Autumn of the Gun (9 page)

Empty again took the trail, turning northeast toward the river.

“The camp's somewhere north of here, along the Red,” said Nathan. “Likely some dry canyon, with a runoff for water.”

The next time Empty doubled back, he growled deep in his throat.

“He knows where they are,” Nathan said. “We'll leave the horses here and continue on foot. Silver wanted you here representing the law, Mel. Take charge from here on.”

“Oh, hell,” said Holt, “with or without a badge, you think like a lawman. You know the rules. We'll cover them from two directions, and then we'll order them to drop their guns and show bills of sale for the horses. Besides horse stealing, there's a charge of attempted murder. I don't expect them to surrender.”

Empty led them to the lower end of an arroyo that angled away from the river. There was abundant mud where the runoff from the Red had been swallowed by sand. Leading into the arroyo were many horse tracks.

“You take one side and I'll take the other,” said Holt. “We'll try and catch them in a cross fire from the rim. Wait for my challenge. If they come up shooting, then I reckon I don't have to tell you how to answer them.”

Nathan crept along the rim, Vivian following. At first the willows and undergrowth along the canyon floor kept them from seeing anything, but eventually they could see a clearing in which nine horses grazed. One of them—a big black—Nathan recognized as Barnabas McQueen's Diablo. Five men stood in the clearing, and while Nathan was unable to understand Jackman's words, the anger in his voice was unmistakable. Suddenly, Holt challenged them.

“Deputy U.S. Marshal! You're under arrest!”

Just for a heartbeat they froze, and then every man went for his gun. But there was swift thunder from the rims as the deadly cross fire took its toll. One man cut loose with a Winchester, and was the first to die. Jackman's horse was still saddled. He mounted, still throwing lead at Nathan's position, and Nathan shot him out of the saddle. As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Empty trotted out of the brush and stood there looking at the carnage.

“Come on,” Holt shouted. “I'll need you to identity those horses.”

“You first,” Nathan shouted back. “McQueen's four are branded with a small crown on the left hip.”

Nathan and Vivian remained on the rim until Holt reached the horses and examined the brands.

“You called it straight,
amigo,”
Holt shouted. “Crown brands on four of them. Come on. We'll ride back to town and have the sheriff send a wagon for the bodies. I'm going to demand an inquest, call the two of you as witnesses, and establish the guilt of this bunch.”

Led by Mel Holt, Nathan and Vivian reined up before the sheriff's office with the four McQueen horses on lead ropes. The sheriff stepped out the door, his hand on the butt of his Colt.

“Sheriff?” Holt inquired.

“Yep,” said the lawman. “Webb Haddock. What can I do fer you?”

“Maybe fifteen miles north of here, there's five dead men in an arroyo on the west bank of the Red. One of them is Rutledge Jackman. The other four coyotes stole these horses in New Orleans, leaving their owners for dead. I called on them to surrender and they came out shooting.”

“Why . . . why, you can't do . . .” Haddock stammered.

“I can, and I have,” said Holt. “I'm a deputy U.S. marshal from Fort Smith and my authority overrides yours. I'll want an inquest. For the record, I have witnesses who will testify to attempted murder. The stolen horses speak for themselves.”

“Damn it,” Haddock shouted, “Mr. Jackman is—”

“Dead,” said Holt, “and he had you to thank. After you showed him that telegram a while ago, he led us to these horses and the four skunks that took 'em.”

“I don't know nothin' about no telegram,” Haddock snarled.

“I aim to visit the telegraph office,” said Holt. “The telegrapher should be able to help you remember. Now, you set up that inquest for nine o'clock in the morning. I'm going to report this incident when I return to Fort Smith.”

With that, Holt turned away. Nathan and Vivian followed him down the street, leading the McQueen horses and seeking a livery. Holt put up the horses, cautioning the liveryman that the animals were recovered stolen property, the responsibility of the U.S. government.

“We have a room at a boardinghouse,” said Nathan.

“I'll try and get one there myself,” Holt replied.

Holt had no trouble getting a room for the night, and after stabling their horses, the three of them went to a nearby cafe to eat.

“If the dog's a problem,” said Nathan, “he's a paying customer.”

“He's welcome, long as he minds his manners,” the cook replied. “What's he havin'?”

“He's a hound, and not picky,” Nathan said, “just as long as there's plenty of it.”

They were down to final cups of coffee when Holt had a suggestion.

“You have to get those horses back to New Orleans; why don't you just drive them to Memphis and buy passage on a steamboat?”

“Tarnation,” said Nathan, “it's as far from here to Memphis as it is from here to New Orleans. That wouldn't make any sense.”

“It would if you enter Diablo in that quarter-mile race on July fourth. I can help you with these horses as far as Little Rock, and from there, it's not more than a hundred miles to Memphis. I don't know how often the packets travel the Arkansas, but you might get a steamboat from Little Rock to New Orleans.”

Nathan laughed. “You're just trying to parlay this law business into a horse race.”

“You've rode behind this badge,” said Holt. “Do you blame me? It's all shoot-or-be-shot, and no time for anything else.”

“I couldn't agree more,” Nathan said, “but who would ride Diablo? Certainly not you or me.”

“Why not Vivian?” Holt asked.

“Vivian?” said Nathan. “She doesn't—”

“Ride that well,” Vivian finished.

“I was about to say that you don't know the horse, and he doesn't know you,” said Nathan.

“It's a good two hundred miles from here to Little Rock,” Holt said. “When we ride out, swap her horse to a lead rope and let her ride Diablo. If she can ride him that far without him biting off a hand or foot, he'll be safe enough.”

It was Vivian's turn to laugh. “You're generous with my hands and feet.”

“I don't think so,” Nathan said. “It hasn't been that long since she had saddle sores all over her—”

“Nathan,” Vivian interrupted, “I'd like to try it. Let me at least attempt to become friends with Diablo. If it turns out that he hates me, I promise not to go through with it.”

“We'll try it,” said Nathan. “It's the least we can do, to bring a little pleasure to the dismal life of Deputy U.S. Marshal Mel Holt.”

 

Sheriff Haddock arranged the inquest, Nathan and Vivian testified, and the case was officially closed. News of the killings had spread, drawing a crowd to the courthouse. The sheriff was nervous, and it seemed he wanted to speak in his own defense, but he kept his silence. When the procedure was done, Holt elbowed his way through the crowd without answering any questions from the curious. Nathan and Vivian followed his example, and with the McQueen horses on lead ropes, the trio rode north.

“Haddock was uneasy as a coyote among lobo wolves,” said Nathan. “Do you reckon he can keep the lid on all this?”

Holt laughed. “Not a chance. Rutledge Jackman was a big man in town, and while he was alive, who would have questioned a friendship between him and Sheriff Haddock? But now, all the little people who didn't exactly revere Jackman won't be thinking kindly of Sheriff Haddock. I doubt he'll run for reelection.”

“The telegrapher knows what was in that telegram he delivered to Sheriff Haddock,” said Vivian. “He should be able to add that to what was taken down at the inquest and come up with some answers.”

“Yes,” Holt said. “If he has the brains God gave a goose he ought to be ropin' free drinks for at least a year.”

“Now that we're away from town,” said Vivian, “I want to make friends with Diablo, if I can.”

They reined up and Vivian dismounted.

“We'll see how well he receives you before we swap your saddle,” Nathan said.

“If he accepts me,” said Vivian, “I'll ride him bareback. I've never ridden in a race before, but I've seen it done. The last thing we'll want is the added weight of a saddle.”

“She's got savvy,” Holt said admiringly.

As Vivian approached, Diablo snorted and flattened his ears, but the girl didn't hesitate. She spoke softly and hummed a tune, and Diablo's ears perked. The horse stood his ground, and when Vivian began stroking him, he nickered.

“He hasn't forgotten Eulie,” said Nathan. “You remind him of her.”

“To win over an animal like this,” Vivian said, “she must have been a special person.”

“She was,” said Nathan. “She trained him and was the first to ride him.”

“What became of her?” Holt asked.

“She was shot by a bushwhacker who didn't want Diablo to win the race,” Nathan said, “but she died a winner. Diablo beat them all.”
⁹

“It'll be a tribute to her memory if he can do it again,” said Holt.

“He can,” Nathan said. “Look at her.”

Vivian had her arms around the sleek neck of the big black, and when she vaulted on to his broad back, he only snaked his head around and looked at her. Leaning forward, she spoke to him, and the horse lit out in a fast gallop.

“My God,” said Nathan, “she doesn't even have a bridle.”

“I have an idea she not goin' to need one,” Holt said. “If she knows what she's doing, she can turn him with knee pressure.”

Suddenly, from a fast gallop, Diablo wheeled and came pounding back.

“By God,” Holt shouted, “she took that turn like she was part of the horse, and I never seen a horse run and wheel like that.”

Nathan said nothing, for there was a lump in his throat. His mind drifted back over ten years, and again he was seeing Eulie astride the big black as Diablo thundered toward the finish line. Again he heard the deadly bark of Winchesters, and Eulie was gone ...

“Vivian,” Holt shouted, “they'll all eat your dust.”

But Vivian said nothing. Diablo drew up without a command, and Vivian threw her arms around his neck. She wept, and the two men stood there uneasily, not knowing what to say. Finally she righted herself and slid to the ground, as Diablo snaked his head around, watching her.

“I have never, in all my life, experienced anything like that,” Vivian said. “Let's get on to Little Rock.”

They rode on, Vivian astride Diablo, her saddled horse on a lead rope. Nathan watched the girl in silent admiration, and there were times when Deputy U.S. Marshal Mel Holt laughed for no reason at all.

“Let's stable these horses, find us a place to stay, and get us a mess of town grub,” Nathan said. “Then we'd better see about gettin' Diablo into that race.”

They had no trouble learning about the race, for it seemed to have totally captured the imagination of the town. Posters had been printed in black and red, and it seemed that no wall, tree, or store window in town had escaped. Every poster shouted in brilliant red that “the track is on the north bank of the Arkansas.”

“She's gonna be some race,” the friendly cook told them while they were eating.

“We have a horse to enter,” said Nathan. “Who do we see?”

“Sam Adderly, at Adderly's Mercantile,” the cook said. “You can place your bets at any saloon. Already fourteen hosses entered, some of 'em at good odds. There's a practice track, if you hanker to show off your hoss.”

“I think we ought to keep Diablo out of sight until time for the race,” said Vivian when they had left the cafe.

“We're going to,” Nathan said. “I've seen what big-time gamblers will do to win. We want Diablo to come as a surprise.”

“You'll have at least one lawman on your side,” said Holt.

Reaching Adderly's Mercantile, they found a huge chart posted on the wall beside the counter. Listed on it were all the entries, some from as far away as Kansas City and St. Louis. At the far right was the owner's name, and Rutledge Jackman's didn't appear there.

“Entry fee's a hundred dollars,” Adderly told them. “We aim to keep out folks that ain't serious. You can place your bets here, too.”

“Later,” said Nathan.

“How much are we going to bet on Diablo?” Vivian asked, when they had left the store.

“A thousand,” said Nathan. “Maybe more, depending on the odds.”

“I can manage fifty,” said Holt. “That's a month's pay.”

“Tarnation,” Nathan said, “make it five hundred. You'll never again get a chance like this. I'll loan you the difference, and you can repay me from your winnings.”

“But suppose something goes wrong and we lose?” said Holt. “My God, I'd owe you a year's pay.”

“We aren't going to lose,” Vivian said.

“No,” said Nathan. “Besides, we owe you for helping us recover McQueen's horses. If we hadn't found Diablo, we wouldn't be entering him in this race, so you deserve a chance at some of the winnings.”

“You're a
muy bueno amigo,”
Holt said. “My God, I've never seen more than a hundred dollars all at once, in my life.”