The Fortune Hunters (13 page)

On arrival Dusty found the door had been burst in. He entered the room and saw Waco examining the window’s fastenings while Mark and Topham bent over the ranch foreman’s body. It lay sprawled out on the floor, face down and feet pointing towards the bed, a Colt Cavalry Peacemaker gripped ready for shooting in the right hand. On carrying Borg to bed the previous night, Mark and the others had not troubled to undress him, but laid him on his bed fully clothed, the body still had its clothes on. There was a small hole, blackened and burned by exploding gunpowder, in the centre of the back of the head. Dusty did not need to look at the front, he could imagine the hideous mess the bullet would have made when it shattered its way out.

‘The windows are fastened on the inside,’ Waco announced. ‘And the key’s in the lock at this side, been turned.’

‘We didn’t lock the door,’ Mark stated. ‘But I remember seeing the key in the lock.’

‘What do you make of it, sheriff?’ Dusty asked.

‘Suicide, what else?’

Stepping forward, Dusty looked down at the body. A frown creased Dusty’s brow as he studied the gun. Then he turned to the sheriff and took out his left hand Colt, offering it to Topham butt first.

‘Show me how he did it.’

‘Huh?’ croaked the alarmed sheriff.

‘I don’t mean cock the hammer and shoot, just hold the gun and point it at the back of your head so that if you shot the bullet’d go through at the same angle as Borg’s.’

Determined to show that soft-spoken short cowhand once and for all who was sheriff in these danged parts, Topham took the gun and raised it towards his head. He held the gun normally, forefinger on the trigger, other three fingers and thumb curled around the butt. A snag became immediately obvious as he lifted the gun. No matter how he tried, Topham could not place the barrel of the Colt against his head in such a manner that it would send the bullet through at the same angle as the one which killed Borg took.

‘And that’s only a Civilian Model you’re holding,’ Dusty remarked as the baffled looking sheriff lowered the gun. ‘Borg’s gun has the Cavalry Model barrel.’

Handing back Dusty’s gun, Topham frowned in a pain-filled manner which indicated he was thinking. He looked around the room in a bewildered manner and shook his head as if the entire business was beyond him.

‘He couldn’t have shot his-self,’ was Topham’s brilliant deduction. ‘But who could have?’

‘That’s something we’ll have to find out,’ Dusty answered. Crossing the room, Dusty opened its cupboard door. Like the cupboard in his room, this one also had been built into the wall. Dusty examined the stone bricks, trying to find signs of a door leading into a secret passage. He saw nothing to tell that other than a solid wall backed the cupboard and the floor looked equally firm. Borg’s clothes hung on pegs, boots and other gear lay on the floor, and his gunbelt, its holster empty, hung on a hook behind the door.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to the dining-room.’ The three cowhands followed Dusty from the room, Topham threw a final look around and followed them into the passage.

‘Wished I’d got me a deputy here to guard this room,’ he hinted.

His hint was not taken, the four cowhands carried on walking. With a sigh, Topham went back into the room to wait until the undertaker and doctor arrived from town.

Gaunt had the room to himself when the four Texans returned. Sitting at his table, his head resting on his hands, the lawyer looked bewildered and shocked by the events of the past few hours.

‘I asked Mamie to take the maid to her room, Frankie went with her,’ the lawyer said, lifting his head. ‘Claude’s gone to his room. I get the feeling he’s not as unhappy about his wife’s death as he might be.’

‘Where’s Jennie?’ Dustt asked.

‘I don’t know. Maybe went to help her aunt. You never know with that girl, she flits about the house like a ghost,’ the lawyer replied. ‘What happened?’

‘Borg was murdered,’ Dusty replied quietly.

‘Murdered!’ Gaunt gasped.

‘Yep. Made to look like suicide. Might have worked if only Topham’d been looking into it.’

‘Huh, huh!’ grunted the lawyer, having a low, if accurate, opinion of Topham as a sheriff. ‘But who—’

‘We don’t know,’ Dusty replied. ‘Or how. Frank, where’s Elmo Thackery’s grave?’

‘He’s not been buried.’

‘Why not?’

‘The ravine he fell into is right out of the way on the back range country. It’d’ve been risky, too risky, to try to get the body out; one slip and the man going down would have been impaled on needle-sharp rocks. There was a clause in the will which read, as near as I can remember, “I ask that if my death occurs on a place where my body will not endanger human health, or offend living people’s eyes, let it lie without burial, for I do not wish to be buried underground.” The ravine’s well clear of human beings, so we accepted his last wish and left him there. Had the local preacher out and he read the burial ceremony, then we left the body where it fell.’

More and more the parts of the puzzle fell into place. Dusty could see almost everything. A visit to the ravine where Thackery met his end would either clear up the situation, or blow it up into the air.

‘Go get the cook to bring some food in, boy,’ Dusty ordered. ‘After we’ve ate, Mark, you, Lon and I’re taking a ride.’

‘How about me?’ Waco asked.

‘You stay here and guard the women.’

‘Do you think the killer might try again, in daylight, Dusty?’ Gaunt inquired, watching the young Texan and wondering if he had ever seen Dusty so grim and serious before.

‘I don’t know. All I know is I don’t aim to take any chances.’ After Waco left for the kitchen, Mark asked, ‘Where’re we riding?’

‘Out to where Elmo died. I figure we ought to show our respects. How do we find the place, Frank?’

With a meal under their belts, Dusty, Mark and the Kid took their horses and rode from Casa Thackery. Waco watched them go, wondering why Dusty borrowed a piece of his working equipment. Wishing he was riding with his amigos,
Waco
tended to his big paint stallion. He noticed a fast little grulla gelding which had been in one of the stalls was no longer there, but thought little about it. Possibly one of the hands took it out to graze.

Waco spent almost an hour with the horse, then headed to the house to find Gaunt in the company of the sheriff, doctor and undertaker. Turning to the young Texan, Gaunt said:

‘Can you collect the ladies and bring them to the dining-room, Waco?’

‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Are they in their rooms?’

‘Mamie and Frankie are with Miss Shandley,’ answered Gaunt.

On delivering his message to the women, Waco found that Mamie had a will of her own.

‘Joan’s not leaving this bed. You tell Brendan Topham to come up here and ask any questions he has for us. Frankie, go and tell your cousin Jennie I want to see her here.’

‘Yes’m,’ Frankie answered, looking worried.

‘I’ll take you, short-stop,’ Waco smiled, ruffling her hair. At any other time his action and the name would have brought a wave of protest from the girl. But Frankie was so shaken by the events of the past hours that she did not feel like trying to flirt or have fun.

Her feelings did not improve when she and Waco arrived at Jennie’s door and, after knocking several times, tried the door to find it locked.

‘D-do you think—!’ Frankie gasped.

‘I don’t think anything,’ Waco replied. ‘But I’d sure like to look inside.’

Fumbling in her hair, Frankie extracted a bobby-pin and bent over the lock. Waco tried to see what she was doing, but could not. When Frankie straightened up, she turned the knob and the door opened.

‘Where in hell did you learn a trick like that?’ Waco growled.

‘Cohen taught us how to do it, for when we worked as maids in hotels.’

‘Let me go in first,’ he ordered.

To tell the truth Waco did rot relish what might be waiting for him in the room. However, he pushed open the door and entered. The room, without a doubt the best and most luxuriously furnished in the house, was empty.

‘She’s not here,’ Waco said and the little girl entered.

‘Th-that’s the hem of her dress under the bed!’ she gasped.

‘Easy there, short-stop. That’s the one she wore last night. She had another on this morning.’

Crossing the room, Waco bent and pulled the dress from under the bed. On seeing it to be only a dress, Frankie came forward to take it from his hands. It might make Jennie like her more if she folded the dress, so she started to do so.

‘What’s this on the front?’ she asked, her fingers feeling something which turned the cloth stiff and gritty to the touch.

‘Let me look,’ Waco replied, retrieving the dress and examining the spot.

‘Let’s go, Frankie,’ he said after his inspection.

‘What is it, Waco?’ she gasped.

‘Nothing. Jennie spilled something on her dress, that’s all.’ But that was not all. Even though he sounded truthful and kept his voice even, Waco had lied to the girl. The stiff patch on the front of Jennie’s dress had been caused by a lot of blood congealing.

CHAPTER TEN

FOLLOWING Gaunt’s instructions, Dusty, Mark and the Kid had little difficulty in finding their way across the range and to the bush-covered slope up which Elmo Thackery rode to his doom. There had been considerable coming and going in the area and the point where Thackery’s body went over was much flattened down by many feet.

Leaving the three stallions standing free, for none would stray far, Dusty and the other two walked cautiously to the edge of the ravine and looked down at the shape on the rocks. One glance told them why nobody had attempted to bring up the body for burial. The walls fell sheer and down below the jagged rocks spread over the bottom so that a single slip would mean death for the man who went down to try and bring out the body. Nothing about the body had changed, no animals could get down into the ravine to worry at it and the turkey buzzards appeared to have missed locating the feed which lay in the dark and gloomy bottom of the ravine.

‘Looks like him,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Way I remember him.’

‘Sure,’ Dusty replied. ‘Collect those ropes and let’s make a start.’

In addition to their own ropes, Dusty had borrowed Waco’s before leaving the ranch. Each rope was forty foot long, made of three strand, hard-plaited Manila fibre, and strong enough to halt the rush of a fleeing longhorn steer. Although the ravine was not more than a hundred foot deep, Dusty brought Waco’s rope to ensure they had sufficient for their purpose.

‘Let me go down instead of you, Dusty,’ suggested the Kid. ‘And I’m only asking because I know you’ll say no.’

‘I’m lighter than you,’ Dusty replied. ‘Every ounce’ll count when I get to the bottom, there’ll be the weight of rope above me adding to the strain then.’

‘Allus wanted to die young,’ grinned the Kid. ‘You make sure of them knots, Mark. Dusty’s got my makings in his pocket.’

‘You never take them out and offer them round anyway,’ Mark answered, fastening two of the ropes together.

For all his light-hearted reply, Mark made sure the ropes were securely knotted and would not pull apart at their joining place. A sailor could teach a cowhand little or nothing about tying knots, and Mark was exceptionally skilled at the art.

‘All done,’ he said, after setting his foot on one rope and tugging on the other to test its knot. Crossing to the edge of the ravine, he looked down then raised his eyes to Dusty’s face. ‘Whooee! That’s a mean looking spot for a man to drop into.’

‘If you get any more happy thoughts like that,’ Dusty replied, ‘do us both a favour and keep them to yourself.’

With that Dusty picked the end of the first rope and slid the honda down to form a loop into which he placed his right foot. Dusty tested the honda—a spliced, leather-wrapped eyelet at the end of the rope and used for making the loop—to ensure it would hold firm. Satisfied it would, he stood at the edge of the ravine, placed his foot into the loop and drew tight, took the rope up between his crotch, twisted it around his body and gripped firmly with his hands.

‘All set?’ asked Mark.

‘Ten or fifteen years ago’d be better,’ Dusty answered.

Sitting on the rough edge of the ravine, Dusty looked to Mark, nodded, and eased himself off. Mark braced his feet apart and took the strain, paying the rope out slowly and evenly. Below Dusty lay a hundred foot drop and sharp rocks just waiting to claim another victim. He could see skeletons of cattle, antelope and other animals which had blundered into the death trap. No wonder the coroner’s inquest found Thackery’s death tragic but not unexpected. The old man’s horse had been frightened by something, reared and threw him from the saddle to fall to his death. If Mark made a slip, the ravine would claim another human victim.

Standing close to the edge of the ravine, Mark allowed the rope to slide through his fingers slowly, letting Dusty sink down into the murky depths below. The strain would get worse, for he could not let the rope slide down over the edge of the ravine.

It was so jagged that the fibres might be cut or weakened so as to break and send Dusty plunging to his death. That was why the lowering could not be done by their horses, only Mark’s giant strength could handle the chore in safety.

While Mark worked, the Ysabel Kid kept a watch on the ropes, ready to warn when a knot came, for it would take careful handling to slip one past Mark’s grip without losing his hold on the even running rope. Pure instinct caused the Kid to draw and hold his rifle, and his senses stayed alert all the time. A man did not spend his formative years as the Kid had without developing the caution of a much-hunted lobo wolf.

‘Watch that knot, Mark!’ he said.

‘Got it,’ Mark replied a moment after.

The three big stallions stood to one side. Nigger, the Kid’s white stallion, was a short way from the other two. Like its master, the white had many wild traits and its alertness had been put to good use by the Kid in the days when he ran contraband with his father along the Rio Grande. Always the big stallion stayed watchful, ready to give warning of the scent, sight or sound of approaching human beings.

Such a scent came to the horse’s nostrils, faintly, but drawing closer and taking a pattern Nigger recognised. Fear has its own smell, so has a hunting creature’s body odour. A hunting human being crept nearer and nearer, its scent carried by the wind to the white’s nostrils.

Throwing back its head, the white snorted, looking to where the scent originated. The Kid spun around fast, glancing first at the horse, then in the direction it gazed. A bush some fifty yards away shook slightly, most people would have overlooked its movement as being caused by the wind. Not the Kid. He knew the bush moved without the aid of the wind.

‘Look out, Mark!’ he yelled, bringing up his rifle as he shouted the warning and firing as the last word left his mouth.

Three times the rifle crashed, its lever looking like a blur as he flipped it open and closed. Although the Kid spaced his shots along the bush, a spurt of flame licked out from it. An instant later, his third shot struck something. A rifle flew into the air from the bushes and he heard a startled yell.

Twisting around, the Kid looked to the edge of the ravine. Sick anxiety filled him, for the bullet had not been fired in his direction.

Two things saved Mark’s life that day. The first was the Kid’s shooting; which disturbed the would-be killer’s aim. The second: his fast reflexes. On hearing the Kid’s shout, Mark clamped a firm hold on the rope and dropped to his knees. Even so, the bullet grazed his shoulder and ripped his expensive shirt open. Pain caused him to loosen his hold and the rope shot through his fingers. Mark clamped his hands down on the rope, then he remembered that stopping it dead might snap the fibres. Gritting his teeth, he gradually slowed the rope, feeling it burn his hands as it ran through.

Down below, Dusty thought his end had come. From a steady, even glide, he dropped rapidly, then began to slide faster. He heard the Kid’s yell and the shots so looked up, expecting to see Mark dropping with lead in him. Then his fall slowed down, came to a gradual stop for a couple of seconds. He hung on the end of the rope, not looking down, fighting to regain control of his racing pulse and startled nerves. Dusty was scared and he did not give a damn who knew it. The difference between his fear and panic was that he held the fear in control and hung without trying to improve the situation.

Throwing a glance at Mark and seeing the big Texan on his knees but still holding the rope, the Kid turned his attention to the would-be killer. He guessed his bullet struck the rifle and batted it from its user’s hands. From what he could hear, rustling in the bushes, he guessed the would-be killer was making for safety.

A low, deep-throated Comanche grunt left the Kid’s lips and he plunged into the bushes, leaping in pursuit of the would-be killer. Whoever fired the shot proved to be fleet of foot, for the Kid was no mean hand at running and it took him some time to close the fifty-yard lead the other had. At last he saw a nioving splash of fawn colour among the greens and browns of the bushes. It flickered in sight for an instant, then disappeared behind a bush ahead of the Kid. Racing forward he bounded the bush and crashed down on the buckskin clad shape. They went to the ground, rolling over. The Kid landed astride the wouldbe killer, kneeling and pinning the writhing body to the ground. Up swung the Kid’s rifle, ready to drive the brass butt-plate into the other’s face.

‘You!’ he gasped, recognising his captive through the red mist of fury that had clouded his eyes, and holding off his blow. Slowly, watchfully, he rose to his feet. ‘Get up and walk back there. If Dusty’s fallen, you’ll go in after him.’

Dusty had not fallen, although it was touch and go for a few seconds. At last Mark gained full control of the rope and continued to lower Dusty at a slower, more even pace. Reaching below him, Dusty felt one of his feet touch a spike of rock. Gently Dusty felt his way around the rock and down on to firm ground.

‘Are you all right, Dusty?’ Mark called.

‘Sure. Are you?’

‘Somebody owes me a new shirt. Got a nick in my shoulder, there’s nothing broke but it hurts like hell.’

‘Who did the shooting?’

‘Damned if I know. Lon’s took out after whoever it was.’

Leaning against the ravine side, Dusty freed himself of his rope. Then he unfastened his bandana, shook loose its folds to fasten it over his nose and mouth. The stench of death hung in the air like a cloud and wearing his bandana over his face helped mask some of the vileness of the place. With that done, Dusty worked his way through the rocks towards where the body lay impaled.

Time ticked by. On top of the ravine, Mark put a hand up to feel at the wound on his shoulder. It appeared to be both wide and deep, but might have been far worse. Yet the wound would be dangerous for it bled freely and he still had to get Dusty out of the ravine. Taking out his handkerchief, Mark made a pad and held it to the wound. He was sweating and shaken. That had been a close call, the closest Mark could remember. Not only for himself, but for Dusty down below.

In the ravine, Dusty carried out his examination of the body, finding what he suspected. Picking up the revolver which lay at the side of the body, he thrust it into his waistband, then made his way to the wall and refastened the rope.

‘Can you haul me up, Mark?’ he called. ‘The sooner we’re back to Casa Thackery the better.’

‘I reckon I can,’ Mark answered. ‘Make fast and yell out when you’re ready.’

‘I’m ready now.’

‘You would be.’

Mark drew in a deep breath and started to flex his muscles. The pad fell from his shoulder, but he let it lie. Now would be the most difficult part, raising Dusty’s dead weight. They had never intended to fetch up the body, but Dusty would need to be brought out of the ravine as carefully as he went down into it. The question was, could Mark manage to haul his amigo up with that bad graze in his shoulder?

Gripping the rope, Mark hauled in the slack until he felt Dusty’s weight at the other end.

‘Take it easy, Mark!’ Dusty yelled. ‘I’ll get my feet against the wall and try to walk up. That should help.’

‘
Bueno
!’ Mark answered. ‘This nick in my shoulder’s a mite worse than I thought at first.’

Although Mark tried to keep his anxiety from showing, Dusty heard and recognised it. If there had been less urgency in the situation, Dusty would have suggested waiting for the Kid’s return before getting out of the ravine. What he had just seen told Dusty there was not a moment to lose, and that they must return to Casa Thackery with all speed.

Dusty leaned back against the rope and placed his right foot against the side of the ravine. He looked up at Mark who stood braced against the pull. Drawing in a deep breath, Dusty yelled, ‘Let’s go!’

Taking the strain, Mark began to draw in on the rope. Down below, Dusty felt the pull and raised his other foot, stepping out and up. Slowly, placing each foot with care, Dusty started to walk up the sheer wall. In this manner he took some of the strain off Mark. However the blond giant still supported his weight and had to draw in on the rope.

In every way the climb out was more difficult than the lowering in. Going down, Dusty had been getting closer to the bottom and hanging feet down. If he had fallen then there would have been a slight chance that he might be able to avoid the rocks. On the way up, he rose higher with every step, leaning out at an angle from the wall. Should the rope break a knot slip, or Mark’s strength fail, Dusty would fall backwards and have no chance of escaping being impaled on the rocks.

On top Mark stood breathing heavily, sweat poured down his face, into his eyes, and soaked his body. He felt the salty sting as sweat ran into his wound and wondered if sweat or blood soaked the back of his shirt. Both probably, he thought, clenching his teeth and continuing to haul in on the rope. The knots were hard to overcome. It meant taking one hand right away from the rope to grip over the joint and leaving Dusty’s weight supported on the other. With Mark’s good arm this did not greatly matter, but he had some bad moments when gripping the rope with his other hand and feeling the terrible pull on his injured shoulder.

Mark knew he did not dare hurry his pulling. A sudden jerk on the rope might cause Dusty to lose his footing and slip, and Mark knew his shoulder would not stand up to the weight of Dusty falling.

Just as Mark felt he could hold on no longer, but knew he must, he saw help coming. Shoving his prisoner ahead of him, the Kid came through the bushes. One glance told the Kid all he needed to know. Mark looked at the end of his tether and needed help about as bad as any man could want it. From the way the rope moved, Dusty must be alive at the other end of it. That fact alone saved the prisoner from instant death, for the Kid’s forefinger trembled on the trigger of his rifle as he saw the blood on Mark’s back.

‘L-lend a hand, Lon!’ Mark gasped.

The request for aid put the Kid in a hell of a spot. Already the prisoner had tried to kill Mark and bring about Dusty’s death so would not hesitate to try again given half a chance. Such a chance would be offered while both Mark and the Kid had their hands full of rope. A sudden push might stagger them over the edge of the ravine, or cause them to loose the rope and drop Dusty to his death. Looking at Mark, the Kid knew there was no time to spare thinking of the prisoner’s feelings. If Dusty was to be saved, the Kid must act quickly.

With a shove the Kid sent the prisoner sprawling to the ground just in front of his horse. Letting out an angry snort, the big white stallion stamped hard on the ground with a fore hoof and looked down with flaring nostrils and laid back ears at the human creature on the ground before it.

‘Stay there!’ ordered the Kid and added a warning as he turned towards Mark. ‘Ole Nigger’ll stamp you flat if you move—and maybe if you don’t.’

Looking up at the seventeen-hand high white devil the Kid called Nigger, the prisoner did not doubt but what the black dressed Texan spoke the simple truth.

Knowing the prisoner could give no further trouble, the Kid turned and ran to Mark’s side. Laying his rifle down before them, the Kid reached for the rope.

‘Easy!’ Mark warned. ‘Dusty’s walking up.’

Watched by the hate-filled eyes of the prisoner, Mark and the Kid drew in on the rope. The worst danger had passed now. With the Kid’s aid, Mark could manage to haul in the rope and bring Dusty to safety. For all that, Dusty’s face showed some relief as it appeared at the edge of the ravine. Hooking a leg over the edge, Dusty held out a hand to the Kid and gratefully hauled himself on to solid ground.

‘Thanks, Mark, Lon,’ he said, sitting on the ground by Mark as the big Texan sank to his knees.

‘I had to save Lon’s makings,’ Mark replied between gasps for breath. ‘I might get a smoke out of him before I bleed to death.’

For once in his life the Kid did not challenge a remark about his smoking habits. Standing erect and looking off into the distance, the Kid gave silent thanks to
Ka-Dih
the Great Spirit of the Comanche. While not being a religious man, even to his grandfather’s gods, the Kid reckoned he ought to give thanks to somebody that Mark and Dusty had come through that last fifteen minutes or so alive. They had been in tight spots before, but the Kid reckoned this had been the tightest and they could do without ever having to repeat it.

Just as Dusty turned to tell the Kid to fix Mark’s shoulder, he saw the prisoner cowering before the menace of the white stallion. Although he was not particularly surprised at the prisoner’s identity, the sight still gave him a bad shock.

‘Jennie!’ he gasped.

‘She’s the one who tried to shoot Mark,’ the Kid put in, moving towards his horse. ‘But I’m damned if I know why.’