Payback at Big Silver (2 page)

“I heard about you and Stone riding down Bo Anson,” said Phipps, his hand cupped to his throbbing forehead. “I heard you killed ol' Bo for no good reason.”

“I killed Bo Anson because he was holding Curtis Siedell for ransom and wouldn't give him up. There was also a few killings that Bo Anson was not even being charged with.”

“King Curtis Siedell, the ‘baron of the rails,'” said Phipps with a chuff of contempt. “Bo shoulda killed that carpet-bagging son of a bitch—he ought to have gotten a medal for doing it.” He glared at Sam. “But instead, you stopped ol' Bo's clock.” He shook his head at the unfairness of it. “There's a lot of ol' boys who still hold that against you, in case you don't know it.”

Sam ignored the comment and stepped over to Phipps.

“I'm going to untie your knees so you can ride, Boomer,” he said.

“What about these?” Phipps said, wiggling his thick fingers to indicate the handcuffs on his wrists.

“I'm leaving the cuffs on and the rope around your arms,” Sam said. “If you try to make a run for it, I'll yank your lead rope and you'll hit the ground.”

“Yeah, and?” Phipps said as if not worried about being yanked from atop a running horse.

“And you'll ride into Big Silver sidesaddle,” Sam warned.

“
Side
saddle . . . ?” Phipps gave him a look of disgust. “I'd sooner die and be dragged in on a rope.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam said coolly. “I'm just presenting your choices. How you arrive in Big Silver is up to you.” He reached down and started loosening the rope around the big outlaw's knees.

The Sonora Desert, Mexican badlands

“Hector, more whiskey,” Edsel Centrila said over his shoulder to Hector Mendoza. He handed his empty glass back to the middle-aged Mexican house servant.

“
Sí
, right away,” Hector Mendoza said. He took the whiskey glass and hurried to the office bar to refill it.

Edsel Centrila stood, cigar in hand, at the window of his office looking out across the cattle ranch he'd acquired in a land grant from the Mexican government ten years earlier. In the northeast beyond a line of blackened jagged hills lay the Mexico–United States border. To the west of his spread lay the Sonora Desert, carpeted by sand flats, occupied in perpetuity by meandering hill range and arid rock lands. Within the wavering heat saguaro cactus, tall and treelike, stared back at him with their spiny arms lifted to the white-hot sky as if held at gunpoint.

“Gracias,”
he said when the Mexican brought the filled whiskey glass to him. “Send Charlie Knapp to me.”

“
Sí
, I send him,” the Mexican said. He waited for a second anticipating further orders.

“Then go to the barn and bring a couple of turnaround horses while I meet these two at the rail.” He nodded at two riders galloping out of the heat and white sunlight less than a hundred yards away. He recognized the two dust-covered men as the Cady brothers, Lyle and Ignacio.

“Shall I prepare room in the empty bunkhouse for them?” Hector asked, already turning toward the door.

“No,” said Centrila, “they won't be staying long.”

As Hector Mendoza left for the barn, Centrila walked out of his office and stood on the wide stone porch of the hacienda, whiskey glass in hand, awaiting the two riders. When the Cady brothers drew closer and reined their horses down to a walk the last thirty yards, Centrila stepped down from the porch and stood at the hitch rail watching them, his right hand on his hip, close to the bone handle of a tall Colt standing in a tooled slim-jim holster.

“Howdy, Mr. Centrila,” said Lyle Cady, raising his hat an inch as he and his brother, Ignacio, stopped their horses ten feet away from the iron hitch rail. The two waited for an invitation before stepping down from their saddles. Their horses sniffed toward a horse trough full of water standing near the hitch rail.

“Howdy,” Centrila said with a growl in his voice. He gave a short jerk of his head toward the water trough and stood watching as the two led their horses over and let them drink.

“I'll tell you first thing, Mr. Centrila,” said Lyle, letting out a tired breath. “This has been no easy ride for Iggy and me.”

“If you're expecting to get more money, forget it,” said Centrila. “As long as this has taken, you're lucky I don't shoot the both of you.” As he spoke he looked the two up and down, noting the nicks and scars and bruises they had acquired since the last time he saw them. “What the hell happened anyway?” he demanded. “I sent you to get my money back from Sheriff Stone. You come back looking like you've been in a gun battle.”

Lyle Cady swallowed a dry knot in his throat when he saw Centrila's hired gunman, Charlie Knapp, appear around the corner of the hacienda.

“The truth is, we have been in a gun battle. But that ain't all that's happened to us,” said Lyle. Beside him, Ignacio Cady turned and watched Knapp closely as his brother spoke. “We found Sheriff Stone like we said we would. He was on the trail with Ranger Burrack.”

“Sam Burrack.” Centrila considered the matter, then said, “All right, go on. Tell me how this caused you to come dragging in here a month late.” He took a deep breath and stood tapping his fingers on his gun butt. “Hadn't been for the telegraph you sent last week, I'd have figured you collected my money from Stone and took off with it.”

“No, sir, we wouldn't do that,” Lyle put in quickly. “Like I said in the telegraph, we didn't get your money. Truth is, Sheriff Stone has gone plumb loco. He gets drunk and thinks he's a wolf—”

“I don't give a damn if he thinks he's the president of the United Sates,” said Centrila, cutting him off. “I gave him money to bribe the judge and keep my son out of prison. Stone crawfished and never gave the money to the judge. My son, Harper, is behind bars, and I want him out.” He glared at the Cady brothers.

“It's understandable you being upset,” Lyle said meekly. “I only wish I knew some way to—”

“You're going to get Harper out of prison,” Centrila said, cutting the nervous Cady brother off again. He jerked his head toward Charlie Knapp, who stood watching and listening with a rifle hanging in his left hand. “Charlie's set it up with some gunmen he knows. You two are going with him.”

“Mr. Centrila,” said Lyle, shaking his head a little, “there's nothing that would please Iggy and me more than breaking Harper out of prison. But the thing is—”

“Good, I'm glad to hear that,” said Centrila, for the third time cutting him off. “I had already told Charlie to shoot you both if you tried to crawfish on me.” He gave a cruel grin. “You can understand how I feel about crawfishing after the way Sheriff Stone treated our deal.”

Lyle started to offer more on the matter, but Ignacio cut in before he could.

“We understand, sir,” he said, stepping over half between his brother and Centrila. “Breaking Harper out is the least we can do, as good as you've treated us. Say the word and we'll kill Sheppard Stone while we're at it, that crawfishing son of a bitch.”

“Indeed you
will
,” said Centrila, as if he'd planned everything before their arrival. He raised his cigar, took a deep draw, then blew gray smoke upward in a thin stream.

Lyle and Ignacio looked at each other curiously as Centrila gave them an evil grin and continued.

“Charlie will be riding along with you, to oversee things this time,” he said. He turned and looked at Knapp as Hector Mendoza led two fresh horses and Knapp's already saddled black barb around the corner of the hacienda. “Charlie,” he said matter-of-factly, “if these two monkeys give you any trouble or try to cut out, I want you to kill them both in whatever manner you see fit.”

“My pleasure, boss,” said Knapp, touching his gloved fingers to the flat brim of his hat.

Seeing the Mexican house servant start changing their saddles and gear over to the fresh horses, Lyle Cady let out a tired dry breath.

“Mr. Centrila, I don't mean to complain,” he said. “But my brother and I are as worn out and thirsty as our horses.” He eyed the whiskey glass in Centrila's hand. “If we could get some grub in our bellies, something to drink and some rest—”

Centrila only stared at him. This time it was the sound of Knapp's levering his rifle that cut him off.

Both Cadys turned warily and looked at the gunman as he stepped closer to them, holding his rifle aimed at them with one hand.

“Boys,” he said in a mild eerie voice, “let's not get off on the wrong foot here. . . .”

The Mexican stepped back from the hastily saddled fresh horses. The Cadys' tired horses, now bareback, still stood drinking at the trough.

“Where's my manners?” said Centrila. “Hector, fill these gentlemen's canteens for them.” He gestured toward the water trough, then smiled and said, “And bring me another whiskey,
por favor
.” He swished the remaining whiskey in his glass, raised the glass to his lips and drank it down.

Lyle and Ignacio Cady stood staring, hungry, thirsty and tired. Knapp reached up with the tip of his rifle barrel and tweaked it back and forth on Lyle's earlobe.

“All right, you
Cady brothers
,” he said with a measure of contempt. “Let's not impose on Mr. Centrila's hospitality. You can fill your canteens along the way. Haul up out of here,” he demanded. “We're going to ride all day, cover a lot of ground before sundown.”

The weary brothers turned to the saddled horses without reply.

Centrila grinned and stood watching as the three mounted and turned their horses toward the trail. He gave Knapp a nod when the gunman looked back over his shoulder at him. Then he spoke sidelong to the Mexican house servant.

“Hector, never mind the whiskey,” he said. “Lord Hargrove's cattle buyer is coming today to see about purchasing all my cattle. Let's make him feel welcome.”

“
All
of your cattle,
señor
?” Mendoza asked, surprised by the news.

“Every last head,” Centrila replied. He lifted his head and let out a stream of cigar smoke. “I've gone into the liquor and gaming business—for a while anyway. This happens to be a good time to sell cattle. I can always buy more when the market is down.” He smiled and drew on the cigar.

“Señor Centrila, I don't know what to say. . . .” Mendoza gave a puzzled shrug.

“Don't worry, Hector. Your job is safe,” the cattleman assured him. “The English only want the beef. They're not interested in the land. I'm still the big bull here.” He looked at the Mexican and saw relief in his dark eyes. “Anyway, the deal is done. I've already purchased a saloon. I've got men taking possession until I get there.” He gazed off in reflection and smiled to himself in satisfaction.

Big Silver, Arizona Badlands

In the late afternoon, Sheriff Sheppard Stone stood on the boardwalk out in front of his office and watched workers take down the faded wooden sign atop the facade of the old Roi-Tan Saloon. He had not had a drink of whiskey or any other kind of hard liquor for a month.
Not even a single sip of frothy beer,
he reminded himself. Coincidently that was how long it had been since he rode with Sheriff Kay Deluna and the Ranger in pursuit of Bo Anson and his outlaws who had taken rail baron Curtis Siedell hostage. Being sober for a full month was certainly cause for celebration.

Don't you think . . . ?
a devilish voice asked inside him. He recognized that voice and knew full well where that question would take him if he weakened enough to follow it.
Son of a bitch. . . .
He let out a tight breath and raised his coffee cup to his lips, not sure if he was cursing the tormenting inner voice, or himself, or the sight of the bright new wooden sign being erected atop the saloon's facade. The new sign read
CENTRILA'S SILVER P
ALACE
.

Yesterday, a faded wooden sign had been lowered from above the doors of Sergio Manuel's cantina. Boards had been nailed up over the windows. Shortly after selling his business to Edsel Centrila, Sergio Manuel had vanished, money and all. The only drinking establishments left in town were Centrila's Silver Palace and a run-down cantina, Mama Belleza's, run by an elderly Mexican woman.

All right. . . .
Stone let out another tight breath and sipped from his cup of coffee—this being his third full pot of the day, meaning he'd drunk—
how many cups, ten, eleven since noon?
Not to mention how much he'd drunk earlier during the day.

That's a lot of coffee.

To hell with it.
He'd been drinking more and more coffee.
So what?
He took another, larger sip and watched the workers nail and bolt the new sign into place. His fingers trembled a little as he dug down into his shirt pocket, inside a stiff little paper box, and fished out a cherry-flavored cough drop and stuck it inside his mouth.

More candy?
again the devilish voice asked, taunting him.

No, it's not candy,
he countered.

Still, he smoothed down his shirt pocket and looked around as if making sure he hadn't been seen. Since sobering up he'd gone around sucking on candy, hard rock, horehound, sugar plum sticks, anything he could get his hands on, like some spoiled schoolkid. Luckily two weeks ago the mercantile owner had set up a jar of loose Smith Brothers cough drops on the counter. Along with the jar of loose drops, he'd ordered some of the new stiff paper boxes like the one in his pocket—twenty pieces per box. He realized he was on his third box of the day. But he was sober, he reminded himself; that was the main thing.

He adjusted the big Colt standing holstered on his hip and looked away from the workers at the new Silver Palace Saloon and out at the three riders who had been galloping toward town from out across the sand flats for the past hour. At first all he'd seen was the distant rise of trail dust. Now that they'd drawn closer, riding up onto the main street, he recognized the Ranger's big copper dun and the pearl-gray sombrero atop his head.

Figured I'd see you again before long, Ranger,
he said to himself. A thin sliver of a smile came to his lips. He felt his pulse quicken a little. Even though he'd just then adjusted his Colt in its holster, he caught himself adjusting it again as he set his coffee cup on the window ledge and stepped down onto the dirt street, where he stood until the Ranger and his two prisoners slowed their horses to a walk and stopped ten feet from him. With a nod from Stone, the two handcuffed prisoners stepped their horses to the hitch rail.