Longarm and the wayward.., p.5
Longarm and the Wayward Widow, page 5
“Hold your horses, both of you,” said Walcott. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t you worry. I see you had to ventilate one of yours, Marshal.”
“Seemed like the thing to do at the time,” Longarm said. “I reckon a sawbones had better have a look at him.”
“We’re closer to the Box MCC now than we are to town. What say we take all those boys on up there and then try to sort things out?”
“No!” Valdez cried. “We will not go to that place!”
“You ain’t got a lot of choice in the matter, old son,” Longarm told him. “Sheriff, you want to watch these prisoners while I go round up their horses?”
Walcott nodded. “Sounds all right to me. Just don’t take too long. It’s gettin’ on toward lunchtime, and Miz McCabe sets a nice table.”
Chapter 7
Both sides in the shooting scrape stuck stubbornly to their story as they rode toward the headquarters of the Box MCC. Each claimed that they had been fired upon first. Longarm found himself wondering if that might indeed be true.
A trail branched off from the main path, crossed the creek at a low-water ford, and headed off to the east. Longarm nodded toward it as they rode by and asked Walcott, “Is that the way to the Montoya hacienda?”
The sheriff nodded. “That’s right. It’s about eight miles over yonder. We’re goin’ on to the McCabe place, though. Ought to be there in just a little while.”
Walcott was right. Less than a half hour later, they rounded another bend in the trail and found themselves riding toward a large group of buildings. The most impressive structure was the huge, two-story log house that was surrounded by barns, corrals, a long bunk house, a cook shack, a smoke house, and a blacksmith shop.
“Mighty nice, ain’t it?” asked Walcott. “Tom McCabe built the house with his own hands, with some help from his brother, when they first came here. It was smaller then, just a Texas-style cabin with a dogtrot between the two sides, but McCabe kept addin’ on. He left the dogtrot, though.”
Now that they were closer, Longarm could see that the sheriff was right. In the center of the ranch house, on the bottom floor, was a tunnellike opening, the original dogtrot. A room had been built above it. The opening ran all the way through from front to back. Longarm had never seen another house exactly like this one.
He nudged his horse ahead so that he was riding beside the Box MCC punchers. “I reckon there’s probably somebody around the place who can patch up those bulletholes in Lupe’s arm?”
The men grumbled curses, but one of them said grudgingly, “Yeah, Monty Sikes—he’s the boss wrangler—can treat bullet wounds just about as good as a regular sawbones. That’s what he started out to be, even went to school for it, before he started cowboyin’.”
Longarm nodded. “Good.”
The group had been seen riding toward the ranch, and a reception committee was waiting for them. Three men had emerged from the bunk house. Two were carrying rifles, and the third had a shotgun cradled in his arms. That man strode out in front of the other two and looked up at the visitors. “Sheriff, what the hell’s goin’ on here?” he demanded.
“More trouble, Ed,” Walcott replied. He inclined his head toward Longarm. “This here is Marshal Long, from Denver. He’s a federal lawman. Marshal, this is Ed Jordan, Miz McCabe’s foreman.”
Longarm nodded. “Wish we were meeting under better circumstances, Jordan. Sheriff Walcott and I happened on this bunch of your men shooting it out with some fellas from Lariat.”
“I see ‘em,” Jordan grunted. He was a stocky, middle-aged man with a graying mustache. “One of ’em’s wounded, ain’t he?”
“Yep. I hear tell you’ve got a good man here on the Box MCC when it comes to doctoring.”
Jordan had the scattergun’s barrels pointed toward the ground now. He turned his head and said to one of the other men, “Bob, take this fella over to the barn and have Monty take a look at his arm.” Jordan glanced at Longarm. “That all right with you, Marshal?”
“That’ll be fine,” Longarm said. “Much obliged.”
Jordan gestured at the three Box MCC punchers. “What about my men?”
Longarm looked at Walcott, who nodded. “They can go on about their business,” Longarm said. “I don’t reckon they’ll try to start a corpse-and-cartridge session right here in front of the main house.”
“They’d damned well better not,” Jordan grated. He waited a second, then said to the cowboys, “Well, what’re you wait-in’ for? The marshal said you’re free to go.”
The three men didn’t look overly grateful as they rode off toward the barn. In fact, they still looked as mad as wet cats, Longarm thought.
So did Chuy Valdez. “This is not fair!” he said hotly. “You let them go, yet my compadres and I are still prisoners!”
“Why don’t you consider yourselves guests?” Longarm said.
“On the ranch of a thieving gringo—”
“Hush up that talk,” Walcott said sharply. He nodded toward the main house. “Show a little respect, damn it.”
Longarm looked at the ranch house and saw that two people had come out of it to stand on the wide porch that ran all around the structure. One was an attractive young woman with dark hair; next to her stood a tall man in a town suit, a white shirt, and a string tie.
Walcott went on, “Ed, keep an eye on these two vaqueros, will you?”
“Sure, Sheriff.” The barrel of Jordan’s greener rose a little.
“Come on, Marshal,” Walcott said to Longarm. The two lawmen rode over to the house and brought their horses to a stop in front of the porch. Walcott tugged on the brim of his hat, nodded politely, and said, “Mornin’, Miz McCabe.”
Longarm realized with a shock that the sheriff was talking to the young woman. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-four or twenty-five, if that old, and she had an exotic appeal about her, accentuated by the beauty mark near her wide, sensuous mouth. Her hair was black and straight and fell halfway down her back. It was parted in the middle so that it perfectly framed her olive-skinned features. She smiled, and her voice was as lovely as the rest of her as she said, “Good morning, Sheriff. I’m afraid I’m a little confused about what’s going on here.”
She wasn’t the only one, thought Longarm. He had figured that Tom McCabe’s widow would be an older woman. He had even referred to her as an old lady a couple of times when he was talking to the sheriff. No wonder Walcott had given him a funny look the first time and then seemed a little amused on the second occasion. Walcott had known that Longarm would meet Mrs. McCabe soon enough and see for himself just how wrong he had been about her.
“Well, there was a mite of trouble,” Walcott told her. “Some of your boys and some of Montoya’s vaqueros were blazin’ away at each other, down the creek a ways. Marshal Long and I came up on them and made ‘em stop shootin’.”
“Were any of my men wounded?”
“No, ma’am.”
Mrs. McCabe’s smile widened. “Then I ought to thank you and ... Marshal Long, was it?”
Longarm touched the brim of his hat. “Yes, ma’am,” he said to her. “United States Deputy Marshal Custis Long, from Denver.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, and I appreciate you helping Sheriff Walcott keep a bad situation from getting worse. I’m Emily McCabe.” She put a hand on the arm of the man standing beside her. “And this is Ross Thayer, my attorney.”
“Howdy,” Longarm said. Thayer was a tall, sandy-haired gent with the look of a townie about him. Longarm wasn’t surprised he was a lawyer.
“Pleased to meet you, Marshal. I suppose you’re down here to see that justice is done in the dispute between Mrs. McCabe and Senor Montoya?”
“I’m here to keep you folks in the valley from killing each other. It’ll be up to the judge to decide what justice is.”
“Of course,” Thayer said smoothly. “Welcome to the Box MCC.”
The attorney said that almost as if he owned the place, not Mrs. McCabe, Longarm thought. But he supposed Thayer probably had been representing Tom McCabe before the cattle baron’s murder and quite likely had been Mrs. McCabe’s lawyer since then. He would be accustomed to being around the ranch.
“Did I see that one of Senor Montoya’s men was hurt?” Emily McCabe asked.
“Yes’m,” Walcott replied. “Your wrangler’s patchin’ him up now.”
Emily nodded. “Monty will do a good job.” She smiled again. “Well, why don’t you two gentlemen come inside? Lunch will be ready soon.”
Walcott practically licked his lips. “Much obliged, ma’am,” he said as he swung down from the roan.
Longarm dismounted as well and tied the steeldust’s reins to one of the porch posts. He went up the steps with Walcott, and Emily McCabe ushered them inside.
The house might have been made of logs, but it was no simple cabin inside. It was luxuriously furnished, with thick woven rugs on the floor, heavy sofas and chairs, and a huge fireplace with a massive stone mantel. The walls were covered with gun racks, bookshelves, and several impressive sets of antlers. The sight of the antlers reminded Longarm of the ones in Walcott’s office. The mountains on both sides of the valley must be good hunting grounds, he thought.
Longarm and Walcott gave their hats to a Mexican serving woman who wanted them. Emily McCabe said, “Please, have a seat. Can I offer you something to drink? A glass of wine, perhaps?”
“No, thanks,” Walcott said as he lowered himself into one of the chairs. Longarm sat on a long sofa. Walcott went on. “We ought to talk about this trouble betwixt you and Alex Montoya.”
Emily made a face. “I don’t like to discuss unpleasant matters just before a meal, Sheriff. Can’t it wait?”
“Well ... I reckon it can.”
“There’s nothing to discuss, anyway,” Ross Thayer put in.
“Emily is completely in the right in this matter, and I’m confident that the judge will rule that way if he’s ever allowed to hear the facts.”
“You’re talking about it,” Emily said.
Thayer grinned and held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry.”
Longarm was trying not to stare in fascination at Emily McCabe. She was stunningly beautiful, but his interest ran deeper than that. If Tom McCabe had settled in this valley nearly thirty years earlier, that would have been well before Emily was born. He had been decades older than her, and he must have married her when she was little more than a child. Why would a young, beautiful girl marry a man who was so much older than her?
No sooner had the question formed in Longarm’s mind than he knew the answer: money, of course. McCabe had owned a large, successful ranch—a ranch that was now the property of his widow. Being so much younger than him, Emily must have figured that she would outlive him.
But she couldn’t have figured on McCabe being ambushed and killed, and she might not have anticipated the trouble with Montoya, either. She might still wind up with everything she wanted, but it wasn’t going to be as easy as she might have hoped it would be.
The only trouble with that theory, Longarm told himself, was that Emily didn’t look like the sort who would have married just for money. Maybe he was giving her too much credit, but she just didn’t strike him as being that mercenary.
Before he could ponder the matter any more, another man came into the room. The newcomer was considerably older, lean and tanned with a craggy face and a rumpled thatch of white hair. His face might have been severe under other circumstances, but right now he was grinning happily.
“Emily, that mare foaled this morning—” he began, then stopped short as he caught sight of Longarm and Walcott. “Oh. I didn’t know we had company. Hello, Sheriff.”
“Howdy, Warren,” the sheriff said.
Emily came over to the man and took his arm. “Warren, this is Marshal Long,” she said as she led him over to the sofa where Longarm was sitting. Longarm stood up and extended his hand. He knew this man was Warren McCabe, Tom McCabe’s brother.
Warren pumped Longarm’s hand and continued smiling. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Marshal,” he said.
“Likewise,” said Longarm. He recalled Sheriff Walcott saying that Warren McCabe was sort of simple in the head. Despite that—or maybe because of it—he was evidently quite pleasant and friendly.
Warren let go of Longarm’s hand and turned back to his sister-in-law. “You really ought to come out to the barn and see the new colt, Emily. It’s really pretty.”
“All right, Warren,” she told him. “But after lunch, all right?”
“Sure. Whenever you want to. You ought to see it trying to get around on those spindly legs—”
Before Warren could continue the story, the front door suddenly swung open. Ed Jordan, the Box MCC foreman, hurried into the room. He was still carrying the shotgun, and from the way he was gripping it now, so hard that his knuckles were white, Longarm realized something was wrong.
“Sorry to bust in like this, Miz McCabe,” said Jordan, “but I figured I’d better tell you. Montoya and a bunch of his men have come callin’—and they’re armed for bear.”
Chapter 8
“Damn it!” Walcott exclaimed as he came up out of the chair. “Pardon my French, Miz McCabe.”
“That’s quite all right, Sheriff,” Emily said tightly. “I understand completely.”
Longarm was on his feet, too. When Emily said, “I had better go greet my other guests,” and started toward the door, he moved smoothly and quickly so that he was in front of her.
“The sheriff and I will see to this, ma’am,” he said. “It’ll be better if you and Mr. Thayer stay inside.” If bullets started flying, he was confident that none of them would penetrate the thick log walls of the ranch house.
Some of Emily’s hair had fallen forward. She threw it back with a toss of her head and said, “Is this your ranch now, Marshal Long?”
“Huh? No, of course not—”
“Then I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of my way.” Her eyes flashed fire for a second, then calmed somewhat. “Not that I mean to be rude.”
Longarm stepped back. Maybe it would be better if Emily went to see what Montoya wanted. But he intended to stay close to her, just in case of trouble.
He had a pretty good idea why Montoya was here, too.
Hoofbeats, a lot of them, sounded as Emily marched out the front door and was immediately flanked on the porch by Longarm and Sheriff Walcott. Ed, Jordan, Ross Thayer, and Warren McCabe trailed along behind. Longarm glanced over his shoulder and saw that the lawyer looked worried and even a little scared, but Warren was still smiling eagerly, as if he couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next.
A score of men on horseback swept up to the house. They were met by a line of Box MCC ranch hands on the ground, all of them armed and visibly tense, including Jackson Flynn, who had been swapping lead with Chuy Valdez in Palmerton the previous evening.
The riders reined in. Longarm scanned their faces and saw that every one was Mexican. One man, who rode near the center of the group, walked his horse forward. He was the oldest of the bunch, Longarm judged, and his clothing, while not fancy, was better than that of an average vaquero. His lean face was the color of old saddle leather, and his sweeping mustache was white. Longarm had a strong feeling that he was looking at Alejandro Montoya.
That guess was confirmed a second later by a cry from the barn of “Don Alejandro!” Chuy Valdez hurried forward.
Montoya paid no attention to the young man. His eyes were fixed on the group standing on the porch. He reached up and swept his sombrero off, holding it in front of him as he bowed slightly in his saddle. “Señora McCabe,” he said.
“Welcome to my home, Don Alejandro,” Emily said. “What can I do for you?”
“You can make me a happy man and accept my proposal of matrimony,” Montoya said.
“As I’ve told you before, I have no interest in remarrying at the moment. I am still in mourning for my late husband.”
Montoya clapped his sombrero back on his head. “In that case, I demand the return of my men that you are holding prisoner.”
“Now wait just a minute, Alex,” Sheriff Walcott said. “Miz McCabe ain’t holdin’ nobody prisoner. Marshal Long and I brought some of your men over here with us, but they ain’t under arrest.”
“That is not true!” protested Chuy Valdez. “They brought us here at gunpoint!”
“Just so’s your compadre could get that bullethole in his arm tended to.”
Valdez pointed indignantly at Longarm. “A wound that the other gringo lawman inflicted!”
Montoya stiffened in the saddle and looked at Longarm “You shot one of my men?”
“He figured on putting a bullet in my hide,” Longarm said flatly. “I beat him to it.”
“You are the United States marshal of whom I have heard?”
“That’s right. Name’s Custis Long. Who told you about me?”
“Emiliano Rafferty’s father was my friend many years ago. Now Emiliano is my friend.”
Walcott asked, “How’d you know your boys were here?”
“One of my riders saw the encounter earlier this morning and watched from a distance as you forced my men to accompany you. He rode quickly to the hacienda and told me. I knew when he said you did not turn back toward Palmerton that you must be coming here.”
Longarm said, “This hombre saw what happened, did he?”
“That is right, Marshal.”
“And did he tell you who fired the first shots?”
A hint of a sneer appeared on Montoya’s face. “The gringos, of course. They fired from ambush.”
“My men wouldn’t ambush anybody,” Emily said. “They know I wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Forgive me, Senora, but you are only a woman. That is why you need a husband, to help you control your lackeys.”
Ed Jordan snorted. “I ain’t no damn lackey, you—”
Emily stopped him by saying, “That’s enough, Ed.” Her chin lifted defiantly as she looked at Montoya. “My men do what I tell them, and I’ve given them orders not to start any trouble. They know that they can defend themselves if someone attacks them, though. I suspect that’s what happened here.”
