Ambush at Shadow Valley (19 page)

‘‘Yeah, he is. What of it?'' Dinsmore cut in. ‘‘You find something wrong with that?''

‘‘No, it's just that—'' Modale's words turned to a grunt as Dinsmore raised his boot and stomped it down hard on his chest.

‘‘All right, Davis,'' said Deavers, ‘‘that's enough of that.''

‘‘Enough?'' Dinsmore gave Modale an evil look and said to Deavers, ‘‘If you knew this sumbitch like I do, you'd want me to
kill him
and do it slow, the things he did to my sister, Belle.''

‘‘Back off, Davis. I'm warning you,'' said Deavers. He stepped in between the two and reached a hand down to Modale, helping him to his feet.

‘‘That was all uncalled for, Davis,'' said Modale, brushing himself off. ‘‘We've seen one another other times. You never acted like this!''

‘‘It just dawned on me this morning how bad I hate your worthless guts, Denver Modale,'' Dinsmore growled.

‘‘The fact of it is,'' he said to Deavers, ‘‘I didn't run out on his sister. She ran out on me. She comes from a long line of crazy—''

‘‘That's it. You're dead!'' said Dinsmore, cutting him off. He tried to shove his Colt around Deavers to pull the trigger.

‘‘Damn it, put it away!'' Deavers shouted, clamping his hand down over the Colt to keep the hammer from being able to fall.

‘‘He's got no sense. You'll have to knock him in the head to stop him,'' said Modale.

But Dinsmore took a breath and stood back, letting Deavers take the Colt, uncock it and shove it back down into his holster. ‘‘There, now leave it holstered!'' He turned back to Modale. ‘‘We're looking for Memphis Beck and some of his men. We tracked three of them near here on a handcar. We found the handcar on the siding near town. Have you seen any of them?''

‘‘I hope you try lying,'' Dinsmore said under his breath, getting one more threat.

Modale ignored him and said to Deavers, ‘‘I have not seen Memphis Beck, and that's the gospel truth.'' He looked back and forth along the alleyway. Then he said in a lowered tone, ‘‘But I did see the Tall Texan and some others.''

‘‘Yeah? When?'' Deavers asked, attentively. ‘‘Who were the others?''

‘‘Two days ago, Kirkpatrick and Billy Todd Carver came to town, Billy Todd on a saddle, the Tall Texan holding down a buggy seat.'' He looked back and forth again. ‘‘They met a funny-looking fellow with his head shaved and tattooed, and a woman who acted like she didn't know last night from next Sunday morning.''

‘‘This was two days ago, huh?'' Deavers rubbed his chin, trying to put things together.

‘‘Yep, two days,'' said Modale. ‘‘They stood right at the bar, the tattooed fellow drinking shots of rye like the sky was falling. Kirkpatrick just watched him like they halfway had a mad-on.''

‘‘Which way did they ride out?'' Deavers asked, starting to wonder if maybe the gang was holed up nearby.

‘‘Up toward the hill trails,'' said Modale, pointing toward a hill line in the distance. Looking past Deavers at Dinsmore, he said, ‘‘Now, see, I said all that without all the threatening and bullying, didn't I?''

Dinsmore didn't answer. Instead, he looked away as if boiling with anger.

‘‘You've been most helpful, Modale,'' said Deavers, ‘‘and I appreciate it.'' He turned to Dinsmore and said, ‘‘Come on, we'll ride up along the high trails, see if we can get lucky and pick up some tracks.

‘‘Any time I can help, Detective Deavers, you let me know,'' Modale said. ‘‘I see lots of strange folks come and go. Lately they're hairless with tattooed heads,'' he wheezed and laughed.

‘‘He's not a detective, you dimwit!'' Dinsmore growled at him, ignoring his words. ‘‘He's a bounty hunter! We both are. We make our living facing bad men, not pouring whiskey and lighting cigars!''

‘‘You go to hell, Davis!'' Modale said, hurrying toward the tent fly as he spoke over his shoulder.

Deavers gave Dinsmore a shove to keep him from going after the saloon owner. ‘‘Come on, I think we might be onto something. One of the men with Kirkpatrick yesterday was most likely Billy Todd Carver, since Modale said they were both here in town together. We need to tighten down on Kirkpatrick and Carver. I've got a feeling they'll lead us to the rest of the gang."

Chapter 16

An hour later, at a seldom-used rail siding outside of Rusty Nail, the two bounty hunters came upon the handcar sitting out of sight between two steep hillsides where Flannery, Carver and Cruzan had left it. They approached it with caution. ‘‘How do we know this is the same one?'' Dinsmore asked, his Colt in hand, his thumb over the hammer as they put their horses forward at a walk.

‘‘Oh, this is the same one all right,'' said Deavers, both of them looking around as they rode in between the hillsides, each wary of a trap. ‘‘Look around you. It's the only thing sitting here not covered with a year's worth of dust.'' They looked around at the dust-covered remnants of a tin mine operation. A loose corner of corrugated metal roofing chattered on a morning breeze. At the corner of a weathered building, a scraggly jackrabbit peeped around a corner at them, then looped out of sight.

At the handcar, Deavers stepped down, his gun poised. He laid a gloved hand on a damp spot on the rough plank floor as if gauging what had been sitting there. ‘‘It's been wet,'' he said, speculating, remembering the two covered blocks of cargo. ‘‘What do you suppose they were hauling . . . ?'' He let his words trail as he rubbed his damp gloved fingers together and stared at them as if searching for clues.

‘‘It sure as hell wasn't water lilies,'' Dinsmore said almost in a whisper. He looked spooked at the idea of getting caught in an ambush in a narrow space between the two hills. ‘‘I say we had better back out of here while we can.''

Deavers couldn't argue. But he took the time to look down at the wagon tracks leading in beside the handcar, and leading away to a narrow switchback trail up one of the hillsides. ‘‘One of them must've pulled a wagon in here, unloaded the handcar onto it, then ridden off up into the hills. There must've been something they needed awfully bad up in Rock Springs.''

‘‘Sounds right to me,'' said Dinsmore, not wanting to be there. ‘‘Why don't we do the same before we get our ears shot off? This is just exactly the kind of place where a man gets killed in an ambush.''

‘‘What were they hauling that would be so wet?'' said Deavers, still pondering the matter as he stepped back into his saddle and nudged his horse forward between the buckboard tracks.

‘‘I'm not going to guess,'' said Dinsmore, settling some now that they were headed up toward the switchback trail. ‘‘The tracks are fresh enough we'll able to ask them in person real soon,'' he said. Booting his horse a little, he added, ‘‘As soon as I get in kicking range of Memphis Beck, I'm going to nail his nuts behind his navel.''

They kept on the wagon trail for over two miles until the tracks swung down a long hillside thick with pine and dotted with sharp drop-offs that fell straight down over a hundred feet. ‘‘I'll say one thing for Kirkpatrick and those boys,'' Deavers commented. ‘‘They will travel some dangerous ground.''

‘‘In the dark too, when they came down this way,'' said Dinsmore. ‘‘Do you suppose they knew we were following them?''

‘‘I don't know how they could,'' said Deavers. ‘‘I think they just play things close to the vest all the time. That's why they get away with so much.'' He nudged his horse carefully down into the thick pines. ‘‘They sure don't make themselves easy to find or follow.''

Twenty minutes later, just as they had lost the wagon tracks and stopped and looked all around in bewilderment, an explosion resounded beyond a long stretch of hills lying before them. ‘‘That's them!'' said Dinsmore, having to rein his horse down to keep it from rearing beneath him.

A look of revelation came to Deaver's face as he collected his frightened horse and held it in check for just a moment. ‘‘It was ice! They were hauling ice!''

‘‘Ice? What the hell for?'' Dinsmore asked, his horse skittish, struggling against the reins.

‘‘They're cooling dynamite,'' said Deavers. ‘‘I'd say we're catching them right before they make a run on a bank or express car somewhere.'' He gigged his horse. ‘‘Come on. We'll catch them unexpected while they're busy testing their equipment. . . .''

Two miles away, in a valley a hundred yards beyond the barn, Memphis Beck put his boot down on a twenty-foot uprooted cedar that lay on its side, its upper branches still shivering from its fall. ‘‘I call that some good hot nitro,'' he said with a smile of satisfaction.

‘‘If it's all that good, we could soon be owning the railroads instead of robbing them,'' Kirkpatrick laughed. He tipped a mug of coffee toward Soto, who stood up from examining the cedar and dusted his hands together.

‘‘It's good,'' said Soto. ‘‘But the next batch will be better, stronger.'' He looked at Beck with a trace of a smug grin and added, ‘‘I've been out of business for a while.''

‘‘Are you saying you need some practice?'' Beck asked. He nodded down at the cedar. ‘‘It doesn't look like it to me.''

"Explosives are my art," said Soto. "I know when it is good, but I also know when it is perfect.''

Billy Todd stepped in, looking down at the tree, and asked, ‘‘What about opening a safe? I see it's strong enough. But what's going to keep it from blowing the money all to pieces?''

‘‘What we just used is far too powerful to use on a safe, unless we are launching it into the sky,'' said Soto, taking to the attention. ‘‘I knead a measured portion of this into some good stiff clay. I stick a handful of the clay on the lock and on each spot where the safe has a hinge. The compressed impact of the explosion cracks the hinges and the lock, and the door drops off. It's all very smooth and easy.''

‘‘Will we try it out first on a safe, before we go on the job, Memphis?'' Carver asked, his eyes carrying the question to Beck.

Beck looked at Soto, studied his searing expression for a moment, then said, ‘‘No, not unless Suelo feels like we should. I've seen enough. This man can deliver. We're ready to do this job.'' He asked Soto, ‘‘How soon can you have us the new batch you're talking about, all wrapped and ready to use?''

‘‘As soon as you have found us some good creek bank clay,'' Soto said. ‘‘Meanwhile, we will use this other vial, just to make sure it is all of the same consistency.'' He gestured toward the glass vial of clear nitroglycerin in his shirt pocket. ‘‘This time we'll blast up a large boulder.''

‘‘Pick your target and let it blow.'' Beck looked all around the heavily treed, rock-strewn area, and said, ‘‘I'll get somebody out looking for the clay today. Anything else we can do for you?''

‘‘Yes, one more thing.'' Soto looked at Clarimonde, who stood by, silently watching, listening. Then he said firmly to Beck, ‘‘I want the house for Clair and myself. We're not staying in the barn another night.''

Beck kept cool. ‘‘Sure thing,'' he said. ‘‘You can have the big room. There's a bed there, no springs, but you can lay a pallet there and—''

‘‘No, no.'' Soto cut him short, saying, ‘‘We don't want just the bedroom. We want the house.'' He grinned. ‘‘You and the men can sleep out front.''

Kirkpatrick started to take a step toward him, but Beck shifted around in a way to stop him without it looking too obvious. ‘‘The house it is, then,'' he said. He looked at Clarimonde and said, ‘‘Ma'am, I apologize for any inconvenience we've caused you.''

Clarimonde only looked down. Beck knew she had nothing to do with Soto's demands. This was just Soto flexing his muscle, seeing how far he could push. Beck knew it.

Listening to the conversation, Carver asked Beck, ‘‘Do you want me to clear out the house, move all our gear out to the barn?''

Before Beck could reply, Soto said, ‘‘That won't do. I've got everything set up in the barn. You'll have to sleep out front, under the stars.'' He gave Beck a superior look. ‘‘That won't be any trouble, will it?''

Beck took a deep breath, his patience starting to wear thin. ‘‘No trouble at all, Suelo. Is there
anythingelse
we can do for you?''

Deavers and Dinsmore had heard the second explosion and followed the sound to the edge of a steep ridge. With his binoculars to his eyes, Deavers scanned back and forth, hardly believing his eyes. He saw the house, the barn and the gang members standing over a broken, upturned boulder lying in a bed of loose dirt. ‘‘My goodness, Davis,'' he said as he watched, ‘‘we have struck the mother lode!''

‘‘Let me see! Let me see!'' Dinsmore could not contain his excitement.

‘‘In a minute. I'm counting,'' said Deavers, pulling away from him without taking the binoculars down from his eyes.

‘‘Is Memphis Beck down there?'' Dinsmore asked. ‘‘That's all I want to know.'' He raised his eyes and pleaded to heaven, ‘‘Please let him be there.''

‘‘Oh, he's down there all right,'' said Deavers, recognizing Beck who stood beside Kirkpatrick, even able to see the two outlaws' lips move silently as they spoke back and forth. ‘‘There's a woman with them,'' he said as he continued his recognizance. He looked at the large, broken boulder. ‘‘They're playing with dynamite, it appears. Here, you can take a look now.''