Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191) (11 page)

He figured she would take offense if he told her she was too young, too female, and too blasted cute to be running a stagecoach station, so he just shook his head and said, “No, ma'am . . . I mean, Miss Hanrahan.”

Besides, he told himself, judging by the intelligence and the fire he saw in her eyes, those were unfair judgments anyway. He could tell just by looking at her that she was perfectly capable of running a stage station.

In hopes of distracting her from her current troubles, at least for a moment, Matt inclined his head toward the saloon and went on, “I reckon you're related to whoever owns Hanrahan's Drinking and Gaming Establishment? Or do you run it, too?”

“It's my father's,” she said. “He owns this building and the barn, too, and has the contract with the stage line, but he's given me free rein to run the station. Not that any of this is your business, Mr. Jensen.”

“No, it's not,” Matt agreed. “I was just curious, that's all.” He shrugged. “Some folks might say it's one of my failings.”

Before Emily could respond to that, the old-timer who had come out of the barn said excitedly, “Here comes the stage!”

Matt and Emily both turned to look toward the eastern end of town, where a big Concord stagecoach was rolling toward the station with a saddle horse tied to the back and trailing along behind it. The coach was painted red with yellow trim and brass fittings, although the thick layer of dust that coated it muted the colors and dulled the shine. A large, beefy man in a brown tweed suit was on the box, handling the team. He wasn't wearing a hat, which revealed that he had thinning gray hair.

“Oh, no,” Emily said in a hollow voice. “I don't see Wes and Tobe.”

“Now, that don't have to mean nothin',” the old hostler said. “Could be they're ridin' inside.”

“They wouldn't be riding inside unless they were hurt,” Emily said. “And even if he was hurt, Wes wouldn't let somebody else handle his team unless . . . unless . . .”

She couldn't go on, but Matt knew what she meant.

The coach drew quite a bit of attention as it came along the street. Several people trotted after it on foot. Men called out questions to the driver, who just shook his head and didn't reply. He guided the coach directly to the station and brought the team to a halt in front of the barn.

“Seamus?” Emily asked in a hesitant voice. “What about Wes and Tobe?”

The man jerked his head toward the passenger compartment. The old hostler sprang over to the coach's door with an agility that belied the limp Matt had seen earlier and twisted the catch to open it.

When he did so, an arm fell out and dangled limply. Matt could see where blood had run down over the hand at the end of that arm and dried, leaving a grim trail.

“Tobe . . . ?” Emily whispered.

“Aye,” said the big man on the driver's box. “And Wes is in there, too, lass. Both gone.”

For a second, Matt saw tears shine in Emily's green eyes. But then she gave a determined shake of her head, and the tears were gone. Although her fair complexion was a bit paler than it had been a moment earlier, her face was composed and determined.

The big man climbed down wearily from the box. When his feet hit the ground, he seemed to notice Matt for the first time. His eyes, deep-set in pits of gristle, narrowed with suspicion, and he barked, “You! Did you have anything to do with this? Because if ye did, I'll tear ye limb from limb, as the Good Lord is my witness!”

The man's hostility took Matt by surprise. He frowned and said, “Why would you think that?”

“Because I don't know you, mister, and it'd be just like the spalpeens behind this outrage to send somebody into town to spy on us and make sure nobody's on to 'em!”

The man clenched big, blocky fists and took a step toward Matt. Emily laid a hand on his arm and said, “Take it easy, Seamus. This fella just rode into town, and he didn't seem to have any idea what's been going on around here.”

“Aye, and that's just what the villain would want you to think, isn't it?” Seamus demanded with a snort of derision.

Matt remembered what the old-timer had said about Emily's father going to check on the stagecoach. Seamus appeared to be alone, so that had to be him despite the fact that Emily called him by his first name.

“Listen, Mr. Hanrahan,” Matt said, taking a guess on the man's identity. “Your daughter is right. I had no idea you were having trouble with outlaws. I just found out about it when I heard her talking to this old fella.”

“Name's Ezekial,” the hostler said. “Like the hombre in the Bible.”

Seamus Hanrahan ignored him and poked a blunt finger against Matt's chest.

“Give me one good reason why I should believe you, boyo,” he said.

Matt ignored the impulse to grab hold of the finger Hanrahan had just used to jab him and break it. Instead, he said, “I don't have any reason to lie. I just got here, like your daughter said.”

“And we have no proof of that, now do we?” Hanrahan insisted.

This argument was futile and appeared destined to get even more so, but at that moment the crowd that had gathered around the stagecoach parted to let a newcomer through. The man was medium height and stocky, with a gray mustache. A badge was pinned to his vest.

“What happened, Seamus?” he asked. “One of your coaches get hit again?”

“Aye,” Hanrahan rumbled. “A puncher rode into town and told Emily that he'd seen the coach stopped up in Tomahawk Pass. Said it looked like there'd been trouble. So I rode out to check.”

Emily said, “I should have gone. It was my responsibility. I knew the coach was late.”

“Blast it,” the lawman muttered. “Why doesn't anybody come and tell
me
about these things? I'm supposed to be in charge of keeping the peace around here.”

“Well, when it comes to these holdups, ye haven't done a very good job of it lately, have ye?” Hanrahan asked, which made the star packer flush angrily.

Hanrahan didn't wait for the lawman to answer. Instead, he waved a hamlike hand at Matt and continued, “If ye really want to do something, ye'll arrest this fellow and make him talk. He's part of the gang.”

The utter conviction of Hanrahan's words made Matt grunt in surprise. He said, “That's the first I've heard about it. Why have you got it in your head that I'm an outlaw?”

“Because I don't know ye, and ye come sniffin' around my daughter, tryin' to worm information out of her like a no-good spy!”

“You've jumped to a conclusion that's all wrong, Mr. Hanrahan.”

The lawman turned to Matt and said, “I don't believe I've seen you in Buffalo Crossing before, mister. Mind telling me who you are and what you're doing here?”

For a second Matt wanted to be contrary and refuse to answer the man's questions, but that would just make matters worse, he supposed. He said, “My name's Matt Jensen. As for what I'm doing here, I'm just passing through. This looks like a nice little town and I was thinking about spending a few days here before I drift on, but now I'm not so sure. Place doesn't seem quite as friendly anymore.”

He cast a meaningful glance toward Seamus Hanrahan.

“Matt Jensen, you say?” the lawman asked in an interested tone.

“That's right.”

“You know the name, do ye, Sheriff?” Hanrahan demanded. “The young scut's wanted by the law, isn't he?”

“On the contrary,” the sheriff answered briskly. “As far as I've ever heard, Matt Jensen's always been on the side of the law. He even received a commendation from the governor of Colorado a while back for rescuing a young woman and busting up an outlaw gang. Am I remembering that right, Mr. Jensen?”

Matt shrugged and said, “Close enough.” His natural modesty wouldn't let him boast about it.

“Not only that,” the lawman went on, “but his brother is Smoke Jensen.”

That started some murmurs in the crowd. Most people on the frontier had heard of Smoke. Even Hanrahan obviously recognized the name.

The burly saloonkeeper wasn't ready to admit defeat, though. Instead, he blustered, “That's all well and good, but we got no way of knowing this young scalawag is tellin' the truth about bein' Matt Jensen.”

“That's how he introduced himself to me before you got back to town,” Emily said. “I'm not sure why he would have had any reason to lie about it.”

Her father glowered at her for a second.

The sheriff said, “I remember seeing pictures in the paper when they had that celebration down in Denver I was talking about. This is Matt Jensen, all right, Seamus, and I doubt very seriously if he's mixed up with a gang of stagecoach robbers and killers.”

“Maybe not,” Hanrahan muttered with ill grace, “but what was I supposed to think when I come back into town and find a stranger talkin' to me daughter?”

“He could tell I was upset, and he asked me what it was all about,” Emily explained. “That's all, Seamus.”

As pretty as Emily was, Matt thought, Hanrahan ought to be used to young men trying to talk to her by now. Maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe Hanrahan was tired of trying to fend off a bunch of suitors for Emily's affections.

The lawman said, “All right, now that we've got that settled, tell me what happened, Seamus.” His face was grim as he looked through the coach's open door. “I see they got Tobe and poor old Wes.”

Hanrahan heaved a heavy sigh and said, “Aye. Wes was still on the driver's box, and Tobe was lyin' beside the coach. Both dead. Shot up pretty bad. I found the strongbox on the ground nearby, empty. They'd busted the lock off it with a shovel or a pick, something like that, the filthy buzzards.”

“What about the passengers?”

“No passengers on this run,” Hanrahan replied with a shake of his head. “And thank the Lord for that, although for the company's sake I hate to see folks afraid to ride the stage.”

A man in the crowd said, “You can't really blame them for feeling that way, Seamus. With those killers on the loose, it might be worth a man's life these days to ride the stage. If I was married, I sure wouldn't let my wife and kids ride it, either.”

Several men called out their agreement with him.

“Were they carrying something valuable in the strongbox, Seamus?” the sheriff asked.

Hanrahan glanced around at the bystanders as if he didn't want to answer that question in front of them . . . which in a way was a pretty plain answer, Matt thought. There had been something in that strongbox worth stopping the stage and killing two men for, all right.

“I'll come to your office and make a full report, Thomas,” he said. He took hold of the dead man's dangling arm and lifted it carefully to place it back inside the coach. “First, though, I have to see to havin' these poor lads tended to properly.”

“Sure,” the sheriff said with a nod. “Come to the office whenever you're ready.” He turned to Matt and went on, “In the meantime, Mr. Jensen, it'd be my pleasure to buy you a drink.”

Matt was thirsty after spending a dusty day on the trail. That was why he'd headed for the saloon in the first place.

Besides, having a drink with the lawman would be a good way of finding out exactly what was going on around here, and his curiosity was still aroused.

“And it would be my pleasure to accept, Sheriff,” he said with a nod.

 

 

A few minutes later the two men were sitting at a table in Hanrahan's with mugs of beer in front of them. The sheriff thumbed back his hat, took a long swig, and sighed.

“We haven't been formally introduced,” he said. “My name's Thomas Blocker. Been sheriff around here for a while. And like I said out there, I know who you are.”

“I appreciate you speaking up for me,” Matt said. “Mr. Hanrahan was bound and determined that I was part of the gang holding up his stagecoaches.”

“Seamus Hanrahan is a good man, but his head's like a block of stone in more ways than one,” Sheriff Blocker said with a chuckle. “Once he gets an idea in it, you almost need dynamite to blast it out.” He paused. “Just for the record, you
aren't
a spy for the gang, are you?”

Matt shook his head and said, “Like I told both Hanrahan and his daughter, I just rode into town a little while ago and didn't know anything about the robberies until I heard Miss Hanrahan talking about them.”

“Emily Hanrahan,” Blocker said. “Quite a girl. Always has been. Seamus raised her by himself, you know, and she's a handful. Grew up in a tavern back in New York City, until Seamus came out here for his health. You wouldn't know it to look at him, the big bruiser, but Seamus's lungs aren't the best in the world. He needed drier, cleaner air. And when he got here, what else was he going to do except open a saloon?”

Matt glanced around and said, “It looks like a good one, too.”

That was true. Hanrahan's Drinking and Gaming Establishment wasn't the fanciest saloon Matt had ever been in, but it was certainly clean and well-appointed. The brass rail along the bar shone from diligent polishing, as did the banister on the staircase that curved up one side of the big room. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead. The floor had sawdust sprinkled on it, as was common, but somehow it seemed neater than in most saloons. In a nod to Hanrahan's Irish heritage, shamrocks were even painted in the corners of the front windows.

“It's a nice place, all right,” Blocker agreed. “When Emily got old enough, she wanted to help him run it. Seamus wasn't having any of that. He made a deal with the stagecoach company to locate a station here, and he put Emily in charge of it so she'd have something else to do. She's done a fine job, too. You can't blame those holdups on her.”

“I'm a little surprised she's not married,” Matt commented. “I suppose her pa runs off any young fellas who come around. He seems the type.”

“Yeah, he does,” Blocker said with a grin. “But mostly it's Emily's idea. She's pretty picky, from what I hear. After a few of the cowboys who ride for spreads around here came into town and tried to court her, only to go limping back to their bunkhouses with their hides cut up by that sharp tongue of hers, the other young fellas sort of got the idea they'd be wasting their time.”

That drew a chuckle from Matt. He had spoken with Emily for only a short time, but he could well imagine that what the sheriff was talking about was true.

“So you're just drifting,” Blocker went on.

“That's right,” Matt said, nodding.

“Don't suppose you'd care to sign on for a deputy's job, would you? I've heard that you've packed a star from time to time.”

“That's true,” Matt admitted. “But I'm not looking for a job of any sort right now.”

“Can't blame a man for trying. I could use some help tracking down those outlaws. Seamus may not think I'm trying to put a stop to the robberies, but I'm only one man and I've got a lot of territory to cover. I've tried to trail them, too.” Blocker shook his head. “This is rugged country with plenty of places to hide. I've lost their trail every time I've gone after them.”

Matt thought it over and said, “If you want to try again, I could ride out there with you to . . . what was it Hanrahan called the place?”

“Tomahawk Pass. It's about three miles east of here.”

“It's probably too late today to start,” Matt went on, “but we could ride out there in the morning and take a look around. Maybe pick up the outlaws' trail.”

“And you'd be acting in an unofficial capacity, not as my deputy?”

Matt shrugged.

“That's the way I'd prefer it.” He took a sip of his beer. “Lawmen have to follow too many rules. There's too much paperwork, too.”

Blocker laughed and said, “That's the truth. But if you want to do that, Matt, I'd sure be glad for the help. Maybe you've got a better eye than I do. I'd like to think I'm a decent tracker, but I know there are better ones than me.”

“I learned from two of the best,” Matt said quietly, thinking about Smoke and Preacher. It had been a while since he had seen either of them, and he wondered how they were doing.

As ancient as Preacher was, most folks who hadn't seen him in a long time would be wondering if he was still alive. Matt didn't have any doubt about that. As rawhide tough as Preacher was, Matt wasn't sure but what the old mountain man would outlive them all.

Sheriff Blocker drained the last of his beer and set the empty mug on the table.

“Reckon I'd better get back to the office,” he said. “Seamus will be coming in to tell me why those owlhoots went after this particular coach. My guess is that there was something valuable in that strongbox. Money for the bank, maybe. Alton Farnsworth, the president, gets shipments from the bank in Laramie sometimes.”

“That makes sense,” Matt agreed. “But the outlaws would've had to know it was there.”