Firestick, p.11
Firestick, page 11
A knot of men milled at the mouth of the alley where Chapman lay. Firestick motioned to a couple of them he knew by name. “Smith. Hill . . . Keep an eye on this jasper for me. Make sure he don’t try any funny business and that he behaves while Moorehouse is tendin’ to his wound. I’ll be back to take him into custody.”
“We’ll do that, Marshal.”
“You damn betcha we’ll see to it he don’t try anything more.”
With that assurance, Firestick turned and stepped out into the street, heading toward where the fallen rifleman lay. More people were gathering there, drifting closer from all sides. Apparently the sight of a dead man held more attraction than one who was only wounded. Nevertheless, they parted to make way for Firestick as he strode up.
Lofton stood directly over the body, gazing down with no emotion showing on his face. His gun was back in its holster.
Leathering his own hogleg, Firestick said, “That was some mighty prime shootin’, mister. And don’t think I ain’t grateful for it.”
A faint smile touched Lofton’s mouth. “Just returning the favor, Marshal. You stepped in yesterday when those three men had me cornered. I owed you one.”
Kate came pushing through the crowd at that point. “Thank God you’re all right,” she said breathlessly, moving closer and slipping her arms around Firestick’s waist.
The marshal was somewhat surprised by this public display, though he hardly minded it. Still, he said, “Careful, you’ll get all smudged. Rollin’ around in the mud alongside a water trough ain’t a bad idea when you’re duckin’ bullets, but it don’t exactly make a body good huggin’ material.”
“I don’t give a darn,” said Kate. “As long as you’re standin’ upright so I can hug you.”
“Like I was just sayin’, that’s mainly thanks to Lofton here.”
“And like I was saying, I was just returning a favor.”
Sam Duvall appeared, coming from the jail. The sawed-off shotgun he was wielding made it easy for him to forge a path through the crowd. “Sorry I didn’t make it quicker, but the old bones don’t move as fast as they used to,” he said, his breath coming in gasps. After turning his head to bark a couple short coughs, he added, “What the hell happened here anyway?”
“This hombre,” said Firestick, pointing down at the dead man, “is a relative to the fella I had to shoot last night in Kate’s place. The fact that the young fool didn’t give me no other choice didn’t seem to matter—Uncle here was lookin’ to even the score by bushwhackin’ me.”
“That’s the way it is sometimes with certain folks. They’re like weeds,” remarked Lofton, a trace of bitterness in his tone. “You chop one down, more out of the same cluster pop up and you have to chop some of them, too.”
“Well, I hope to hell that ain’t the case here. I want this to be over with,” said Firestick. He raked the surrounding crowd with his eyes. “How about it? Anybody else kin to Rand Wilson or Oscar Mantel? If so, speak up now. I don’t want it to be that way, but anybody else who comes gunnin’ for me over this will get the same damn treatment.”
The marshal’s words hung in the air like a raised fist. Nobody responded.
A bald, gangly man edged forward. He wore an ill-fitting striped suit and was holding in his hands a silk top hat with fraying around the brim. “With your permission, Marshal,” said Clem Worden, the town undertaker, “I think it would be proper to get the body out of the street now. Or at least cover his face. Dreadful as his actions were, I feel we should show that much decency. Do you want me to go ahead and take care of that?”
“Yeah, you’re right, Clem,” said Firestick, exhaling a deep breath. “Go ahead and bring your wagon around. Do what you need to.”
“I’ll hold him with his . . . nephew. Until someone from the Bar 6 shows up to hopefully advise on burial preferences. I expect to be hearing something soon.”
Firestick made a sour face. “I wasn’t looking forward to facin’ Mick Plummer after I’d shot just one of his men. This sure ain’t gonna make it any more pleasant.”
“Assuming this Mr. Plummer is the boss of the brand these men rode for,” Lofton said coolly, “maybe he needs to shoulder the responsibility of keeping them better in line.”
CHAPTER 18
The noon hour came and went.
Once all the mid-morning excitement had died down, activity around town seemed to turn sluggish, but with an undercurrent of tension.
Firestick walked down to the telegraph twice to see if any responses to his inquiries had come in. Nothing. When he returned to the jail, he paced back and forth in front of his desk.
Lunch was sent over from the Mallory Hotel dining room—a slab of fried beef, a scoop of beans, and some corn bread for the prisoners. The Dunlaps and Woolsey shared one cell; Whitey Chapman was in the other. For Firestick and Sam Duvall, the fare was enhanced with an additional slab of beef and some buttered potatoes. Firestick picked distractedly at his plate. In his cell, the wounded Chapman did the same until the Dunlaps coerced him into handing his meat and corn bread through the bars to them since he had no appetite.
And then, at half past one, the sluggish period came to an abrupt end.
That was when Mick Plummer, boss of the Bar 6, came galloping down Trail Street at the head of four other horsemen. They rode straight up to the jail, scattering other traffic on the street ahead of them and kicking up a rolling cloud of dust in their wake.
In the jail, Firestick and Sam heard the stamping hooves outside. The marshal moved to the front door to see what it heralded. He was hoping it was Moosejaw returning with a report on what he’d been able to determine from the tracks of those mysterious riders Cleve Boynton had seen. Instead, he pushed open the door to find himself gazing at Plummer, reined up at the hitchrail astride a pawing, broad-chested Appaloosa gelding.
Plummer was a beefy, thick-shouldered man of fifty with a neatly trimmed mustache spiked by gray. He had a deep, rough-edged voice that came out as a bit of a growl even when he was in the best of moods. Which wasn’t today.
“For the love of Christ, Marshal,” that growl sounded now, “are you bent on putting me out of business by gunning down my whole damn crew? Ain’t I got enough stacked against me what with the elements and cow thieves and everything else—do I need you out to get me, too?”
“I ain’t out to get nobody, Plummer. Less’n they go against the law or show their hand as bein’ out to get me first,” Firestick drawled easily. “Seems to me you’d best calm down some before you blow a gasket and put your own self out of business.”
The dust cloud that had been boiling behind the Bar 6 bunch now caught up and came rolling forward over them and Firestick as well. Squinting against this, Plummer said, “Calm down? How in blazes is a body supposed to calm down after a morning like I’ve had? First having to chase rustlers from hell to breakfast, and then getting back to the ranch only to find out—”
“Wait a minute,” Firestick said, holding up a hand. “That’s twice now in just a handful of words you’ve mentioned cow thieves and rustlers. What’s goin’ on with that?”
“Just what it sounds like. One of my herds got hit last night. A pair of nighthawks heard ’em bawling and fussing, and when they went to check, they saw where it appeared a couple dozen or so had been thinned out. It was too dark for just the two of ’em to take out after the rustling skunks right away. It would have meant leaving the balance of the herd, and they might have ended up riding into a trap. But first thing this morning, me and these boys”—Plummer jerked a thumb over his shoulder—“headed out to try and track the thieves. We lost ’em in rocky ground. Don’t change the fact, though, that cattle got took. Like I said, it was only a couple dozen head. But that kind of thing, if it keeps up, can bleed an outfit dry.”
“Has it been happenin’ regular?”
Plummer shook his head. “No. We’ve been lucky. Went through all of last year without hardly a sign of such trouble. All the more reason to nip it in the bud.”
“Any other outfits been hit lately?” Firestick wanted to know.
“None I’ve heard of.” Plummer paused, his thick brows pulling into a scowl. “But hold on now. I appreciate you showing interest and all, but number one, that ain’t what I came here to talk to you about. And, number two, ain’t rustling out on the open range kinda out of your jurisdiction to be worrying about?”
“It might be stretchin’ my jurisdiction in a strict legal sense,” Firestick allowed. “But stock stealin’ in our valley ought to be a concern to everybody, oughtn’t it? Remember, me and my partners got a small ranch of our own.”
“That’s true. And I already said I appreciated you takin’ an interest. But that still don’t . . .”
Plummer let his words trail off as a new commotion arose in the street behind him. He cranked his head to look around, and all eyes followed his as two more riders came thundering up in a fresh cloud of dust.
It was Moosejaw and Cleve Boynton. They’d clearly been riding hard, and the grim expression on each of their faces pretty much gave the answer to what Firestick immediately wanted to know.
“Well?”
The big deputy crowded his horse up alongside Plummer’s. Jutting out his chin and first cutting his eyes to the Bar 6 men gathered on either side, he brought his gaze back to Firestick but kept his words guarded. “Boynton wasn’t wrong,” he said.
Firestick spat a curse, not quite under his breath. Then he said, “All right. We need to talk about it inside.” Pinning Plummer with a hard look, he added, “You, too. This is gonna concern you, in more ways than one. But while we’re chewin’ it over, how about givin’ your boys some leeway to go wet their whistles, maybe grab a bite to eat, since they probably ain’t had no lunch yet?”
Reading the intensity in the marshal’s eyes, Plummer was quick to answer with a nod. “You heard the marshal,” he said to his men. “You’re free to go have a bite and a couple beers. But don’t scatter, and don’t by God get drunk! I’ll be rounding you up to head back to the ranch before long.”
As Moosejaw swung down from his saddle, he also addressed the Bar 6 men, saying, “We got a couple hard-rode horses here, fellas. Could I get one or two of you to take care of ’em for us—cool ’em down and then let ’em have a good drink? I’ll stand you all a drink in turn next time you’re in town.”
The fact that whatever was needing to be discussed inside appeared to be mighty important wasn’t lost on the cowboys. Nor was the fact that, although the words of the big deputy were spoken politely, they amounted to an order as much as a request. Plus, the proper treatment of a good horse was something they all recognized as having its own importance. So, there was no hesitation in a positive response from the four.
CHAPTER 19
Moosejaw wasted no time going into his report once everybody was gathered in the jail office. Present were him, Boynton, Plummer, Sam Duvall, and Firestick. Sam’s dog, Shield, lay quietly and obediently at his master’s feet. The heavy door leading back to the cell block was closed. Coffee had been poured and handed out all around.
“Twenty-five, twenty-six ponies,” Moosejaw was saying. “Found their tracks right where Boynton led me. They came in out of the south and a bit east, veered sharp north after he spotted ’em. We followed their sign as far as the foothills of the Viejas before I turned us back. I figured it wouldn’t be long before the tracks got mighty hard to follow, and I didn’t want to risk ridin’ into an ambush.”
“That was smart. Right now bringin’ word back so’s we can start gettin’ folks warned is the most important thing,” said Firestick.
“Warning folks about what?” Plummer was quick to say. Then, even as the question was tumbling out of his mouth, the realization of what the answer might be hit him. “Hey now! He’s not talking about the rustlers who hit my herd, is he? A force of twenty-six men?”
“I think they’re one and the same, yeah,” Firestick told him. “But we ain’t necessarily talkin’ rustlers in the way you’re thinkin’.”
Plummer cocked his head back. “What’s that supposed to mean? This is hardly the time for riddles, Marshal.”
“Both of you hold on a minute and let me finish my tellin’,” Moosejaw interjected somewhat testily. “I said I made it out to be about twenty-six ponies. The thing is, though, close to half of ’em was leavin’ prints that showed way too light. I figure they wasn’t carryin’ riders.”
“Any of the ponies shod?” asked Firestick.
“Nary a one.”
“Packhorses, then. They’re figurin’ on raidin’ and makin’ off with a big haul.”
“Only way to read it, I’d say,” agreed Moosejaw.
Firestick’s expression took on an added grimness as he asked his next question. “Apaches?”
“Couldn’t see anything to say it wasn’t Apaches,” Moosejaw replied. “And it’s really the only thing that fits . . . We know there’s some of ’em not that far away, holed up down in the mountains of Mexico. Exactly the direction they came from. They’ve adapted to the Sierra Madres down there, so hightailin’ it straight into the Viejas for however long they plan to be around here, makin’ a camp they can stage their raids out of and use as a hideout in between . . . Like I said, it all fits.”
Plummer removed his hat and ran the meaty fingers of one hand back through his hair, saying, “Holy Christ. I feel like my head is about to explode. I came here thinking I had one set of problems, but what I’m hearing now . . . Holy Christ!”
“What’s this about you bein’ hit by rustlers?” Boynton asked him.
“Last night. Somebody drove off twenty or so head,” Plummer said, still looking a little stunned. “Whoever it was led ’em into the Vieja foothills. Me and some of my boys tried following ’em this morning but lost their tracks in the rocky ground, same as you.”
“I never said I lost their tracks, I said they would have got mighty hard to follow,” Moosejaw quickly corrected him. “But as for the rest of it, like I keep sayin’, it all f—”
“Okay, okay. We get the picture,” Firestick cut him off. “From this point on there ain’t no other way to look at it but as havin’ an Apache raidin’ party in our valley, and we’ve got to move fast in order to deal with ’em.”
“Just how do we go about that?” Sam Duvall asked.
“We start out by warnin’ the outlying farmers and ranchers of the danger they may be in,” replied Firestick. “The bigger outfits, like Plummer’s Bar 6 and Tolsvord’s Box T, have got enough men who can be armed and pulled in close around the main buildings to hold off any direct attacks there. That don’t mean the fringes of their cattle herds won’t still be at risk to get thinned some more, though, as Plummer here has already experienced. But the smaller ranches and farms, where there’s just a family and maybe one or two hired hands, at most, are in worse danger. They’re the ones we’ve got to get word to pronto and, in some cases, maybe bring ’em into town for safety.”
“What about the town itself?” said Boynton. “Any chance those savages might be showin’ up here?”
Firestick shook his head. “Not a full-on attack, no. We’re only talkin’ about a dozen or so braves, remember. Although that’s actually quite a few for an Apache raid, especially Chiricahuas like these are bound to be if they came up from across the border. Apaches don’t mass big forces like the Sioux or Cheyennes up north.”
“Cherry-cows like to hit fast and savage in small groups of only three or four. If this bunch decides to go kill-raidin’,” Moosejaw said, “they could split into two or three smaller bunches. Like a grapeshot bomb explodin’ in all different directions at once. Keeps anybody chasin’ ’em practically runnin’ in circles.”
“But the marshal said they brought all those pack ponies to load up and make off with a haul,” said Plummer. “If they’re mainly after supplies, will they still take time to go kill-raiding?”
“Can’t see a bunch of Apache broncos ridin’ into an area and not doin’ some killin’,” said Firestick. “Yeah, the pack ponies mean they’re after supplies—meat and hides, blankets, tools, guns, cartridges, whatever else they can sneak away with or plunder. But that don’t mean they’ll stop there. Cherry-cows plumb love killin’ White Eyes. Once those pack ponies are loaded, two or three bucks could be chosen to peel off from the rest and start leadin’ those ponies back across the border while the remainder split into a couple smaller bunches, just the way Moosejaw told it, and start raidin’ not only for the killin’, but also to divert attention away from the departin’ pack train.”
“Diabolical devils,” Sam Duvall muttered.
Moosejaw said, “Don’t rightly know what diablolly—dobolili . . . whatever the hell that word you just used means—but Apaches can damn sure act like devils. That’s for certain.”
“But we ain’t gonna stop at just sending out warnings and putting everybody on guard, are we?” said Boynton. “I mean, somebody’s also gonna be going after those red devils, right?”
Firestick gave him a look. “How long you lived in these parts, Boynton?” he said. Then, not waiting for an answer, he added, “Goin’ after maraudin’ Apaches is like goin’ after a prairie fire. You gotta be mighty careful the wind don’t shift sudden-like and you find yourself caught by the flames curling back on you.”
“Just ask anybody from any of the dozens of cavalry patrols that’ve gone out after ’em over the years,” Moosejaw chimed in. “Think of those bombs I mentioned before. By the time you get to a place where the grapeshot hit, the damage has usually been done. All the while you got to be careful the next flyin’ chunk of hate don’t hit you, and pretty soon you start to wonder just who’s after who.”
“Nevertheless, somebody has to go after the savages,” insisted Plummer. “You’ll be sending for the army, won’t you, Marshal?”
“I’ll notify both Fort Davis and Fort Leaton,” Firestick answered. “They’re about equal distances from us. I’ll leave it up to them to argue about who sends some soldiers. Then it’ll be a matter of how long it takes for a patrol to show up. But in the meantime, we got plenty we need to be doin’ ourselves.”
