Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron (23 page)

“You son of a bitch! She's my wife, damn you!” Dave Waddell raged. He started to snatch the pistol from his belt. But he found himself looking down the barrel of Frisco's Colt.

“Yeah,” Frisco grinned cruelly, “I'm that all right, a son of a bitch and worse. But I ain't the one having trouble choosing between my wife and stealing other people's money.”

“Neither am I,” said Dave Waddell. “I'm going after Ellen. If you say she's in Cimarron, that's where I'm headed. You can go or stay. I don't give a damn!” He started to spur his horse away, but then he stopped, looked at the canvas bag in Frisco's hand, and said, “I'll take my cut of the money now. I'll need it to live on in case Earl and Ellen aren't in Cimarron, and I have to go hunting them farther away.”

“Hell, why not?” Frisco lowered his pistol, uncocked it, and let it hang loose in his hand. He pitched the bag to Dave Waddell. “Here, count out half of it for yourself. Leave my share in the bag.”

“We both ought to count it,” said Dave, wary of a trick, keeping a close eye on the Colt in Frisco's hand.

Frisco saw the apprehension in Waddell's eyes. He shoved the pistol down into his belt. “Count it yourself. I'm not worried about it. Money like that comes to me any day of the week I want to go out and get it.”

Frisco watched Dave count the money onto his lap, then divvy it up and poke half of it back into the canvas bag. “There,” Dave said. “It came to eighteen hundred forty-seven dollars each.” He folded the bills into a thick roll and shoved the roll into his coat pocket. The loose gold coins he shoved down into his trouser pockets. “Now I'm going to Cimarron. I can't say it ain't been fun, what you and I did. But I'm no outlaw, Frisco. You was reading me wrong in that regard.” He backed his horse a step away and pitched the canvas bag to Frisco. “I'd never been out here if it weren't to save my wife. I might have dealt some stolen cattle, maybe done some other little things ... but that's the limit. I'm stopping here before I end up on a rope or dead in the street somewhere.”

Frisco sat staring, his wrists crossed on his saddle horn. He nodded slightly, looking a bit bored. When Dave Waddell finished talking, Frisco said, “Well, all right then.... Best of luck to you. Don't tell Cherokee you've seen me. I think it's time I go out on my own: make more, keep more. Okay?”

“Sure, I won't mention you one way or the other,” said Dave. He watched Frisco lift his reins and start to turn his horse. “Where are you going though?”

“That's not a good thing to ask,” said Frisco.

Dave nodded. “All right.” He started to turn his horse, but then he stopped and said, “You suppose when Earl gets tired of Ellen he'll just turn her loose? I mean, I hate thinking he'd hurt her real bad or maybe even kill her.”

“I doubt he would do that,” said Frisco. “Hell, he just saw something pretty that he wanted, so he took it. Like I said about you a while ago.” Frisco shrugged. “He'll turn her loose sooner or later.” He watched as Dave Waddell looked all around then stepped down from his horse and led it off the trail.

“Thought you was in a hurry to get to Cimarron?” Frisco called out, a faint smile coming to his lips.

“I am,” said Dave, “but it might be better to wait till tomorrow. Let the horse rest ... give myself time to think what I ought to do once I get there.”

“That's a good idea,” said Frisco, stepping down himself and leading his horse off the trail. “I might rest mine awhile too.” Looking down at the trail, noting the deep wheel ruts in the soft earth, Frisco said, “I didn't mention it before, but I bet there's still a stagecoach runs through here ... all the way up from Taos.”

“Yeah?” said Dave. “Does it carry any money?”

“Oh, yes,” said Frisco. “Last time me and Billy Harper robbed it we came away flush for the whole winter.” He grinned and led his horse over beside Dave Waddell's, nodding down at the deep wagon ruts. “There's nothing I hate worse than passing up a nice fat stagecoach.”

 

No sooner had Tuck Carlyle returned to Cimarron than he went straight to the St. James Hotel and rang the bell on the counter. A young man wearing sleeve garters came out from an office behind the counter. His hair was parted sharply in the middle and slicked down with hair oil. He ran a clean hand along one side of his head as if to make sure each hair was in its proper place. “Yes, may I help you?” His eyes widened a bit when he recognized Tuck and saw the deputy badge on his chest. “Oh, you're a deputy now? The last time I recall seeing you ... well, let's just say you were doing less meaningful work.” He smiled. “Congratulations, I'm sure.” There was a slight haughtiness to the young man that Tuck decided to overlook.

“Thanks, Eli,” said Tuck. He got right to the point. “Three men and a woman rode into town earlier, said they would be staying here. The leader was a big fellow named Bartlett ... Fred Bartlett. Did you wait on them?”

“No, sorry,” said Eli. He gave Tuck a blank stare. “Anything else I can do for you, Deputy?”

“Do you suppose Henri Lambert waited on them?” Tuck asked, referring to the hotel's owner.

“No, sorry again,” Eli said crisply. “Mr. Lambert is out of town for the week. If I didn't wait on them, they simply haven't been here.”

“Are you sure, Eli?” Tuck asked. His eyes went to the guest register.

“Are you really going to ask me to check and make certain?” the young clerk asked, sounding a bit annoyed.

“No, I'm not,” said Tuck, relenting. “It just seems strange they would tell me they were going to stay here, then it turns out they didn't.”

“Be that as it may, they haven't been here. In fact, I haven't seen any party of four ride in off the trail all day.”

“All right then, much obliged,” said Tuck. Turning to leave, he saw Sheriff Wright walking along the street toward the office and carrying a pot of coffee from the restaurant, a hotpad wrapped around the metal handle. “Sheriff, wait up,” Tuck called out, hurrying to catch up to him.

“Good afternoon there, Deputy,” Sheriff Wright said, stopping and waiting for Tuck. “I've never seen it fail.... I get a fresh pot of coffee, and folks call out my name from all across town. How did the shooting practice go?” he asked as the two of them headed on to the office together.

“It started out pretty bad,” said Tuck, “but I got back into the hang of it by the time I ran out of bullets.” He shook his head as they walked across the street and stepped up onto the boardwalk. “I feel bad about shooting up so much ammunition.”

“Don't feel bad about it, Deputy,” said the sheriff. “I call it an investment in both our futures. If we should get in a tight spot, I'd like to think you capable of shooting the eyes out of a blue fly if need be.”

“I can't say I'll ever get that good, Sheriff,” said Tuck, “but I promise you I'll always do my best or go down trying.”

“I reckon that's really all I'm looking for,” said Sheriff Wright. “Just a deputy I know I can count on.” He swung open the door to the sheriffs office and walked inside, Tuck right behind him. Sitting the pot of coffee atop a small potbellied stove, he said, “I don't mind telling you, all this money arriving in town to pay for the silver is likely to draw some of the bad element. I expect to see some strange faces turning up most any time.”

“That reminds me, Sheriff,” Tuck said, picking up two clean cups from a shelf beside the stove. “I saw my share of strange faces today.” He filled a cup for the sheriff, handed it to him, and filled one for himself. “Or I should say I tried to see them. I only got a good look at two of them. The sun blocked the others' faces.” As they sipped the hot coffee, Tuck told him about the four riders he'd seen on the trail. Sheriff Wright listened intently, but then seemed to dismiss the matter no sooner than Tuck finished telling him. Seeing a waning interest, Tuck said, “Anyway, I thought it was peculiar, them saying they'd be staying at the St. James, then not doing it.”

“I see,” said the sheriff. He seemed to consider it for a moment, then said, “Do you suppose they might have just changed their mind, pushed on past town, maybe decided to make a camp?”

“Sure, they might have,” said Tuck. “There was just something peculiar about them.... I can't really put my finger on it. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it.”

“You did good mentioning it to me, Deputy,” said the sheriff. “I'd rather hear all day about things that mean nothing than miss hearing the one thing that could get somebody killed.” He offered a tired smile. “We'll both keep a lookout for them. You might even want to ride out tomorrow along the old road and see if you spot where they might have made a camp overnight. With all this silver transaction going on, it won't hurt to keep an eye on the trails in and out of town for a while.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff,” said Tuck, sipping his coffee, feeling like he was once again a part of the world. He noticed his hand was steadier than it had been in a long, long time.

For the next four days, Tuck Carlyle rode out searching the countryside surrounding town in all directions, looking for any sign of the men and the woman. He found no trace of them. On the second day he had found a recent campsite with its ashes still warm. But upon following the tracks leading away from the clearing, he soon caught up with four independent silver miners who were headed southwest toward their holdings along the winding Rio Grande.

“We ain't seen a soul since leaving Cimarron,” one of the miners told him, speaking for all four. “Of course, we left there so drunk, they could have walked over the top of us and we'd never have known it.” Tuck tipped his hat and bid them a good journey.

Realizing the improbability of ever finding those four riders in the endless stretches of piñon forests and jagged bluffs, Tuck reminded himself that they weren't his only reason for being out there day after day. He made it a point to spend at least an hour a day practicing with his pistol until his hand was as steady, his draw as quick, and his aim as deadly as it had ever been. Luckily, the whiskey hadn't completely destroyed him, he thought, his hand streaking up from his holster, the pistol exploding three times just as fast as he could fire it.

Three rocks vanished in a shattered spray of dust. Tuck spun the pistol, holstered it, then drew it again and fired two more shots. Two more rocks vanished. As he walked to the log to set up more rock targets, he dropped the five spent cartridges and replaced them, having cautiously left one live round in the cylinder. When the Colt was reloaded, he spun the cylinder out of habit and twirled the pistol back into his holster. Reaching down to set up more rocks along the log, he stopped and listened to the sound of hooves moving steadily closer through a pine thicket twenty yards away.

Inside the thicket, Buck Hite raised a hand and brought Danielle and the others to a halt. They sat in silence for a moment, then Buck said, “Duggin, Eddie Ray, you two go check out that shooting, then catch back up to us.”

“I'd sooner go by myself,” said Danielle in her lowered voice, not wanting to risk Eddie Ray Moon trying to harm some innocent person and her having to shoot him before finding out where they would meet up with Cherokee Earl and his gang.

“I said both of yas ... I meant both of yas,” Buck said, his voice growing a bit testy.

“Yeah, so come on, Duggin,” Eddie Ray said to Danielle, heeling his horse forward. Danielle nudged Sundown and caught up to him as Buck Hite, Fat Cyrus, and Clifford Reed rode on.

At the edge of the clearing, Eddie Ray stopped and looked back at Danielle right behind him. “You want to see some shooting, watch me,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Buck never said shoot anybody, Eddie Ray,” said Danielle. “He just said check it out.”

“I know what he said. I don't need you telling me.” Eddie Ray looked her up and down scornfully. “But if the opportunity presents itself, I'll show you some shooting that'll cross your eyes.”

“Hello the woods,” Tuck called out, seeing the two riders just inside the tree line.

“Hello the clearing,” Eddie Ray replied, his voice only vaguely concealing some sort of challenge.

Tuck! Danielle gasped, instantly recognizing Tuck Carlyle's voice. She leaned sideways to look around Eddie Ray Moon at the lone shooter standing across the clearing with the pistol hanging down at his side. My God, it is Tuck! Her mind raced. For a second she was caught completely off guard.

Having noted the tone of voice coming from the thicket, Tuck called out in a civil but not overfriendly voice, “Come forward and show yourselves.”

“Stay behind me,” Eddie Ray whispered over his shoulder.

“Like hell,” Danielle hissed, coming to her senses quickly and heeling Sundown forward, forcing herself and the mare ahead of Eddie Ray and into the clearing. She made sure to tug her hat brim down. She held her reins with her left hand and made sure to keep her right hand away from her Colt. “Tuck? Tuck Carlyle?” she asked, wanting to let Eddie Ray Moon hear right away that she knew this person. “My ole trail pal from Texas?”

Tuck took a step forward, cocking his head slightly, trying to believe his eyes. “Danny Duggin?” Then he was certain. “Well, I'll be.... It is you!” He raised his pistol and slid it down into his holster.

Noting the badge on Tuck's chest, Danielle wished he'd kept the pistol in his hand. But it was too late to tell him that. “Yep, it's me all right, Tuck.” She touched her fingertips to her hat brim, then stepped the chestnut mare forward. “Never thought I'd run into you again.” She pulled the mare to one side and gave Eddie Ray Moon a look, letting him know that he'd better not start any trouble.