Long Ride Home (Ss) (1989) Read online

  Suspicion was alive in his eyes as he studied the Kid. Seeing it, the Cactus Kid gambled. “Say, maybe that explains it! They were hunting somebody else an’ got me by mistake! They seemed to think I had money, tried to get me to bet higher. Shucks,” the Kid smiled innocently, “I’ve never had more’n a hundred and twenty dollars at one time!”

  Bull Run Allen was not convinced. He wanted a look inside that carpetbag. On the other hand this youngster might be telling the truth and while they talked a rich prize might be getting away.

  Bull Run stepped to the door and yelled to a man to send up One-Ear Tim. The manager and bouncer was a burly character with one ear missing and a scarred face.

  “Get hold o’ the Banker,” Bull Run ordered. “I want a talk with him.” He grinned at the Kid as Tim walked away. “Now we’ll find out about this here.”

  The Cactus Kid got to his feet. “Sorry I won’t have time to wait,” he said. “I’m heading for the Palace Hotel. You can see me there.”

  Allen gave vent to a fat chuckle of amusement. “Don’t think I couldn’t,” he said, “but you sit still. We’ll talk to the Banker first.”

  “No,” the Kid replied quietly, “I can’t wait.” In his hand he held a .44 Colt. “You come with me, Bull Run. Only you go first.”

  Allen’s eyes grew ugly. “You can’t get away with this!” he sneered. “I ain’t goin nowheres, so go ahead an’ shoot. No durned kid can ” he lunged, both. Hands spread wide.

  The Cactus Kid was in his element. He struck down Allen’s reaching left and smashed the barrel of his Colt over the big man’s ear, and Allen hit the floor as if dropped from a roof. Quickly, the Kid stepped outside to the balcony. Still clutching the carpetbag with his left hand, his right hovering near the butt of his .44, he walked down the stairs to the brawling room below, crowded with gamblers and drinkers.

  Almost at the door he ran into Tim. The bouncer stopped him. “Where you goin’? The boss wanted you to talk to the Banker.”

  “He wanted the Banker himself,” the Kid said shortly. “Hurry it up, he’s already sore.”

  Tim stared hard at him, but stepped aside, and the Kid walked out into the dark street. Turning left he walked swiftly for a dozen steps then crossed the street and ducked into a dark alley. A few minutes later he arrived at the Palace Hotel.

  It was broad day when he awakened. While he bathed and shaved, he thought about his situation. Whoever had tipped the Banker and Starrett to the fact that he carried money must have been close to Macintosh.

  Two attempts had been made to get the money from him and it was likely that two groups now searched for him, only now both groups not only wanted the money but to kill him as well. Allen would not take that pistol blow without retaliation. He dared not, not in this town.

  In a town where a man could he murdered for a drink, where it was the proud boast of many that “anything goes,” daylight would not end the search for him. Allen had not been boasting when he said his reach included the Palace. So, figure it this way: Bull Run Allen knew where he was. He would know within a matter of minutes of the time the Kid left the hotel. Even in such a fine place as the Palace was, men could be found who would give information for money.

  The Kid’s safest bet was to get word to Macintosh that he had the money, then make contact somewhere away from his business office, which might be watched. He checked his guns and returned them, fully loaded, to their places and walked into the hallway, carrying the bag.

  A man in a brown suit sat at the end of the hall. He glanced up when the Kid stepped out, then, apparently unconcerned, went back to his paper and turned a page.

  The Cactus Kid walked briskly along the hall. Around the corner, he sprinted to the far end and ducked down the back stairs, taking the first flight in about three jumps. Walking the rest of the way more slowly, he stepped out of the hack door when the janitor’s back was turned. Entering the back door of another building he walked on through to the street and boarded a horse car.

  A roughly dressed man loitered in front of the building where Macintosh had his office, and when the Kid got down from the car the fellow turned and started down the street, almost at a run. The Kid grinned and walked into the building and down the hall to the office door. Macintosh’s name was on the door but he hesitated. If they were waiting for him elsewhere they might also have men planted here. Glancing around, he spotted a door marked Private. Taking a chance he opened it and stepped inside.

  A big-shouldered man with a shock of white hair and a white, carefully trimmed beard looked up. He was about to speak when the outer door opened and a girl stepped in. Her eyes went wide when she saw the Kid and she stepped back hastily.

  “Lily,” he exclaimed, and started forward.

  Before he could get halfway across the room that door opened again and Banker Barber stepped in. His jaw was hard and his eyes cold. He held a gun in his hand. He motioned toward the carpetbag. “I’ll take that!” he said sharply. “Drop it on the floor and step back!”

  The Kid knew from his eyes that the Banker would shoot. He also guessed he was more anxious to get the money than revenge and would not shoot in this building unless necessary. The Kid dropped the bag reluctantly and moved back. The Banker took a quick step forward and grasped the handle. Backing away, he unsnapped the top and thrust his hand inside. Keeping his eyes on the two men he drew out a thick sheaf and glancing quickly, his eyes came up, hard with triumph. Dropping the packet back into the bag he snapped it shut.

  “Thanks!” he said grimly. “It was worth the trouble!”

  “Be careful that Bull Run doesn’t take that away from you,” the Cactus Kid advised. “He has this place watched and he knew I came here.”

  “Don’t worry!” the Banker replied grimly. “He won’t get this! Nobody,” he added, “gets this but me.” He backed to the door and opened it. “I’d like to know who taught you to bottom deal. You’re good!” He stepped back through the door. “And don’t try to follow me or I’ll kill you.”

  He jerked the door shut. There was a thud, a grunt, and something heavy slid along the door. Then there were running footsteps. Outside in the street there was a shout, a shot, then more running feet.

  Macintosh leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he said testily, “I’m not taking the loss! The money was still in your possession! I’m sorry for Jim Wise, but he still owes me fifteen thousand dollars!”

  With a cheerful smile the Cactus Kid went to the door and pulled it open. The body of Banker Barber fell into the room. His skull was bloody from the blow that had felled him, but he was still alive.

  “Down in the street,” the Kid said, “somebody was just shot. I’m betting it was Starrett. And in a few minutes Bull Run Allen will be cussing a blue streak!”

  “He got the money,” Macintosh said sourly, “so why should he cuss?”

  The Cactus Kid grinned broadly. From his inside coat pocket he drew an envelope and took from it a slip of paper. He handed it to Macintosh. “A bank draft,” the Kid said complacently, “for fifteen thousand dollars! This morning after I slipped away from them, I went to the Wells Fargo and deposited the money with them. Now make out the receipt and I’ll make this right over to you.”

  Old Macintosh chuckled. “Fooled ‘em, did you? I might have known anybody old Jim Wise would send with that much money would be smart enough to take care of it. What was in the bag?”

  “Some packets of carefully trimmed green paper topped with one dollar bills,” he said, grinning. “It cost me a few bucks, but it was worth it.”

  Macintosh chuckled, his eyes lively with humor. “I’d like to see Bull Run’s face when he opens that carpetbag! He fancies himself a smart one!” Then he sobered. “You called that girl by name. You know her?”

  “She was with them on the boat,” the Kid explained. “She even got into the poker game when they tried to rook me. She’s good, too,” he added, “but she most have been the one who tipped them off. It had to be somebody wh
o knew I’d be carrying money. Who is she?”

  “She’s been working for me!” Macintosh said angrily. “Working until just now. I never did put no truck in women folks workin’ around offices but she convinced me she could help me and she didn’t cost me no more’n a third what a man cost!”

  “With a woman,” the Cactus Kid said, “it ain’t the original cost. It’s the upkeep!”

  :E

  Chapter 1.

  After the rifle shots there was no further sound, and Kim Sartain waited, listening. Beside him Bud Fox held his Winchester ready, eyes roving. “Up ahead,” Kim said finally, “let’s go.”

  They rode on then, walking their horses and ready for trouble, two tough, hard-bitten young range riders, top hands both of them, and top hands at trouble, too.

  Their view of the trail was cut off by a jutting elbow of rock, but when they rounded it they saw the standing, riderless horse and the uncomfortably sprawled figure in the trail. Around and about them the desert air was still and warm, the sky a brassy blue, the skyline lost in a haze of distance along the mountain ridges beyond the wide valley.

  When they reached the body, Kim swung down although already he knew it was useless. A man does not remain alive with half his skull blown off and bullets in his body. The young man who lay there unhappily at trail’s end was not more than twenty, but he looked rugged and capable. His gun was in his holster, which was tied in place.

  “He wasn’t expecting trouble,” Bud Fox said needlessly, “an’ he never knew what hit him.”

  “Dry-gulched.” Kim was narrow of hip and wide of shoulder. There were places east and south of here where they said he was as fast as Wes Hardin or Billy the Kid. He let his dark, cold eyes rove the flat country around them. Beats me where they could have been hidin’.”

  He knelt over the man and searched his pockets. In a wallet there was a letter and a name card. It said he was JOHNNY FARROW, IN CA. OF ACCIDENT NOTIFY HAZEL MORSE, SAND SPRINGS STAGE STATION. Kim showed this to Bud and they exchanged an expressionless look.

  “We’ll load him up,” Kim said, “an’ then I’ll look around.”

  When the dead man was draped across his own saddle, Kim mounted and, leaving Bud with the body, rode a slow circle around the area. It was lazy warns in the sunshine and Bud sat quietly, his lean, rawboned body relaxed in the saddle, his watchful gray eves looking past the freckles of his face. He was wise with the wisdom of a young man who never had time to be a boy, yet who still was, at times.

  Kim stopped finally, then disappeared completely as if swallowed by the desert. “Deep wash,” Bud Fox said aloud. He got out the makings and rolled a smoke. He looked again at the body. Johnny Farrow had been shot at least six times. “They wanted him dead. Mighty had, they wanted it.”

  Kim emerged from the desert and rode slowly back. When he drew up he mopped the sweat from his Ike. “They laid for him there. Had him dead to rights. About twenty-five yards from their target and they used rifles. When they left, they rode off down the wash.”

  “How many?” Bud started his horse walking, the led horse following. Kim Sartain’s horse moved automatically to join them.

  “Three.” Kim scanned the desert. “Nearest place for a drink is Sand Springs. They might have gone there.”

  They rode on, silence building between them. Overhead a lone buzzard circled, faint against the sky. Sweat trickled down Kim’s face and he mopped it away. He was twenty-two and had been packing a six-gun low on his leg for seven years. He had started working roundups when he was twelve.

  *

  BAD PLACE TO DIE

  Neither spoke for several miles, their thoughts busy with this new aspect of their business, for this dead young man across the saddle was the man they had come far to see. The old days of the Pony Express were gone, but lately it had been revived in this area for the speeding up of mail and messages. Young Johnny Farrow had been one of the dozen or so riders.

  Both Sartain and Fox were riders for the Tumbling K, owned by Ruth Kermit and ramrodded by Ward McQueen, their gunfighting foreman. One week ago they had been borrowed from the ranch by an old friend and were drifting into this country to investigate three mysterious robberies of gold shipments. Those shipments had been highly secret, but somehow that secret had become known to the outlaws. The messages informing the receiving parties of the date of the shipment had been sent in pouches carried by Johnny Farrow. Five shipments had been sent, two had arrived safely. Those two had not been mentioned in messages carried by Farrow.

  The mystery lay in the fact that the pouches were sealed and locked tightly with only one other key available, and that at the receiving end. Johnny Farrow’s ride was twenty-five miles which took him an even four hours. This route had been paced beforehand by several riders, and day in and day out, four hours was fast time for it. There were three changes of horses, and no one of them took the allowed two minutes. So how could anyone have had access to those messages? Yet the two messages carried by other riders had gone through safely. And the secret gold shipments had gone through because of that fact.

  “Too deep for me,” Fox said suddenly. “Maybe we should stick to chasm’ rustlers or cows. I can’t read the brand on this one.”

  “We’ll trail along,” Kim said, “an’ we got one lead. One o’ the hombres in this trick is nervous-like, with his fingers. He breaks twigs.” Sartain displayed several inch-long fragments of dead greasewood. Then he put them in an envelope and wrote across it, FOUND WHERE KILLERS WAITED FOR JOHNNY FARROW, and then put it in his vest pocket.

  Chapter 2.

  Ahead of them were some low hills, beyond them rose the bleak and mostly bare slopes of the mountains. Higher on those mountains there was timber, and there were trailing tentacles of forest coming down creases in the hills, following streams of run-off water. The trail searched out an opening in the low hills, and they rode through and saw Sand Springs before them.

  The sprawling stage station with its corrals and barn was on their right as they entered. On the left was a saloon and next to it a store. Behind the store there was a long building that looked like a bunkhouse. The station itself was a low—fronted frame building with an awning over a stretch of boardwalk, and at the hitch-rail stood a half-dozen horses. As Sartain swung down he looked at these horses. None of them had been hard ridden.

  A big man lumbered out of the door, letting it slain behind him. He was followed by two more roughly dressed men and by two women, both surprisingly pretty. Across the street on the porch of the saloon a tall old man did not move, although Sartain was aware of his watching eyes.

  “Hey?” The big man looked astonished. “What’s happened?”

  “Found him up the road, maybe six or seven miles. He’d been dry-gulched. It’s Johnny Farrow.”

  One of the girls gave a gasp; and Kim’s eyes sought her out. She was a pretty, gray-eyed girl with dark hair, much more attractive than the rather hard-looking and flamboyant blond with her. The girl stepped back against the wall, flattening her palms there, and seemed to he waiting for something. The blond’s eyes fluttered to the big man who stepped down toward them.

  “My name’s Ollie Morse,” he said. “Who are you fellows?”

  “I’m Sartain.” Kim was abrupt. “This is Bud Fox. We’re on the drift.”

  No one spoke, just standing there and looking, and none of the men made the lightest move toward the body. Kim’s eyes hardened as he looked them over, and then he said, “In case you’re interested, the mail pouches seem all right. There was a card in his pocket said to notify Hazel Morse.” Kim’s eyes went to the white-faced girl who stood by the wall, biting her lip.

  To his surprise it was not she but the blond who stepped forward. “I’m Hazel Morse,” she said, and then turning sharply her eyes went to the two younger men. “Verne,” she spoke sharply, “you an’ Matty get him off that horse. Take him to the barn until you get a grave dug.”

  Kim Sartain felt a little flicker of feeling run thro
ugh him and he glanced at Bud, who shrugged. Both men gathered up their bridle reins. “Better notify the sheriff an’ the express company,” Kim commented idly. “They’ll probably want to know. The faint edge of sarcasm in his voice aroused the big man.

  “You wouldn’t be gettin’ smart now, would you?” His voice was low and ugly. His gun butt was worn from much handling, and he looked as tough as he was untidy.

  “Smart?” Kim Sartain shrugged. “That ain’t my way, to be smart. I was just thinkin’,” he added dryly, “that this young fellow sure picked a bad place to die. Nobody seems very wrought-up about it, not even the girl he wanted notified in case of death. What were you to him?” he addressed the last question to Hazel Morse suddenly.

  Her face flushed angrily. “He was a friend!” she flared. “He came courtin’ a few times, that was all!”

  Sartain turned away and led his horse across the street to the saloon, followed by Bud Fox. Behind him there was a low murmur of voices. The older man sitting on the porch looked at them with veiled eyes. He was grizzled and dirty in a faded cotton shirt with sleeves rolled up exposing the red flannels he wore. His body was lean and the gun he had tucked in his waistband looked used.

  He got up as they went through the door into the saloon, and followed them in, moving around behind the bar. “Rye?” he questioned.

  Kim nodded and watched him set out the bottle and glasses. When Kim poured a drink for Bud and himself, he replaced the bottle on the bar, and the old man stood there, looking at them. Kim tossed a silver dollar on the bar and the man made change from his pants pocket. “Any place around here a man can get a meal?” Kim asked.

  “Yeah.” The older man waited while Kim could have counted to fifty. “Over the road there, at the station. They serve grub. My old lady’s a good cook.”

  “Your name Morse, too?”

  “Uh huh.” He scratched his stomach. “I’m Het Morse. Ollie, he runs the stage station. He’s my boy. Hazel, that there blond gal you talked to, she’s my gal. Verne Stecher, the young feller with the red shirt, he’s my neffy, my own brother’s boy. Matty Brown, he just loafs here when he ain’t workin’.