Border Lords and Armstrong's War Page 8

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Hell, marshal, I ain’t no fool. I sent word to Burdock about what was goin’ on. I reckon he did the rest.”

  “I don’t know why, Casey, but I’m inclined to believe you.” Pharaoh fumbled through his shirt pocket until he came up with a few coins. He pitched a nickel and two half-cent pieces onto the bar. The coins rolled around until they fell over in a neat pile. “Two things, Casey. First, I’m paying for my beer. Second, just to be sure, I’m going to tell Silverjack to come have a talk with you, just in case you might have left something out.” Pharaoh touched his hat brim and sauntered out of the saloon.

  Casey stood for a moment with his mouth agape. Then he reached behind him and tried to undo the knot in his apron. Frustrated that he couldn’t get the thing untied, he ripped it off and threw it on the floor. Hurrying to the cash register, he popped it open and dug out all of the bills. Stuffing the money in his pocket, he reached under the bar, grabbed his hat, and headed for the back door.

  Chapter 12

  Silverjack had no idea how much the stolen gold was worth, and the less he thought about it the better. Except for stopping long enough to untie Blacky and send him on his way, he had made good time since leaving the cantina, and he figured he could make it to Lucasville in less than two days if the gold-laden burros cooperated. So far, they were clopping along at a steady pace. His biggest worry was running across bandits or Federales. Either would try to take the gold away from him. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

  The sun was a shimmering ball of red fire dropping in the west when Silverjack rounded the knoll where he and the others had camped the night before. He decided to make a cold camp, so after picketing his horse and the burros, he hunkered down and feasted on cold beans and tortillas he had picked up at the cantina. Afterwards, he laid out his bedroll and made it look like someone was in it. Then he grabbed his extra blanket and rifle and moved into the shadowy darkness of the trees to sleep.

  As he sat leaning against a small tree, listening to the sounds of the night, Silverjack thought about Carlos Macias and what had taken place back at the cantina. The outlaw had carried a grudge against Dan Cable ever since his brothers were killed. The gnawing rage in his gut had kept him alive while he searched for the ranger. After he’d killed Dan, Carlos had lost his reason to go on. What makes a man yearn for revenge so much it becomes his only reason to live? Silverjack pondered these thoughts as he closed his eyes for a moment to rest them.

  The smell of coffee boiling caressed Silverjack’s nostrils. He lay for a moment enjoying his dream, when he realized he was awake and the coffee was real. He kept still with his eyes shut. Someone had started a fire in his camp. He had no idea who it was, but the odds of it being a friend were less than slim. Silverjack mentally cursed himself for sleeping so hard. He dared not move for fear of alerting the person in his camp that he was awake. He was trying to decide what to do when the decision was made for him. A leg cramp caused him to move his leg.

  “Antonio,” said a greasy voice that Silverjack recognized. It was the bartender from the cantina. “The gringo is awake. He is playing like a little possum.”

  The scattered laughter made Silverjack shiver. More than one man occupied his camp. He had no choice but to open his eyes and face his destiny. His eyelids lifted, and he stared up into the bartender’s ugly face.

  “I see you ain’t found no bathtub yet, Poncho,” Silverjack said, waving his hand in front of his face. He tried hard to look unconcerned. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and tried to make out a man standing over a small fire a few feet away. “I appreciate you boys fixin’ me some coffee this mornin’. I’m a real bear until I’ve had me a couple cups of hot black Arbuckles.”

  Silverjack didn’t recognize the man at the fire. The Mexican was tall with narrow shoulders. He wore a loose-fitting blue shirt over striped gray pants tucked into high leather boots. His sombrero was thrown back on his head, and a two-gun buscadero rig encircled his waist. “Buenas dias, señor,” said the man. “I am Antonio Contreras. I believe you have taken something that belongs to my amigos and me. We have come for its return.”

  As he stood up, Silverjack glanced round for his guns. None were in sight. He looked over at Poncho, who was grinning at him like a crazy man. The bartender’s crooked teeth were as nasty as his body. His breath was foul with the odor of onions and chilis eaten long ago. Silverjack’s stomach rumbled at the man’s stench. Silverjack reached down, picked up his hat, and began stumbling toward the fire. His body was stiff from sleeping sitting up, and his wounded ear hurt like hell. Furthermore, he had no clue how he could get out of this mess.

  Antonio Contreras held a tin cup full of coffee. Steam billowed from the cup as the heat from the mud-colored liquid clashed with the early morning chill. Silverjack’s mouth watered at the thought of a fresh cup of the black brew. “Since that’s my Arbuckle’s you’re enjoyin’ there, pardner, you reckon you can spare me a cup?”

  “No, señor, I cannot. It would be a shame to waste coffee on a dead man.”

  “That’s pretty harsh, Antonio.” Silverjack tried to smile, but it came off as a crooked sneer. “You’re gonna kill me for gold that don’t rightfully belong to either one of us.”

  “Si, señor.”

  Silverjack fingered the scar that traversed his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the rising sun’s rays flickering off a metal object sticking out of a pile of rocks fifty yards away. “That don’t hardly seem right, amigo.” Silverjack tried to buy some time and hoped he’d guessed right about the shiny object protruding from the rocks. “You’re drinkin’ my coffee, and I expect you’re gonna eat my food, too.” Jack scrunched up his face like he was mad. “And another thing, I’m tired of folks tellin’ me I’m a dead man and me still walkin’ around breathin’. Man, you ain’t got no heart at all.”

  Silverjack’s statement was prophetic, as the sound of a rifle shot echoed off the rocky knoll, and Antonio’s heart exploded. The Mexican’s face bore a questioning look as he dropped to his knees and pitched forward into the fire. Silverjack dove for the dead man’s pistols. He jerked them from the buscadero rig and rolled away. Screaming lead chunked up around him, and he came up firing. By the time he drew a bead on one of the outlaws, the hidden rifle man had shot two more of the bandits. Jack aimed and twice squeezed the trigger of one of the nickel-plated Colt .45’s. The bullets tore into Poncho’s belly, gutting him open like a slaughtered hog.

  Both pistols cocked and ready, Silverjack spun on one knee, searching for another target. Horses were bolting in every direction, kicking up a mountain of dirt that made seeing impossible. Jack stayed low, trying to clear dirt from his eyes. As he did, he realized all was quiet. The gunfire had ceased as quickly as it had started. Jack stood up and turned in a slow circle. Four bodies lay around the camp. He shook his head and spit out a wad of dirty brown saliva. He shaded his eyes as he gazed toward the pile of rocks. A rider approached from that direction, but Jack couldn’t make him out. Whoever it was could sure shoot the hell out of a rifle.

  The shooter reached the camp, reined in his big bay gelding, and stepped to the ground. Silverjack stuck out his right hand. “Howdy, Black Tom,” he said. “It sure is nice to see you standin’ right side up.”

  “You’re damn lucky I came along when I did, Jack, or you’d be on your way to being buzzard dung. I was riding south, searching for the Comptons, when I heard a commotion and stopped to check it out.”

  “I sure was in a fix,” said Silverjack. “Now I’m real glad I cut you down the other day.”

  “Consider us even, Jack.”

  “Even it is, Let me find my guns, and then help me round up those burros, and we’ll be on our way north.”

  Tom rubbed his stubbled chin. “Didn’t I hear something about gold?”

  “I’ll explain everything while we ride. Come on, before more bandit
s show up.”

  Pharaoh narrowed his eyes at Dr. Prater. “Doc, I need to talk to Daggett.”

  “I believe Mr. Daggett is sleeping now, marshal. I suppose when he awakens, you may speak with him for a short time. He needs to rest quietly.”

  “I’ll speak to him now.” Pharaoh pushed past the doctor and strode toward Abe Daggett’s cot. “If what I think is true, he’s got a long rest ahead of him.” The marshal reached the bed and pulled his six-shooter. He stuck the barrel of the .45 against Daggett’s nose and pressed down hard.

  The banker awoke with a start and began to squirm. His eyes crossed, trying to focus on the pistol mashing his nose. When he realized what was up, he froze. Daggett’s eyes shot to the hand holding the pistol and on up the arm. They widened as he recognized Pharaoh holding the pistol.

  “Daggett people are getting killed around here in bunches today.” Pharaoh cocked the .45. “I’m tired, and I’m mad, and I’m not in the mood for another lie. I’m going to ask you some questions. You blink your eyes twice for yes and once for no. Blink.”

  Abe Daggett blinked twice.

  “Marshal,” said Dr. Prater, “what are you doing?”

  “Stay out of this, doctor. Your banker helped get the gold stolen from his own bank. Will Cosgrove and Buck Burdock were his partners. Is that the truth, Daggett?”

  Daggett closed his eyes and opened them. A tear meandered down his cheek, puddling at the corner of his mouth. He blinked again.

  “What is going on, marshal?” Dr. Prater looked confused. “What you are saying is absurd. I know little of Cosgrove, but Abe Daggett is one of Lucasville’s leading citizens. And you know I don’t like Burdock, but I’m certain he is not a criminal. Both have done wonderful things for this town. You are mistaken about them. What proof do you have that they committed this crime?”

  Pharaoh stepped away from Daggett and holstered his six-gun. “I have enough information to ride out to Burdock’s ranch and arrest him on suspicion of robbery and murder.”

  Dr. Prater dropped his head and walked into his office.

  Abby had entered the room and was watching in horror as the two men talked. “Marshal, I’m like Samuel. I can’t believe what you’re saying is true. That would be awful.”

  “Gold corrupts a lot of people, both good and bad, Abby,” said Pharaoh. “No one knows how they will be affected by that temptation until they are exposed to it.”

  “I still can’t believe it, marshal.”

  “When Jack gets back in town, we’ll ride out to Burdock’s and get this situation under control. Maybe then you’ll believe it, Abby.”

  Unnoticed, the doctor re-entered the room. “Marshal Smith, you are a smart man and good detective. It’s a shame you discovered the truth—or at least part of it.”

  Chapter 13

  A short-barreled .41 revolver rested in Dr. Prater’s grasp. He cocked the pistol and aimed it at Pharaoh’s chest. Abby’s eyes saucered in disbelief. “Samuel, what are you doing?”

  “I am about to solve a problem, Abby. Marshal Smith has stumbled upon Lucasville’s best kept secret.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “In a moment you will. Marshal Smith, remove your revolver with your left hand, and pass it to me, pistol grips first.”

  Pharaoh grit his teeth and cursed himself for being a fool. But he did as the doctor ordered and, barrel in hand, thrust the six-gun forward.

  “Abby, my dear,” said Dr. Prater, “you are a sweet girl and an excellent nurse. However, your naivete is equal to that of your dead ex-fiancée, Marshal Dan Cable.”

  Abby shrieked and lunged at the doctor, fists flailing. He sidestepped her attack, and as she stumbled by, he slammed his pistol barrel to the back of her head. Abby fell forward onto an empty cot and lay still.

  Pharaoh stepped toward the doctor, but he was too far away to make it to Abby’s aid in time. Before he could take a second step, Dr. Prater had his pistol pointing at Pharaoh’s chest again.

  “Marshal, take another step, and I will kill you right here.”

  “If that girl is bad hurt, Prater, there won’t be a rock big enough for you to hide under. I’ll forget my badge and hunt you down like the devil’s spawn you are.”

  “Devil’s spawn!” Dr. Prater laughed. “My God, man! You talk like a Bible toter at a backwoods camp meeting. Oh, my, Marshal Smith, you are as simple as Abby and that dead fool Cable.”

  Pharaoh breathed hard, trying to remain calm. “What are you going to do with Abby and me?”

  “There will be one more tragic accident in Lucasville. You and my former nurse will be burned to death along with all the other patients in this building while I am out at Burdock’s ranch making a house call.”

  “That’s insane!”

  “No, marshal, actually it is a foolproof plan. Cosgrove is dead. Daggett will perish in the fire along with everyone else, leaving the gold to be split between Burdock and myself.”

  “What’s going to happen when Silverjack gets back in town and finds out about the accident? He won’t buy it for a minute. When he catches you, you’ll wish you’d given up to me. Jack was raised Comanche. Your death will take a long time.”

  “I have taken measures to assure that fool will not be returning to Lucasville. I am sure that by now he is ample dinner for a pack of hungry coyotes.”

  Pharaoh’s eyes caught movement behind the door. He grinned. “You don’t think much of Jack, do you, Doctor?”

  “Of all of you, I believe he is the dumbest of the lot.” Dr. Prater chuckled.

  “Well, Doc, why don’t you turn around and tell him to his face?”

  “You best turn slow, sawbones,” said Silverjack.

  Dr. Prater whirled at the sound of Silverjack’s voice. He recognized the marshal’s silhouette in the doorway and tried to aim his pistol to fire, but his arm wouldn’t cooperate. He looked down to see two smoking holes marring the neat appearance of his clean, white shirt. “Oh, dear God,” he whispered as he dropped to his knees. He rocked backwards and then slumped forward with his arms crossed in front of him.

  “Damn fine shootin’ for a lawdog, Jack,” said Tom Raines, standing beside Silverjack, pistol in hand.

  Silverjack ignored the comment and walked over to Pharaoh. “What in Beelzebub’s crooked pitchfork is goin’ on here, Pharaoh?” he said, surveying the room.

  As soon as Dr. Prater’s body had hit the floor, Pharaoh scrambled to the bed where Abby still lay unmoving. He checked her pulse. It was weak but regular. “You’re sure a tough one, Abby,” he said, then turned to Silverjack. “I’ll explain later, Jack. Right now, I have to take care of Abby. She took a nasty rap on the head.”

  Silverjack grabbed a sheet from a vacant cot and helped Tom pick up Dr. Prater’s body. They carried the dead man outside and laid him on the sidewalk. Tom wrapped the body with the sheet, tucking it in at the corners to keep the flies out. When he finished the grisly task, he stood up, rubbed the back of his neck, and stretched his tight muscles. “Do you think there might be a reward out for this chunk of maggot meat, Jack?”

  Silverjack looked at his companion and shook his head. “You ain’t ever gonna change, Black Tom. It’s always about the money for you.”

  Tom put a finger on his left nostril and blew a big, green chunk of mucus onto the corpse. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Yas, suh, boss,” he said, hard black eyes staring at Silverjack. “If you don’t got no money, you don’t have no freedom.”

  Silverjack nodded and sent Tom to round up Mrs. Wheeler, the town midwife, so she could check on Abby.

  Abby opened her eyes and quickly shut them again. The brilliant light blinded her, and her head ached like it did when she was kicked by Papa’s mule. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes again—this time slower. After a moment, she was able to keep them open and focus. The first thing she sa
w was Marshal Pharaoh Smith standing over her. She thought he looked funny with his face all squinched up. She tried to laugh and regretted it right away. Flaming arrows of pain tore through her brain. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Her only thought was that if this was death, please let it happen quickly. The fire raging in her skull was more than she could stand. She passed out again.

  “So that’s pretty much all I know, Jack.” Pharaoh sipped from the white porcelain coffee cup in his hand. “Added to what you’ve told me, I think if we round up Burdock, we’ll have this situation well in hand.”

  “When do we hit the ranch?”

  “Just as soon as I know Abby is going to be okay. Then we’ll head out.” Silverjack fingered the scar on his face. “This sure didn’t turn out to be the picnic I thought it would be. What are we gonna do with all that shiny stuff? I ain’t a greedy man, but a new rig would look right nice on ’ol Bess. I’ve been usin’ the same saddle for nigh onto ten years.”

  Pharaoh’s features hardened, and he stared Silverjack in the eye. “Jack, I don’t like talk like that. As much gold as we’ve got, anybody might be tempted by it.”

  “Yeah, compadre, anybody but Deputy Territorial Marshal Pharaoh Smith. He don’t care about the gold, because he’s already got more money than a normal man could spend in a lifetime.”

  “That’s enough, Jack. I’m warning you. No more foolish talk about the gold.”

  Silverjack smiled, but his eyes showed no mirth. “Hell, Pharaoh, I was just joshin’ you. What would a broken-down old gunfighter like me do with a bunch of tainted gold but spend it?”

  “What about Tom Raines, Jack? Can we trust him not to turn on us and try to take the gold?”