Winchester 1886 (21 page)

Shirley decided to test her luck. “Mr. Wertheim,” she cooed.

He turned, and she tilted her nose at the counter.

When Wertheim looked down, he saw her hands resting on a deck of playing cards, right next to those neat stacks that amounted to thirty dollars in script.

“What would you say about . . . double or nothing?” Shirley asked.

Ten minutes later, she walked out of Wertheim's Mercantile with ninety dollars in script and coin, and bought a ticket on the next Freemont, Elkhorn, and Missouri Valley train heading east. Her luck had held.

She'd get off at a stop down the road and make her way somewhere . . . Texas, maybe. Texicans considered themselves good shots and loved to gamble. Likely she could keep her luck going down south.

That train was just about to pull out of Belle Fourche, so she settled into a seat, leaned back, and fell asleep.

She did not see a lean, leathery former deputy U.S. marshal named Jimmy Mann ride toward the saloons along the stockyards on a blue roan mare, holding a Winchester '86 at the ready. Nor did she see a slim, wiry, nervous cuss named Noble Saxon leave the stockyards with a wad of cash and make a beeline for Wertheim's Mercantile.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-ONE

Lady Luck had favored Noble Saxon for some time, and he felt pretty good. He had made a sizable profit this fine spring day, selling thirty-two beeves for thirty-one dollars and twenty-seven cents a head. He figured out his expenses—ten dollars (including a bonus) for the two hired hands who had helped him herd the cattle from around Sundance, Wyoming, to Belle Fourche, a few bucks for grub and whiskey and three-and-a-half days in the saddle, and twenty-five dollars for some fresh duds and a Winchester Model 1886 rifle in .50-100-450 caliber.

The latter was the sweetest part of his run of luck. He happened to walk into the mercantile when Mr. and Mrs. Wertheim were having a rollicking row. Saxon smiled at the memory as he walked across the street to the Cattle Baron's Saloon. Mrs. Wertheim was about to rip her husband's head off, and made him sell that rifle or toss it out the door. Either that rifle went or she was going straight to the preacher, the newspaper, and the offices of Bodeen & Masters, Attorneys at Law. It had something to do with the previous owner of the rifle. Saxon wasn't sure of the particulars and didn't care, because he had walked out of that mercantile with a hard-kicking rifle for fourteen dollars and fifty cents. A used saddle in this part of the country cost more than that.

He pushed through the doors to the saloon, and got directions to a washroom, where he went to change into his new store-bought duds and wash the grit off his face and hands. He had thought about taking a bath, but, well, he had to ride all the way back to the Thunder Basin, so it did not make sense to spend money on a bath.

After a steak and fried taters, some whiskey and a woman, he'd likely leave Belle Fourche with maybe better than $900.

Sweet.

Yes, sir, Lady Luck sure loved him.

And the best part about it. Those two hired men would be leaving Belle Fourche in the morning to hire on at some ranch in southwestern Nebraska. He wouldn't run into them ever again. Nor the Thunder Basin stock detectives. Or those ranchers whose beeves he had gathered, then doctored their brands with a running iron. Besides, he had a legitimate bill of sale, and his brand was duly registered in the state of Wyoming in Cheyenne. He was, after all, a legitimate rancher.

Even though the Thunder Basin Confederation of Stock Raisers often questioned the size of his herd.

Freshly scrubbed, more or less, wearing new underwear and a scratchy woolen shirt and duck trousers, he went back to the saloon proper, set his rifle atop the table, and leaned back in the chair, adjusting his new hat. It was an awesome hat, something that Wertheim gent called a “Chief Moses,” with four silver stars on the four-and-a-half-inch crown and eight more on the four-and-a-half-inch brim. The color of nutria. Cost him seven dollars. But, to Noble Saxon, it told him and everybody else that he was a man of means, a man of property, and a cattle baron who knew what he liked and liked what he knew.

Noble Saxon knew he was a lucky man.

He called out to the bartender, “Bring me the best Scotch you got.” He called it out like he was somebody, because Noble Saxon was somebody. He grinned as the cattlemen standing at the bar with their cigars and whiskeys turned to admire him, and watched them stare as he pulled out the greenbacks from that thick envelope. He was a man of means. Richer than God, he figured. Rancher. Empire builder. Cattle rustler.

 

 

 

He killed a mule deer, and ate his fill, cutting out a few steaks, but leaving most of the meat for coyotes and ravens. Noble Saxon could do that. He was a wealthy cattleman, and coyotes and ravens needed to eat, too. He might as well make things a little easier for them.

That Winchester rifle shot true, just like the gent up in Belle Fourche had told him. Saxon rubbed his shoulder after shoving the rifle into the scabbard. 'Course, that mercantile owner had not told him just how hard a .50-caliber Winchester kicked. Punched like a mule. Might even leave a bruise.

He followed the Belle Fourche River, running high now from the spring thaw, keeping along the eastern side, not pushing the bay gelding, merely enjoying the ride back to the grasslands of Thunder Basin. Eventually, of course, he had to leave the river, and ride south. Returning to those 160 acres he had proved up, more or less, after homesteading.

Homesteading had proved to be more work than a man of means and ideas like Saxon felt like he should be doing. Rustling came much easier, although he did run a few head of his own. He wasn't exactly sure just how many cattle he really had.

The hills rolled along under a blue sky filled with plenty of white clouds. The grass was greening up; even some wildflowers had begun to bloom, attracting bees and flies. He patted the envelope in his vest, smiling at all that money he had, and wondered if maybe he should find a saloon, have himself a whiskey, let the members of the Thunder Basin Confederation of Stock Raisers see just what a man of property he was. The problem, of course, was that a cowhand or wealthy cattleman would find a lot of grass, a lot of hills, and plenty of cattle in the Thunder Basin, but not too many saloons. The nearest watering hole was a day and a half's ride from Saxon's dugout and corral.

On the other hand, there was that bottle of Scotch he had bought at the Cattle Baron's Saloon in Belle Fourche.

In fact, he was just about to rein in the bay and unbuckle the saddlebag, cut the dust, when he saw the turkey buzzards circling off to the right. He stopped to think about what that could be, then laughed, and said out loud, “Might be one of my cows.”

 

 

It wasn't.

It was Kelly Farson, deader than a doornail.

Noble Saxon took a drink of that whiskey. He wiped his lips, dismounted the bay, and walked closer, rifle in his right hand, bottle of Scotch in his left. Farson's horse stood up on a hillside, grazing contentedly, still saddled. Farson, however, was stretched out, like he was sleeping, his arms folded across his chest, his feet crossed at the ankles. At least, he had been, before a couple vultures had come along. Saxon had scared them off with a rifle shot, which left his shoulder throbbing again.

A man could have thought that Kelly Farson had dismounted his horse, lay down on the grass, and died. Excepting, of course, those two bloody holes in his belly, holes that had not been caused by vultures, but bullets. Another purple hole had been drilled right in his forehead. Shot so close, his head had been burned by powder.

The corpse had something between the fingers on his right hand, and Saxon made himself go over, and pluck the paste card from the dead man's stiff fingers.

Ace of spades.

Like Saxon, Kelly Farson was a rustler, a small rancher who supplemented his herd with beef belonging to the Thunder Basin Confederation of Stock Raisers. Only Kelly Farson shunned whiskey and cards.

After taking another long pull from the bottle, Saxon returned to his horse, gathering the reins, and swinging into the saddle. He put the bay into a good lope and left Kelly Farson and his horse alone. Saxon had thought about taking Farson's horse. After all, it wouldn't do the dead man any good, but he sure didn't want to give any stock detective reason to pin Farson's death on his own hide. That's probably why they had left the horse there, hoping they could lure some unsuspecting small rancher into taking a horse and getting himself lynched.

 

 

Late that afternoon, Saxon happened upon another small rancher, Ryan Banding. Young fellow—honest as far as Saxon knew—with a good-looking wife. Banding waved his hat and reined in, and Saxon rode up, took another sip of Scotch, and offered the last few drops to Ryan Banding.

Banding didn't drink, either—which relieved Saxon, who finished off the Scotch and tossed the empty bottle into the grass.

“Jay Hyatt's dead,” Banding said.

Jay Hyatt. Another rustler.

Saxon almost said,
So is Kelly Farson,
but merely asked, “How?”

Banding shook his head. “Don't know who done it, but he was found three days back. Shot twice in the back, and once in the head. With a rifle.” He shook his head again and spit out the bad taste. “I found him. By a fire. With a running iron.”

Caught red-handed.
Saxon nodded, and let out a mirthless chuckle. Or maybe the stock detectives had brought along that running iron, just to make it look like Hyatt had been caught rustling. Of course, Jay Hyatt never had Noble Saxon's luck. No doubt, he had been rustling when he had paid the piper.

“Stock detectives, I reckon.” Saxon wished he had bought another bottle of Scotch in Belle Fourche.

“Not the ones we've been dealing with,” Banding said. “This one stuck an ace of spades in Jay's hand. I gave it to the sheriff.”

Like that gutless wonder, a pawn for the big ranchers in the basin, would do anything about it.

The big ranchers had brought in a hired killer.

Saxon slid from the saddle, fell to his knees, and threw up all that good Scotch. Coughed, gagged, tried to throw up again, only he didn't have anything left in his belly.

“You all right?” Banding asked after a while.

“Yeah.” Saxon's knees didn't want to cooperate, but he managed to stand, even got back into the saddle. He was sweating. Smelled bad. Maybe he should have taken a bath in Belle Fourche. “That all the news you got, kid?”

“Well . . .” Banding shrugged. “I reckon. Figured you might ought to know. Mr. Lyman and Mr. Rivers. They don't care much for you, you know.”

“I know.” Lyman and Rivers were the leaders of the Thunder Basin Confederation of Stock Raisers.

“Be careful, Noble.”

He laughed. “Don't need to be careful, kid,” he said, as he nudged the bay into a walk. “I'm lucky.”

 

 

For the longest time, Noble Saxon studied his dugout and corral before riding down the hill to his place. He had decided that maybe he should be a mite careful, but the place looked deserted, and he saw no signs of anybody paying him a visit. He rode down at last, unsaddled the bay, turned the horse loose into the corral, and walked to the dugout he had cut inside the hill.

He pushed the door open, and stepped inside, holding the Winchester in his right hand, and taking off his “Chief Moses” hat with his left.

“I wondered,” a Scottish voice called out from inside the dark dugout, “if ye'd ever make it home, Noble Saxon.”

The rifle fell to the ground, and Saxon backed into the wall.

“Aye, that's a good laddie, letting that rifle fall.”

He almost vomited again. He could felt the sweat pouring from every pore as if someone had hit the lever on a beer tap.

“Leave the door open, laddie, for so long 'ave I been waiting for ye, I feel like a blind man. No light and all, and, besides, the sky looks lovely this time of day, don' ya think? Pick up the rifle, though, if ye don't mind, Noble Saxon, me lad. I'd like t' 'ave a look at 'er.”

He obeyed, hoping he could get a look at the stranger, but the man moved back into the shadows. Saxon laid the '86 on the table, then backed up, against the doorjamb, wondering if he could dive out of the dugout and get away.

Right. Where could he run? No trees. He would never get to the corral before the gunman, this stock detective—no, this murderer for the Thunder Basin Confederation of Stock Raisers—gunned him down and stuck an ace of spades in his dead grip.

“Aye. A fine rifle ye have here, Noble Saxon. What caliber? A .45-70?”

“Fifty,” Saxon muttered, amazed that he could even speak. “Fifty-something.”

“Impressive.” The man shifted in the chair, but Saxon could only see the gloved hands that rested on his Winchester. “Me? Been using a new Marlin, I 'ave. Shoots a .38 WCF. Not a bad rifle, but methinks how I could use one with a wee more punch. Do ye know what they say of the '86 Winchester?”

Saxon saw the rifle disappear, then saw that cavernous barrel sticking out of the shadows, pointed at his chest. He heard the lever being cocked.

“They say”—the Scottish brogue chuckled—“that it kills on one end. And cripples on the other.”

That reminded Saxon of just how much his right shoulder hurt from shooting that big rifle.

It was the last thing Noble Saxon ever thought.

Later, after sticking an ace of spades in the dead man's right hand, the killer walked out with Saxon's rifle. His right boot crushed the dead rustler's expensive “Chief Moses” hat on the dirt floor.