Arkansas Smith (7 page)

Doc Cooter’s body was covered in a saddle blanket and draped across a horse that was tied behind the sheriff’s mount. All of the riders looked grim faced as they pulled their horses to a stop.

‘You found him then?’ Arkansas stated the obvious and sucked at his quirly. He allowed the smoke to drift out of the corners of his mouth as he steadied his horse.

The sheriff nodded. He eyes went first from Arkansas to Rycot and then over his shoulder to the body of the unfortunate doctor. ‘Either of you got any idea who did this?’

‘Some,’ Arkansas said.

‘Care to share with me?’ The sheriff was trying to sound tough, in control, but there was a tremor in his voice. He was obviously ill at ease up against a man with Arkansas’s reputation.

Arkansas shook his head. ‘When I know for certain,’ he said, ‘you’ll be the first to know.’

The sheriff nodded and kicked his horse into
movement. The rest of the posse followed. They hadn’t gone more than a dozen feet when Arkansas turned over his shoulder and called the sheriff.

‘Yeah?’ The sheriff looked back at him, his expression, weary, hangdog.

‘When you come out to Will’s place with Lance to take possession, best make sure your papers are legal and in order,’ Arkansas said, and winked at Rycot, though the old man could fathom no meaning in the gesture.

The sheriff merely nodded and led the posse back to town with their grim cargo.

‘Because I’ve got some legal papers all of my own,’ Arkansas mumbled, and then rode off with Rycot in tow.

Arkansas felt better at leaving Will now that Rycot had taken up the position of companion and guard. They were both armed with rifles that belonged to Rycot, so Arkansas had brought his own Spencer with him. Things went a certain way, he might end up having to use it. He kept the sorrel at a steady pace. His destination was less than six miles away, but there was a lot of rough ground between here and there and he didn’t want to strain the animal. Before he had left, Will had given him a map of the general area and the Bowen place was clearly marked. He would have no trouble finding it.

The telegrams he had received were nestled snugly in his pocket. The first came directly from the territorial governor’s office and stated that Arkansas
Smith was acting on behalf of the US Government and had full legal powers. The second came from the land registration office and could show no reason for John Lance to be interested in Will’s land claim. Land could suddenly prove valuable if needed for the railroad’s extension across the West, but no plans were evident for the railroad to come anywhere near Red Rock. There was also no chance of the land in this area containing any precious minerals. Lance’s desire for Will’s place was a mystery. The telegram also informed Arkansas that John Lance had acquired several ranches over the last twelve months, bought from the owners at less than the current market value. One man had cried foul and claimed that he had been swindled out of his spread but he’d vanished shortly afterwards and his claims were never followed up. That property, once owned by Clive Bowen, an Irish immigrant, was now under Lance’s ownership but was reportedly lying empty.

Rycot had known the place and had also known old man Bowen. He’d said his disappearance was a mystery that still troubled him and he hated to think of Bowen lying dead somewhere in a shallow and unmarked grave. Done for, the way the doc had been.

If Arkansas was to tie Lance into Will’s shooting then he needed to find the owner of the ornately handled knife and his partner. But neither of the men had been seen around town lately and it was certain that they were hiding out somewhere. Arkansas doubted that Lance would be stupid enough to keep them too close. It made perfect sense for them to be
hiding out at the Bowen place since it seemed to be the only one of Lance’s extensive list of properties that was standing empty. It was also far enough away from Red Rock, and off the beaten track, for someone to keep away from attention.

Least that was the hunch and Arkansas, true to form, was playing it.

Arkansas stared across the desk at the curious-looking man with the head that was almost perfectly dome-shaped Everything about the man was globular – a rotund head, sunk into a podgy neck which sat atop a pair of rounded shoulders. His belly ballooned out over his belt like some great fleshy ball and his legs bulged at the knees forming a half circle.

‘You’ve got me at a disadvantage,’ Arkansas said. ‘You know my name and I don’t seem to recall yours.’ The chains around Arkansas’s wrists were biting into the skin but he ignored the pain. The chain ran downwards alongside his legs and was attached to the heavy shackles he wore.

‘I’m Justice O’Keefe,’ the man said. He adjusted the tie slightly and ran a finger behind his ill-fitting collar as though struggling for air. ‘And you – once a Texas Ranger, a war hero, and now just a common criminal. A killer, no less, who has an appointment at dawn with the rope. What a disappointment.’

‘I’m none too pleased about it myself.’

The portly man smiled. ‘Good to keep a sense of humour,’
he said. ‘It’ll be of comfort on your way to the gallows.’

‘Look,’ Arkansas snarled, tensing and pulling at his chains, but O’Keefe didn’t move. He was in no danger. There was no way for Arkansas to break free of his bindings, but all the same the sheriff came back into the room, alerted at the sound of the struggle, his Army Model Colt in hand.

‘Please remain outside, Sheriff,’ O’Keefe said. He was clearly in control of the situation and was in no need of assistance.

For a moment the sheriff looked unsure and his face held a puzzled expression that almost looked pained. ‘If this skunk gives you trouble,’ he said, eventually, ‘I’ll plug him here and now. Bullet or rope – he’ll still be very much dead.’

‘Thank you,’ said O’Keefe. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. Now, if you’ll excuse us, please.’

The sheriff shrugged his shoulders and left the room, slamming the heavy door behind him.

‘You see,’ O’Keefe said, ‘unpleasant fellow.’

‘What do you want with me?’ Arkansas asked.

‘I think I can help you.’

Arkansas looked the man directly in the eye. ‘You talking about my heavenly soul? I’ve had enough with the praying already and I’ll meet my Maker on my own terms.’

‘I’m talking very much about the physical you. What eventually happens to your soul is none of my concern.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I represent Washington,’ O’Keefe told him. ‘We’ve been following your little rampage with great interest.’

‘Then you’ll know I’m here on trumped-up charges,’ Arkansas said. ‘That those men deserved to die.’

‘Difficult to prove, though.’ The podgy man pulled a large
cigar from his coat and took a match to it. He sucked hard on the thick tobacco. ‘In fact, with the amount of corruption around here I would say it’s impossible to prove. And whichever way you look at it, the fact remains that you killed those six men, four of whom were US Calvary, not to mention a prominent politician and his son.’

‘And I’d do it again.’ Defiantly, words spat out with real venom. ‘To a man those lot were skunks. They shouldn’t have done what they did.’

‘Tell me,’ asked O’Keefe, pacing the small room, ‘have you ever heard of the Pinkertons?’

‘Alan Pinkerton?’ Arkansas said, resenting the fact that O’Keefe was talking down to him, as if he were dumb. He was lettered and he read whatever he could get his hands on. ‘Started up his agency when Pinkerton foiled an assassination attempt on President Lincoln. They protected the President during the war. I met a Pinkerton once – rat-faced-looking guy. Can’t say I really took to him.’

‘They still protect the current President,’ O’Keefe said. ‘But they can’t be everywhere at all times and, since the war, the area west of the Mississippi is proving problematic. Which is where you come in.’

‘Go on.’

‘I represent the President himself and I’ve been given the task of forming a special force. A team of ten agents all working independently of each other to enforce the law in this increasingly hostile landscape. Civilization is coming to the West and we need men out there to do the civilizing. Men like Arkansas Smith, men who know the land, men of courage.’

‘But I’m a convicted killer?’ Arkansas pointed out, as if the fact had slipped the man’s mind. ‘Due to hang at dawn.’

‘Oh, that,’ O’Keefe said it as though it were a trifling matter of no real onsequence. ‘Are you willing to enlist with us? To sign on and take orders directly from me? You’ll have the powers of a territorial marshal and more besides. Seems to me you have a simple choice: join us or swing.’

‘Why do I feel as if I’m going to put a tighter rope around my neck than the one waiting for me?’

O’Keefe smiled. ‘Because you are perceptive, Mr Smith,’ he said, and left the room to make the necessary arrangements.

Seemed the hunch paid off. Not that he had ever doubted it, but Arkansas had a feeling of incredible fortitude as he pulled the sorrel into the bushes that grew the length of a natural banking above the Bowen ranch house. He tethered the horse to a thick branch and then crawled out of the bushes and lay prone on the ground.

The ranch house was an adobe building typical of most other properties in the area, though there were some concessions to the western style with a gable roof and a frame porch. A thin trail of wood smoke drifted out of the chimney and Arkansas lay there for some time, watching. There was someone in there. Didn’t have to be the men called Clay and Jim but somehow Arkansas knew it would turn out to be them.

That hunch again.

After a while with no sign of movement he decided he’d have to go down, sneak up on the place and find out for sure how many men were in there before he made a move. He went back to the sorrel and pulled
his Spencer from the saddle boot and then started down the banking. He tried to keep himself behind cover as much as possible and he was almost at the foot of the banking before he found he needed to break cover.

There was a stone well halfway between the banking and the house and Arkansas ran for it and then bent down, resting a moment with the stone structure hiding him from view of anyone in the house. He worked the action on the Spencer and checked his Colt – there was no real need to do so since he’d done it twice already, but, like his hunches, he had his own little quirks.

He sat there for some time, his own breathing sounding impossibly loud. For a moment he thought he heard faint voices drifting from the house but he decided it must have been his imagination. He scooped up a few stones, stood up and pelted them at the door. They struck true to aim and he lifted the Spencer and pointed it directly at the door.

The door opened and Arkansas recognized the man as one of those he’d met in town – the man called Clay.

Once again one of Arkansas’s hunches had struck pay dirt.

The man was wearing the ornate handled Colt, the close relation to the knife Arkansas carried in his waistband. There was no sign of the other man, the one called Jim. If he was in there he didn’t come to the door and Arkansas’s eyes scanned the entire area, ready for a shot out of concealment.

Clay wore his gun down low on his hip and his hand coiled, over it. He was clearly battling with himself over his chances if he made a play.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Arkansas said. ‘Where’s your friend?’

‘Ain’t got no friends,’ Clay shouted back.

‘That’s a nice weapon.’ Arkansas pointed the eye of his rifle at the man’s gun belt. ‘Very pretty.’

The man stood perfectly rigid, unsure of where this was heading.

‘Loosen your belt,’ Arkansas ordered, ‘slowly, and then toss it into the dirt towards me. I’m a dead shot with this Spencer and it’s aimed directly between your eyes – no sudden moves, or I’ll blow your head clean into the next territory.’

Clay’s hand went to the clasp of his belt in a ridiculously slow movement. He paused for a second, seemingly calculating his chances were he to draw, but then deciding that the odds were not to his liking he released the clasp. He pulled the belt slowly around his waist and let it hang like a rattler from his hand.

‘Toss it,’ Arkansas said.

Clay did so, throwing the belt some ten feet in front of him.

‘Where’s your pard?’ Arkansas asked.

‘I told you,’ Clay said, ‘I ain’t got no friends.’

Arkansas shot and then quickly worked the action on the Spencer, sending another bullet into the breech.

Clay let out a scream as the bullet powered into the door frame barely inches from his head. Wood splinters and dust hit the side of his face and the smell
of cordite struck his nostrils like the putrid aroma of hell.

‘I’m alone,’ Clay shouted in genuine terror. ‘Jim rode out this morning. He’s hunting and could be gone all day.’

Keeping the rifle levelled at Clay, Arkansas carefully stepped around the well and walked directly towards the man. Fully aware of what was happening around him, he took steady calculated steps. The shot of only seconds ago would bring the other man running if he was within range of the sound and Arkansas didn’t want be surprised by his arrival. He reached the discarded gunbelt and bent his knees, keeping the rifle aimed at Clay, and slid the ornate Colt from the leather.

Arkansas lowered the rifle while he probed in his pocket and retrieved the knife. ‘Snap,’ he said, holding the knife and Colt in the one hand and resting the butt of the rifle on his hip.

‘Where’d you—?’ The question ended abruptly as Clay realized where Arkansas had got the knife from and what it meant.

‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,’ Arkansas snarled.

‘Weren’t me shot your friend,’ Clay said, his voice heavy with fear.

‘You were there. Else how do you explain this knife?’

‘I was there,’ Clay agreed and then pleaded, ‘Weren’t me that shot him, though.’

‘Who shot the doc?’ Arkansas’s finger tightened on
the trigger, just enough for the other man to notice it.

‘That was an accident,’ Clay said quickly and held his hands out before him as if they would protect him from the rifle.

‘Accident?’

‘We, my pard and me, were trying to get information out of him regarding your friend. If he was going to make it and such like. He wouldn’t talk. We waved the gun about to frighten him. That’s all.’ As he spoke, Clay’s shoulders slumped forward and he had to swallow hard to stop himself gibbering like the yellow coward he was. ‘The damn thing went off. It was an accident.’

Arkansas walked slowly towards Clay, keeping his eyes directly into the other man’s. He could see the sweat on Clay’s face and his muscles twitching in fear.

‘Please,’ Clay pleaded, ‘weren’t my fault. Only meant to scare the doc a little.’

‘What about Will?’ Arkansas snarled. ‘Did you mean to just scare him too?’

‘Please, mister, I had no choice. I just do what I’m told.’

Arkansas smiled. That’s what he wanted to hear. There was of course more to come but that would do for now. The cowboy was scared, terrified and would talk volumes as long as he thought it would keep him alive.

‘By John Lance?’

Clay’s shoulders shrugged and he nodded. ‘Yes.’

Arkansas drew level with Clay and his smile broadened. The gesture seemed to terrify the man
even further and his pants gave away the fact that he had just that second lost control of his bladder. Then, like a sudden flash of lightning in a clement sky, without warning Arkansas swung the rifle wide and brought the stock crashing in a powerful blow to the side of Clay’s face.

Clay let out a small yelp that could have come from a puppy dog and then his eyes rolled back in their sockets, his legs buckled beneath him and he fell to the ground unconscious.

Arkansas took a quick look around him but still there was no sign of the other man, the one called Jim. He bent and quickly dragged Clay into the house. He’d tie and gag the man and then get his own horse and hide it out of sight in one of the many outbuildings.

He figured he wouldn’t have to wait too long for Jim to return.