans had told me, things all began to make sense.

The whole scheme had been too elaborate for common bandits. It had been too well planned and funded from the start. The rustlers had followed us from the start without being detected. The raid had been carried out with military precision, and the thieves could apparently afford to risk holding out for a higher sale price. If Davies was powerful enough to try large-scale land grabbing, he could also fund a scheme such as this one. That’s why I now rode as fast as I could straight toward our original destination, San Gabriel, right for Rosa’s uncle’s ranch in California.

Fortunately the vet had been right about those shoes, and the roan was acting as spry as ever. I was fairly certain the herd wouldn’t be driven directly to Davies’s own ranch; he would be too careful to allow that. But they wouldn’t be very far away. I felt my best chance to find the herd would be to head directly to town and stake out Davies’s outfit from there. Sooner or later someone would lead me to the horses, and, in the event the herd had already been broken up or sold intact, I’d at least be close to the culprits and their money.

Once into California the temperature cooled off some, as the hot dry sands began gradually changing to black soil, green grass, and rolling wooded hills. Game was more plentiful, too, and I was able to supplement the meager supplies I’d carried from the fort with an occasional rabbit, squirrel, or deer.

The roan responded well to the colder weather, and we started to make better time. That horse had served me well and I’d regret having to return him, but among other things I was still as determined as ever to recover my Morgan bay stallion.

I rode into San Gabriel around midday. Before leaving the roan at the livery, I asked the blacksmith, a big bearded Mormon named Jacob Browne, if he recognized the EH brand. He couldn’t recall ever having seen it before, meaning the herd hadn’t passed through town. I knew there hadn’t been enough time to change the brands on that many horses, not at the pace they’d been moving.

Since Davies couldn’t risk having stolen horses found on his property, he would have to corral the herd somewhere nearby. But where? The location would have to be close enough to his ranch to allow him to keep track of the herd, and to supply his men. There had to be an abandoned ranch, blind cañon, or enclosed pasture nearby, large enough to hide over 1,000 horses. To find it I would need a little more information. For a while I considered heading straight for the local saloon.

If anyone knows a town’s goings-on, it’s usually the barkeep and his local band of barflies, but by
the same token it was likely some of the same men I was trailing would be there and they might get suspicious if too many questions were asked.

At this point I knew I was getting close and didn’t want accidentally to tip my hand to any of the gang. Not only that, but I couldn’t be sure whether or not Pierce would recognize me if we were to meet. I didn’t know how close a look at me he’d taken while I was lying in that ravine. That’s when the town’s bank caught my eye. Reconsidering my options, and thinking it was as good a place as any to start, I opened the door and went in.

When you look like an old side of beef even the flies won’t touch, it’s hard to convince anyone to take you seriously. Whoever said— “It’s difficult to believe what you say when your appearance speaks so loudly.”—knew what he was talking about. Here I was in the San Gabriel Mortgage & Trust Bank, a total stranger, looking like something the cat dragged in and expecting the bank manager to answer delicate questions.

I’d learned enough about bluffing at poker to know that sometimes the more ludicrous something appears, or the more outrageous it seems, the quicker some folks are to believe it. Con artists often take advantage of the same principle.

Like the time Loco Larry Peters used a fake money-making machine as a bribe to get out of jail. It had lots of knobs and cranks on it, and turned out shiny new greenbacks every hour. The kicker was the chump who fell for it was the very same town sheriff who’d already arrested Loco for running still another scam.

That sheriff of all people should have known how crooked Peters was, but, strange as it may
seem, he refused to believe a jailbird like Larry would ever be brazen enough to sell a lawman something so obviously fake. Since nobody could be that foolish, he rationalized, the machine must therefore be real. Curiously the idea of a machine falling into his hands that made real money was so ludicrous and Larry’s pitch so smooth, the sheriff was forced to believe it. He bought Loco’s sales pitch, hook, line, and sawbuck. Of course the marshal’s greed was also a contributing factor, one the con artist was glad to take advantage of.

They never did catch Loco Larry, but eventually the sheriff ended up in his own jail after trying to spend those machine-made greenbacks. Seems the first couple of bills cranked out of the box, the ones the sheriff saw Larry Peters make, were real enough, but the rest, not surprisingly, turned out to be counterfeit.

As far-fetched as it seems, when suddenly forced to deal with something incredible, or something outrageous, many people, like the sheriff, simply can’t handle it. Looking as misbegotten as I did, the last thing I would ever be mistaken for was a wealthy cattle baron, so that’s exactly what I decided to play.

“Yes, sir,” I said, sweeping the dust off my chaps with my hat as if I owned the place. “Just got into town and decided to cut right to the quick. As my old uncle Zeke always says, the best businessmen are the ones who get a jump on the competition.”

The bank manager, Mr. Alfonse Norwell, a rather timid pencil pusher, was the epitome of the company man. With his pair of wire spectacles, thinning hair, shiny brown vest, and gold watch
chain he might have stepped right out of one of those new dime novels.

The man was small-framed, he couldn’t have stood more than five foot three and had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. Loud, boisterous speech apparently was not the norm in this rather sedate establishment, and he actually shuddered when I spoke. I was counting on that effect as well as the fact that I’d caught him off guard by brushing right past his secretary and straight up to his desk. I guess you could say I gave him the old bum’s rush.

“Yep, sold my herd in Colorado for a pretty penny and came straight on here to Californy to buy land and stock it. Rode right through without a stop and that’s a fact. Just got in…didn’t even have a chance to change. Already got my eye on a nice little ranch right near here, next to the McFarlen place I think it is. Come to think of it, maybe I’ll offer to buy him out, too.” I wasn’t giving Alfonse any time to stop and think. “Uncle Zeke always said not to fiddle-faddle around. Go right to the town banker, he’d say. They’ll have all the low-down, if anyone will. So, now, Mister Nor-well, you tell me how to go about buying this little parcel.”

“Oh, I’m afraid that won’t do,” he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. “But our bank does have some holdings in the next county you might be interested in. Can I have my secretary bring you some coffee?”

The act was working; he already smelled money to be had.

“Nope, don’t think so. You know, once I got my mind set on something, I usually see it through,”
I bellowed. “And I already took a fancy to that ranch.”

“Well, you see, sir, the property I believe you are talking about is already owned by a Mister Brett Davies.”

“So tell me…what’s his price? Everyone’s got one,” I said brashly, purposely brushing more dust off my shirt and onto his desk.

Norwell shook his head emphatically.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Well, to be perfectly frank, I believe you will be disappointed. Of course, I can’t go into all the financial specifics, but I believe Mister Davies is currently trying to expand. In fact, I understand he is in the process of obtaining the McFarlen property next to his for himself. You see, he is a rather influential man around these parts and would be more interested in purchasing than selling.”

For the right amount of money most bankers would sell their own mothers, yet it sounded to me like Mr. Norwell was more interested in furthering Mr. Brett Davies’s goals than in listening to any counter offers.

“Well, you don’t get to be influential without considering all your options, right, Mister Nor-well?” I said, slapping him on the shoulder for added effect. “Now, if you’ll just direct me to the Davies ranch, I believe it’s the Four Box spread, right?” I asked.

“Yes, that is correct,” he answered, adjusting his glasses. He seemed unusually agitated.

“Good, as I was saying, if you’ll just point me in the right direction, I think I’ll have a chat with this Mister Brett Davies. After I brush off some of
this trail dust, that is. By the way, mind if I use your name by way of introduction?”

“Uh, certainly,” he replied nervously. “Here let me draw you a map.”

“Mister Norwell, I certainly am obliged.” I shook his hand a little too firmly and turned to leave. “Oh, by the way,” I added with a wink, “if I close this deal, there will be something in it for you, rest assured. But in case you meet up with this Mister Davies before I get a chance to talk to him, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention our little conversation.”

He nodded to me. “I think I understand.”

I smiled back. “Right, no sense tipping my offer to him before I’ve had a chance to make it stick. Wouldn’t be smart business, now would it?”

“No, of course not,” he answered, wiping his forehead with a white silk handkerchief. “Rest assured confidentiality is a trademark of our establishment.”

“Knew it would be, Mister Norwell, knew it would be,” I said, slamming the door behind me.

From the map Mr. Norwell had drawn, I could see why Davies was so interested in the McFarlen place. Brett Davies had bought or stolen all the adjacent lands around until they formed a horseshoe, with the McFarlen ranch smack in its center.

The problem, however, was that the McFarlens had settled on and around the only principle source of water locally. Furthermore, his ranch was situated so as to be the first place travelers from the north and west would pass on the way to town. Someday San Gabriel would grow to attract business from Los Angeles or even from San Francisco, and it wasn’t too difficult to imagine a railroad line
being laid down. Should that ever happen, the McFarlens would be as wealthy as anyone could ever want. Unless, of course, Davies had his way.

I debated riding right out to the McFarlen Ranch to explain my situation and to enlist their help, but it occurred to me that
Don
Enrique might already have wired his brother-in-law about what had happened. If that were the case, McFarlen would probably blame me, too. I could be walking right into a noose.

Wired his brother
…. That thought set me to reconsidering something else Pete Evans had said. When I had grilled Evans back in the Arizona Territory, he mentioned that Davies had gotten his information by wire. Logically the telegraph office would be the next place to check out.

For Davies to have known ahead of time a drive was even being planned, he would have to have read McFarlen’s wires from
Don
Enrique. Since telegraphs are supposed to be confidential, and if that were, in fact, how the rustlers learned our plan, then either someone in the Hernandez camp was sending other telegraphs directly to Davies in California, or he was somehow having private messages intercepted. The latter made more sense to me. More importantly, if true, it also made the local operator suspect.

Even though Pete Evans had made it clear that Davies was in cahoots with someone in San Rafael, it was unlikely any of
Don
Enrique’s
vaqueros
would know Brett Davies, a
gringo
from California. However, if Davies was clever or powerful enough to have telegraph messages intercepted,
he easily could have sent someone ahead to San Rafael either to recruit a spy or personally to wire him back. Someone like this Luke Pierce, who apparently had led the rustlers who trailed us from the start.

That’s why I headed over to the telegraph office next. Judging by appearances, my suspicions probably weren’t too far off. The key-pad operator was a rather scrawny fellow with a nose like a ferret. He sported long, wide sideburns and had a nervous habit of constantly tugging his left earlobe. His vest was worn to a shine, and he favored a string tie worn over a stiff-collared white shirt. In general, he seemed a very uncomfortable sort.