Collection 1988 - Lonigan (v5.0) (9 page)

Con Fargo grinned at him, then turned to go. Butch Mogelo was standing just inside the door.

Astonishment blanked his face, then fury.

“What's goin' on here?” he snarled.

“Your boys got a little troublesome,” Con said evenly. “I almost thought they were tryin' to trap me into a three-cornered fight and button me up.”

“You slugged my boys?” Mogelo's face was dark with fury. “Why!” Suddenly, he straightened a little, and the fury left his face. “Huh,” he said gruffly, “maybe they was askin' for it.”

Striding past Fargo he grabbed Ross and jerked him to his feet. Then Looby and Cabaniss. Staggering, the three stumbled out the door ahead of him.

“Well, I'll be hanged!” Chance said. “You bluffed him!”

“No,” Fargo replied slowly, “I didn't.” Thoughtfully, he stared after Mogelo. What had made the man change so suddenly? Butch Mogelo was not yellow. Brute that he might be, he had the courage of his brutality. There was something more behind this.

José Morales moved up beside Con as the tall gunfighter stepped out the door.

“Something is wrong, no?” Morales suggested.

Fargo nodded. “Mogelo and Brenner are thick as thieves. They got something planned.”

He scowled as they took the trail back to the ranch. Who was the stranger who had been murdered? What was Audrey Wakeman doing in Black Rock? How did it happen that Brenner and Mogelo were so close?

Somehow, some way, he must talk to Audrey. He had a hunch that a talk with her might prove the solution to the puzzle. He was no longer so sure that it was jealousy or range rivalry that had brought about the death of Tex Kilgore. There was something deeper, something stirring beneath the obvious, beneath the surface showings.

What, after all, did he know? Tex Kilgore had been killed, apparently by a number of men who had besieged the cabin. Yet they were obviously acting at someone's command. And was it only because he held a desirable bit of range?

Who was the stranger? Why had he not come into Black Rock on the stage? Why had he left the stage at Sulphur Springs and hired a buckboard to drive in? Who had killed him?

Fargo had the murdered man's clothing with what evidence it offered. He had concealed the charred hub, the partly burned cushion, the frozen tracks. Yet, aside from the tracks, which might or might not prove anything, he had only evidence to show the man was murdered, the buckboard destroyed, and all evidence of identity wiped out. He had nothing that pointed to the killer.

Butch Mogelo was a killer, but Butch was not the man to rip the labels from a man's clothing and destroy evidence so carefully. Mogelo had been an outlaw and a rustler. How did that tie in here?

CHAPTER 3

Jailbreak

T
HE FOLLOWING NIGHT, after the two hands had headed off for town, Con opened the hole in the floor and got out the clothes once more. Carefully, he went over them, but they offered no new clue. He stowed them away, as puzzled as ever.

When Bernie Quill and Morales rode in, he met them at the door. “Some news,” Quill said. “There's a U.S. marshal in town and a Pinkerton detective. Art Brenner was eatin' dinner with 'em.”

Early the next morning Con Fargo mounted up and headed for town. When he was still several miles out, he saw Audrey Wakeman riding toward him from down a hillside. He reined in, waiting.

“Howdy!” he said cheerfully.

She nodded, but her manner was cool.

“Miss Wakeman,” he asked, “I wonder if you'd mind tellin' me why you came west?”

Audrey glanced at him, surprise and some suspicion in her eyes.

“Why do you ask?” she demanded.

“Maybe it might help to straighten out some difficulties,” he said.

“All right,” she said crisply, “I'll tell you: I came because we've been losing cattle. Ever since my father died the income from the ranch has been falling off, and Mr. Mogelo tells me our cattle are being rustled.”

Fargo nodded. “I figured maybe it was somethin' like that. Did he have any ideas who was rustlin' them?”

She hesitated, then her eyes flashed. “He said the rustling started when Tex Kilgore moved in here. It hasn't let up any since you came!”

Con's eyes hardened. “Did he tell you he had made rustlin' a profession in Texas? That he did time in prison for it?”

“I trust my foreman, Mr. Fargo.” Her manner was crisp. “You, having ridden with my father, should be a friend of his, and of mine.”

“What makes you think I'm not?” he asked gently. “There's two sides to every story.”

Her chin lifted stubbornly, and she kept her eyes looking ahead. “All right, what's yours?”

He shrugged. “That I never rustled a cow in my life, ma'am. That no more honest man ever lived than Tex Kilgore. That he knew your pappy afore I did, and worked for him for years. That somehow you got a thief and an outlaw for a foreman, and personally, I don't think Brenner's any better.”

Her face flushed. “You've evidence to back that, I expect?”

“No,” he said frankly, “I haven't.”

“Then you'd better keep your accusations to yourself! I don't think Mr. Brenner would like them!” She touched spurs to her horse.

He watched the cloud of dust and stared ruefully after her.

“Well,” he muttered, “you sure didn't do yourself no good that time!”

Art Brenner was a smooth-talking man, and he had a way with women. It was making itself felt. Obviously, whatever doubts she may have had were lulled to sleep now. Art Brenner and Butch Mogelo were riding high.

Yet, he did know something. He knew that he had rustled no stock. He knew that Tex Kilgore was a man who would never have dreamed of rustling stock. He knew that Butch Mogelo had been a rustler by profession. Therefore, the chances were that Butch had rustled the stock himself.

But where had it gone?

The town was quiet when he rode in. He dismounted and walked into the saloon. Chance was standing at the end of the bar, and he nodded. Then as Con ordered a drink, he glanced up.

“Better watch, friend. They are brewing big medicine. I think it's for you.”

“Could be.” He glanced obliquely at Chance. “Know anything about Brenner?”

Chance's lips tightened. “No. And I'm not a talkin' man.” He took a swallow of whiskey. “However, he was ridin' a big horse when he came into town. And it had done some fast travelin'.”

He walked away and went into his office. Fargo scowled over the idea. A big horse? What did he mean by that? Then a thought struck him. In the north, where there was lots of snow, they used bigger horses than in the south. This wasn't really snow country. The present storm was unusual, and probably the snow wouldn't last long.

So? Art Brenner came from the north, and he was traveling fast. He looked up to see Bernie Quill.

The boyish cowhand lined up beside him at the bar.

“Boss, better light out. I hear they got a warrant for you. For murder!”

“Bernie,” Fargo said quietly. “Get over to Sulphur Springs and see if there's any messages for me. Also, send messages to these five towns.” Quickly he noted down the message to send and the towns. “Then you and José take turns hunting the hills, I think our place is the best bet, for some rustled cattle.”

Q
UILL TURNED, AND just then the door opened. Art Brenner stood there, and beside him were two strange men. Behind them were Mace Looby, his face dark and ugly, and the thin, saturnine face of Steve Cabaniss.

“I'm Spilman,” the first man said. He was lean, elderly, cold eyed. “Deputy United States marshal for this territory. You're under arrest for murder.”

“Murder?” he asked. “Who am I supposed to have killed?” Suddenly, he saw Mogelo come in, and beside him was Audrey Wakeman. Her face was pale and tight with scorn.

“Billy Wakeman,” Spilman said coldly. “Bob Wakeman's son!”

“That's nonsense!” he said. “I never killed him. I never saw the hombre.”

“Esslinger,” Spilman said, jerking his thumb at the detective. “Tell him!”

“We found his body buried in an abandoned drift on your place, and we found his clothes hidden under your floor!”

Con Fargo felt dry and empty inside. He'd never thought of that. They had him clinched.

“I didn't kill him!” he protested. “I'd no idea who he was!”

“You didn't know?” Esslinger asked skeptically. “You deny burying him?”

“No,” he said, “I buried him. I found him in the snow. He'd been drygulched by someone. I took him home and worked over him all durin' the storm. He died without recoverin' consciousness.”

Brenner laughed coldly. “Likely, story! What did you hide his clothes for? Why didn't you report him being dead?”

“Because I wanted to find the killer,” Con said slowly, knowing they wouldn't believe. “I figured,” he studied Brenner as he spoke, “he was a man with something to hide. Somethin' more than stolen cattle.”

Audrey kept her face averted as he was led from the room. He saw Bernie Quill mounting his horse, and then they took him away to jail. They started to turn away then.

“Wait a minute,” he said. Spilman and Esslinger turned.

“Marshal, I wish you'd get in touch with Ransom, in El Paso,” he said. “Ask him about Tex Kilgore, and about me.”

“The Ranger captain?” Spilman studied him coldly. “Why?”

“Both of us were Rangers. There's something more here than meets the eye, Spilman. Why didn't Wakeman come right to Black Rock, instead of getting off the stage at Sulphur Springs? Ask yourself that. Then tell me who tipped you off that I had the clothes?”

“Mogelo. He went to your cabin, glanced in the window and saw you hidin' them. Then we hunted for the body today while you were gone.” Esslinger studied him. “Why do you think Wakeman got off at the Springs?” Then he added, “And how do you know he did?”

“I think it was because he didn't want his own ranch foreman to know he was comin'. I think he wanted a little private look around. I know he got off there because he hired a rig in the Springs. He was drygulched at Massacre Rocks, the rig burned, the horses taken away.”

Esslinger looked at Spilman. “Well, he's tellin' us how it was done.”

Fargo kept his eyes on Spilman. “Something else you might think over. The hombre at the livery stable told me the kid had a Paterson thirty-four caliber. It wasn't on his body. Maybe the killer threw it away. And then again, maybe he kept it.”

Carefully, he explained the finding of the body, the final shot. “Figure it for yourselves,” he said. “Why, if I had the clothes, would I tear out the labels? Wouldn't I have burned them? Anyway you look at it, just tearing the labels out doesn't make sense. The man who killed Billy Wakeman expected the body to be found when the snow went off—without any identification.”

Con slid a hand in his shirt pocket and brought out the notes he had taken from the dead man.

“See? I took these because I figured to find out who was killed, and why.”

Spilman cleared his throat. “You make it sound good,” he said, and turned on his heel. Esslinger followed him out.

Fargo gripped the bars, staring after them. His words seemed to have had no effect. Knowing the summary way of most western courts, and how all new-comers were disliked here, he realized he had small chance. Most of all, he was hurt by Audrey Wakeman's willingness to believe him guilty. Art Brenner had done his work well.

H
E HAD AN idea what was behind it all, but without proof his idea amounted to nothing.

No matter how much he believed Brenner to be the motivating force behind the trouble and the killings, without proof it meant nothing. The fact that Mogelo had been an outlaw and killer also meant nothing, for many men in the west had outlived tough reputations to become respected citizens.

Much would depend on what Quill and Morales could find. And such a search might require months, for the hills east and west of his own place were probably unknown to anyone.

For two days he paced the floor, growing more and more anxious. Spilman came in occasionally, bringing his food. He saw no one else. Then José came in, followed by Spilman. The marshal watched them a moment and then went back inside the office.

“This Esslinger? He go up the hills. I see him. Two day he no come back. Bernie Quill he go, he no come back.”

Fargo scowled. Now what? If Esslinger had gone into the mountains, it could mean the Pinkerton man had believed him. But still, why to the hills? He had not even suggested his own theory to the man. He shook his head.

“José,” he said, “get me two blocks of wood about six inches long, two inches thick. Bring them back here. Then go back to the ranch and keep a sharp eye out.”

“Two blocks of wood?” José shrugged, his eyes puzzled. “It makes no sense.” He turned and went out.

Con Fargo yelled for the marshal, and when the lean old man came up to the bars, he grinned at him.

“Listen,” he said, “I'm goin' nuts. How about something to do? How about a file, or a saw.”

“Nothin' doin'?” Spilman said. He spat. “You're not gettin' out of this calaboose, son, I promise you!”

“Well, I can whittle, can't I? At least let me have a couple of sticks and a knife.”

Spilman shrugged. “All right, all right! I'll tell that Mex cowhand of yourn.”

A few minutes later, the door opened and José, with Spilman at his elbow, brought in the blocks of wood.

“This marshal say bring sticks,” José said, smiling.

Twice, later in the evening, Spilman walked to the bars. Con was busy, carving a wooden horse. He grinned at Spilman.

“Marshal,” he said, “when I get this horse finished I'm goin' to ride him right out of here!”