Snake Eyes (9781101552469) (3 page)

“I'll get back as quick as I can,” he rasped, and she knew he was on the verge of tears, just as she was.

“Good-bye, Brad,” she said and withdrew her hand from his arm. “Stay safe, no matter what.”

“I will,” he said.

“Vaya con Dios,”
Julio said.

“Adios, Julio,” he said.

Brad rode out of the valley with Felicity, and they parted ways as she continued on into town. Brad did not look back, but he knew Julio would take one last check on the herd before riding into Leadville to round up hands for the drive up to the ranch.

The road to Denver was deserted and the western sky was ablaze with a golden sunset that shimmered beyond the snow-flocked peaks of the Rockies. The blue sky looked like the grand vault of a great cathedral as vaporous rays of light fanned out above the clouds and burned with that pale fire of heavenly origin.

He rode into darkness and descended into the glittering highway of stars and planets that formed the Milky Way.

He wondered, not what lay ahead on the road to Denver but what lay ahead in Pendergast's office and mind.

He did not dread the empty black road but the something that was “most urgent” awaiting him when he arrived in Denver.

Some triggered instinct deep inside him told him he would not be coming back in a few days as he had hoped. Harry had sent a messenger, a courier, instead of one of his agents. That meant he was hiding something, and he didn't want Brad to know too much about the assignment until he was snared in Pendergast's web. Whatever Harry wanted, it was damned serious, and Brad felt like a condemned man riding toward a gallows tree, his hands tied behind his back.

And his eyes blindfolded.

Brad's eyes burned in the gaudy glare of the lamps in Pendergast's office. The lids felt as if they were leaden. Every bone in his body ached and his buttocks were so tender he did not sit down when Harry offered him a chair. Denver was dark outside the office window, its streets a-flicker with a few gas-lit streetlamps. The mountains were a black shadow on the distant horizon, broken only by their dim blanched peaks, faint beacons in the moon and starlight that glittered under a blanket of billions of snow crystals.

Pendergast pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a stack of bills. He laid them in the center of his empty desk.

Brad halted his pacing, rubbed his eyes for the dozenth time and stared at the money.

“There's one thousand dollars there,” Pendergast said.

“And our client, a sheepherder, will pay you a bonus when you have completed your assignment. He will be up here soon to confirm our agreement. I sent Lomax to fetch him.”

“Harry, I rode four days without sleep to get here and you want me to work for a sheepherder. I'm a cattleman in case you didn't notice.”

“I know, Brad, but this is a big case, and the man needs our help.”

“You have other agents. I'm in the middle of moving my herd off of winter quarters and up to the ranch.”

“A thousand dollars, Brad. In advance. I'll send it to Felicity by messenger, along with your letter to her, the one you wrote when you got here. My courier will beat the stage by at least a day.”

“Do I get any help?”

“The client has men who will help you.”

“Let me get this straight, Harry. You want this German cowpoke arrested for murder, right?”

“That would be ideal.”

Brad flexed the fingers on both of his hands. They were stiff and wooden after the long ride.

“I'll hear what your client has to say and then I'll make my decision,” Brad said.

“Fair enough. He should be here any minute now. He's staying here in the hotel.”

“I may be asleep on my feet when he comes in.”

“You won't want to sleep when you hear what this man has to say.”

“He's a Basque, you say. From Wyoming.”

“That's right.”

“Why doesn't he take his flock back to Spain? A Wyoming sheepherder, for crying out loud.”

Harry did not reply. The door opened and Mikel Garaboxosa entered the room, followed by Byron Lomax.

“Here they are,” Harry said, his eyes bright and a big smile on his face.

Garaboxosa walked straight to where Brad stood and looked up at the man in buckskins. At six feet, Brad towered over him; he was even taller with his boots on. Brad looked down at the hatless man with tousled hair, coal black eyes, and swarthy features.

“So, you are the Sidewinder, eh? Lomax has bragged about you ever since he woke me up.”

“I'm Brad Storm.”

“I am Mike Garaboxosa. Do you know the Cache la Poudre country?”

“I know it,” Brad said. He had fished it, waded across it on horseback, admired its power and energy when it tumbled and flowed over the large boulders strewn along its length.

“Good. We will ride there tomorrow. The main herds have not come down yet, but there are a few sheep we brought and little houses where we camp.”

“I'm a cattleman, Mr. Garaboxosa,” Brad said.

“Then you are perfect for the job.”

“He doesn't know why you came here, Mike,” Harry said.

“This might be a good time to tell him what happened to your cousin. Brad, why don't you sit down and listen to what Mike has to say.”

“If I sit down, I might fall asleep,” Brad said.

“You won't sleep through this, Brad,” Pendergast said. “Trust me.”

“Yes, sit down, Mr. Sidewinder,” Mike said. He gently guided Brad to the leather couch and pulled up a chair so that he sat close. Lomax drifted to a chair against a wall decorated with official documents and Pendergast's coat-of-arms plaque.

Garaboxosa leaned toward Brad and began to speak before Brad could protest.

His story was riveting to Brad, Harry, and Byron, all of whom listened in total silence to the gory account of the beheaded man who had a sheep's head placed where his head had been, atop his torso.

Brad cringed inwardly at the graphic description of the murdered man who had been transformed into some strange kind of beast. He felt the passion of the Basque sheepman as he told how the German, Otto Schneck, had threatened him. His blood boiled at the injustice of the murder and the sorrow it had caused Garaboxosa and the other sheepmen and their wives and children.

Lomax wiped tears from his eyes.

Pendergast cleared the lump in his throat.

Brad no longer felt sleepy nor tired. He sat up straight and shook his head. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His blue eyes blazed in the yellow spray of lamplight.

“I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Garaboxosa,” Brad said.

“You call me Mike, eh?”

“Mike,” Brad said, a wry curl to his lips

“Then you will come with me to the mountains?”

“I will,” Brad said. “Somebody's got to take this Schneck down a notch or two.”

Pendergast brightened as Garaboxosa offered his hand to Brad and the two shook hands.

Then Harry walked to a large cabinet and opened it.

“I have a present for you, Brad. I bought it from my gunsmith this morning, at Mike's suggestion. I hope you like it.”

Brad turned his head to see what Harry was taking out of the tall cabinet.

Pendergast carried the object over to the couch and handed it to Brad. It was a black leather sheath polished to a high sheen, out of which jutted the polished curly maple stock of a sawed-off shotgun. Brad pulled the double-barreled weapon from its boot and stared with wide eyes at the cross-hatched pair of hammers, the graceful trigger, and the bluing on the barrel that shone with a lustrous glow as he turned it in the lamplight. There was no front sight, nor a rear one. This was a gun for killing man or beast at close range.

Harry reached down and picked up a box of shot shells. He handed them to Brad.

“Double-ought buckshot,” he said.

“It's a beautiful weapon, Harry,” Brad said, still stunned at the gift. “But why? Why give me this gun?”

“It's a Greener, but my gunsmith filed down the sear. Those are hair triggers. Just a slight pull will set it off.”

“In the mountains,” Garaboxosa said, “we all carry these short shotguns because there are many trees and snakes, wolves that come after the sheep, and sometimes the bears and the mountain lions. We have the long rifles, too, but we use the shotguns when the danger is close or prowling among the pines and the junipers.”

Brad set the gun and its case down and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a folded letter and held it out to Pendergast.

“Here's my letter to Felicity, Harry. Will you send a note that I won't be back home for a while? And, don't read what I said to her. It's private. Between man and wife.”

“I won't look at it, Brad. And I'll write Felicity a nice note explaining that you are on a special case that might keep you here for several days.”

Garaboxosa grinned.

Lomax sniffled as his tears dried up and stopped flowing.

“Do you need any ready cash before you go, Brad?” Pendergast asked as he strode to his desk.

Brad shook his head.

“I expect Mike will feed me and give me a place to lay out my bedroll, right, Mike?”

“You will not need money. But if you capture Schneck or kill him, I will pay you a bonus of five hundred dollars. Just to you, Brad. Not to Mr. Pendergast.”

“I hope I don't have to kill him, Mike.”

Garaboxosa reached over and picked up the shotgun.

“Did you tell him the name of the gun, Harry?” he asked.

“No, thought you might do that, Mike.”

“The shotgun has a name?” Brad asked.

“Harry and I named it this morning, when he showed it to me,” Garaboxosa said, a smile on his face.

“Tell him its name, Mike,” Harry said.

“Snake Eyes,” Garaboxosa said. “Look at the barrels.”

He set the shotgun on the floor butt-first, and Brad stared at the twin muzzles. They were dark and ominous, like eyes that could kill.

Pendergast picked up something from his desk and walked over to the couch. He knelt down and shook the objects inside his closed fist.

He threw two dice onto the floor.

Brad stared at the white cubes, each with a single dot in the center.

“These are loaded dice from a case we were on some months ago involving some cheating gamblers. The gamblers would palm these and switch dice when a pigeon was winning. They always come up snake eyes.”

“Snake eyes means you lose,” Garaboxosa said, with obvious glee.

“Snake eyes,” Brad said as he picked up the dice, shook them, and rolled them on the floor.

“That's right,” Harry said. “Snake eyes means you lose. Every time.”

Brad picked up the shotgun and whispered its name again.

The other men in the room smiled in approval.

“Thank you, Harry,” Brad said. “It's a fine weapon.”

Then Brad slipped Snake Eyes back in its scabbard. He rubbed his fingerprints off the sheath.

“I won't use it for bird hunting,” he said. “That's for sure. Not with that double-ought buck.”

None of the men said anything as the silence in the room deepened. It was as if a well had been opened in the middle of the office and they were all staring into its dark depths.

They rode through a pale dawn, north to LaPorte, where they would cross the South Platte and follow the Cache la Poudre into the formidable mountains. Brad and Mike shivered in their sheep-lined jackets as they left Denver behind, a gray mass of buildings still asleep under a slate sky and a dim sun far to the east, like a lighthouse lamp in fog.