Nest of Vipers (9781101613283) (2 page)

TWO

Felicity's scream shattered the morning stillness. It froze Avery in his tracks. He had a horse roped, and Curly was about to slip a halter over its head when he, too, stiffened and his hands stopped in midair.

“What the hell was that?” Avery asked.

Then they heard a loud yell, followed by a banging of metal striking wood.

From the house, they heard the explosion of a pistol shot.

Both men dropped rope and halter and dashed to the corral fence. They clambered over it and heard a series of screams coming from the house.

“Sounds like Canby's tied into a wildcat,” Avery said.

“A female wildcat,” Curly puffed.

Sunlight gamboled in the pines and shot shadows in long lines from trees, bushes, and structures. The billowing clouds rising amid the high, snow-capped peaks turned pink and salmon as the clouds floated toward the valley.

Abel ran through the open door with Curly on his heels.

Muffled sounds of a struggle came from down the hall.

“Nels, what you got?” Abel asked as he saw two silhouettes tussling in the hall.

“A wild bitch,” Nels replied and locked an arm around Felicity's neck.

He wrestled her down the hall as Curly and Abel backtracked to the front room. Felicity's blue flannel nightgown was ripped from the neckline to her belly and her pert breasts glared out from the torn opening in the fabric.

Curly's eyes bulged as Nels lifted her off her feet and she kicked with both of them. She twisted to free herself, but Nels held her fast.

“I'm going to put the boots to this little tigress,” Nels said and threw her down on the divan.

Felicity screeched at him. “You filthy bastard,” she spat.

Nels slapped her across the mouth. Blood seeped from cracks in her lips.

As Felicity moaned in pain, Nels drew his hunting knife from its scabbard and slit both of her sleeves. He jerked the remainder of her nightgown from her body, then grabbed her right arm and jerked her to the floor.

Felicity lay there on her back as naked as the day she was born.

Abel and Curly stared at the young woman with feral eyes, eyes that glistened with lust.

Nels unbuckled his gun belt, then his pants belt and dropped his trousers to a puddle around his boots.

Felicity opened her eyes and stared upward. She screamed and tried to scoot away from the savage standing above her ready to pounce.

Nels dropped to his knees and smashed her in the jaw with his fist. Felicity's head snapped backward and struck the hardwood floor. Her eyes went askew, then closed. She was unconscious.

Nels crawled over her and spread her legs wide. Then he plunged into her as Curly and Abel cheered him on.

“Give it to her, Nels,” Abel gruffed, as he rubbed a hand up and down on his crotch.

“Stick her good,” Curly growled in his throat, his eyes wide and bulging.

Nels finished quickly and rose to his feet. He pulled up his trousers and buckled his belt.

Abel dropped his pants and raped Felicity like some animal coupling in a frenzy.

Then, Curly took his turn and grunted and groaned until Felicity came to and lashed out at him with her open hands. Her fingernails ripped chevrons on his forearms and he grabbed both wrists and pinned her down until he had finished.

Felicity, with swollen lips, cursed the three men.

“My husband will kill you,” she spat, and blood flew out with her spittle.

“You little whore,” Nels said, then drew his knife.

Felicity sat up and scooted backward to get away from Nels.

An evil leer contorted his face and he strode over to her.

She lifted both arms to ward off the blow that she knew was coming. The knife blade flashed as a beam of sunlight streamed through the front window and caught its metal.

Nels slashed Felicity's arm, and it dropped like a tree limb in a windstorm. Then he stepped in close and slashed her throat in a wide sweep of his arm. The blade sliced her neck and opened her throat. Blood gushed from the gaping wound, and the knife ripped the other side of her neck in its lethal course.

Felicity's eyes opened wide and she sucked in a breath that went no farther than the gaping wound in her neck. The air formed bubbles of blood that dropped and fomented as she slumped over, her eyes glazed with the final frost of mortality.

She made no sound. Her heart stopped and pumped no more blood through her neck wound.

“That'll take care of the witness,” Nels snarled.

“Let's get the hell out of here,” Abel said.

“We got to get them horses and light a shuck,” Curly said as he buckled on his gun belt.

The three men charged out the front door and left it open.

A deep silence settled in the empty house.

In the corral, a horse whickered.

Sunlight streamed through the front door and glazed Felicity's body with a sheen of golden light. Her dark hair, spread out like a fan, glistened like a raven's wing, and the blood on the floor began to congeal and turn a rusty black.

Flies zizzed in from the outside and landed on the fresh blood and peppered her slashed neck in a feeding frenzy.

Later, the three men drove the horses up the slash on the bluff and vanished into the thick timber of the Rocky Mountains.

THREE

Shadows inched down the clapboard walls of the houses and buildings in Leadville as the sun cleared the eastern horizon. There was a chill in the air borne on the breeze that swept down from the high snow-mantled peaks to the west. Brad Storm and his foreman, Julio Aragon, rode down the dirt street, huddled in their sheepskin jackets, their horses blowing steamy mist through their rubbery nostrils.

“Why do we meet this man so early in the morning?” Julio asked.

“Because he sold his herd in Denver and offered to show me a few head before he goes back to Wyoming.”

“I have never heard of this breed of cattle,” Julio said.

“Hardly anybody has,” Brad said. “But I've seen a few head, and I think we can do some mixed breeding and get a better price for bigger cattle.”

“Our cattle are big enough,” Julio said.

“The ones we're going to look at are bigger.”

“So is the buffalo.”

Brad laughed. “We might try that someday, too,” he said.

They rode through the small town to the edge where there were a few fenced stockyards. In one of the pens, they saw some gray cattle at the watering trough. Two men leaned against the fence watching the cattle drink. The cattle had humps on their backs and large floppy ears.

One of the men turned around when Brad and Julio rode up. He wore a battered felt hat, was short and lean, with a three-day beard shadow and a smile that was missing a couple of teeth.

“Howdy,” he said. “You Storm?”

Brad swung out of the saddle.

“I'm Brad Storm. You must be Dale Gentry.”

“I am. This is my
segundo
, Fred Nowicki.”

Nowicki was a shade taller than his boss, with arms that bulged muscles, clear blue eyes and the same three-day beard that looked like embedded pieces of iron. He had a bulbous nose that appeared to have been broken at least twice in his lifetime. He had a stalk of hay in his mouth that left a green stain on the corners of his lips.

Julio stepped out of the saddle and walked over to the men.

“This is Julio Aragon, my ranch foreman,” Brad said.

Julio shook hands with Gentry and Nowicki. He could not avert his gaze from the cattle in the pen.

Dale noticed Julio's fascination with the cattle. “Ever seen Brahman cattle before, Julio?” he asked.

Julio shook his head.

“They're from India,” Dale said. “And over there, they are considered sacred, almost like gods. They are protected. But a few years ago, some people here in the United States had some shipped over here.”

“I've seen 'em before,” Brad said, “but never this close.”

“The bulls can weigh anywhere from a thousand pounds to over a ton,” Dale said. “That big one over there that I brought down weighs better'n fifteen hundred pounds and ain't yet fully growed. He'll make a fine breeder. I call him Caesar.”

“You brought one bull and two cows,” Brad said.

“The cows are Eloise and Minerva. In case you want to put your whitefaces with a cow or two.”

Brad noticed a man standing on the other side of the corral. His horse's reins were wrapped around the bottom pole. He was staring at them but tried to appear to be just a casual observer.

“That man over there,” Brad said, his voice pitched low, “is he one of your hands?”

Dale turned around to look at the man.

“No, but he rode down with us. He wants to talk to you as soon as our business is concluded.”

Brad felt a wave of suspicion float like a small comber in his mind.

“Who is he?”

“Says his name is Joe Blaine. Ever hear of him?”

Brad shook his head. “Name don't ring no bell,” he said. “What's he want with me?”

“He didn't say. I think he's with some detective outfit in Denver, though. I got that much out of him. I hope you're not in some kind of trouble.”

Brad smiled.

“No, not that I know of. But I'm pretty sure I know who sent him. If he wants to talk to me, it'll be a real short conversation.”

“Now, about that bull, Storm. You interested?”

“Sure,” Brad said. “He's homely as a mud fence, but I think I can use him.”

“What about the cows?” Dale asked.

“I'll take those, too. Anything I should know about them before I pay you?”

“Well, they're easy to raise. With that smooth hide they don't have no problem with ticks and flies so much. They can stand a lot of heat but not much cold. They'll eat grass and hay and whatever fodder you feed 'em.”

“Julio and I will drive 'em up and put 'em to pasture.”

Brad pulled out a roll of bills. He counted them as he placed them in Dale's palm as Fred looked on. Julio still stared at the ungainly cattle with the pale gray hides and the humps, the long droopy ears.

Fred pulled some folded papers from his pocket. He lifted one leg to write on and wrote the terms of the sale and signed it. He handed the paper to Dale, who signed it and handed it to Brad.

“Here's your bill of sale, Brad,” Dale said. “You want to find a notary?”

“No, I'll have Julio sign as witness.”

“Fair enough,” Dale said. Fred put the other papers back in his pocket and spit out the hay stalk.

“Who bought your cattle, Dale?” Brad asked after Dale stuffed the role in his left front pocket.

“Ray Barnes. Owns the Lucky Day ranch north of Denver. Know him?”

“Met him once. He raises good horses and I bought a couple of geldings from him.”

“He does have a fine string of horses, mixed Arabs and Morgans, I think.”

“Yep. What's he going to do with Brahman?”

“They're callin' 'em Bramers, now. Ray is going to do what you aim to do, mix 'em in with Herefords and maybe Black Angus. He's got a large spread.”

“I know. Besides his ranch near Denver he has another one up near the mountains west of town.”

“Well, good luck, Brad,” Dale said. “Fred and I got to be gettin' back. Stop by whenever you're up to Cheyenne. My spread is the Two Bar Six.”

“I'll do that,” Brad said.

The two men shook hands again. Dale and Fred walked over to another pen where their horses were tethered to a corner pole. They mounted up, waved, and set out for the road to Denver.

Brad looked at the cattle he had bought.

“I say rope that one cow and maybe the bull and the other cow will follow us back to the ranch.”

“Or rope the bull,” Julio said.

“Cow always leads the herd,” Brad said.

“Whiteface cow.”

“Maybe the Bramers do the same.”

“All right.”

“I want to get out of here,” Brad said. “Quick as we can.”

“What about that hombre over there who wants to talk to you?”

“I don't want to talk to him, Julio.”

“It's too late,” Julio said as he looked over Brad's shoulder. “He is walking this way.”

Brad turned around.

“Hold on there, Mr. Storm,” the man said. “I'd like a word with you.”

“Not interested, stranger,” Brad said.

“Only take a minute.”

“Make it quick, then.”

The man who approached them was almost as tall as Brad, with wide shoulders, a push-broom moustache with a rusty tint, sharp features, and pale blue eyes that were as cold and frosted as pond ice. He wore a pistol on his hip, a sheepskin-lined denim jacket, a neatly blocked Stetson, and shiny snakeskin boots.

“A minute's all I got,” Brad said when the man was six feet away. “Less if you work for Harry Pendergast.”

“I believe you work for Harry yourself,” the man said.

“Not anymore. I quit some time ago.”

The man stopped and looked Brad square in the eyes. “My name's Joe Blaine and I do work for the Denver Detective Agency. Harry sends his regards.”

“All right. I send mine back.”

“Hold on, Mr. Storm. I haven't used up my minute yet.”

Brad studied Blaine's face. The man didn't blink. His stare was as hard as twenty-penny nails. He did not look like a man who would back down from anything. He didn't look much like a detective, either. He looked like a city slicker in a western outfit who summered at a dude ranch. Still, if you looked closer, there was something about him that belied his neat appearance. He looked like a man who could bulldog a steer and hogtie a yearling calf before you could say “Jack Robinson.”

“I'll hear you out, but I just bought three head of Bramers and I'm headin' back into the mountains.”

“Fair enough,” Blaine said.

Then he reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a sheaf of folded greenbacks.

Julio's eyes widened as he stared at the bills. The one that was on top was a hundred-dollar bill.

Blaine held the stack of greenbacks shoulder high and flashed Brad a wan smile.

“This,” he said softly, “is a bribe, Mr. Storm.”

The sun rose in the morning sky, and one of the Brahman moaned as it swung its head to look at the three men standing outside the stock pen. Its mournful eyes seemed full of a sadness that told a tale of long journeys and a longing for a lost homeland in India. Julio felt all this as he waited for Blaine to drop the other shoe.