The Pinkerton Job (6 page)

SEVENTEEN

Clint, Siringo, and Horn managed to ride out of town without any trouble. They reached the point where the Sandusky gang's tracks mixed in with others, then they circled around to the other edge of town until Horn picked up the trail again. Clint and Siringo followed behind, letting the man do what he did best.

“There it is,” Tom Horn said, pointing at the ground. “They seem to be heading to Lincoln.”

*   *   *

About an hour later Horn reined in, Clint and Siringo doing the same behind him.

“They're still heading south,” the tracker said.

“Mexico,” Clint suggested.

“Eventually,” Siringo said, “but Lincoln first.”

Clint gave Siringo a surprised look.

“You think they're going to hit a ranch in Lincoln?” he asked. “Having some cattle with them will slow them down.”

“It's what they do,” Siringo said. “If they think I'm dead and nobody's on their trail, why not stop and make a few extra dollars?”

“Sounds right to me,” Horn said.

“Let's stay on their trail,” Siringo said. “They could be heading to one of the bigger ranches.”

“Okay,” Clint agreed, “this is your show, Charlie. Let's move.”

*   *   *

Sandusky looked down at the ranch that spread out beneath them. Anderson sat his horse next to him. The rest of the men were behind.

“There you go,” Sandusky said, pointing. “Plenty to pick from.”

“Are you really sure about this, Harlan?” Anderson asked.

“Stop worryin', Cal,” Sandusky said. “When have I ever been wrong?”

Anderson didn't answer, but if Charlie Siringo was still alive, then Sandusky was wrong now! That meant he could be wrong again.

“When we gonna hit 'em?” Anderson asked.

“It's gettin' dark,” Sandusky said, looking at the sky. “Let's hit 'em at first light, before they have a chance to wake up.”

“I'll tell the others.”

Anderson rode back to the other men while Sandusky remained where he was. He was thinking about Charlie Siringo. If the detective was not already dead, he was hoping he
would
catch up to them so Sandusky could kill him, once and for all.

“Gettin' dark,” Siringo said.

“They can't be that far ahead,” Horn said. “If we keep goin'—”

“I don't want to ride in the dark,” Siringo said, shaking his head.

“Because of me?” Horn demanded. “You think I'm gonna fall off my horse?”

“Because of the horses,” Siringo said. “I don't want one of them steppin' into a chuck hole. The last thing we need is a horse with a broken leg, Tom.”

“I agree,” Clint said. “If we're that close, we can catch them in the morning.”

“Fine,” Horn said, looking at Siringo. “It's your call.”

They made camp, started a fire, had a dinner of bacon and beans they had purchased in Carrizozo.

They sat around the fire, Horn leaning to one side to favor his injured leg.

“You think we got anybody followin' us?” Siringo asked.

“Like who?” Horn asked.

“Like the Monroe brothers?” Clint asked.

“You think those three idiots are gonna come after us?”

“They're out for revenge for their dead brother,” Siringo said. “They're not gonna give up that easy.”

“I don't think they want to go back home and tell their mother what happened,” Clint offered.

“Well,” Horn said, “as far as I can tell, there ain't nobody behind us.”

“I'll take the first watch,” Clint said. “Just to make sure.”

“I'll go next,” Siringo said. “Is there any more coffee left?”

“I thought you didn't like my coffee,” Clint said, lifting the pot.

“Just pour,” Siringo said, holding out his cup. “I'll take what I can get.”

They moved around after that, Horn rolling himself up in his bedroll with some effort, trying to get comfortable on the ground.

Siringo got his own bedroll ready, but then came back to the fire. Clint handed him another cup of coffee, then set to making a new pot.

“Damn you,” Siringo said. “I think I'm gettin' used to this stuff.”

“I told you, it's good for you,” Clint said, putting the pot back on the fire.

Siringo hunkered down and drank his coffee.

“Something on your mind?” Clint asked.

“Nope,” Siringo said, “I just wanted another cup before I turn in.” But he looked over his shoulder at Horn, leading Clint to believe there was, indeed, something on this mind.

Finally he said, “Yeah, all right, I'm worried about Horn.”

“What about him?”

“When we catch up to the gang, we're gonna be outnumbered,” Siringo said. “If Tom was not injured, I wouldn't worry about it so much. But the way he is . . . well, I don't know.”

“Look, Charlie,” Clint said, “Tom's a grown man, he can make up his own mind. And if we get into a firefight with twelve men and you're worried about him, you're going to get yourself killed.”

“Yeah, you're right, Clint,” Siringo said. “I know that.”

“So just get yourself some sleep and we'll come up with a plan in the morning.”

“Yeah, okay, that works.” Siringo had a last sip, then threw the remnants into the fire, which flared up. “G'night.”

Watching Siringo wrap himself up in his bedroll, Clint hoped it wasn't going to be
him
getting killed because he was worried about the both of them.

EIGHTEEN

Tom Horn stood the last watch and woke Clint and Siringo in the morning.

“Coffee's on,” he announced. “Come on, we gotta get goin' before they get too far ahead of us.”

“Okay, okay,” Clint grumbled, “I'm up.”

Siringo rolled out and got his feet without complaint. They all had coffee and then went about breaking camp and saddling the horses.

“We're gonna have to pick up the pace today, Tom,” Siringo said to Horn when the horses were ready. Horn knew what he meant. They were going to have to push everyone harder, the horses and themselves.

“I'm ready,” Horn said. “Let's catch up to those bastards today.”

“Okay,” Siringo said, “but we've got to know what we're gonna do when we do catch 'em.”

“Whataya mean?” Horn said. “We're gonna take 'em down.”

“There's gonna be at least twelve of them, Tom,” Clint said. “Just how do you suggest we take twelve of them down?”

“By surprise.”

“And how do you think three of us are going to surprise twelve of them?” Clint asked.

“Ambush,” Horn said right away, like he had all the answers.

That didn't sit right with Clint. No matter who he was hunting, he felt no one ever deserved to be shot from an ambush.

“I can't do that,” Clint said.

“Why not?” Horn asked.

“Shooting anybody in the back just goes against the grain.”

“You mean after all these years of killin' men, you're gettin' religion?” Horn asked.

“Religion's got nothing to do with it,” Clint said. “Nobody deserves to be shot in the back.” He let the comment about him killing so many men go for now. It had always been his contention—even before his friend Wild Bill was killed by a coward from behind—that shooting somebody in the back was wrong.

Horn looked to Siringo for support.

“Sorry, Tom,” the detective said, shaking his head. “I agree. Shooting somebody—anybody—from ambush? That's just murder.”

“You've both killed men before,” Horn argued. “Why so antsy about it now?”

“I only killed when they were trying to kill me,” Clint said.

“Same here,” said Siringo.

Horn stared at them.

“I'm surprised you two have managed to live this long,” he said finally. “Okay, so what do you propose that we do?”

“Divide and conquer,” Clint said.

“Huh?” Horn said.

“Instead of tryin' to take them all at once,” Siringo said, “we try to take them a few at a time.”

“How do we do that?”

“Well, that's what we've got to figure out,” Siringo said.

*   *   *

Once they were back on the trail, Horn predicted they were going to catch up to the Sandusky gang within hours, so they really needed to come up with a strategy by then.

They had no idea how things were going to change.

NINETEEN

Harlan Sandusky watched as his men followed his instructions.

Below them were three wranglers working with about a hundred head of cattle. They were probably driving them to a place where they would join with the majority of the herd.

Sandusky intended for them never to get there.

He sent half a dozen of his men down to grab the cattle, and dispose of the hands. The simplest and easiest way was for them to get as close as possible, and then start shooting.

Just in case that started the hundred head stampeding, he had placed the rest of his men so that they'd be able to intercept the small herd and stop them before they really got started. Delilah remained at his side.

He and Anderson watched the action, making sure that everything went right.

It did.

The three ranch hands were dead before they knew what happened. The cows did panic and start to run, but the rest of the men successfully cut them off and stopped them.

Sandusky and Anderson rode down to where the nine men were sitting their horses, surrounding the cows.

“Cal, better check those wranglers,” Sandusky said.

“Right.”

Sandusky rode around the small herd, examining the beeves.

“Where we gonna sell 'em, boss?” one man asked.

“Mexico.”

“We gonna drive these cows all the way to ol' Mexico?” another man asked, surprised. “What if they send a posse after us?”

“You know a posse we couldn't take care of?” Sandusky asked. “Don't worry about that.”

“Harlan knows what he's doin',” Delilah chimed in.

But the men
were
worried. Driving a hundred head to Mexico didn't sound possible to them—not without getting caught.

Anderson came riding up and said, “They're all dead, Harlan.”

“Good,” Sandusky said. “That'll send a message. Won't be too many volunteers for a posse after they see this. They do manage to get a posse together, ain't gonna be much of one.”

“Where to now?” Anderson asked.

“South,” Sandusky said, “we just keep on goin' south. And keep these cows tight. I don't wanna lose any of 'em.” He stood up in his stirrups. “Move 'em out!”

*   *   *

Three hours later Clint, Siringo, and Tom Horn rode up to a ranch house where a group of men were gathered.

“Uh-oh,” Siringo said.

“Looks like they hit already,” Clint said.

“I don't like the way this looks,” Horn said. “We should get out of here.”

“Uh-uh. We've got to find out what happened,” Siringo said.

“That looks like a lynch mob to me,” Tom said, pointing.

“They don't lynch people for stealin' cattle,” Siringo said. “Come on, we'll be okay. Besides, I can prove who I am.”

Horn looked at Clint, who shrugged, and the three men rode for the ranch house.

*   *   *

“They don't lynch men for stealin' cattle,” Tom Horn repeated to Siringo twenty minutes later. “Is that what you said?”

“Shut up.”

Clint, Siringo, and Horn were sitting their horses with their hands tied behind them. They had no sooner ridden up to the group of men than they were set upon, disarmed, and tied. The men did not even give them a chance to say their piece.

“You men are making a big mistake,” Clint said.

“Shut up!” someone yelled. “You killed three good men and you're gonna hang for it!”

“It wasn't us!” Siringo chimed in. “We're huntin' the men who did it.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“If we did it,” Siringo asked, “why would we come ridin' back?”

“Who knows what killers do?” somebody asked.

“Aw, hell,” somebody else said, “here comes the sheriff.”

“Quick,” someone said, “hang 'em.”

But there was no way they could get the nooses around the necks of Clint, Siringo, and Horn before the man with the badge rode up to them and reined in.

“What the hell is goin' on?” he demanded.

“We're hangin' some no good murderin' rustlers, Sheriff!”

“No, you're not,” the lawman said. “Get 'em down off them horses!”

Grumbling, three men stepped forward and eased Clint, Siringo, and Horn off their horses.

“Thank God, Sheriff,” Siringo said. “These men were makin' a big mistake.”

“That remains to be seen,” the sheriff said. “Who are you men?”

“My name's Charlie Siringo,” Siringo said. “I'm trackin' those rustles for the Pinkertons.”

“You got some proof you're a Pinkerton?” the sheriff asked.

“In my saddlebags.”

The lawman walked to Siringo's horse, went into his saddlebags, and came out with his credentials.

“Aw, for Chrissake!” he groaned. “Untie them. You men are idiots!”

“How was we supposed to know he was a Pinkerton?” someone shouted.

“Maybe by askin' him who he was?” the lawman said. “Maybe by checking his bona fides before you hung him? How about that?”

Clint, Siringo, and Horn had their hands cut free.

“Give 'em back their guns.”

They accepted their guns and holstered them.

“Well, Mr. Pinkerton,” the sheriff said, “who are your friends?”

“Tom Horn,” Horn said.

“Clint Adams,” Clint added.

The lawman hesitated a moment, then said, “Aw, jeez . . .”