The Shadow Man (18 page)

Caverhill fell silent, watching Kirker. The senator had several plans to put in motion and he needed the murderous scalp hunter. In times of war many opportunities offered themselves for a man to garner great riches, if he wasn't afraid to use force and move quickly.

“Come inside,” Caverhill said. “I have a plan that will make you wealthy. If you're brave enough to help me.”

Caverhill stalked ahead to the library, a huge room with shelves covering two walls and reaching to the high ceiling. Kirker saw that all the shelves were empty except for one row of books and a rolled-up map. Only three pieces of furniture, a round table and two chairs, were in the room. A thick wool carpet covered the floor. Kirker smelled fresh paint. Caverhill was building a magnificent ranch, with a mansion for his home.

“Sit there,” said Caverhill, thrusting a thumb at the table and chairs. He took up the map and spread it on the table. He sat down across from Kirker.

The scalp hunter studied Caverhill as he weighted down the corners of the map. Caverhill had come from New Orleans ten years before to join Houston's army and help defeat the Mexicans. In the years after the victory he had prospered, his wealth accumulating rapidly. He had been elected senator in the first election of the new National Government of Texas.

Caverhill had no opposition for that election. John Towson had campaigned against him at first. Then Towson had made the unfortunate mistake of calling Caverhill a thief. Retribution had come swiftly in the oak woods at the junction of Bull Creek and the Colorado River. Caverhill killed Towson in a duel with pistols.

Other enemies of Caverhill, or men who merely stood in his path, would disappear or hurriedly leave the country. Kirker had accepted gold from Caverhill to kill or harass the senator's opponents. His knowledge of those deeds was dangerous to Kirker. He felt a cold breeze along his spine as Caverhill raised his head and stared at him with his mud-colored eyes. Caverhill was the only man Kirker had ever feared. One day Kirker would leave Texas and get far away from Caverhill. Or kill Caverhill if he could.

Tell me about the country east of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains,” directed Caverhill. “Especially about the ranchos along the Rio Pecos.”

Kirker leaned forward. His hand passed over the map from north to south, indicating the course of the river. “It's damn fine grazing country with thick, tall grass. However the river is nearly the only source of water. Almost all the streams that feed the river come from the hills west of the river. From the east the creeks are small and short and often dry, because the Staked Plains are close and slant off to the east, carrying that water toward Texas.”

“That Rio Pecos land, and the land all the way to the Rio Grande, is part of Texas,” interjected Caverhill.

“I've heard that Texas claim. However, the Mexicans are there on their big ranchos, and I saw no sign that they were moving out.”

“That may soon change,” said Caverhill. “Go on with what you have to say about the land and the people.” He had journeyed from Austin to Santa Fe the year before. During a party at the Palace of the Governors he had met Luis Baustista and Emmanuel Solis. They had talked of land and ranching, and the Mexican caballeros had told him of their large ranchos on the Rio Pecos. Caverhill had decided those ranchos could become his without too much danger, and a plan came to him. He regretted not having taken time to explore the Rio Pecos on his return trip to Austin.

“The Pecos runs all year. It's swampy in places and has dangerous quicksand holes. The valley twists and turns a lot. Often the main current breaks out of the main channel and flows in three or four separate streams for miles. Then it all comes back together again where hard rock walls crowd it.”

“And the ranchos. Where are they located?”

“The Pecos comes out of the Sangre de Cristos about here.” Kirker touched the map with a finger. “That's where we struck the river. The northernmost rancho is here at the junction of the Gallinas River and the Pecos. It has a walled hacienda. From its size I judge maybe ten families might live there.”

“How many fighting men do you figure they would have?”

“Twelve to fifteen. But at any one time, most likely some of them would be out on the range caring for the livestock, or to Santa Fe or Las Vegas for supplies.”

Caverhill studied the map.

“How much livestock did you see?”

“I estimate a hundred thousand sheep and maybe one thousand head of cattle. Those Mexicans like sheep best.” Kirker had been watching Caverhill and now saw the light brighten in his eyes at the mention of the large number of sheep.

Kirker continued. “The second rancho is a long day's ride to the south. The hacienda is on the west side of the Pecos. It also has a defensive wall, and a tall tower in addition. Those two ranchos have been operated for fifty years or more under the ownership of the same families. They must be tough people. If they were warned of an attack and could get behind those walls, they'd be hard to dislodge. But I'm betting none of those places keep twenty-four-hour lookouts. The haciendas can be taken.” Kirker knew Caverhill would want to know that.

“This second Mexican place has about the same number of livestock as the first. But the other two farther south along the Pecos are newer and smaller. Their herds are about half that size.”

Caverhill asked many questions and listened closely to Kirker's responses. The two men talked until nearly noon. Finally Caverhill leaned back in his chair. He looked out the window and down at the slaves working to clear the new ground near the Llano. For several minutes he was quiet.

“Kirker, I'll pay you twenty-five cents for each sheep you bring out of New Mexico.”

Kirker laughed sardonically. “That ain't anywheres near a fair price. That's dry country for a hundred miles east of the Rio Pecos. I'd lose most of the animals if I didn't happen to hit it right after a good rain. And then there's another four hundred and fifty to five hundred miles to drive the sheep. They're a slow-traveling animal. Anyone chasing his livestock could easily overtake us.”

Caverhill turned to Kirker. His eyes were like frozen spheres of dirty water. “Not if you left no one alive behind you. Suppose you took a force of men and took this rancho at the Gallinas River. Then make a sweep rounding up all the livestock close to the river. Do that about noon, when most of the animals would be watering and congregated there. Then send the herd east with five or six men. With your remaining force, ride south to the next rancho. Repeat the action you took at the Gallinas rancho. Capture the hacienda and drive the livestock east with a few men. And so forth for the remaining two ranchos.”

“Sounds like a bloomin' military campaign,” Kirker said with a growl. “I'm no soldier.” He shook his head.

“It is a military campaign, Kirker. And you've been conducting very similar actions for many years, except on a much smaller scale. There is a war being fought with Mexico right now near the Gulf of Mexico. Soon there will be fighting in New Mexico. Many people will be killed. Why fight and kill for nothing? The Mexican army in Santa Fe will be too busy to come after you. And surely the American army officers won't divert part of their strength to chase you to recover livestock for Mexicans. But the best part of the plan is that no one will find out what happened for days, perhaps weeks. Maybe never. The first rain will destroy any tracks you make. The people and the livestock will have simply disappeared. Even when someone begins to ask questions, I'm certain the deed would be blamed on Indians or Comancheros.”

Kirker had slowly bent forward as Caverhill spoke. He looked again at the map, his mind replaying his recent views of the river, land, the ranchos, and the thousands of sheep and cows on the Rio Pecos.

He glanced up, his eyes smoldering as he mentally counted the money that could be made. “I'd need forty men and maybe two months to ten weeks to do it. Would there be enough money in it for that many men?”

“The fewer men you use, the more you make for yourself. Also, the fewer tongues to tell what you did.”

Kirker believed he could accomplish the job with thirty men or less. The larger number was strictly bargaining stock to raise the pay from Caverhill. “How many sheep and cows do you want?” he asked.

“All you can drive. You'll be crowding the livestock, and there's rough land to cross. You'll lose one quarter to one half of the animals you begin with. So start with all you can round up in one long sweep along the river at each rancho. Then move promptly to the next place.”

“Pay me a dollar a head for the sheep and three dollars for cows, and I'll do it. You got that much money?”

Caverhill grinned thinly. “More than enough. Can you find men to ride with you?”

“I could get a thousand if I wanted to. The people haven't forgotten the Alamo massacre and the slaughter of our soldiers at Goliad after they'd surrendered to Santa Anna. Yes, sir. I could get two thousand men.”

“Don't hire any men from Austin. Go to Houston and get them. Have them go directly home after the livestock drive is completed. Tell them to keep their mouths shut. Don't tell them who you work for.”

“I'll need some money to pay the men beforehand. Just enough to pay part of what they'll earn. They can wait for the bulk of it until we return.”

“How much?”

Kirker quickly calculated. “Say, twelve thousand dollars.”

“All right. Twelve thousand dollars. But we haven't settled on the price for the livestock delivered.”

“Yes, we did. I told you what I'd do it for.”

“Too high. The price for a cow is all right at three dollars. I'll pay you forty cents for each sheep.”

“No, sir. Not enough. Say seventy-five cents.”

“Fifty cents, and that's my last offer.”

Kirker sadly reduced the giant sum of money he'd been envisioning. “Fifty cents it is. I'll have them animals to your ranch before the first frost.”

“Don't let one sheep or cow set foot on my land,” Caverhill said, his voice turning coarse and threatening. “You deliver the livestock to that hill land between the Llano and the San Saba Rivers where Wet Beaver Creek and Las Moras Creek head up.” He would take his slaves and drive the livestock onto his land. The sheep would be used to stock the ranch. The heavily branded Mexican cattle would be driven to Houston and sold to a buyer he knew who asked no questions about ownership.

“Do you know the place I describe?”

“I know the place,” replied Kirker.

“I warn you, Kirker, don't leave anyone alive behind you at those ranchos on the Pecos. Every man, woman, and child must be killed. Bury them where they'll never be found.”

“I don't want to be hung, either,” said Kirker. “There'll be no sign left for anyone to find. I'll burn down those damn Mexican haciendas too.”

Caverhill leapt to his feet. “Don't you damage one building or any of the furnishings. Do you hear me plainly? Not one building.”

“All right,” Kirker hurriedly replied.

“Stop in Austin and get Glen Sansen and take him with you.”

“Why that damn forger? He hasn't ridden a horse ten miles in ten years and couldn't keep up at all.”

“You're wrong. He's been riding every day for a month. He's up to twenty miles a day. I've had someone riding with him to be certain he's not lying about that.”

Kirker realized Caverhill had been planning this campaign into New Mexico for some time. “We'll be traveling closer to fifty miles a day. He'll never keep up.”

“You'll see that he does. Tie him to his horse if you have to. He must be with you at each rancho. He'll be collecting every written document that can be found. You help him. Is all this understood?”

“Yes. It's plain enough.” Somehow Caverhill was going to take the haciendas and land, as well as the livestock. Now, how would he pull that off? Kirker turned to leave.

“No one left alive,” Caverhill called after him.

* * *

Behind a slightly ajar door, the yellow-skinned Negress, Millicent, hastily withdrew to the kitchen. Her face was ugly with hate.

* * *

Kirker brought his band of men down from the Staked Plains and onto the wagon road. He halted them beneath the steep walls of Mesa Quatas fifteen miles north of the junction of the Rio Gallinas and the Rio Pecos. He rode out in front and turned to face the bearded, dusty horsemen.

“That is the road to the Mexican ranchos we've ridden six hundred miles to find.” He pointed down at the wheel tracks in the dirt. “We start our campaign here so that no one escapes us and gets to Santa Fe. Every Mexican south of us must die. Every head of livestock we can round up will be driven to Texas. You'll make more money in two months than you can make in five years working for wages.”

Kirker ranged his sight over the thirty fighting men he'd recruited. Except for Wiestling, who'd been killed in a robbery in Houston, the four men who had escaped with him from Mexico were here. The rest of the band was made up of the worst thieves and murderers, the toughest men he could find in all of southern Texas.

“If any man here isn't up to spilling a little Mexican blood, then let him turn around and get his ass back to Texas. The ones that stay will do exactly as I say. Who's leaving?”

The men steadily looked back at him. Connard was smiling and fondling the butt of his pistol.

Kirker spoke. “So nobody's leaving, eh? Well, that's good. We'll ride easy for three hours or so until we see the first hacienda. Then we'll camp quiet like, and take the place first thing come daylight.

“Borkan, ride out a quarter mile in the lead and watch for riders on the road or tending the livestock. We don't want to be seen until we're ready. If you spot somebody, come back whippin' and spurrin' and warn us. Then we'll figure out what to do.”