Brothers in Blood (28 page)

“I know. I'll keep Roamer close by.”

“Good.”

Chet wrote Marge telling her about Gabbert and the murders, and some about the land case with Weeks. Then he told her how he missed her, but he'd come home in a few weeks to see her.

When JD and Ortega returned from their hunt, they had a fat mountain sheep. The head was a handsome trophy and Chet congratulated them for their success. He figured that head would one day hang on the wall at the new ranch's main house.

Maria planned a
fandango
with Chet. Though Chet appreciated her concern for everyone on the team and for providing their meals, he also found her to be very intelligent. It didn't take a lot of schooling to be people-smart like Maria. Some folks learned it—others never did understand a thing about how it worked.

As the days lengthened, many things pressed on his mind. Things were slow for the task force, so he turned his attention to the squatters. Jesus returned from feeding them with no answer as to where their husbands had gone off to. They didn't know what happened to them. All they knew was they were supposed to come back for them some day.

“I think any hope of them coming back for those women is like smoke. It's gone on the wind,” Chet said.

Jesus frowned in concern and agreed.

“How many are there?”

“Three older women, two younger ones, seven kids.”

“In the end, we may need to load them into a wagon and take them to Nogales or Tucson. We could find them a couple of
jacals
and maybe they'd eventually find new husbands.”

“Maybe.” Jesus made a face.

Chet chuckled. “You think they're too ugly to appeal to anyone?”

Jesus nodded. “They are not pretty.”

“I don't need to feed them forever, so we need a solution. Plus they might die out there. Did they walk to get where they are?”

“Many of those poor people coming up here for work walk.”

“Why didn't they take the King's Road?”

“Maybe they got lost?”

Chet shook his head wearily. “They really are lost.”

Was it deliberate? Did their husbands dump them there? He thrust it all out of his mind and concentrated on getting ready for the
fandango
. Maybe the celebration would take his mind off the squatters as well as the lack of work for the task force.

Everyone was in a festive mood that night. The music was good and the barbequed sheep proved delicious. His crew danced with the brothers' wives and laughed a lot. Chet turned in early, with plans to write Marge another letter in the morning.

Come morning, he was up early and drinking Maria's fresh coffee.

“When you finish your work here, we will miss all of you,” she said.

“Yes, we've made some great friendships among your family. We'll stay in touch.”

“I am grateful for your offer to buy us cows for our ranch. We will pay you back, and, in time, we too will have a real ranch.” She brought the first Dutch oven full of biscuits over and offered them to him.

“No problem.”

“Tell me about your wife. She must be a great lady.”

“Marge has been very good for me. She's more than I ever expected to have in a wife. We're very close. She's a great horsewoman and rides jumpers. But having lost two babies, she hasn't ridden since she learned she is to have this one. We hope that makes the difference. She misses her riding a lot, but is dedicated to having this one.”

“I will burn a candle for her,” Maria said. “I am so glad you found us. We have worked hard, but with a herd of cows of our own the ranch will now grow. You are a good encourager, too.”

“You've made this place home for me and my men and I thank you.”

She blushed, nodded, and excused herself.

While their law enforcement efforts waned, it gave him time to reflect. Working out the details for buying a huge dry ranch taxed his brain. And he needed to gather more information about the squatters, those abandoned women. Then there was Weeks's ranch operation and how to handle it. Oh, well, since he took over the family operation as a teenager, he always had his head crowded with problems.

Maybe he'd take a nap in the hammock and let the problems rest.
Marge, I miss you.

Everyone was in camp to enjoy the big meal Maria cooked for their supper. It was drawing toward evening, with the warm day coming to a close. After the recent rains, the surrounding desert looked like a vast flower garden with the wild flowers that carpeted it.

Earlier, they received a telegram from Blevins about a ranch raid near Benson. The message had come late in the day and Chet assigned Roamer and JD to handle it. They'd ride out the next day to check on the situation.

Cole and Shawn were going to look in on some problems they'd heard about down at Patagonia. That left him and Jesus to take the next call. Jesus had recovered completely from his wound, but Chet felt he still needed to take it easy.

After their meal, their hosts played some music and they savored an evening of gentle breezes before splitting up and going to bed. Chet found his bedroll and was snug in it knowing the temperatures would drop overnight. Sleep soon sailed him away.

Come morning, two sets of his men had already left to handle their assignments. Chet settled down to catch up on his expense log. Keeping track of expenses wasn't a job he enjoyed, but recording their expenses was important if he was to recover his costs as agreed to by Marshal Blevins.

When a rider came into camp looking saddle weary, Chet glanced up. Unshaven, the man rode a roman-nosed gray horse as gaunt as he looked. He dropped out of the saddle, hitched up his size-too-big dirty black wool pants, and asked Jesus where his boss was.

Chet rose from the long table under the tarp and closed his account book. “Good day, sir.” He extended his hand.

The man didn't offer to meet his handshake, and Chet looked harder at him. “What can I do for you?”

“I can show you where the men are that killed old man Sam Crane down by Patagonia.”

“Oh?” Chet hadn't heard that Sam died from the wounds he received during the attack on his ranch six weeks before. “Who did it?”

“What'cha gonna pay me?”

“For information that pans out, twenty bucks.” Something wasn't right about this man. Was he a snitch, or was he up to something else? “How much do you know about them?”

“I can lead you right to them. There's three of 'em.”

“Well, where are they?”

“If I'm going to take you there, I need fifty.”

“That's a little steep.”

“You want them or not?”

“All right, how far away are they?”

“Oh, a day's ride. But I want the gawdamn money before we go one step.”

“I never caught your name?”

The man's steel-blue eyes narrowed. “I never told you my gawdamn name. Besides, you don't need my name.”

“Mine's Chet Byrnes. I'm a US Deputy Marshal and I'm in charge here.”

“Well, ain't that totty? I'm Jack Smith and I ain't got time to screw around with you. You want his killers or not?”

Chet studied the man. He wore a sweat-blackened holster and his gun butt had scuffed wood handles. A half-dozen corroded .45 bullets were stuck in the belt. It must have been cartridge modified. The hammer and body parts showed they'd been worn a lot. He didn't consider Smith, or whoever he was, as a
pistolero
, but no doubt he could use it. So why was he wanting to show his hand for a reward on men as tough as those killers?

“You're certain they killed Crane?”

“Why in the hell—” He snatched off the once light-colored hat with the indented crown and slammed it on the table. “Listen, you either want them or not.” He used his fingers to comb back his wavy gray-streaked hair. “What do you think I'm here for anyway?”

“I'm not too sure. That's why I'm asking you.” Chet stood his ground. From the corner of his eye he saw Jesus, who'd moved closer and wasn't missing anything the man said or did.

Smith slammed the weather-battered hat with the uneven brim back on his head, jerked the clasp on the rawhide strings, and set it tight under his chin. Then he turned hard on his run-over boots with his pants tucked inside. His Mexican spur rowels rang. Under his breath, he said, “Fuck you, I'll go elsewhere and find me someone who'll pay me.”

“Smith, I'm not through talking to you. Turn around.” Chet expected the man would try to spin around and draw on him. The web of his own hand rode on the cool steel of his gun butt.

“Don't touch that gun.” Jesus's words sounded colder than ice. His .45 ready in his fist, he cocked it.

The man's hands at once spread out from his body, and he stood frozen. Thwarted from drawing, his fingers opened and closed. “I never came here to fight with you.”

“You've got a damn unfriendly way of talking to me, mister. Jesus, take his gun.”

“There ain't any need in that.” An impatient expression crossed his face.

Jesus stepped in and disarmed the man, tossing the gun onto the long table. By then, both Ortega and Jose came on the run from their
jacals
. Ortega carried a rifle, his brother a pistol.

Chet held up his hand to stop them from shooting. “Now tell us who you really are.”

“My name's Frank Kinkaid.”

“Where do you live?”

“Tombstone—anywhere I can live.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders.

“You didn't ride clear over here from Tombstone for a fifty-buck reward to tell me where three killers are.” Chet folded his arms across his chest, and he and his three men listened close for the man's answer.

“All right. They paid me a hundred to get you to ride over there so they could ambush you.”

“Who are they?”

Kinkaid began to shift his eyes from man to man, to take in the effect of his words. “I only know one of them is called Arthur Hatfield.”

Chet asked Ortega, “You know anyone by that name?”

Ortega shook his head. “Where does he live?” he asked Kinkaid.

“I don't know. They have a place down on Patagonia Creek.”

Chet interrupted to fill in the brothers. “He came here wanting me to pay him fifty dollars to say where Sam Crane's killers are.”

“Sam's dead?” Ortega frowned.

Kinkaid said, “They buried him last week at the Burro Creek School cemetery.”

The men shook their heads almost in unison. No one had heard of his death.

Chet hoped Sam's widow was doing all right. He turned back to the drifter. “Describe Hatfield.”

“Maybe fifty, big mustache, wears a black hat, kind of a dresser—lacy shirts and a suit coat. Carries a short-barreled sheriff model Colt in a shoulder holster. He gambles a lot in Tombstone and lives with a whore south of there on a small ranch. He speaks Spanish real good, and his men are all Mexicans.”

“Why does he want me dead? He breaks the law?”

Kinkaid nodded. “His men shot up Crane and took those good horses he had.”

“Where did they go to?”

“They say Old Man Clanton's.” Kinkaid shook his head. “Hatfield knew I was broke. Two days ago, outside the Birdcage, he pulled me off the sidewalk out in the dark and tells me, ‘Here's a whorehouse token for Louisa.' Then he held the brass coin up in the starlight to show me what it was. Then he tells me to go use her and meet him at midnight over at Blackman's stables and he'd have a job for me.

“I asked him what kind of job, that I wasn't no killer or bank robber. He told me to never mind, just meet me and he'd pay me well.”

When he paused, Chet said, “Go on.”

Kinkaid shrugged, wet his lips, and glanced around at the others. “I bedded her. God, I'd marry her if I could afford her. Then I went and waited at the stable for him. He was so damn late getting there to meet me, I fell asleep in that sweet-smelling alfalfa hay. But I was dead broke . . .”

“Keep talking.”

“I ain't broke no law. What're you going to do to me?”

“Never mind that. Tell us the rest of your story.”

“He showed up. Said he wanted me to tell you I knew where Sam Crane's killers were hiding and lead you to his place. His men would ambush you and your men. I took his money and rode over here. Hell, he might of killed me if I'd said no after he gave me that token for her and the hundred dollars. He said just lead you over there. His men would be laying in wait to shoot you.”

“Why?”

“He said 'cause you had the entire bunch of border bandits scared to come over here anymore. He couldn't make any money, because he couldn't get them to come over and rob anyone for him. I'm not lying.” He acted more nervous every minute.

“Boys, I guess we're doing a helluva job to have them try this.”

His men laughed and relaxed somewhat.

“Kin I go now?”

“No. You're going to take us to that place on the creek. You have to earn that money he paid you.”

“Oh, shit. They'll kill me, so I won't talk. I mean, I don't want to die. He's got some mean sons-a-bitches down there.”

“Name them.”

“Butcher Crab, One Eye Elms, and I don't know the Mexicans' names.”

“You heard of them?” Chet asked the brothers.

“Crab broke out of prison below the border. Elms is a slick knife man,” Ortega said. “I thought they were down in Mexico.”

“I guess he hired them recently. He really talked like if he could get rid of you, he'd have no more trouble making raids again.”

“You've seen them at Tombstone?” Chet asked.

“Oh, yeah. That place is so busy, no one bothers to arrest anyone unless they break the law in town. Then you get your head busted in.”

“After we raid this ranch on the creek, then you can show us this place Hatfield has, right?”

“I can draw you a map.”

“You ain't listening to me,” Chet said, glaring at him.

“Yeah. Yeah. I can do that.”

“Tell me about the bloody raid over in Skeleton Canyon where the silver pack train was robbed.”

“I wasn't there. I mean, I wasn't nowhere near that.”

“You've heard stories. I want to know all about it.”

“They said the word came down the coins had been stamped at Silver City and the pack train loaded with them was coming back. It was in a telegram in code sent to Tombstone. A rider took the message to Old Man Clanton's ranch and give it to him. I don't know if that old sumbitch can even read. But he called in all his cattle rustlers and the rest of his men to lay that trap. I heard his men scouted that train—knew their every move—from Lordsburg clear on down to the morning they hit them. They brought their own pack train and hit them at dawn.”

“I thought Clanton had so much business selling beef to the Army and the Indians he didn't need money?”

Kinkaid sent a hard look at him. “Yeah, he does. But he won't ever get enough. He hordes it.”

“What are we going to do with him?” Jesus asked, indicating Kinkaid.

“Handcuff him, so he don't leave. Tomorrow, Cole and Shawn will be back to go with us. We'll start at the creek place and take it. Then, the next day, we'll arrest his boss, Hatfield.”

“He ain't no boss of mine.”

Chet looked directly at him. “I want to be sure you go with us to get them,” he said right in Kinkaid's face, who stumbled backing up from him.

“Put a handcuff on him and put him on a chain.”

“I ain't going to—”

“Damn right. You ain't doing one thing to warn them, either,” Chet said.

“Maria is bringing lunch. Have a seat,
hombre
,” Ortega told their prisoner.

He obeyed, but looked dumbfounded at his new situation.

Chet's mind raced. They had to surprise the outlaws when they struck them. This could prove to be as serious a situation as any his posse had handled so far. In past situations, the wanted criminals were on the run. These killers were dug in, to ambush him and his men at any cost.

“I'd like you to go along,” he said to Ortega. “Those other two will be ready to ride in the morning.”

“
Si.
I would love to get my hands on that bunch, too.”

Chet clapped him on the shoulder. “We'll get them.”

This could be the big break in the border criminal activity—which meant they might all be able to go home soon. That notion pleased him mightily.