Ambush valley, p.17
Ambush Valley, page 17
“Sheriff Sims know about this posse?”
“I think folks ain’t too satisfied with his efforts of late. There was a ranch wife raped in her own bed. He never did anything. Said she didn’t give him enough description for him to find her attacker. It’s kind of a sore point. Two men robbed an old man north of town. He said they likely were drifters and already out of the country.”
“I got my ass chewed out that time before over those horse rustlers.”
“Yeah, we all know the truth about that.”
“Is someone going tell him?”
“Oh yeah, and he’ll send someone out today.”
Chet nodded. He knew the answer to the rest of the deal.
He looked back. It would take Jesus a few hours to catch up. But by nightfall if they hadn’t found the killers they’d at least have something to fill their empty guts with.
At the Artman ranch, he met the man’s brother, Nathan, a thin, hard-faced man at least in his fifties who looked like he had some Cherokee blood in his veins.
He raised the blanket from his brother. The man’s throat had been cut open from ear to ear. Dried black blood was around the void and Chet had seen enough. His shorter wife had some stab wounds on her dried-up breasts and was equally dead. No one in the house said much, and they moved quickly to get outside in the fresh air.
Chet stopped the brother. “Did he have much money to steal?”
“He had three thousand dollars.”
That was lots more than most such small ranchers ever saw in a lifetime, but he had no reason to doubt the man. They waited on the Indian tracker. After checking around, Chet could see by the tracks that when they left, one of the three riders was riding a mule.
“Leave a couple men here to bring them on after us. I can read these tracks. Let’s ride.”
“Good thing you came along,” Gates said as they set out going downhill to the river far below. The river might be the place where they tried to hide their direction, but most criminal minds were simply set on escaping. No telling who they were dealing with in this double murder-robbery.
They reached the river and he bailed the gray off in the swift water to swim some crossing and he soon found the marks where they had come out. No backtracking or taking to the water.
He stood in the stirrups and directed them. “Come across at that lower ford. Looks easier down there.” He waved the seven men with him to go to an easier place. Off his mount, he let his horse catch a drink from the stream.
“Tracks over here?” Gate asked, riding up and dismounting.
“Clear as daylight. Anyone know three men and the third one rides a mule?”
“I don’t think they do. But it could be anyone. Maybe drifters coming through.”
“No, I think it is someone who knew them,” Chet said. “No one would have simply guessed they had that much money, living like they did. That place up there was a shack. They hadn’t bought any new clothes in years. Those people lived like poor ones. Someone pointed them out or they learned something about them to find that money his brother said that they had.”
“You ever been a lawman?” Gates asked.
“No, but I am learning.”
“I’d say you’d make a good one.”
“Tell me where I’m going to next, in that direction.”
“That’s pretty wild country beyond here. They either know their way around or they’re off on a lark.”
“Are there any ranches up in there?”
“I don’t know anyone ranches up in those hills.” Gates turned and asked the others. “Anyone know much about that country where they are headed?”
They shook their heads. One guy said, “There’s a road up there somewhere that goes to Fort Apache.”
“That’s a long way over east,” a young man offered.
“Good enough, there aren’t many tracks in here. But the killers went this way. Anyone figured out who they are by the fact the third man rides a mule?”
“Several folks ride a mule,” a young man said. “My dad rides one a lot in the rough country.”
Chet nodded. “Let’s go on.”
They mounted up and started through some rough mountain country. This was no well-used track, and even the killers had to double back and try another game trail. He had expected the tracker to catch them by late afternoon and he wondered about Jesus and their supplies.
At last they reached the pines and the shelf they were on spread out in the timber. Chet had the tracks to follow, but wondered if he had outrun his supply train. It would be dark in an hour. He halted the men.
“We have an hour left of daylight. Our supply train is behind us. I doubt that tracker ever came. Let’s set down and stop here. They’re still making tracks.”
The men agreed and gathered bonfire material.
“Are we close to them?” one of the men asked.
“I’m not enough bloodhound to know. They came this way headed somewhere. I don’t know if those last horse apples we went by were steaming hot. They were fresh.”
Everyone laughed. In thirty minutes, one of the men keeping an eye on the trail told him some horses were coming. He went over there on the edge and behind the lead man he saw Jesus’s straw hat. Good. His supplies were coming.
“Food may not be great, but we’ll eat, men.”
“Good thing you went on, Byrnes. They said you were a bloodhound.”
“We have tracks to here. I’d say they were going someplace. We should catch them tomorrow.”
“Good. Anyone of us need to track them more tonight?”
“I don’t want to spook them. We’ll build small fires tonight and then push hard to catch them tomorrow.”
“My name’s Leif Times. My dad and I run the Rafter Eight ranch.”
“Times, I hope we can get them tomorrow. The farther they go the harder the job will be. We have no witness to those murders. All we have is this set of tracks.”
“You’re saying they might get arrested and then get off?”
“I’m saying, those tracks are our only lead to the ones responsible for the deaths of those people.”
Times nodded.
“You figure that out at Rye when you got there?”
Chet shook his head.
“They raped a poor woman without any regrets. They beat up a man before his children and they stole those horses. Why bother with messing with them? They had no regrets.”
“They say Sims threatened you about that.”
Chet shook his head. “I was near as mad over the way he sent a deskman leading that posse who stopped Marge Stephenson’s foreman from coming to help me. I had expected him to send a real deputy. He has a man named Roamer who would have come on after them. Sims didn’t like I ran down that crooked foreman and his henchmen that stole from the Quarter Circle Z or how I treated the stage robbers who murdered my nephew either.”
“I had no idea.”
“Keep it to yourself, but however this ends it will make him mad. He thinks he’s the only law and he can’t handle it all.”
Times nodded. “Thanks.”
Chet drank some coffee, had some beef jerky, and thanked Jesus for coming.
“Señor, your wife almost came with me to help.”
“Good that she didn’t. This is damn tough country.”
“She is a powerful woman.”
“I agree. Sleep tight. We’ll have a long day tomorrow.” All he needed was to have to worry about her safety being along with them. But she’d been on his mind ever since he rode off again on her. She might—no, she was realist and knew he had to answer such calls. But being separated from her had affected him more that he’d admit. He shifted his gun belt out of habit. Then he went to find a place to sleep. Dawn wasn’t far off.
The posse moved out in the first pink of dawn. His eyes dry, he knew they needed to find some water for their mounts. Not a man in the half dozen men riding with him knew of any water source in this region. They were soon on an east–west road. The tracks went east.
Times rode up and told him, “This road eventually goes to Fort Apache.”
“Are there any towns or settlements on this road?”
“I’ve never been very far on it. We elk hunted on it a few years back.”
“You get this far east on it?”
“If I see anything familiar I’ll tell you.”
Chet smiled and thanked him.
They rounded a bend and he saw some horses beside the road and some campfire smoke. He sent every one backward and told them to be quiet.
“You see anyone?” one of the men asked him.
He shook his head. “I want three men on foot with their rifles to go up in the timber and circle them. If they flush, stop them. We will wait here to give you a chance to head them off. Be quiet and stay wide of them.”
“We were lucky you saw them,” Gates told him.
“I felt we’d find them sometime this morning,” he said under his breath.
Three of the posse members with rifles took off into the timber and he waved them on. The whole lot were a good willing bunch ready to get the job done. If they’d been storekeepers they’d have already wanted to go back. These men with him lived in their saddles.
He hoped the three men hurried. No telling if the ones camped ahead would be ready to pull out any minute.
The men were all dismounted. He listened and could hear men talking and banging pans. They were close, perhaps, to arresting the murderers. It could be innocent people. But he doubted it.
He selected Gates and two more to go south through the timber and circle in. “If things break loose don’t shoot one of our own men. Bullets flying in a crossfire could get one of us killed.” The three agreed and took off with rifles.
“Jesus and someone need to tend these horses. Shooting might spook them. A gray-haired older man volunteered. He picked the youngest rider to help them.
“I know you’d like to be there, but we need these horses to get home.” He clapped the youth on his shoulder. “You’re an important part of this posse.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
“Potter Brown, sir.”
“Nice to meetcha.”
“Mr. Byrnes?”
“Yes?”
“You need another hand on one of your ranches?”
“Talk to me later. I can always use a real man needs work.”
The youth nodded as if shaken by Chet’s words.
“We’ll talk later.” Chet hurried back to spy on the situation. A man with silver sideburns named Wheeling handed him the reins.
“About time. Mount up.” He turned the gray and rode through the handful of men left. “Don’t kill any of our men in the crossfire.”
He drew his .44 and turned his horse for the charge. “Let’s go.”
He saw a bareheaded man ahead try to hold the reins on his spooked horse as they charged in on them. The reins were torn from his hands, he drew a pistol, and was cut down by rifle fire from the woods across the road. A bald-headed man had his hands in the air and his pants at his knees, obviously caught off guard. Someone was getting away. He saw the flash of a mule’s butt going off into the timber. “Hold them, boys.”
The rider was lashing the mule hard to make good his escape. All the timber proved a challenge, but the gray was cutting back and forth keeping his quarry in sight like he knew the mule was his goal. No low branches on these tall trees made the job easier, but the trick was too ride the big gelding through them and for him not to collide with one.
The mule rider had emptied his pistol with wild shots taken at Chet. No need to waste any ammo on him until he had a chance to stop him. He must have found a cliff down there. He wheeled the mule around and fled uphill off to the left of Chet.
He jerked out the rifle and when the mule came into a clear shot, he shot him. The mule went down in a pile, throwing his rider. Three more of the men on their horses rode to the scene.
Chet stepped down. “I didn’t want to shoot that mule but I didn’t want him to get away.”
He caught the moaning man by his shirt collar and jerked him to his knees. “What’s your name?”
“Who? Who are you? Why you trying to kill me? I ain’t done nothing!”
“Just killed two old settlers and stole their money, huh?” He stuck the pistol muzzle to his cheek and cocked the hammer. “How is your memory now?”
“Not me. Not me. I believe I broke my arm.”
“You boys take him up there. My trigger finger is too itchy.”
Another of the men stripped the saddle and bridle off the mule and piled them on his own saddle to take them up to camp. Chet thanked him.
Gates was in charge. The shooter was dead. The bald man had his pants up. No doubt he was not constipated now. They had his hands tied behind his back.
“His name is Tremble,” Gates said. He had it written in his logbook. “Garrison Tremble. That dead man is called John Smith. That’s an alias.”
The man who shoved the mule rider in the circle said, “He says his is Shaver. Nick Shaver lived in Tombstone last.”
“He should have stayed there,” Chet said. “Is there any water close?”
“There’s a small stream over there.” One of the men who had gone east pointed in that direction.
“Some of you men water the horses. Times, do you recall anything about this road?”
“It goes west to the Verde Valley eventually is all I can say.”
They all laughed. “It will damn sure be easier than the way we came. Where is the money they stole?”
Chet looked around for any sign.
“Stole?” Shaver asked. He laughed. “We ain’t got no money.”
“There was several thousand dollars taken from those people in your robbery,”
“That shows you got the wrong guys, we ain’t got a cent on us.”
Chet stopped. He eyed the prisoner holding his broken arm. Had they stashed it on the trail? He couldn’t recall many places that they stopped and could have ditched it.
“We ain’t found any money in their things.” One of the posse members turned up his hands. “It sure isn’t here.”
“That was why you killed them. Where is it?”
“I swear to God we never took any money from anyone.”
Gates moved in close and whispered. “What if they didn’t steal the money?”
“I’m not sure. But these three murdered that couple. The place did look torn up.”
“I don’t think they’re lying.”
“We’ll let Sims figure it out. They did kill them. There is dried blood all over Tremble’s shirt and pants. He cut their throats, I can swear to that.”
“Is the money on that back trail?”
“No. There is an answer to this and we’ll figure it out. Wrap the dead man in a blanket. Those two can ride double. We’re burning daylight.”
The other men were coming back with the horses they’d watered. They cinched up and rode for Camp Verde. They reached the Quarter Circle Z close to midnight. The crew and women fell out to help. The ranch hands rubbed down their horses, gave them their beds to sleep in after a hasty meal was thrown together, and then guarded their prisoners.
After the shock was over, Susie and May gathered with Chet at the table in the house.
“These men murdered them to rob them?”
“They said he had three thousand dollars that is gone. I thought all the way that they’d have the money. But they didn’t have a penny on them.”
“Maybe they didn’t kill them?”
“No, they killed them and we never found the money. Tremble had dried blood all over him and the dead man did too. That was Artman blood on those two.”
“What will you do next?”
“Take them to jail and let Sims worry about them.”
“And you’re sure you got the killers?” Susie asked.
“Positive. The only screwy thing is they didn’t get the money. Those three went to rob them and not leave any witness. I figure they tortured both of them and they never told them where it was at.”
“Who knew then?”
“I’ve been asking myself that question for twenty-four hours.”
“Sleep a few hours. You look worn out.” Susie nodded to him.
“Thanks. Get me up in a few hours. I need to go see Marge. She’s probably worried to death.”
“No, she’s simply lonesome without you. You fill some big holes in our lives too.”
He shook his head. Wished he had time for a bath, but the hell with it, he needed some sleep. It could not have been any time till May shook him.
“I’m coming,” he croaked, sat up, and pulled on his boots.
“Tell Gates to stop and get me at her place,” he told Tom who was already up and at the chuck tent.
“I can do that.”
One of the hands caught his roan he called Big Man. He brought him around for Chet, saddled. He finished his coffee and some of the raisin rice pudding that Hoot fed him.
“How are the Herefords?” he asked Tom.
“Good, I got a couple of the boys keeping them up at the Perkins place. There’s lots of grass up there and it’s easy for them to get fat. Not near as tough as some range country we use.”
“Short as this country is on good bulls, don’t cut them. I think we can sell all those young bulls and make more money.”
Tom agreed. “I’ve already been hit up for some.”
“I knew we could make some money with them. Good, I think Bo has bought the ranch up there. I’ve got him on the sober train.”
Tom laughed. “Ride easy. We don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Over two hours later, he reached Marge’s front porch and dismounted. His face was so whiskered, he hated to even kiss her.
She must have been watching for him. Monica came out on the porch and, hands on her hips, tried to chew him out, laughing hard.
“Hold him down,” Marge shouted from inside. “I’ve got the rope.”
He caught her by the waist and kissed her when she rushed outside.
“I’m bristled like a boar hog.”
“Don’t worry. I love you. Did you?”
“We did capture the three men. Let’s get inside. The posse will come by soon and I want to spend a few minutes with both of you before I go turn them in.”
