Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (40 page)

“Sure was,” Bill said. Of course, he didn't know who bought it or where it came from — beyond the vest pocket of the stage driver he killed.

“Let me look at that,” Frank said bluntly, holding out his hand.

Bill raised his eyebrows but handed it to him. If he wasn't so determined to get on the train unnoticed, Bill might have given this blunt man a fist to the face. He didn't like intrusive people. And he did not like to pass around his personal objects. Such was the price of blending in.

Steve and Rufe stepped out of the store, not ten paces away. Bill dropped his eyes down to the watch in Frank's hand — he felt a sudden urgency to board that train.

“Absence from those we love is self from self,”
Frank read aloud. “That is pure poetry. Hell, I don't even know what that means. John Frederick Hughes, your wife must actually care for you. How 'bout that, Chubb? Wife buy you a fancy pocketwatch yet?”
 

“Well, no,” Chubb admitted sheepishly.

Bill reached out and snatched the pocketwatch out of Frank's hand, turned abruptly and got on the train without another word.

“Scared him off,” Frank said to Chubb.

“Cuz you're nosey, Frank.”

 

Chapter 8

Ward

The Halfway House

 

“Was meant for my sister. Family heirloom!” Hugh Hughes said and shook his head bitterly. “Doggone thieves made off with it!”

“Describe it.”

Red Creek took another bite of beefsteak. Hugh's face got flushed the more he talked about what happened.

“Silver, with a real nice chain — ties to a button. Inscribed, got my father's name. It says:
John Frederick Hughes, from Helena your loving wife: Absence from those we love is self from self.”
 

The beefsteak was tough. It was probably left over from the dinner hour, unsold and sitting in a frying pan. And it was well into the afternoon, in between the meal hours. He shouldn't be too surprised. Red Creek submerged his next bite in the gravy and let it soak. From his coat, he took out a notebook and wrote it all down word for word.

“That's Shakespeare,” Hugh said, proudly tapping his finger on the tabletop.

Red Creek forked the beefsteak and decided it needed more time in the gravy.

“My pap passed on in April,” Hugh continued thoughtfully. “Funeral was down in Boulder and that pocketwatch was supposed to get to my sister. Poor girl had her heart broke when the old man died. Absolutely broke. Pap had gave it to me, hell I'm the eldest, but I knowed it meant more to Lynn. Never made it. The stage was robbed!”

Hugh's face became flushed again as he spoke.

Giving up on the beefsteak, Red Creek took one last whiskey shot and got to his feet. He glanced across the room at the big plate glass windows. The pine and fir were deep green and covered all the hillsides as far as he could see.

“If it means anything…couple of ‘em are dead now.”

“You find that watch, it'll mean something.”

Adjusting his hat, Red placidly looked him in the eye. The barkeeper was angry, he could understand that. People got attached to things. Red used to be attached to things. Not anymore. It had been many years since he felt sentimental about anything or anyone. His sense of what normal life was had died in the War.

“See what I can see.”

Red went out into the fresh air and took off his overcoat. It was cooler inside the eatery than it was outside in the sun. His horse was down in the corral, so Red set off for the tack room where his saddle was.

Ward was a hectic little mining town, especially in the midstride of summer. The snow was all gone and the ground was soft enough to dig at with a pick-axe or shovel. Everywhere he looked Red saw miners scurrying around…from the placers to the assayer, from the smelter to the bank, from the saloons to the gambling halls.

Getting to Cañon City, which was quite a long distance from Ward, would require riding down Lefthand Canyon to get out on the plains. The last time Red Creek went through there was the day the posse called it quits.

His appaloosa was rested from an afternoon in the corral and ready for the trail again. Even though it was mid-afternoon, Red started down the stage road. He rode through the night. It was almost dawn when he left the foothills behind and rode into Boulder.

By the time the sun came up, Red was loading his horse onto a freight car and getting his ticket punched. Except for the description of the pocketwatch, the trail was cold in Ward. But he knew it got warm again near Cañon. The two dead men found on the trail to Poncha Springs were part of the gang he was after — one matched the description of the false newspaperman “Judas Furlong.”

The train was the best way to eat up those miles.  

 

Chapter 9

XIT Ranch

Yellow Houses Division

Headquarters

 

“A hunnert an' fifty thousand head. Hereford, Shorthorn, Angus. Three million acres and a boat-load of fence. A gall-damn finishing ranch in Mon-damn-tana and I've got Barbecue Campbell sittin' a horse outside my door looking for the OK Corral.”

AL Matlock was in a fit of outrage. He always thought of himself as unflappable. But this was too much. After all he had done to clean up the XIT, it had come to this.

“The biggest cow operation in the nation itself — and a bunch of deviants are here to hamstring it.”

AG Boyce was prying back one of the thin curtains with his fingertip. He was calmly watching the riders outside to see what they would do. Boyce had been through the War beginning to end and recognized that old gut-feeling of chaos swelling up. He spoke evenly, without turning around.

“There's ten of them. Plus Campbell.”

“What about those peckers Bill Ney and Arizona John?”

“Yep, they're out there.”

In the archway leading to the kitchen, George Findlay — the quiet young Scotsman with the unsettling baritone voice — leaned calmly against the wall and lit a cigarette.

“Richard King would roll over in his grave if he saw what was going on here today,” Matlock ranted and waved his arms angrily. “
He
never had any mutinous events transpire down his way! No sir, he got blessed with a faithful friendly town to do his cow work. Respect. Honor. Not like the Xmas variety I got saddled with.”

He glared across the room. Through the thin cotton curtains, he could make out the hazy shapes of horse riders lined up, sitting out there…waiting.

“Skunks!” he shouted. “Got the numbers on us? Well, bully for you!”

Matlock heard the click of a firearm and turned to see George Findlay checking over his gun's action. Matlock shifted his eyes over to Boyce — the man still carried no gun, which was a foolish disposition in Matlock's opinion. He pulled a Colt .45 from his own belt and held it out.

“How about a six-iron, Boyce?”

Turning from the window, Boyce waved him off.

“We'll see how this pans out.”

“Principles don't stop lead. Go in heeled, man.”

Boyce ignored him and walked casually past Findlay into the kitchen. It was early, the sun was barely up and the house was dim. The woodstove was still putting out some warmth. Boyce got a tin cup from the cupboard. Taking the percolator off the stove, he poured himself some hot black coffee.

“Cup, George?” he asked.

Findlay merely nodded.

Striding away fiercely, Matlock left them to their coffee and went into the sun room. Davis was sitting on a low couch. His shirt hung open and Matlock could see bandages had been wrapped clear around his upper body. Davis was busy feeding shells into a shotgun. He glanced up at Matlock with a sparkle in his eyes.

“Oh-ho-ho! I ain't a-nappin'!”

“Fools are lined up like ducks in a pond. You can take half of them with that scattergun by yourself.”

Davis grunted and got to his feet unsteadily. His back hurt terribly but he was determined to stand and fight with his bosses. Like any loyal cowman, Davis believed in riding for the brand — besides which, Campbell and his boys were clearly bad eggs. Davis could not stand for such epic disloyalty, even with stab wounds. Not when he could step up and do something about it.

“Yearwood's out in Black Water with the whole damn outfit,” Matlock noted sourly.

Davis's back was sore. The stabs he had suffered were shallow but left him feeling out of sorts. As luck would have it, Lee was off with the crew in Black Water, too. It was just the four of them at the ranch house headquarters. Even Rollin Larrabee the bookkeeper was not present. The day before, Rollin had asked one of the freighters for a ride in to Tascosa. Davis almost went with him. It was tempting to visit town for some kind of distraction but whenever he moved or twisted, the wounds burned like fire. He could guess what a jostly wagon ride would feel like.

“If I had suspected Campbell of commencing a coup d'etat we would have stocked this house with guns and trustworthy men to operate them,” Matlock told him.

“I expect so.”

“Well, this is Boyce's show now. I never wanted to head this thing up. Let's go see what he wants to do.”

Together, they went back into the great room. Boyce looked Davis over, assessing his condition and abilities. He took one last sip of coffee and set the cup on the table.

“It's time to see to these aggravators.”

Boyce went to the front door and opened it wide, stepping out into the morning air.

Matlock came out right behind him, followed by Findlay and Davis.

Boyce went on down the stairs while the other three fanned out along the porch — facing down Barbeque Campbell and his ten gunmen. Barbeque Campbell was in the middle of the line, five men to each side. He slouched in the saddle and wore a snide complexion.

“Looky here, fellers. The bruisers finally come out to play. I don't like to be kept waiting.”

AG Boyce stepped directly in front of Campbell's horse, arms crossed. Matlock rested his palm on the grip of his .45. Findlay stood quietly, while Davis took several slow steps further down the porch.

“What in God's name are you up to, Campbell?” said Boyce. “I told you to ride out.”

Campbell saw Boyce was not armed, so he trained his attention on Matlock.

“Here to end your administration, Matlock. Don't need a damned
lawyer
telling seasoned cowmen how to run cattle,” Campbell called. “I'm still range boss to these boys.”

“You ain't range boss to anyone now,” Matlock replied sharply.

“He is too range boss!” Arizona Johnny said, lamely.

Matlock looked over at Billy Ney who wore his classic condescending leer. Matlock knew that look. He hated that look.

“Should've let them hang you back in Vernon, you skunk.”

“Prob'ly,” Billy replied.

“Got the bulge on y'all,” Arizona Johnny said, bristling. “Would think you might take more kindly with your words. What with the numbers on our side. Make ‘em dig their own graves, Cue!”

“Ride out now and we won't cut you down,” Matlock told them.

Laughter rippled up and down the line. Barbeque Campbell made a show of rubbing his eyes as if to clear the sleep out.

“Wake up, Matlock! I
knowed
we snuck up on you right early, but come now! Crawl outta your bedroll. Open your eyes. Fireworks are about to pop and you should be awake for the show.”
 

Boyce stood still, watching the riders laugh at them. They had the advantage and they knew it: eleven to four. Campbell looked like the cat that ate the canary.

“Know what I figure? This whole outfit is mine…you and Boyce ain't got no play here. You been meddling and I seen enough!”

Leaning his arms across the saddle horn, Campbell's eyes narrowed.

“You're a damn meddler, Matlock. And I don't kin to no damn meddlers.”

He smirked again.

“And no gotch-eared Colonel's,” he added, and spat at Boyce who was standing in spitting range. It splatted onto Boyce's vest. All ten gunmen broke into laughter and Campbell smile devilishly.

That was enough for Colonel AG Boyce. His face went dark and he took three quick steps towards Campbell's horse, reached up and pulled him directly out of the saddle. Campbell was a large heavy man, but Boyce had a lot of sinewy strength and Campbell came off like he was made of straw.

He hit the dirt hard, which knocked the wind right out of him. Barbeque Campbell laid flat on the ground and not one of his gunmen moved or even made a sound. Except Billy Ney, who pulled out a .45.

“Drop that gun!” Findlay shouted grimly.

Findlay had his gun out as soon as Boyce went for Campbell. Davis leveled his shotgun on the crew at the same moment. Matlock drew two Colts and held his arms out straight, pointing one at Arizona Johnny and the other at Billy Ney.

Campbell's men were shocked. They just sat their horses. Seeing the way Matlock was staring at him, Billy Ney immediately dropped his own gun in the dirt.

Arizona Johnny blanched. He was amazed. He couldn't believe that a man as small as AG Boyce had the capability to yank a big man like Barbeque around like that. Campbell had always been a force of nature in Johnny's mind. It was hard to comprehend, seeing Boyce make such short work of him.

In the silence, they could all hear the sound of AG Boyce pounding Barbeque Campbell's face with his fist, repeatedly. After the first few swings, his knuckles came up bloody. It became clear after a few moments that Boyce was not stopping. Matlock, a little surprised himself at Boyce's fury, tried to call him off.

“Colonel!” Matlock shouted, his guns still pointed at Arizona Johnny and Billy Ney. “Colonel!”

Boyce stopped pounding Campbell. He was breathing heavily from the effort but the trance was broken. He glared up at Matlock, then around at the horsemen. He looked at his bloody knuckles and wiped them slowly on Barbeque Campbell's shirt.