Nest of Vipers (9781101613283) (14 page)

TWENTY-NINE

Joe Blaine had been camped up in the timber bordering the tabletop and road for three days. He had built a crude lean-to in case it rained. It was well away from the road. He had brought some magazines and books to read since he had no idea when Brad would return. Each day, he moved his horse to another location near his makeshift hut and walked the fringe of the timber, stopping often to listen for the sound of hoofbeats or the voices of men.

Harry had been pleased when he brought Jack Trask in and told him of the witnesses they had located at the mining and logging camps. He had helped Blaine when he made his depositions and the charge against Jack Trask. Now, Trask was in jail and they had all those horses as evidence along with Felicity's horse, Rose, whose brand plainly showed that it had been altered.

He had also met with Cliff Jameson and reported on the progress against the ring of horse thieves. He did not tell Cliff that they had located a large number of the stolen horses. If he had, he was sure that Cliff would get together with the other breeders and ride up to Wild Horse Valley to retrieve their stock. Cliff was happy about the arrest of Jack Trask but demanded that all the others in the ring be arrested and brought to trial.

Joe was careful not to mention any names, including that of Jordan Killdeer. The anger among the breeders had risen to such a pitch that Joe was sure that they would all turn into vigilantes and hunt down the thieves and hang them on the spot. So he had walked a tightrope with Jameson who kept trying to pry information out of him. All Joe said, “We're very close to solving this case, Cliff. You just have to be a little more patient.”

Now, as the sun was setting, Joe braced himself for another night alone in his lean-to. Just before dusk, he lit a lantern and set it firmly in the ground outside his shelter. Then he took a candle, like the ones he had used every night, walked to the road, and lit it. He set it between two rocks that he had used before. From these two rocks, he had constructed an arrow of other, smaller rocks, that pointed to his shelter.

If Brad and Julio rode up to the road, they would see the lit candle and the arrow.

He chewed on some dried beef and a piece of moldy hardtack and downed the meager meal with water from his canteen. He could hear the neighing of the horses down in the valley, the howls of a timber wolf, and the yapping yodel of a coyote every night before he went to sleep. One night he saw a herd of elk pass nearby on their trek to the high country, and a few times, he had seen mule deer come near his lean-to and stare at him out of curiosity.

And the night before, Joe had killed a pygmy rattler with the butt of his rifle. It had crawled onto his bedroll for warmth, never given him a warning rattle. He was still shivery over that incident and resolved to check every inch of the shelter floor, his bedroll, and his saddle blanket.

He thought about building a fire. He had arranged stones in a circle around a pit for just such an act, but decided against it for the third night in a row. The candle was enough of an indication where he was camped, and the lantern gave off a little heat. It was not that cold during the early evening hours. Toward morning it would get pretty nippy, but he had his blanket and his jacket.

He waited outside his lean-to, listening to the forest sounds, looking up at the stars through the pines, and waiting for the moon to rise.

He pulled out his small pocket watch and held it close to the lantern light. It was nearly eight o'clock, and he could hear deer and elk moving around through the timber. An owl floated overhead on silent pinions and he thought he heard the croak of a frog. Then it was quiet and he listened for any sound coming from the road.

A half hour later he heard the soft scrape of hooves coming from the direction of the road. He sat up and cupped a hand to his right ear. Then he heard a chinking sound as a hoof struck a stone. Minutes later he heard low-pitched voices.

Then, a short silence.

“Looks like Joe left the porch light on for us,” he heard Brad say.

Joe smiled.

There was a rustle of cloth and the creak of leather as one of the riders dismounted and picked up the candle.

Joe heard horses coming his way, stepping through the timber, crunching dead pine needles and fallen pinecones. Then, there was no sound at all. As if the horsemen had stopped and were looking at his lantern. He could not see through the darkness beyond the spray of lantern light. He drew his pistol, just in case. But he had heard Brad's voice, hadn't he?

He waited and eased the hammer back as he gently squeezed the trigger so that the mechanism would not make a loud click. A moment later, he heard the muffled shuffle of horses moving toward him.

“You aren't going to shoot me, are you, Joe?” Brad called from the fringe of light. “I know you cocked that hogleg of yours.”

“Come on in, Brad. The welcome mat's out. Such as it is.”

Three riders moved into the cone of light and Joe stood up, thumbed the hammer of his pistol to half cock, and holstered the weapon.

“Howdy, Joe,” Brad said as he eased himself down from the saddle.

“Howdy. I see you still got our prisoner there.”

Wilbur dismounted and then Julio hit the ground.

“Maybe an ally more than a prisoner,” Brad said. “Been waiting long, Joe?”

“This is my third night. What you got there behind your saddle?”

Then Joe looked around and saw that all three saddles had boards under their bedrolls.

“A little surprise for Jordan Killdeer,” Brad said.

“You saw him?”

“Julio and Wilbur saw him. Gave him my message.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much he could say. We've got him by the short hairs, Joe.”

“So?” Joe stepped in close to Brad so that he could look into his eyes.

“I reckon he wants those three hundred head of horses I offered to sell him for five bucks a head.”

“What?”

“It was an offer he could hardly refuse,” Brad said.

Julio stepped in close to stand next to the lantern. “Did you hear what happened with Trask and Canby, Joe?” he said.

Joe shook his head. “No. What happened?”

“Brad, he killed them. In Denver.”

“Holy smoke. Must have been after I left town.”

“It was in the newspaper,” Wilbur said.

“Did the police . . .” Joe started to say.

“My name wasn't mentioned, Joe. Curly got away though. He was upstairs in the saloon with one of those dance hall gals.”

“Whooeee,” Joe said. “That's two less we have to worry about.”

“Curly's the one I want.”

“Is Jordan coming down here?”

“If he wants to buy the stolen horses back, he'll come,” Brad said.

“Then Curly will probably be with him.”

“And a couple of hired guns, too, most likely,” Brad said. He turned to his horse and untied his bedroll. He set the boards down flat on the ground.

“Stack those boards together,” Brad told Julio and Wilbur. “We'll nail them together in the morning.”

After the horses were unsaddled and hobbled, the men sat in front of Joe's lean-to. They had set out their bedrolls under the pine branches and the horses were on a patch of grass.

“What's the box for?” Joe asked. “And the gunny sacks?”

“If I tell you now, Joe,” Brad said, “you won't sleep too good tonight.”

Julio laughed.

Wilbur put a hand in front of his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“What's so funny?” Joe asked.

“Nothing,” Julio said.

“And, there's a roll of heavy twine,” Joe said. “And a hammer and nails to put the box together, I suppose.”

Brad didn't explain. “We've got a lot to do come morning,” he said. “If you're hungry, Joe, we brought grub.”

“I could eat. Want me to build a fire and make us some coffee?”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Brad said. “Julio can help you, and Wilbur can start unpacking the grub.”

They ate by the campfire and talked about everything except what Brad had planned. But he did say something before they all crawled into their blankets.

“I don't know when Killdeer will get down here,” he said. “But I want to be ready for him when he does come.”

“I wish you'd tell me your plans, Brad,” Joe said.

“When the time comes, Joe.”

“Yeah, your time. Not mine.”

“Well, you're a detective, Joe. Detect.”

Joe walked over to the stack of boards and picked them up and examined them.

“Not a very big box,” he said.

“Big enough,” Brad said, and then crawled under his blanket after coiling up his gun belt and setting it next to his bedroll.

“Big enough for what?” Joe asked as he stooped to enter his lean-to.

“If I tell you what it's for, will you stop pestering me?”

“I would,” Joe said.

“It's going to be a snake box,” Brad said.

“A snake box? What in hell's a snake box?”

“Good night, Joe,” Brad said. He took off his hat and lay his head down on his rolled-up saddle blanket. In moments, he was asleep and Joe was lying in his blankets, staring up at the thatch of spruce boughs. Through the needles he could see tiny specks of light from the stars.

He dropped off to sleep wondering what a snake box was. He decided then that Brad Storm was more than slightly crazy. He was a full-blown lunatic, for sure.

THIRTY

Toby Dugan and Cletus Hemphill prowled the saloons from Randall Avenue clear to Central and even on Capitol Avenue for the kind of men Jordan had told them to find. Jordan didn't want drunks. He didn't want army deserters. He didn't want weaklings or cardsharps. He wanted tough, rugged men who lived by the gun and did not care how they got their next dollar.

They even bailed a man out of jail that they knew would fit the bill. He had been arrested for fighting and had gotten thirty days for disorderly conduct. This man hailed from Montana where he was still wanted for armed robbery. His name was Terry Wheeler.

It took them three days to find three more men. One of them was a drifter from Kansas who had worked for a stage line and gotten fired for beating up a driver who owed him money. Lenny Holbrook rode shotgun for the Western Freight Company based in Casper and had a big chip on his shoulder. He had beaten the stage driver to a pulp with the butt of his Colt pistol and was known to have been a suspect in a number of robberies around town. He mostly rolled drunks and was just the kind of man who would fit in with Jordan's scheme. He had been a cattle drover and worked on the railroad for a time. He was mean and muscular, just like Cletus and Toby.

On the second day of scouting for gunmen to ride with them down to Colorado, they ran into a man wandering down Randall toward the center of town. He was carrying a worn-out saddle, a bridle, and a blanket and was covered with dust. They stopped and talked to him.

“Where's your horse?” Toby asked.

“Wore him out comin' down from the Badlands,” the man said. “Had to shoot him this morning.”

“You got money for another horse?” Cletus asked him.

“I can get pretty close, I reckon. Figured to trade my hogleg for a good mount.”

“Where you headed?” Toby asked.

“No place in particular. What's it to you?”

“If you trade your pistol for a horse, you'll be ridin' nekkid,” Toby said.

“I can always pick up a two-dollar chunk of iron that'll shoot.”

“How'd you like a free horse and good pay for a job wranglin' a bunch of horses?”

The man dropped his saddle onto the ground and adjusted the folded saddle blanket on his left shoulder. He squinted up into the Wyoming sun as he looked up at Toby.

“I'd be beholden,” the man said. “You makin' such an offer?”

“Maybe. What did you do up north?”

“What I could. I traded my rifle for that horse what foundered just to get this far.”

“So, you're a tradin' man,” Cletus said.

“Not by choice. It's just the luck of the draw, I reckon. Say, who are you fellas?”

“I'm Toby Dugan and this here's Cletus Hemphill. What's your handle?”

“They call me Jinglebob, but my name's Randy McCall.”

“We got a bunkhouse out at the ranch where you can wash up and get some grub. You can pick out a ridin' horse and go on the payroll before sundown.”

Jinglebob grinned and held out a hand. Toby shook it.

“Climb up behind me,” Cletus said. “You can leave that saddle where it sits. We'll get you a better one.”

They found their fourth man on the third day. His name was Jake Fenimore, or at least he said it was, and he had gone through five of the six whores at a crib on Central when Toby and Cletus saw him sitting outside a tobacco shop with a plug in his hand. He was cutting off a chunk with a big bowie knife, and he wore his pistol low on his hip.

“You occupied?” Toby asked him when they rode up.

“What do mean by ‘occupied'?” Jake said.

“Gainfully employed,” Cletus said.

“I'm a bouncer at a cat house,” Jake said.

“Good pay?” Toby asked.

The man shrugged. “I get by. Some of what I earn comes by way of trade.”

Cletus laughed.

They introduced themselves and found out that Jake owned a horse and a Sharps carbine and didn't care how he made money. He drank some but wasn't a drunkard. He'd had a few scrapes with the law and was a quick draw. He had robbed a bank with some outlaws who roamed Nebraska, but when two of them were arrested, he headed west with a few dollars in his pocket.

Jake was just the kind of man Jordan would take a liking to once he got to know him.

They paraded the four men in front of Jordan on the fourth day. Jordan looked them over and asked a few questions.

“This could work into a permanent job, boys,” he told them. “I need you to help us drive three hundred head of horses from Colorado up here and then to Fort Laramie. Interested?”

They all nodded.

“Thirty a month and found, but maybe a bonus if you happen to plug a certain man when we get down to where the horses are ranged.”

“What man?” Jake asked.

“The man I'm buying the horses from,” Jordan replied.

“When do we leave?” Jinglebob asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” Jordan said. “It's a good three days' ride, some of it up in the hills.”

When the men left the house, Jordan spoke to Toby and Cletus.

“You got us some good men there, boys.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He handed each man a twenty-dollar bill. “I appreciate it.”

“We got grub ready to pack and the other men have bedrolls. You have to buy one of them a rifle.”

“I've got a rifle I can give him,” Jordan said. “He the man who lost his horse?”

“Yeah,” Cletus said. “Good man.”

“Who doesn't know how to take care of his own horse.”

“He bought a broken-down sway-backed nag. I think he was in a hurry to light a shuck,” Toby said.

“All right. We're set then. We'll head for Wild Horse Valley at sunup. Bring plenty of ropes and ammunition.”

“You figure you can put Storm down?” Toby asked.

“I'm counting on it. The man is a damned thorn in my side. He thinks he's pretty smart, but I think we can outgun him with you, Cleet, and this bunch.”

“I think we can, too,” Toby said.

After his men left, Jordan opened his safe and took out two thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. He put the bills in a small leather case and set it on the table. He went to the gun cabinet, unlocked it and took out one of the rifles, a Remington .30 caliber. He opened a drawer under the cabinet and found a box of cartridges. He set these on the table and then lifted another pistol off a peg. This one he would hang from his saddle horn. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 and didn't weigh as much as his sidearm.

“Just in case,” he said to himself.

He walked outside and stood for a long moment gazing at the mountains. They seemed like the backbones of a huge dinosaur in the purple haze of afternoon.

“I'm comin' for you, Brad Storm,” he said aloud. “I'll hang your scalp in my lodge, you bastard.”

Just saying the words gave Jordan confidence.

He fished a cheroot out of his pocket, bit off the end, and lit it with a wooden match.

The smoke wafted away in the breeze.

He ground up the stub of the cigar, which he had cut off, and scattered the tobacco to the four directions. Just as his Cherokee ancestors had done.

His body was half white, he often thought, but his heart was pure Indian.

It was the Cherokee in him that would make sure that this sale would be Brad Storm's last transaction.

He smiled at the hazy mountains.

He was sure that they smiled back at him.