Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191) (12 page)

“Not that big a problem,” Blocker said with a wave of his hand. “You may not be a spy for the gang, Matt, but I'll bet they have 'em. All it would take is paying off somebody who works in the bank here or in Laramie.”

Matt nodded slowly. He knew the sheriff was right. Outlaws generally had ways of finding out where the most tempting targets were.

Blocker heaved himself to his feet, nodded, and left the saloon. Matt thumbed his hat even farther back on his head, leaned back in his chair, and stretched his legs out in front of him. He had nursed his beer for about ten minutes when a voice beside him asked, “Would you like some company, cowboy?”

He glanced up, about to politely tell the saloon girl that he wasn't interested right now, when he saw that it wasn't some painted gal in a low-cut, spangled dress who had asked the question.

It was Emily Anne Hanrahan.

She must have seen the surprise on his face, because she went on, “Don't get excited. Isn't that what women always say to men in saloons?”

“Not women like you,” Matt said as he got to his feet. “Of course, I'm not sure I've ever seen a woman like you in a saloon before, Miss Hanrahan.”

“Sit back down,” she said as she pulled out one of the empty chairs at the table. “And don't bother trying to be flattering. I told you, I'm immune.”

She sat down before Matt could help her with the chair. With a mental shrug, he resumed his seat as well.

“I suppose you and Sheriff Blocker gossiped about me,” she went on. “He told you all about how my father arranged to have the stage station here so I could run it, didn't he?”

“He may have mentioned it,” Matt admitted cautiously.

“Seamus thought I needed something to keep me busy. He knows I'd never be happy sitting around doing needlework and baking pies. Although, I
can
bake a very good pie.”

“I'm sure you can, Miss Hanrahan.”

“Don't make poems out of my name,” she snapped. “It's annoying.”

“I didn't mean to,” Matt said. “It just sort of came out that way.”

“There's nothing you can say to me that I haven't heard before, all the way from ‘Girls shouldn't be running stagecoach stations' to ‘Gosh, I'd shore admire to marry up with you, Miss Emily Anne.'”

Matt had a hard time not laughing. Emily had sounded just like some lovestruck young cowboy.

“I don't plan on saying either of those things to you,” he told her. “You can run all the stagecoach stations you want to, as far as I'm concerned, and I don't have any plans at the moment to marry you or anybody else.”

“Good,” she said, and she sounded like she meant it. “Now that we have all that straight, I want to ask you again if I can talk you into signing on as a guard. You said you've had experience doing that, and from the way Sheriff Blocker talked about you, you're supposed to be hell on outlaws.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I've already got a job.”

“Doing what?”

He glanced around. Nobody in the saloon was paying any attention to them. A pretty little redhead in jeans and a man's shirt might be an uncommon sight in a saloon as far as he was concerned, but the people of Buffalo Crossing were probably used to seeing Emily in here since she was the proprietor's daughter. Confident that no one was trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, Matt said, “I'm going to help the sheriff try to track down those road agents.”

“You're going after the robbers?” Emily's auburn eyebrows arched in surprise as she asked the question.

“That's right. Sheriff Blocker and I plan on riding out to Tomahawk Pass first thing in the morning.”

“Then you're going to be his deputy.”

Matt shook his head.

“Nope. I'm lending a hand just as a citizen. I told him the same thing I told you, I'm not looking for a real job.”

“All right,” she said with a sigh. “But the return run from Rock Springs to Laramie will be passing through here in a couple of days, and right now I don't have a driver or a guard to take it. My father can drive if he has to, but I'd hate to send him out there alone.”

Matt knew she was trying to play on his sympathy. Unfortunately, it was working. He said, “Let me think about it, if you've got a couple of days before the stagecoach comes back through.”

“Sure.” She smiled. “I suppose I could ride along with him. I can handle a shotgun.”

“Now that's not fair,” Matt said, returning the smile.

“I don't worry about playing fair, Mr. Jensen.” Emily got to her feet. “I worry about winning.”

She strode out of the saloon. Matt watched her go, thinking that she was certainly a spitfire, all right.

But it was all a pose, he sensed, at least to a certain extent. Under that hard-edged exterior, Emily was frightened, and he didn't blame her. The way things were going, her whole world might be on the verge of falling apart around her.

Matt had a hunch he wasn't going to be able to ignore that.

 

 

After finishing his beer, he took his horse to a livery stable and made arrangements to leave it there. He went ahead and paid for a week's rent on the stall, figuring there was a good chance he would be around Buffalo Crossing at least that long.

With that taken care of, Matt got a hotel room for himself. The clerk had heard about him—most hotel clerks knew everything that was going on in a town, somehow—and asked, “Are you going to be with us for very long, Mr. Jensen?”

“Don't know,” Matt said. “I reckon we'll just have to wait and see. Where's the best place around here to get some supper?”

“That would be Henderson's Restaurant, on the other side of the street in the next block.”

“Much obliged,” Matt said with a nod.

He had left his saddle at the stable, but he still had his war bag and rifle with him. He put them in his room on the hotel's second floor and then came back downstairs, planning to find the restaurant and get something to eat.

A man was standing at the desk in the lobby, talking to the clerk. As Matt reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw the clerk nod toward him, and the man standing in front of the desk turned toward him.

“Matt Jensen!” he said.

Out of habit, Matt's hand was close to the butt of his Colt. There were already enough men out there with a grudge against him that he never knew when somebody might want to settle a score with him.

This man didn't look like a gunman or an outlaw, though. He wore an expensive-looking charcoal gray suit, a black vest, and a white silk shirt. His cravat had a diamond stickpin in it. His longish brown hair was lightly touched with gray. He managed to be slender and look well-fed at the same time. He was obviously well-to-do.

The man extended a hand and came toward Matt.

“It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Jensen,” he said. “My name is Radcliff. Nicholas Radcliff.”

Matt hesitated before gripping Radcliff's hand. He didn't see any signs that the man was trying to trick him. If Radcliff did try anything funny, Matt could get his Bowie knife out almost as fast as he could draw his gun, and Radcliff was close enough that Matt could gut him in a hurry if he needed to.

The man didn't do anything except smile and give Matt a hearty handshake, though. He went on, “I own the Artesian Saloon. I was hoping I could buy you a drink.”

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Radcliff,” Matt said. “Do you make it to every stranger who rides into Buffalo Crossing?”

“Not at all. But not every stranger who rides into Buffalo Crossing is as famous as Matt Jensen.”

“I'm not that famous,” Matt said with a shake of his head.

“Don't underestimate your notoriety. You may not be as well-known as your brother, but I assure you, there are plenty of people around who know who you are.”

“You know Smoke?” Matt asked.

“I've never had the pleasure. But now I'm acquainted with you. How about that drink?”

“Sorry,” Matt said. “I was just on my way to get some supper at Henderson's.”

“Even better!” Radcliff said. “I know George Henderson quite well. I'll make sure you get the best table and the best meal in the house. Come along, it's my treat.”

Radcliff took hold of Matt's left arm. If it had been his gun arm, he would have jerked free and stepped back quickly, just in case this was a trap. Since it was his left arm, he disengaged it firmly from Radcliff's grip, but without acting like he was being ambushed. He didn't like the saloonkeeper and didn't particularly want to eat supper with him, but he figured the man was just pushy, not a real danger.

“All right,” he said, his natural politeness winning over his dislike, at least for the moment.

“And then we can go to the Artesian and have that drink.”

“We'll see,” Matt said.

They left the hotel and crossed the street, then went along the boardwalk to Henderson's Restaurant. It was a nice place with curtains on the windows and white linen tablecloths, a far cry from the posh eateries Matt had visited in San Francisco but not bad at all for a Wyoming cowtown.

George Henderson, the owner, was a balding, rotund little man who greeted Matt and Radcliff effusively and showed them to a table in a corner next to a potted palm. The location was a bit secluded from the rest of the room.

“Two of your finest steaks with all the trimmings, George,” Radcliff said. “And the best bottle of wine you have.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Radcliff,” Henderson said. “I'll be right back.”

“Seems like you're pretty well-known in these parts,” Matt commented to Radcliff.

The man waved a hand.

“The Artesian is the best saloon between Laramie and Rock Springs,” he said. “That's what people really know.” He took a cigar from his vest pocket and offered it to Matt, who shook his head. Radcliff raised his eyebrows and asked, “You don't mind?”

“Go right ahead,” Matt told him.

Radcliff bit the end off the cigar and lit it with a lucifer. When he had it going, he clamped it between his teeth and said, “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Jensen. Or may I call you Matt?”

“Call me whatever you want,” Matt said, “but if you're about to offer me a job, the answer is no.”

Radcliff grunted in surprise and took the cigar out of his mouth.

“How did you know I was going to offer you a job?” he wanted to know.

“It was just a guess, but two people have already wanted me to work for them since I rode into town, so I figured maybe you were going to make it three.”

“I was,” Radcliff said. “I could use a man like you.”

“Doing what? Tending bar?”

“That would be a waste of your particular talents, wouldn't it?” Radcliff puffed on the cigar again and then went on, “No, I'd be hiring your gun, Matt.”

Putting his hands on the table, ready to push himself to his feet and leave, Matt said coldly, “I'm not a hired killer.”

“Of course not. What I had in mind was hiring you to protect me. You see, there's someone in Buffalo Crossing who wants me dead. He's already made several tries, and it's only a matter of time until he gets me . . . unless I can hire you to make sure that doesn't happen.”

Matt still didn't like Radcliff, but he had to admit he was somewhat intrigued by the man's story. It wasn't what he'd been expecting.

“Just who is it that wants you dead?”

“Oh, you've met him,” Radcliff said. “His name is Seamus Hanrahan.”

A disbelieving retort started to spring to Matt's lips, but he caught himself before he could say anything. Seamus Hanrahan hadn't struck him as the sort of man who would send hired killers after anybody, but he had met Hanrahan only an hour or so earlier, he reminded himself. He didn't really know what Hanrahan was capable of, and the fact that the man had an attractive daughter didn't mean a blasted thing.

Henderson came back with the wine and glasses and poured while Matt thought over what Radcliff had just said.

“I'll have those steaks out here in just a few minutes,” the restaurant owner said.

When Henderson had gone away again, Matt said, “You must rate pretty highly in this town to get such personal attention from the owner.”

“Like I said, George and I are friends,” Radcliff replied. “Also, I own stock in the bank, and it holds the note on this place. I'm sure George would treat me and my friends well anyway, but that doesn't hurt.”

“No, I don't reckon it does.”

Radcliff lifted his glass.

“To an arrangement which will benefit both of us,” he said.

“I haven't agreed to work for you,” Matt pointed out.

“No, but you didn't refuse outright, either, so I still have hopes that we'll be able to conclude a deal. However, if you'd prefer, we'll simply drink to your health for now, Matt.”

Matt nodded and clinked his glass against Radcliff's.

The wine was good, he thought, although he was far from an expert on the subject. As he set his glass down on the table, he said, “I have a hard time believing that Seamus Hanrahan would try to have you killed.”

“Why? The man's from the roughest section of New York. I'm sure he was something of a shady character back there, before he came west. He has the second-most successful saloon in this town, and he wants to be first. What better way than by getting rid of the competition?”

“Wait a minute,” Matt said. “I thought you looked a mite familiar, and now I recall where I've seen you before. You were in that crowd around the stagecoach Hanrahan brought in this afternoon.”

“Guilty as charged,” Radcliff said. “Along with half the other people in town.”

“And you were the fella who made that comment about it not being safe to ride on the stagecoach these days.”

“Well, that's true, isn't it? There have been eight men killed in four holdups, for God's sake.
I'd
certainly be nervous if I had to go anywhere on that stage. Wouldn't you?” Radcliff answered his own question. “Well, probably not, now that I think about it. You're Matt Jensen, after all. But we were talking about Hanrahan trying to put me out of the picture—”

He stopped because Henderson came up, trailed by a waiter carrying a platter with several plates of food on it.

“I hope it's all to your liking,” Henderson said as the waiter placed the food in front of Matt and Radcliff. “Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you.”

“Certainly, George,” Radcliff murmured.

When Matt smelled the steak, he realized how hungry he was. It had been a long time since he'd chewed some jerky and eaten a stale biscuit from his saddlebags for his lunch. He picked up knife and fork and dug in, and Radcliff did likewise.

They ate in silence for several minutes. The food was just as good as the wine, Matt thought, and steak
was
something he knew a little about.

Radcliff was obviously eager to get back to their discussion, though, and eventually he said, “A week ago someone took three shots at me as I was leaving the Artesian one night. I was just lucky they missed.”

“You don't have living quarters in the saloon?” Matt asked.

“No, I have a small house on one of the side streets. I like to get away from business concerns at least part of the time.”

“Did you report the shooting to the sheriff?”

Radcliff made a face and said, “I did. Thomas Blocker is fine for breaking up fights between rowdy drunks, but that's about all he's good for. He said he would investigate the incident, but if he found out anything, he never told me about it. I'm not sure he even tried.”

“Are you sure the shots were aimed at you? Maybe it was just some liquored-up cowboy letting off steam.”

“The first one practically parted my hair,” Radcliff said, “and the other two bullets came almost as close. I was pretty shaken up by the whole thing.” He took another sip of his wine. “But that wasn't the end of it.”

“Go on,” Matt told him.

“A few days later, someone tried to burn down my saloon. One of my bartenders caught a whiff of the smoke in time, thank God. We were able to put out the flames before they could spread very far. But you could smell the coal oil in the alley behind the building where it started. There's no doubt in my mind that the fire was deliberate.”

If coal oil was involved, that was a pretty easy conclusion to draw, Matt thought. In a way, that attempt was more serious than the bushwhacking Radcliff had described. Fire was at the top of the list of things that frontier folks feared, especially those who lived in towns. A blaze could get out of control quickly, and when it did, an entire settlement could burn to the ground.

“If Hanrahan was behind that, he was risking his own saloon, too,” Matt pointed out. “Once a fire starts burning, you can't be sure where it's going to go, or how fast.”

“I'm sure he thought he was safe because his place and the Artesian are at opposite ends of town. He was counting on the fire being put out before it could reach him . . . but after it destroyed my saloon.”

“Maybe. Has anything else happened?”

“Two nights ago, someone threw a knife at me when I stepped out onto the porch of my place. It barely missed. I can show you the spot in the wall where it stuck.”

Matt shook his head and said, “That won't be necessary.”

“Then you believe me?”

“What I believe is that this settlement isn't nearly as peaceful as I thought it was when I rode in earlier today.”

“All little towns have their secrets, I suppose.”

Matt went back to eating. After another few minutes had gone by, he asked, “Did you tell Sheriff Blocker about the fire and the knife?”

“He knew about the fire, of course. It caused quite a commotion. I told him I was convinced it was set deliberately. And I told him about the knife, as well, and suggested it was thrown by the same man who took those shots at me. He promised to look into it.”

The note of scorn in Radcliff's voice made it clear that he didn't expect anything useful to come from the sheriff's investigation.

“So what about it, Matt?” Radcliff went on. “Will you help me stay alive and perhaps get to the bottom of this?”

“Here's the thing,” Matt said. “I've already promised the sheriff that I'd lend him a hand.”

Radcliff looked surprised.

“Doing what?” he asked.

“Tracking down whoever's been holding up Hanrahan's stagecoaches.”

“You won't change your mind about that?”

“Once I give my word, I don't go back on it.”

Radcliff shrugged and said, “I suppose I wish you luck, then. The trouble the stage line is having is bad for the town, and that means it's bad for my business, too. But under the circumstances I'm not going to pretend to feel any sympathy for Hanrahan.” He paused. “I do feel a little sorry for that girl of his, though. He's saddled Emily with quite a problem, and she doesn't really deserve it.”

Matt nodded toward the remains of the meal and said, “I can pay for my own supper, if you want, since I turned down your job offer.”

Radcliff laughed.

“Of course not! My invitations were made in good faith, and they still stand. I'd like for you to come down to the Artesian and have that drink with me.”

“Thanks, but I reckon I'll pass. I was on the trail for a long time today, and what I really want is to get some shut-eye.”

“I understand. Another time, perhaps.”

“We'll see,” Matt said.

Radcliff drained the last of the wine in his glass and said, “Once you've handled that other chore, if you're still around town, I'd like to talk to you again about my problem.” A grim smile touched his lips as he added, “If I'm still alive, that is.”

“It's a deal,” Matt said.

 

 

Matt took a while to fall asleep. The conversation with Radcliff had given him a lot to think about. But when he finally dozed off, he slept well and was up early the next morning. After having breakfast in the hotel dining room, which was simpler and not as good as Henderson's food but still passable, he went to the livery stable and saddled his horse. The hostler gave him directions to the sheriff's office.

Sheriff Blocker was standing on the front porch of the squat stone building that housed his office and the jail, sipping from a steaming cup of coffee. He raised the cup in greeting as Matt walked up leading his horse.

“I figured you'd want to get an early start, Matt,” he said. “All right if I call you that?”

“Sure,” Matt agreed. “But I reckon I'll call you ‘Sheriff.' I was raised to respect my elders.”

Blocker chuckled.

“I fit that description, all right. Hard to believe you've done as much as you have, as young as you are.”

“I got an early start,” Matt said dryly. Like Smoke before him, violence had come early to his life, and he'd had to learn how to stay alive and deal with his enemies.

Blocker upended the coffee cup to get the last drop, and then said, “My horse is in the shed around back. I'll be ready to ride in a few minutes.”

He was as good as his word, and five minutes later the two men were on their way out of Buffalo Crossing, heading east toward the hills where Tomahawk Pass was located. Along the way they passed Seamus Hanrahan's saloon, which was open but apparently deserted at this hour, and the stage station, which appeared to be closed.

“Did the westbound stage go on to Rock Springs?” Matt asked.

“Yep,” the sheriff replied. “There's been no trouble between here and there, so one of the few drivers Seamus has left agreed to take it.”

“All the robberies have been between here and . . .”

“Pine Knob,” Blocker said. “That's the next town to the east. It's about twenty miles, over some pretty rugged country most of the way. Like I told you, lots of places for outlaws to hide, and plenty of good spots for ambushes, too.”

“What happens if Hanrahan and Emily keep losing drivers and eventually nobody will take this run anymore?”

Blocker shrugged and said, “I reckon Seamus will have to forfeit on his contract with the stage line. It'll be a bitter blow for him and Emily both. I'd hate to see it happen.”

“So would I.”

“How come?” Blocker asked. “Seamus was pretty rough on you yesterday when you came into town.”

“He had a lot on his mind,” Matt said. “Besides, he's in the habit of chasing off any young men who come around Emily, like we talked about in the saloon. Put those two things together, and of course he didn't cotton much to me right off.”

“And yet you're out here trying to help him.”

“I don't cotton much to outlaws,” Matt said.

They rode on toward the hills, drawing closer until Matt could see the pass between them clearly. It was about three hundred yards long, but quite narrow, no more than about forty feet at its widest point. Matt studied the twin hills, which were dotted with boulders, scrub pines, and clumps of brush, and commented, “You know, if it wasn't for the rocks and trees, those would look like . . .”

“Yeah,” Blocker agreed with a grin, “we'd be calling them the Grand Tetons instead of those mountains up in the northwest part of the territory. As it is, they're called North and South Tomahawk Peak, but don't ask me how they got the names. It's been that way as long as I've been around these parts.”

Rugged ridges stretched away from the hills on both sides, making Tomahawk Pass the best route through here. Matt could see why the road ran where it did.

As they approached a couple of large boulders in the trail, he pointed at them and said, “Those are the rocks the bandits rolled down the hill to stop the stage?”

“That's right. Seamus was able to get around them, but he said it was pretty tricky. Old Wes never had time to, I reckon. There was probably plenty of shooting going on by then.” Blocker waved a hand toward the hillsides. “They were hidden up there, I'm guessin', on one side, maybe both. Must have opened fire right after they started those rocks rolling. Wes and Tobe never really had a chance, the poor varmints.”

“Hanrahan said they busted open the strongbox. Let's take a look and see if we can find any boot prints. Sometimes that's as good for identifying somebody as a picture of them.”

“Good idea,” Blocker agreed. He reined in and dismounted. Matt did likewise. Leading their horses, they walked over to where the stagecoach had been stopped. They could tell the location from the boulders still in the trail and the welter of hoofprints where the team had come to a sudden halt.

Blocker rested a hand on one of the big rocks and said, “I'm gonna have to come back out here with a team of mules and haul these out of the road.”

“Did Hanrahan tell you exactly where he found the strongbox?” Matt asked.

“He said it was about ten feet north of the trail, empty, with the lid busted open. Probably somewhere around there,” Block said, pointing.