Killing Halfbreed (11 page)

The twenty or thirty dollars he managed to eke out of the business in profit every month wasn't enough to satisfy his desires.  It wasn’t much better than a ranch hand's salary, and for it, he had to watch every penny too.

He'd tried bringing in some advertising revenue, but news passed by word of mouth so quickly, not many businesses felt the need for it.  Everyone knew everyone else’s business for the most part.

But they didn’t.  When he realized that little truth, he'd found his niche.  That's why his gossip columns were so popular.  They wanted to ooh and ah over the little secrets their neighbors were keeping.

Blackmail had been the next natural step.  Nothing big at first, of course.  Maybe weaseling out of the hotel clerk a free breakfast, or an invitation to lunch from one of the town's esteemed ladies.  All in exchange for not revealing people's skeletons.

People came to him with rumors and half-truths, and even the whole truth sometimes, and he turned that into profit, whether it be through his paper publicly, or behind the scenes privately.  He slowly raised the amounts he would get for keeping a secret, but one had to be careful to balance how much you asked with the size of the secret.  If it wasn't embarrassing enough, people wouldn't pay.  He had to be especially careful not to overstep his limits.  The first time he did, it might go to the sheriff, and he'd be finished.

Then, his new partner had come along.  Boy, had he been a ripe source of information. His partner brought him the juiciest gossip of all and only asked for a part of the profit in return.  It was the best deal going, even if he didn't know where the information came from — and it definitely beat two cents a paper.

***

Carlton Andrews squinted in the candlelight as he slowly and deliberately signed the document.  He had to concentrate to force his hand to follow the unnatural scrawl.  Forgery, contrary to public opinion, was not easy.

He didn't even know what Ben Talbot's signature looked like, but he had to make it different enough from his own so as to not arouse suspicion.  He finally finished and began to randomly crimp and crinkle the edges of the paper.  Next, he held it at a safe distance over the candle’s flame, moving it just enough to get a little bit of smoke residue evenly distributed across its face.  The document needed to have a slightly aged look.

The ink wasn't even dry on the Talbot mortgage, and Andrews was already dreaming of how he was going to spend the profits.  Not from mortgage payments of course, that was chump change, but from what he knew was located on the property.

Andrews was not one to take undue risks, however, not when it had to do with money.  If, for some reason, the falsified mortgage didn't pass muster, or if Talbot was somehow able to make the payments, he had a back-up plan.  He hoped to never need it, because that type of thing was always so much messier, but if he did, he was ready for that too.

***

Henry Tadd twirled the white daisy between his fingers and gently nestled it behind the smiling girl’s ear.  Jinny Logan looked genuinely happy to be out on a picnic with him, which had shocked the socks off him.

The other day, she’d playfully asked him when he was going to take her on a picnic, and she’d caught him so off guard that he’d actually invited her on one.  He’d flushed and before he could take back the startled invitation, she’d surprisingly accepted.

He’d driven her out to one of the nearby fields for lunch (which she’d thoughtfully packed), and it had been a great time.  He’d never felt so happy, nor so unnerved.  She actually seemed to be having a good time.

They chatted about all kinds of things, and he found himself relaxing around her.  She was very easy to be with.

The only subject which seemed to bother her was her father’s death.  Her eyes filled with tears once when he’d stupidly mentioned it, and it had about wrenched his heart in two.  He was too young to realize he was falling in love.

***

The shack was poorly built and unknown to most of the inhabitants of Cottonwood Valley.  Its walls were made of pine slats, roughly hewn and fitted together oddly, leaving large gaps between them.  It had been erected in haste and with little care.

The air outside was chilly tonight.  Normally, that chill would have been felt inside the little shack, but tonight it was so full of people, their body heat kept it out.  The warmth they produced actually made the cramped space somewhat stuffy.  On top of that, a few of them insisted on smoking.

Rob Murphy had formed himself quite an impressive conglomerate of men.  He was the head rustler in the valley and nobody, outside of this group, was the wiser.  He was also the foreman on Bill Hartford's ranch, which helped keep him above suspicion as reports of rustling grew.  Betraying the trust of his employer didn't bother him in the least.

His plan had been simple in nature, but more complicated to execute.  Over the past year, he'd carefully selected men he felt he could trust to keep their mouths shut from each of the three ranches until he had a group of about nine men.  They rustled cattle regularly from each of the ranches, and different men took turns doing the stealing on different nights.  So, every ranch lost cattle, and different men were unaccounted for each night, leaving no visible pattern for anyone to point at.  All the cattle they stole, they rounded up in a small box canyon hidden on what was now Jake Talbot's ranch.

This little aspect of the plan had served them better than he could have hoped for.  Ben Talbot had been a newcomer to the valley and staked his claim on an important piece of property.  Since Murphy's gang hid all their stolen cattle on his land, all the tracks led there.  Naturally, suspicion began to fall on Talbot for their crimes.

They hadn’t intended for Talbot to get blamed, but it couldn't have worked out more perfectly.  The box canyon just happened to be on his ranch, and it was simply the best hiding place for however many cows they could get away with.

Hooking up with the Talon gang had been the masterstroke.  It hadn't been long before Murph's gang had amassed a good enough number of cows that they needed to be moved up the trail and sold.

Who to do it though?  Any man who left the area long enough to run them up the trail would definitely be missed on the ranch where they worked.

One day in town, Murphy had bumped into John Talon.  They’d started talking, and it wasn't long before they'd come up with a workable business plan.  Murph and his men would continue to rustle the ranches and gather the cattle they got in the little canyon.  When they had enough to send up the trail, the Talons would drive them up and sell them.  The profits would be split in half between the Talons and Murph, and then Murph would split his profits with his men.

Tonight was one of the nights, which seemed too few and far between, when everyone got paid.  They met together in this shack to split the loot, but tonight, they were still waiting on the Talons to arrive.

Murph surveyed the room and sized up the men waiting with him.  He did that often.  There were only a couple here this evening from his gang.  To his left, was Juan Del Rosario, a hand on Dunagan's ranch.  A stocky Mexican with sharp black eyes, Juan pretty much kept to himself.  He smelled of cheap cologne and wore his inky hair greased down and swept back.  A ragged scar ran down one cheek.  No one knew what had caused it.

Rusty Conner sat next to him.  He also worked for Dunagan.  He had brownish-red hair, a beard to match, and thus his nickname.  Rusty always wore flannel shirts, denim jeans and sometimes a pair of red suspenders.  He was a strong looking man, barrel-chested and thick-armed, known for telling tall tales.  His favorite story was a brag about how he’d once wrestled a black bear and won.  Looking at him, Murph thought that one might actually be true.

Next to him sat Mitch Byrd, who was a hand for the Logans.  Murph didn't like Byrd much; his face reminded him of a weasel.  There always seemed to be plotting and scheming going on behind those beady black eyes.  Byrd wasn't very impressive physically either, not like Conner.

Murph was doubly annoyed by Byrd tonight because he'd brought Henry Tadd to the meeting without asking permission.  Normally, that would have been a big problem, but they were short a man, and Tadd seemed eager to join the group.

“Tadd, get over here.”

Tadd moved toward the leader, nervously puffing up his chest, trying to look bigger than he felt.

“Why’d you come here, Tadd?  What do you want from us?”

“I aim to ask Jinny Logan to marry me and I need a stake.  Hostler’s wages ain’t gonna never get me there.”

Everybody snickered a little at that.  Murph was tempted to mock the boy. 
How in the world did he plan to ask little Miss Logan to marry him after he’d built a stake by stealing Logan cattle?  
The boy didn’t fully understand what they were up to yet, so Murph held his tongue.  If the boy didn’t go along after they filled him in, his blood would be on Byrd’s head for bringing him without asking.

“Well, you’ll make a good bit if you throw in with us,
if we let you,
that is.  What do you have to offer, little man?”

Tadd reddened.  “I’m a hard worker.”

Everybody laughed harder at that.  “We’re all trying
hard
to avoid work here, boy!”

“Rustlin’s gotta be hard work, moving cattle ain’t never easy.”

“You got a point there, I’ll give you that.”  Murph stared at the boy mercilessly.

“I want to kill Jake Talbot!” he burst out suddenly.

“Why?”

“He killed Jinny’s dad!”

“Look, boy, you throw in with us, you’re going to have plenty to do and no time for stuff like that.  Still, you might get the opportunity.  That is, if we don’t beat you to it.  Just sit over there for now.”

Murph had decided to give him a chance to prove himself.  If it didn't work out, they would get rid of him.  While they were at it, they might just get rid of Byrd too.

Finally, the door opened, letting a refreshing bit of cool air disrupt the stuffiness.  John and Jim Talon ducked into the already filled room, followed by Luke Phillips and Charlie Pugh.

Time for the fun part: Dividing up the money.

***

The man opened the envelope and studied the flowery script from his cousin back east.

Dearest Cousin,

I trust and hope you find yourself in good health as you receive this letter.  The realization of our common endeavor is growing near as I'm sure you are aware.

The purpose of this correspondence is to secure verification from you that the property which I have previously mentioned on several occasions is indeed, without obstacle, available at this time for the fulfillment of our mutual goals, and will remain so until it is required.

At our last speaking, you indicated some doubt in regards to this.  As I have many curious and aggressive investors, not to mention superiors, constantly pushing for the culmination of our project, I felt the need to contact you for affirmation that this situation has, in fact, been resolved.

As I write, I am supremely confident of your abilities in matters such as these, as you demonstrated so many times here in New York.  Please advise me as to the current circumstances without delay, although I am undoubtedly sure of the positive nature of your response.

Sincerely,

Sinclair DuPont

His cousin was as verbose as ever, and trusted just as little.  How many times did he have to reassure him that everything was in order and ready?

The fact that things weren't exactly as settled as he made them out to be didn't matter, because it would be by the time it was needed.  He'd write Sinclair right away and tell him what he wanted to hear. He probably should send a telegram instead, since time was running short, but that could be risky.

He didn't yet have Ben Talbot’s property in his hands, but he would...and soon.

    
As if I couldn’t get any stupider, tonight I had decided to break into the home of Jim Dunagan.

I pushed the cotton curtain aside and lifted my leg over the window sill.  Straddling the sill, a bellowing voice froze me in place.

"One false move and I'll blow you to kingdom come.  I've got you covered with a scattergun and I ain't likely to miss.  Now, come on in the rest of the way, real slow and careful like, with your hands up!”

I'd been trying to sneak into the ranch house to accomplish this very thing, a private meeting with Dunagan.  Things weren't exactly going according to plan though, Dunagan having caught me in the act of breaking in and covering me with a shotgun.  I’d wanted to have the advantage when we met, not be under the threat of being shot.  Oh well. 

I considered turning tail and running, but I knew I wouldn't make it two feet before a large hole would be blown in my back.  Resignedly, I sighed and, lifting my hands high as ordered, did my best to stumble the rest of the way into the rancher's kitchen without humiliating myself by falling.