Colorado Sam (19 page)

   “Yes, Sir. Mr. Westfall tracked two men to Alamosa from St. Louis after they murdered young Mr. Tanner's parents. He believes the same men tried to kill Mr. Tanner in your stable, and that they did the shooting in Creede. He believes the men are in the pay of Roan Buckman.” 

   “Can you prove that, Constable?”

   “Mr. Westfall has the testimony of an eyewitness in St. Louis, and Marshal Arnett of Creede will soon have the same. We believe the marshal can locate several witnesses as Mrs. Tanner was murdered in broad daylight. We'll have arrest warrants by noon tomorrow.”

   The constable was stretching the truth a heap, but had Eldon Payne's complete attention. The merchant's shock at learning of the cold-blooded murder of Alana was genuine, of that Nathan was certain. His innocence in that regard, though, did not preclude his involvement in other crimes committed at the behest of the Buckmans.  

   Bulldog Jack Allred was an experienced law officer who considered it foolhardy to accuse any man of murder without a shred of evidence, and he had none against Eldon Payne. But there was more than one way to skin a cat, providing you could grab its tail. “Mr. Payne, I know you and your daughter are upset over the death of Mrs. Tanner, and I don't want to burden you any more than necessary. You can clear up this matter with the court in a hurry if you make good on the Tanner invoices. Are you prepared to do that?”

   The constable's question put Eldon Payne in a bind. If he agreed to pay, he was in the clear. If he didn't, he was in deep trouble with the law, and undoubtedly destined for a lengthy prison term. 

   Eldon Payne sagged in his chair. “No, I'm not, Constable. I don't have the funds to do so.”

   Aware her father's future, indeed the balance of his life was on the line, Laura Payne frowned. “Father, you're not a thief. You wouldn't deliberately cheat Alana and Nathan. I know you better than that.”

   Eldon Payne flinched with each word, ran a palm across his sweaty forehead, and addressed Jack Allred. “Constable, there's no point in my lying to you. The audit will show the money is missing.”

   “But why, Father, why? How could you stoop to such a thing?”

   Eldon Payne averted his gaze. “Sometimes, my dear, we don't have a choice.” 

   “I can't accept that, Father. Not from you. Not from a person as strong as you. You must explain yourself.”

   Eldon Payne wagged his head. “Believe me, daughter, there are worse things than prison.”

   Nathan stared at the beleaguered merchant. His aunt was right. They'd been wrong about Eldon Payne. He was a man with the wherewithal to borrow against his share of Payne Merchandise to cover his gambling losses at the Alamosa Club. Moreover, he had no personal grudge against the Tanners, and given the cavalry sword, dragoon revolver, and campaign ribbons displayed on the wall behind his desk, he wouldn't readily succumb to physical intimidation. That left but a single means by which the Buckmans could bring him to his knees: his daughter. If necessary, he would serve time in prison to protect her. 

   “Roan Buckman threatened Laura, didn't he, Mr. Payne?”

   Nathan's query jolted Eldon Payne to the core, and he tried desperately to avoid answering. He jerked to his feet and said, “Constable, you have my confession. I'll turn myself in at the jail in the morning. With your permission, I'll walk my daughter home.” 

   Nathan had hit a nerve, and before the constable could respond, he bored in with a vengeance. “Mr. Payne, the Buckmans proved today they'll stop at nothing, and now that I own the majority shares in Payne Merchandise, they'll come after me again. Once I'm out of the way, if you're sent to prison, Laura will have to sell for whatever they offer, or they'll kill her and buy your store at a sheriff's sale for pennies on the dollar. It's too late to believe they'll keep any promise they made where Laura's concerned. No one can trust a pack of mad dogs.” 

   Eldon Payne sighed wearily and fell back into his chair. “You don't understand. I've no proof Roan Buckman threatened anybody. I've nothing in writing and no witnesses. It would be my word against his.”

   Ira Westfall spoke for the first time. “Mr. Payne, were you aware Roan Buckman hired men to murder the Tanners?”

   “I suspected as much when Nathan's parents were murdered in their own home. Roan suddenly became very adamant about my helping him coerce Alana into selling her shares in the store. He not only threatened Laura if I didn't fork over half of the money he needed, he threatened Alana as well.” Eldon Payne's voice grew sad. “I should've sought you out then, Constable. Maybe Alana would still be alive.”

   The anguish on Laura's Payne's face was heart wrenching. She was on the verge of tears, and Nathan decided it was time to end their charade. “Mr. Payne, I owe you and Laura an apology. My aunt isn't dead. She's badly hurt, but Doc Ellie believes she'll recover.”

   Laura Payne seemed overjoyed; until it dawned on her she and her father had been duped. “How could you perpetrate such a shameful lie, Nathan?” 

   “The constable and I are responsible for the deception, Miss Payne,” Ira Westfall interjected. “We thought it safer for Mrs. Tanner if the Buckmans believed she was dead.”

   “And you were hoping the news of her murder might goad my father into confessing, weren't you?”

   “Yes, ma'am, I was.”

   “Well, my father's guilty of theft, not murder. Where does that leave you with Roan Buckman?”

   “In a mighty ticklish situation,” Ira admitted. “He's as clever as he is vicious. We could try to bring charges against him for blackmailing your father, but I don't think our case would be strong enough to jail him. Unless I can arrest his assassins and make them talk, he's a free man. I'll be on the morning train to Creede. I'll search for Roan Buckman's hired killers while Nathan and Burt Dawes guard Mrs. Tanner.”

   “May I visit her?”

   “Once as a mourner, then you can check on her progress with Doctor Langston,” Ira instructed. “Nathan's lost enough family for one lifetime.”

   Outside the office, Sam growled and sprang to his feet. Then a fist hammered on the Sixth Street door. “Constable, you in there? It's me, Wilbur Knight.” 

   “That's my night patrolman,” said Jack Allred. “Usually, nothing excites him much. He charged a Yankee position at Gettysburg with an empty rifle. We better see what he wants.”

   While Nathan kept Sam at bay, Giles and the constable went to the door. Wilbur Knight, blowing like a spent horse, charged inside, his ice-encrusted boots slipping and sliding on the wooden floor. “I been hunting you all over town, Jack. I've got a telegram from Marshal Arnett in Creede.”

   The constable took the telegram from Wilbur Knight, opened it on the spot, and read it through, silently mouthing each word. “Wait here, Wilbur. Come along, Mr. Tanner, we've had a touch of luck that changes everything.”

   The smiling constable presented the telegram to Ira Westfall without comment. The ex-copper perused the document, grinned, and then read it aloud.

 
   “Allred: Crib girl identified shooters. Stop. Small gent dead by my hand. Stop. Larger fellow jailed awaiting arrival of Detective Westfall. Stop. Arnett.”

 
   Eldon Payne straightened in his chair, and his daughter's eyes sparkled with excitement. Nathan was virtually jumping from one foot to the other. “Do you think he'll talk?” he asked Ira. 

   “He'll talk,” Ira vowed. “Other jurisdictions want a piece of Cousin Hobie. He'll sing like a bird.” 

   The ex-copper pocketed the telegram. “Nathan, don't get careless while I'm away,” he warned. “Roan Buckman has spies everywhere. If he hasn't already learned of Hobie's arrest, he will shortly.”

   “What about father?” Laura Payne demanded. 

   “That depends on Mr. Tanner,” Constable Allred said. “He can let the matter drop or press charges.”

   Regardless of what had motivated Eldon Payne to steal, there was no denying fifty thousand dollars was missing from the coffers of Payne Merchandise, and it was Alana Tanner, the largest shareholder, not Nathan, who would ultimately determine the fate of Laura's father. “I'll need to discuss the situation with my aunt when she's well enough. If you and Ira agree, Constable, I'd prefer we didn't jail Mr. Payne in the meantime?”

    Ira and the constable looked at each other and exchanged nods. “Mr. Payne, we'll trust you to be available when the court summons you,” Jack Allred said. 

   “Thank you, Constable. We've suffered enough disgrace for one evening,” Laura Payne said, hanging her head. “The Payne family has much to atone for.”

   Nathan wanted to offer her comforting words and hold her close. He was constrained by the presence of the others and fears that she would spurn him, for she would not easily forgive their lying about Alana's condition to get at her father. In the right circumstances Laura Payne's staunch personal convictions could frustrate a suitor with the best of intentions, but it was one of the reasons Nathan loved her so.

   “Ira, we best hike back to the hotel,” Jack Allred said. “I'll feel better with a heavier guard on Mrs. Tanner.”

   Nathan managed to spout “Good evening” in the direction of Laura Payne as they exited her father's office. He left hoping he would be able to speak with her when she visited his aunt at the Imperial House.

   Giles was waiting with Patrolman Knight near the Sixth Street door. Sam couldn't resist growling at the nervous clerk. Giles stepped to the entryway, but Ira said sharply, “I'm too old to make a target of myself for anybody waiting in the dark across the street. Don't open that door until you douse the lights.”

   The overly cautious Ira had them wait inside the store for a solid five minutes after Giles switched off the lights. “Same as before, Nathan. Coat unbuttoned and thong off the hammer of your pistol, ready for anything. You stay behind the Constable, his patrolman, and me. Send the dog out first.” 

   Nathan nodded for Giles to open the door, and remembering the command his aunt employed at the D&RG watering tower on the trek to Creede, barked, “Search, Sam, search.”

   Sam slid through the door onto the porch and paused, head up, nose sniffing. The huge dog slowly descended the steps, padded across the intersection, cast left and right, investigated the two buildings directly opposite the store, returned, and sat in the middle of Hunt Street.  

   “It's clear as far as he can tell,” Nathan informed Ira. 

   “All right, send him ahead when we start up Hunt Street toward the hotel.”

   Snow crunched beneath their boots. The moon had yet to rise above the mountains to the east of town and not a store lamp burned now. Twinkling stars provided what little light there was and Nathan shivered as much from fright as the bitter cold. 

   They were a quarter block north of Payne Merchandise when Sam suddenly stopped, his deep, guttural growl sending a new wave of shivers through Nathan. 

   Wilbur Knight exclaimed, “What the hell?“

   With his next step, the patrolman, walking directly in front of Nathan, grunted and toppled backward, dead before he heard the shot that took his life.

   The dark street became a hell of lancing flame and roaring guns. A powerful tug yanked Nathan's feet from under him. He landed awkwardly, and above the gasp of his emptied lungs, heard Ira shout, “Stay down. Stay down.” 

   The bang of a gun deafened him. Ira was beside him behind the toppled Wilbur Knight, shooting into the night. The dead patrolman's body twitched and Nathan felt the thudding impact of the bullet. He pawed at the front of his coat and secured a grip on his pistol, rolling a little to free the weapon from beneath his hip. “Take the one on your right,” Ira instructed, sounding no more excited than if they were engaged in target practice.

   Nathan swallowed enough of the fear paralyzing his limbs to brace his gun hand on the dead patrolman's shin. “Shoot, boy, shoot,” Ira ordered. “Jack's down and hurt. Help me or we're going under.”

   Flying snow pelted Nathan's cap. He cocked his pistol, aimed where he'd seen the flash of the shot, and squeezed the trigger. He didn't worry about a hit or a miss, fired again, and then again.

   There was no answering shot and the street fell silent. “Get to cover, he's reloading,” Ira said, forging to his feet and running for the left side of the street. Scared of being alone in the open, Nathan scrambled upright and ran the opposite direction. He leaped upon the sidewalk connecting the nearest buildings, slipped on the icy planks, and slammed into the corner of the Sweeney's Bathhouse. 

   A bullet holed Sweeney's barber pole and he ducked behind the protecting corner of the bathhouse to reload. He snapped the loading gate open and filled the empty chambers, dropping a couple of shells before a few deep breaths slowed his pounding heart. 

   Shooting resumed across the way. Nathan peeked but could see nothing but muzzle blasts. Dropping to his hands and knees, he inched onto the sidewalk, and without lifting his head more than a couple of inches above the top step of the bathhouse porch, studied the buildings on his side of the street. A bullet whirred. He rested the butt of his pistol on the edge of the porch and fired at the fading flare of exploding powder, waited, then shot into the same patch of shadow twice more. 

   “He's running. Stay put, Nathan,” Ira sang out. 

   Nathan never remembered exactly what coursed through his mind, whether it was the murder of his parents and his uncle, the attempt to bash in his head at the Payne stable, the wounding of Alana Birdsong, or the threatening of Eldon Payne, maybe he thought of all that at once, but then and there he decided a true Tanner, particularly the last Tanner standing, wouldn't cower behind the steps of a bathhouse while others in his employ chased down his enemies, not if he was to ever consider himself worthy of the Tanner name.

   He jumped to his feet. The sidewalk directly ahead of him was deserted, which he took to mean his assailant was fleeing eastward between buildings, not northward up Hunt Street. He plunged into the dogtrot separating the bathhouse from the building next door, thumbing bullets from his shell belt. He tripped over loose trash and bumped against the barrel at the bottom of a downspout, but kept his feet. By the time he gained the end of the dogtrot, he'd succeeded in reloading his six-gun. 

   He charged into the open, pistol raised and cocked, and bolted northward. He spied the opposing wooden posts in the increasing moonlight. Their significance wasn't apparent until the wire clothesline caught him at the bottom of the ribs. 

   The collision equaled the kick of a mule. His six-gun went flying. His feet swung into the air and he hung on the clothesline by his arms until the weight of his body yanked him loose. He fell flush on his backside. Unarmed and certain he'd broken at least one rib, if not more, he ignored the pain, rolled onto an elbow, and searched for his six-gun. 

   He heard running feet and looked that direction, expecting to see Ira, and instead saw Roan Buckman, teeth gleaming in the weak light, his smile that of the cat with a bird trapped beneath its paw. Roan's arm swept up and Nathan cringed as the eldest Buckman brother thumbed back the hammer of his pistol. 

He felt frantically for his own gun. “Too late, pup, you're too late,” Roan snarled, centering the barrel of his pistol on Nathan's forehead. 

   Though no sound warned him, Roan Buckman sensed Sam's presence and turned sideways, shielding his body with his left arm against the onrushing dog. Sam lunged, clamped his jaws on Roan's forearm, and drove him to the ground. The huge dog growled and whipped his jaws left and right. 

   The gunshot and howl of pain came simultaneously. Sam's entire frame shuddered and he slowly collapsed atop Roan Buckman. The stunned Nathan could only stare, appalled by how quickly and cleverly Roan had dispatched the ferocious hound.  

   Roan Buckman shoved Sam aside and pushed to his feet. Cursing himself for not locating his Colt during Sam's attack, Nathan watched helplessly as Roan drew bead on his forehead again. “Well, the brothers, their wives, the dog, and now the whelp. The Buckman's hold sway at last.”

   It would mean nothing to him dead, but cringing before the bullet that would end his life, Nathan recognized the smiling Roan Buckman for what he was—the Devil in the flesh.

   A gun roared behind him. The smile vanished from Roan's Buckman's handsome face. His eyes dimmed, then his legs failed and he slammed nose first into the ice and snow, his cocked pistol firing harmlessly into the air.

   An astonished Nathan peered over his shoulder. Eldon Payne, hatless and disheveled, stood at the edge of the dogtrot, blunt fingers gripping a smoking dragon pistol. “Sorry it took me so long to come and help. I finally found shells for this old relic in my bottom desk drawer.” 

   Nathan crawled to where Sam lay. Blood covered the hound's shoulders and the nape of his neck. Though it was hopeless, Nathan gently lifted Sam's massive head and pressed beneath his chin. He detected no heartbeat, and was lowering the massive head to the snow when the dog's right eye opened a mere slit. He heard the faintest of whines and a thick pink tongue emerged to lick his knuckles. 

   Then the huge hound went limp all over.