Double eagle, p.17
Double Eagle, page 17
“Friend of yours did that, Hawks,” Fairweather snapped. “That goddam Cole Latigo Cantrell!”
Hawks was secretly amused. “He must’ve had a good reason for poppin’ you.”
“He’ll break rocks in a federal prison.”
“Waal, I hate to disappoint you. Fact is I came to get Cantrell. Didn’t know he was in trouble, but it makes no difference.”
“I’m not turning over a prisoner of mine to you!”
“Calm down, Fairweather. You an’ me both work for Uncle Sam. I don’t have to tell you who signs my orders.” Hawks removed a telegram from an inside pocket, held it out.
“The President,” Fairweather muttered, as he stared at the signature that had been transcribed by a telegrapher.
“Times are changin’, Fairweather,” Hawks said coolly. “Seems like law an’ order has priority over chasin’ Indians.”
“But I don’t understand. I—”
“The President understands. And he sent me my orders.” Hawks got to his feet and walked with springy step to the door, saying over his shoulder to a bewildered Fairweather, “I’ll, have a look at this prisoner of yours. Meantime, you draw up papers for his release.”
Hoodoo Hawks greeted Cole through cell bars. “Son, I could get you outa here. If you’d agree to do a little job for me.”
Cole read a slyness in the old man’s hard gaze. “Must be a special kind of job, Hoodoo.”
“It is, son. You might not like it.”
“Tell me.”
Hawks spoke of Rimfire. “It’s kinda hard on peace officers. Three killed an’ four run outa town.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a place for a lawman.”
“What they need in Rimfire is me twenty years ago. Or you right now!”
Cole flashed a tight grin. “Sounds interesting, hazards and all.”
Later, Sergeant Muldoon whistled happily as he unlocked the cell door and made a flourish of bowing him out. “Released to the custody of the U.S. Marshal.”
A mile or so from the fort, Hawks turned in the saddle and explained the job in more detail. Cole would be paid one hundred dollars a month, plus reasonable expenses. “Plus a free funeral if things don’t work out.”
Cole smiled at the tough old lawman. “Hoodoo, you really make it sound attractive.” Then he added soberly, “You sure you’ve picked the right man? I don’t know all that much about being a lawman.”
“Nothin’ to it, son. All it takes is a little law and a lot of man.” Just before they parted, Hawks said, “You don’t know how pleased I am that I was able to pry you outa that army jail.”
“‘Overjoyed’ is the word for what I feel.”
Hawks rested a hand on Cole’s arm. They were at a creek, letting the horses drink. Hawks was going back to Maxwell, Cole to Rimfire. “One thing doesn’t go with the badge, son.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t use it to carry on your personal vendetta with Claudius Max.” And when Cole started to speak, Hawks gestured him to silence. “Whatever you may think of him personally, he’s a law-abiding citizen of the United States.”
“I’m not so sure about that law-abiding part,” Cole said grimly.
“There you go. I can see the hate flicker across those black eyes like summer lightnin’. Get it outa your system, Cole. You claim Max had somethin’ to do with your folks gettin’ killed. Well, mebbe—”
“Hoodoo, I know damn well he did.”
“But you can’t prove it. Main thing is you’re a deputy U.S. Marshal now an’ you got to behave like one. Now that’s the only restriction I’m layin’ on you, son. Just don’t let your personal hates get mixed up with the badge.”
“I … I’ll do what you say.”
“But your heart ain’t in it, I can tell.”
“You got me out from under Fairweather’s heel. I sure owe you for that.”
“An’ you hittin’ that no-good bastard was the best news I heard in a month. If he’d got away with hangin’ them two Indian boys, the high country would’ve been ankle-deep in blood. You saved a lot of lives by riskin’ your own neck so them two young fellas could escape.”
Cole arrived in Rimfire on a windy day. He had never cared much for towns, feeling in them as a wild horse must who suddenly finds himself confined to a corral. That was the way Cole always put it whenever someone asked why he had never settled down. In Rimfire would be the first time he had ever had the advantage—if it could be called that—of working behind a badge.
A boy at the livery stable told him where Mayor Angus Campbell could be found. And ten minutes later he was in the mayor’s parlor. Campbell’s melancholy features brightened when he said, “The man called Latigo. I suppose you know you’re quite famous in the high country.”
“Or infamous,” Cole said ruefully. “Depends on which side of the mountain you’re on.”
Campbell told him how Rimfire had started as a gold camp back in ’62. “Because Centurion-Pacific had the good grace to lay tracks through here, we’ve been able to survive when the gold played out.”
Mention of the railroad caused Cole to stiffen. But he was mindful of his promise to Hoodoo Hawks concerning Claudius Max.
Campbell spoke of the big ranchers, mainly of Rufus Cain. “Cain’s ranch is one of our major sources of income,” Campbell explained. “And at the same time our most serious problem.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Cole said grimly. “To deal with serious problems.”
“Now, don’t underestimate Cain. He thinks he’s above the law and he lets his men ride roughshod over the town. He’s quick to pay damages, but money won’t pay for a man’s broken limbs. Or his life. And he’s brought in a gunman, Jobe Sanders. He killed our last marshal. A sad thing.” Campbell shook his head. “That’s why I appealed to Marshal Hawks.” They talked for another few minutes in the parlor of the small, neat house, then Campbell said, “Wouldn’t blame you if you turned us down. But we do need you.”
“I’ll wear the badge and do the job. And promise to do my best to keep from getting killed.” Cole’s laughter was not shared by a dour Mayor Campbell.
Campbell showed him to a cubbyhole of a marshal’s office and the one-cell jail behind it. “And there’s a cabin out back where you can hang your hat.”
Cole looked it over. He had lived in worse. During the war there were times when such quarters as these would have been cherished by generals, being far out of the reach of a mere captain. At least it had a brass double bed, a wash-stand, and an outhouse.
“You’ll have reasonable comfort,” Campbell said with a spare smile. “Privy roof doesn’t leak.”
“Been in plenty that have.”
Cole thanked Campbell for showing him around, then said he’d buy himself some town clothes and get a haircut. But first he went to the livery stable, leading Trooper, and introduced himself to the owner, Lew Orson. Orson was a wizened man wearing a collarless shirt and lumpy old hat. He looked Cole over and shook his head. “So you’re the new marshal. You sure got my sympathy, Cantrell.”
Cole gestured at the sturdy black war horse. “I want to board him. Give him the best of care. And keep him ready for travel day and night.”
“If you’re expectin’ trouble, you sure come to the right place.”
Cole spent a week without incident, during which he
renewed acquaintances with Duke Sateen and Aspen Grove.
She seemed miffed that he didn’t see much of her.
“Give me time,” Cole said. He was keyed up, waiting for something to happen. Saturday night came and went. Cain’s outfit didn’t ride in. Cole wondered why until someone explained that it was roundup time.
Claudius Max learned via telegraph from a minor C-P official that Cole Cantrell had been appointed deputy U.S. Marshal at Rimfire. Max and his wife were in the office, ready to leave for a noon meal at a nearby restaurant.
Max showed Creed the wire. “E. J., do we have friends in that part of the country?”
Creed mentioned Rufus Cain.
“Cain’s our man!” Max rubbed plump hands together. “I want Cantrell dead. Cain can arrange it.”
“Can you convince Cain to do your bidding?” Creed asked.
“He’ll follow orders. Or he’ll never ship another head of beef over my tracks. I want Cantrell crippled. It should be enough for the present. This time I want no mistakes.”
Creed left the office, closing the door. Theodora shuddered. “My God, you must hate Cantrell.”
Max gave her an ugly smile. “Your dream man. Come, I’m hungry.” Taking her arm, they walked half a block to a restaurant where Claudius gorged himself on trout and sweetbreads.
Theodora, having little appetite, made marks with her fingernail on the snowy tablecloth. At times, to take her mind off the terrible grinding passion of her husband, she had fantasized about Cole Cantrell. And now they were going to cripple him.
Although Cantrell had survived so many such attacks before and she had begun to consider him invincible, she believed that only so much luck was allotted to a man in one lifetime. And she was concerned that Cantrell’s allotment was about to be exhausted. It depressed her.
It was that same afternoon that Tom, Max’s coachman, found about four dozen small but heavy boxes hidden under hay in the carriage house. Tom had happened on them when he rammed the pitchfork deeper than usual into the hay mow and struck wood. On each side of every box in black lettering was PYTHON MINING CO. He wondered about them, but knowing Max, he decided to say nothing. Because any simple question could produce a tirade Tom had no wish to suffer. Many had been fired for less. Tom’s red face was moist by the time he forked enough hay to cover the boxes once again.
Chapter Twenty
ON THE FIRST week of roundup for the big ranches,
Elmo Jeeter happened to be in the Rimfire freight office to pick up a new set of black harness with plumes for the team that pulled his hearse.
The telegrapher, wearing a cracked green visor, stuck his head out the door of his cubicle. “Mr. Jeeter, you know anybody goin’ out to M-Cross?”
Jeeter’s head shook on its turkey neck. “Nope.”
“Got a telegram for Rufus Cain. Mighty important, reckon. From Claudius Max that owns this here Centurion-Pacific.” Jeeter quickly volunteered to deliver it at the ranch. As undertaker and owner of the Rimfire Furniture Store, Jeeter always had an eye for future business. For instance, he knew that when Rufus Cain’s time came M-Cross would throw one of the biggest funerals ever seen in the high country. That was Cain’s brag, heard often in Rimfire.
“When the Lord calls me I figure to be buried in a coffin of solid mahogany. Better’n iron for keepin’ bugs out, so they tell me.”
“Who’s come back to tell you, Rufus?” Ace Hyatt of the Glory Hole had once put in slyly. His saloon had rocked with laughter, Jeeter recalled. Jeeter sent out feelers and finally located the kind of coffin Cain had mentioned. It would cost a bit of money. But Elmo knew that Cain’s son in his grief would not balk at letting a man double his money or better. Jeeter had had the coffin shipped out from New Orleans.
It took half a day of riding before Jeeter located Cain at a roundup camp that must have contained over a thousand head of M-Cross cattle.
Cain looked irritated. “If somebody’s dead, don’t expect me for the funeral till after roundup.”
Jeeter tried not to show pain at such irreverence; a man should be willing to drop everything to honor the departed. “Not why I came, Rufus,” he said. Long ago they had gone on a first-name basis. After all, there is a certain camaraderie, even though macabre, possible with the man who one day will put you in a pine box. In this case mahogany. “Telegram.”
“Give it to Buck,” Cain growled, jerking a large thumb at his tall son, who sweated at a branding fire. “I ain’t got time for it now.”
“It’s from Claudius Max.”
Cain, in the act of striding away, spun on a heel and snatched the telegram. His small eyes scanned the terse message, then jammed the paper in his pocket. “Thanks for comin’ out with it, Elmo,” he said grumpily. “Go tell Buck I said to feed you.”
Cain spent the rest of the afternoon pondering the message Max had sent. Over a week ago he had received a letter. Somehow Max had found out about the new marshal, Cole Cantrell, being appointed to Rimfire. Cain had once shaken Max’s hand when the great man had come through Rimfire to celebrate completion of his railroad this far north.
Max had never contacted him until the letter. One paragraph was burned into Cain’s eyeballs, a reference to Cole Latigo Cantrell.
“Cripple him so that he loses that blinding speed with a gun. Don’t kill him—that can come later after he’s suffered enough. You should have some good men on your payroll. Fail me and I promise that Centurion-Pacific will be closed to you.”
That Max had been in a rage when he wrote the letter was obvious. And now the telegram. With only five words: “Take care of that matter.” And signed Claudius Max.
Cain rode across the holding ground to the pair he had chosen for the job, Curly Southcross and Jed Penrose. Both men were solidly built and with reputations as brawlers. He gave them instructions concerning the new marshal. Cain realized belatedly the matter should have been handled the first week Cantrell was in Rimfire. But Cain had been sidetracked by roundup. He should have known that Python business came before anything else. Without the railroad, Cain could go broke in a year.
“Break his legs. And both arms, while you’re at it,” Cain instructed. “And you might as well bust his right wrist.” Cain guessed that Cantrell was right-handed with a gun, although Max hadn’t said.
Cain started to offer them ten dollars each for the job, then raised it to twenty-five. Expenses shouldn’t be spared where Python was concerned. The money brightened their usually sullen features.
Southcross shoved his share into the pocket of his work pants. He had a reddish cowlick and a piece missing from his right ear. “You want us to wait till mornin!?”
“Right now,” Cain snapped, and the pair got their horses. “Stay sober!” Cain shouted after them.
It would leave him short-handed, but he expected them back by noon the next day.
Jobe Sanders was bossing a branding crew. Last year it had been Buck’s job. Cain didn’t see anything wrong in demoting his son. In fact, it was rather amusing only because Buck didn’t raise hell. Buck had a strain of weak blood from his mother’s side of the family.
Sanders looked at Cain, who was striding up. “I saw Southcross and Penrose ride out. Any trouble I oughta know about?”
Cain eyed Sanders, strong and tough. He alone could break Cantrell in small pieces. But Sanders had been hired for his gun speed, not his fists. “If they don’t do the job I sent ’em on, you’ll finish it.” Cain didn’t explain. Dust boiled, calves bawled. The air was filled with stench of burned flesh as branding irons imprinted the M-Cross brand on tender hides.
There was no doubt in Cain’s mind that Southcross and Penrose would be successful. Cain had seen Cantrell one time over at Scalplock. And from what he remembered of the man, each of the two cowhands he had sent to maim him were bigger men. He began to frame in his mind the telegram he would send to Claudius Max in Basin City, wording it so no one else would understand the message.
It was later than usual when Aspen finished work at the Palace. Cole happened to be at the bar. He said he’d walk her home. But she insisted on stopping off to see his quarters; she was curious. Cole was agreeable. So far, the job as marshal had been boring. While most merchants seemed relieved that he had taken the job, some, such as Ace Hyatt of the Glory Hole, avoided him.
Cole lit a lamp and locked the door. There was only one chair, so Aspen stretched out on the bed, fingers locked behind her head. A dress of blue satin hugged the roundness of thighs and legs.
“Why not come away with me, Cole?” she said, watching him out of light gray eyes. “Leave this dangerous job of yours.”
“No danger yet.”
“There will be. Rimfire frightens me. We only have one life to live, Cole.”
“Have to stay here, Aspen. I owe a debt.”
“A debt to who?” she demanded softly.
“Hoodoo Hawks.”
“Don’t you owe something to me? You know I’ve been in love with you from the first.”
“You collect men like a stable collects flies.”
“That’s not very nice. You know it isn’t love … with the others. Not like it is with you.”
“Aspen, I was only joshing.” He sat on the edge of the bed. They talked, kissed, kissed again. Then her dress was draped over the foot of the brass bed. In the lamplight her camisole was faintly yellow against her bare flesh.
“How are you and Duke hitting it off these days?” he asked. “Not even a kiss between us. Can you believe that?”
“If you say so, I believe it.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“Yet I recollect you running off to Frisco with Duke a couple of years back.”
“That was because I was on the rebound. From you” In her camisole that had slipped from one soft shoulder, she was fetching. “Why won’t you marry me and the two of us can get out of this hellish country?”
“I told you once before, the high country is home to me. I’ll never leave it.”
“But it could be the death of you, darling Cole.”
“Any place in the world can be the death of a man … or of a woman.”
The gray eyes misted. “Why are you so damnably stubborn? Do you realize that if you’d been the one to go to Frisco with me instead of Duke, by now we could have a little house out there and maybe a kid and another one on the way?”
“Sure I’ve thought about it. I like you, Aspen. But there’s a lot of women I like.”
She pretended anger and made as if to claw his face. But he pinned both wrists in one large hand and pushed her back on the bed. Which was what she had wanted him to do. “Let me get out of this camisole,” she gasped.
