Son Of a Wanted Man (1984) Page 3

  “I’m glad you came over, Sackett. Now we’ve got to do some figuring.” “Let’s start with your horse.” “You don’t suspect me?” Sackett smiled. “I suspect everybody, but I’ve got a theory. Suppose you tell me how you got him.” “It was roundup time, and it was late. Work had been held up and we got off to a bad start, so we were working our tails off when this gent came riding up to the chuck wagon leading five horses.

  “He asked the cook if he could eat, and of course we fed him. I came in for coffee about that time, and he commented that we were shorthanded. I agreed, but added that what we were really short of was horses.

  “He set there chewin’ for a minute like he was thinkin’ it over, and then he waved a hand at his stock.

  “I’ve five head there you’re welcome to use,” he said, “all good stock horses. All I ask is that when you’ve finished the roundup you keep them up close to your house, in the corral or a small pasture where I can pick ‘em up when I come back through. An” keep “em together.” “That gent got up, threw his coffee grounds on the grass, and started for his horse. “When will you be back?”’ I ask him, an” he says he’s ridin’ on to the coast and it may be, six months or even a year, but don’t worry. He’ll be back. Maybe if we’re drivin’ stock we may just leave the horses we’re ridin’ an’ pick up these. He turned his horse around and said, “Treat “em gentle. They’re good stock.” An’ he rode away.

  “Those horses made all the difference, and so when we finished the roundup I did like he said, only once in a while I’d catch one of them up and ride him to town, like that black.

  “That sort of thing isn’t that unusual, and I gave it no thought until after they appointed me town marshal. When I was cleanin’ out my desk over in the office I come on this reward poster. Seems like there’d been a holdup over east of here, just a few days before.

  “Our newspaper wasn’t operatin’ then, and I’d been too busy tryin’ to make ends meet, and nobody had mentioned any holdup to me. “Four or five men, they said. Nobody seemed right sure. Well, I filed it with the others and gave it no thought, but I was roundin’ up and sellin’ off some of my own cows, tryin’ to pay bills, and ridin’ past my horse pasture I saw those five horses were gone but there were five others in their place. “Five horses, all good stock, but they looked like they’d been used mighty hard, an’ just lately. That’s when I started puttin’ it all together.” The fire crackled in the stove, and the clock ticked in the silent room. Neither man spoke for some time. “Smart,” Sackett said, at last.

  “Somebody is all-fired smart. his “How could they guess that a two-bit, rawhide rancher like me would someday be marshal?” Chantry said.

  Sackett answered, “And they plan, they plan way ahead, like with your horses and that note of Orrin’s. was He gestured toward the papers.

  “There’s twelve holdups or more, an’ who knows anything?” “I wonder how long it’s been goin’ on?” Sackett shrugged. “Who knows? Or how many other robberies there have been of which we have no record?

  It would be my guess this is only the fringe.

  We’re only two men in two mighty small towns.” He tapped the stack of papers with his finger. “This makes the James boys look like pikers. his “They were pikers,” Chantry said. “They advertised themselves too much. Everybody knew who they were, and they were two bloody, too many people killed for no reason, like that schoolboy who ran across the street in front of them.” “They’ve been getting away with this for years,” Sackett commented, “but when they picked you to keep some horses for them they made their mistake. It only takes one. his “So what do we do now?” Sackett indicated the stack of papers. “We go through that and look for something common to all of them. That tall man, for instance, who wears funny hats. And we write to places where there have been holdups.

  We look for some item common to them all, and there will be something.” “We’ve already got something,” Chantry said.

  “We’ve got one thing, anyway.” “What’s that?” “Utah. There have been no robberies in Utah.” Borden Chantry got to his feet, stood there for a moment thinking, then went over to a big, hide-covered chair and dropped into it. “You think they’re Mormons?” “No,” Sackett replied, “I don’t.

  Most Mormons I’ve known were law-abiding folks, although there’s a bad apple in every basket.

  “But look at it like this: there’s thousands of square miles of rough, wild country in southeastern Utah and neighboring parts of Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico.

  “This outfit seems to be operating all over the west, so why not Utah? My guess is he doesn’t want trouble on his own doorstep.” He tapped the clippings. “Look here, a robbery in Montana and a day later, in Texas.

  That means, if we’re figuring this right, that he has more than one bunch of men. My guess would be five or six, and to control that number of men and keep them disciplined their boss man has got to be both tough and smart. So far we haven’t tied this outfit to a single killing, nor has anybody caught one of them.” Chantry studied the man at the table. He had heard all the stories, as had everyone. Tyrel Sackett was known to be one of the most dangerous gunfighters in the west, a quiet young man who had come out from Tennessee, never hunting trouble, yet never backing away from it, either. Chantry had met Tyrel before when investigating the murder of his brother, Joe, but Sackett made him uncomfortable. He did not want such men, no matter how law-abiding, in his town. They had a way of attracting trouble. He himself had never had the reputation of being a good man with a gun, yet deep inside him he was confident he could handle the best of them. He had not wanted to be a peace officer, yet when he needed money the job had been there, and he had accepted it.

  Keeping the peace in a small western town was not that hard. Most of the cowboys who came into town and went on a drunk were men he had worked with. Some had worked for him, and some had worked trail drives and roundups beside him, so they were prepared to listen to him when he suggested they sleep it off.

  He had been successful so far, but he made no claims to being a good officer. He was, well . .

  . he was competent. Up to a point, anyway. This job Sackett was talking about was out of his depth.

  He said as much. Sackett gave him one of his rare smiles. “You’re better than you think.” He tapped the papers on the table. “You saw these and smelled something wrong. You’ve got an instinct for the job, Bord, whether you think so or not.” He tapped the papers again. “You know what we’ve got here? Something nobody would or will believe.

  Holdups are by local gangs, cowboys who need drinking money, something like that. By the very nature of them folks are going to say such men can’t be organized.

  My guess is that in the last four years this outfit has pulled over a hundred holdups and robberies, gettin’ away with every one. “Somebody has to come in and scout the layout, somebody has to plan the getaway, somebody has to be sure there are fresh horses where they’ll be needed.” “I don’t know.” Chantry shook his head.

  “Somewhere, somehow, something’s got to give.” Sackett took out a billfold and extracted a news clipping. “They’ve had their troubles.

  Look at this.” SUSPECT ARRESTED AT CARSON A man who gave his name as Dan Cable was arrested last night at Jennings’ Livery. He had in his possession sacks containing $12,500 in freshly minted gold coin. He stated that he was en route to buy cattle. Three days ago the bank at Rapid City was robbed of $35,000 in freshly minted gold coins. Cable is being held for investigation.

  “So?” “The next morning his cell was empty. He was gone, the gold was gone, his horse was gone.

  Nobody knows how it was managed.” “They moved fast,” Chantry said thoughtfully.

  “They must have had somebody close by.” “There was no jailer at Carson. Small jail. The same key opens both the cell door and the outer door. Left alone like that he might have managed it himself.” “The gold?” “Left in the desk drawer at the jail. The door was
locked and it seemed safe. They’d had no trouble at Carson and the bank was closed, so the marshal just locked it up and left it.

  “Carson’s quiet now, so the two saloons close at midnight. After that the streets are empty. Cable just unlocked his door somehow, broke into the desk, then unlocked the outer door and went around to the livery stable, saddled his horse, and rode out.” “I’ll be damned.” They talked until after midnight, carefully sifting the little they knew and going over the wanted posters, the news clippings, and a few letters from other peace officers and bankers.

  “Maybe,” Chantry said at last, “we’d better try to think ahead. If we could pick out several likely places we might beat them to it and be waiting.” “I thought of that. The trouble is there’s so many possibilities. Of course, they’ll be wanting a big strike.” “No stage holdups,” Cantry suggested, “because when they carry big shipments they have a shotgun guard. Most of them will fight, so somebody is going to be killed. his Tyrel reached for the coffeepot and filled his cup.

  “I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said about tryin’ to beat them to it.” He paused. “How about right here?

  How about your town?” Chantry shook his head. “The trouble with that is nobody here has any big money. Nobody-was He stopped, then sat up slowly. “Yeah,” he muttered, “maybe. Just maybe. his Chantry looked up at Sackett, at the table. “You heard about that deal?” “Heard about it?

  Everybody has been talking about it. Old man Merlin bought cows from ever’body around and paid them in scrip. Merlin had several gunmen riding with him, and nobody dared argue the point, so he drove off half the cattle in the county.

  “About a year ago, I think it was, young Johnny Merlin told everybody he was coming back to redeem that scrip, a hundred thousand dollars worth, and he’d pay off in gold. His old man may have been a highbinder, but young Johnny was going to do the right thing.

  “Next month Johnny will be in town, and he’ll have a hundred thousand in gold here to pay off:” “Bait for a trap,” Chantry said. He glanced up. “Seven thousand dollars of that is coming to me,” he said. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it.” “All right,” Tyrel said quietly, “it’s you and me, then. That outfit seems to have good information, so don’t tell anybody who might repeat it. Just you and me. You’ve a good deputy, but don’t tell him until the day. I’ll bring a man along, too, and we’ll be waiting.” “I hope they try it,” Chantry said grimly.

  “They will, Bord. I’m bettin on it. You still got some o’ their horses in that pasture?” “I have.” “They’ll come, Bord. This time they will get a surprise.” In the massive stone house at the head of Toadstool Canyon, Ben Curry leaned his great weight back in his chair and stared broodingly at the valley below. The door stood open, and the day was a pleasant one, yet Ben Curry was not feeling pleasant.

  His big face was as blunt and unlined as the rock from which the house was built, but the shock of hair above that leonine face had turned gray. No nonsense about it, he was growing old. Even such a spring as this did not bring the old fire to his veins again, and it had been long since he had himself ridden on one of the jobs he planned so shrewdly. It was time to quit.

  Yet, for a man who all his life had made quick and correct decisions, he was uncertain now. For six years he had ruled supreme in this corner of the mountains and desert. For twenty years he had been an outlaw, and for fifteen of those twenty years he had commanded a bunch of outlaws that had grown until it was almost an empire in itself.

  Six years ago he had moved to this remote country and created the stronghold from which he operated.

  Across the southern limit was the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, barring all approach from that direction. To the east, north, and west was wilderness, much of it virtually impassable unless one knew the trails.

  Only at Lee’s Ferry was there a known crossing, but further along was the little-known Crossing of the Fathers. Both places were watched, day and night.

  There was one other crossing, of an entirely different sort, that one known only to Ben himself. It was his ace in the hole. One law of the gang was never transgressed. There was to be no lawless activity in the Mormon country to the north. Mormons and Indians were left strictly alone and were, if not friends, at least not enemies. Both groups kept what they knew to themselves, as well as what they suspected. A few ranchers lived on the fringes, and they traded at stores run by the outlaws. They could buy supplies there closer to home and at cheaper prices than elsewhere. The trading posts were listening posts as well. Strangers in the area were immediately noticed-usually they stopped by the stores, and their presence was reported to Ben Curry.

  Ben Curry had not made up his mind about Kerb Perrin. He knew the outlaw was growing restive, aware that Curry was aging and eager for the power that went with leadership. What would he do, and how would he react when Mike Bastian took over?

  Well, Curry reflected grimly, that would be Mike’s problem. He had been trained for it.

  Old Ben himself was the bull of the herd, and Perrin was pawing dust, but what would he do when a strange young bull came in to take over? One who had not won his spurs on the outlaw trail?

  That was why Ben had sent for Mike. It was time for Mike to go out on his first job. It would be big, sudden, and dramatic. It was also relatively foolproof. If brought off smoothly it would have an excellent effect on the gang.

  There was a sharp knock on the door, and Ben Curry sat back in his chair, recognizing it.

  “Come in!” he bellowed.

  He watched Perrin enter and close the door behind him, then cross the room to him with his quick, nervous steps, his eyes scanning the room to see if they were alone.

  “Chief, the boys are restless. It’s spring, and most of them are broke. Have you got something in mind?” “A couple of things. Yes, it’s about time for them to move out.” He paused. “Are they all back?” “Most of them. Of course, as you know some of them never left.” “I’ve got one or two that look to be really tough. Seems it might be good for the kid to try one.” “Oh?” Perrin’s irritation was obvious. “You mean he’ll go along?” “I’m going to let him run it. The whole show. It will be good for him.” Kerb Perrin absorbed that. For the first time he began to seriously consider Mike Bastian. Until now the only rival for leadership if Curry stepped down was Molina. He knew little about Bastian except to see him ride in and out of camp. He hunted a lot, was often with Roundy, and he knew Bastian had sat in on some of the planning at times.

  Yet for some reason he had never considered him as vying for leadership. Perrin had accepted the fact that there would be trouble with Rig Molina, but Bastian?

  He was the old man’s adopted son, but—A quick, hot anger surged through him. It was all he could do to keep his voice calm. “Do you think that’s wise? How will the boys feel about a green kid leading them?” “He knows what to do, and they’ll find he’s as trailwise and smart as any of them. This is a big job and a tough one. his “Who goes along?” Kerb paused. “And what job?” “Maybe I’ll let him pick “em. Good practice for him. What job? I haven’t decided. Maybe the gold train, or maybe a job over in eastern Colorado. It’s one I’ve been thinking about for some time.” The gold train? To Kerb’s way of thinking that should be his job. He had discovered it, reported it, dug out most of the background detail. It was the job he wanted. It was a shipment from gold mines high in the mountains, gold brought down by muleback to the railroad, rich beyond dream. Months before, in laying out the plan for Curry, he had it vetoed. He had recommended killing every man jack of them. Burial nearby, no witnesses, nothing. The gold train would simply have vanished into thin air. And he could do it.

  He knew he could.

  “Too bloody,” Curry objected. “You’re beginning to sound like Molina.” “Dead men can’t talk,” Perrin insisted.

  Ben Curry nodded agreement. “Maybe not, but their families can. A thing like that wakes people up, stirs their curiosity. Whenever peopl
e are killed some others want revenge or justice or whatever they call it. Whenever gold disappears it starts everybody in the country to looking.” Curry drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. “No,” he said finally, “we won’t do it. Not that way.” Even then as he spoke Curry was thinking of the effect upon the men if he let Bastian pull it off. Perrin was too bloody. Bastian would not be.

  Moreover, he could probably come up with a plan.

  Many of the men knew Bastian slightly. Some of them had helped to train him in various skills. Some of the older men were as proud of Mike as if he had been their own son. If he brought off this job his position in the gang would be established. Yet what of Perrin?

  Now, much later, he thought again of giving the job to Bastian. It was big, the biggest in years.

  Fury surged up within Perrin. Curry had no right to do this! The gold train was his job! He found it, he scouted it, and as for killing them, if Curry was squeamish he was not. A total washout, that was the way to go. And now he was being sidetracked for a kid! Curry was shoving Bastian down their throats! His rage died, but in its place there was resolution. It was time he acted on his own. For too long he had done what the old man directed.

  If Curry wanted the kid to handle the gold train, he would pull the other one whether Curry liked it or not. Moreover, he would be throwing a challenge into Curry’s teeth because he would plan this job without him. If there was to be a struggle for leadership let it begin here. “He’ll handle the job,” Curry said. “He has been trained and he has the mind for it. You boys couldn’t be in better hands.” Kerb Perrin left the stone house filled with a burning resentment, but also with a feeling of grim triumph. After years of taking orders he was going on his own. To hell with Ben Curry! He’d show him! He would show them All Yet a still small voice of fear was in him, too. What would Ben Curry do? The thought made him shrink inside. He had seen the cold fury of Curry when aroused, and he had seen him use a gun.