Nest of Vipers (9781101613283) (7 page)

THIRTEEN

Smoke and dust billowed out from a hole in the side of the limestone cliff. The third blast still echoed from the far hills and canyons of that region of the Rockies. The cloud of white smoke shredded in the fingerlings of wind that whipped through the long valley. Dust drifted down on the log shacks with their slanted roofs, the few clapboard buildings, the Wild Cat Saloon with its small false front, next to the Gulch Hardware store and the modest Canyon Grocery & Sundries, all scattered along a shelf with a rough road packed down by rock sleds carving a path.

“Hell, there's a damned town here,” Joe said.

“A mining town,” Brad said. “There are dozens of them sprung up in these mountains.”

They rode up to a crudely painted sign that read
ARAPAHO GULCH
, and underneath,
POP. 86
. The
86
was crossed out with a slash of black paint and another number in red paint read
92
.

Beyond the rudiments of the town, men lined a small creek while others stood behind log barricades in front of the bluff where a large hole still swirled with wisps of smoke and brownish puffs of grainy dust. Horses, some saddled, some unsaddled, lined the street in front of the stores and the saloon.

“They got a bar here,” Joe said. “Anybody want a beer? I'm buyin'.”

“First we check the brands on all those horses tied at the hitch rails,” Brad said.

Julio licked his lips but said nothing.

“Get out your list, Brad,” Joe said.

They rode up to the little café at the beginning of the street. The sign read
MABEL'S EATS
. There were two horses tied outside the eatery, an Appaloosa and a Trotter. The Trotter was at least sixteen hands high, a tall rangy, deep chestnut gelding.

The brand on its hip appeared fairly fresh and yet it was difficult to see if it had been altered.

“The brand reads Bar B,” Joe said. “But, I'll bet that ‘B' was once an ‘E.'”

Brad looked down the list.

“The Bar E is owned by Edward Elliott,” he said.

“Yep, that looks like one of Ed's horses. He raises Missouri Trotters.”

“What about the 'Paloosa?” Brad asked.

Joe rode in closed and nudged the horse off its hipshot stance and looked down at the brand.

“This one's a Running R,” Joe said.

“Legitimate?” Brad asked.

Joe leaned over and rubbed a finger across the brand. It was not a fresh brand. The hair was gone where the brand had been burned onto the hide, but the brand felt uneven to the touch. He felt the contours of the ‘R' and then took his hand away.

“This brand is older than some of the others we've seen,” Joe said. “But I'd say it's been altered from a Running K to a Running R. The top part of the ‘R' is wider and a little uneven.”

Brad checked his list.

“There is a Running K ranch listed here. Owner Ted Kilroy.”

“Ted raises Appaloosas,” Joe said. “That fits, then.”

“It sure as hell does. Let's go inside the café and see if we can find out who owns these horses.”

“Good idea,” Joe said.

They all climbed out of their saddles and wrapped their reins around the hitch rail next to the two horses they had just checked.

The café was small, with a counter and stools, four tables, and one large booth.

Two men sat at the counter, while another sat at a table. A woman stood behind the counter with a wet glass in her hand, a drying towel in the other. The man at the table was a bearded man in his sixties, with a battered hat on his head, grimy, dusty jacket, soiled denim shirt, and work boots. He was eating a piece of lemon pie and drinking coffee. His eyes were tired and bloodshot. To Brad, he looked like a man at the end of his rope, out of luck, out of hope.

“Good morning, gents,” the woman said brightly. “Menu's on the blackboard up there if you have a hankerin' for vittles. I make all my pies fresh, and we're fresh out of bear claws.”

Joe sat down. Julio sat next to him. Brad looked at the two men sitting on stools before he, too, sat down.

“Coffee for the three of us,” he said.

“I could sure gobble down a piece of that lemon pie,” Joe said.

“We don't have time for you to feed your face,” Brad said. “Just three coffees, ma'am.”

“Comin' right up,” she said and set the dried glass on a shelf behind the counter under the blackboard with its menu chalked in block letters along with the high prices of her fare.

“Ma'am,” Brad said to the woman as she set out three porcelain cups in front of them, “do you happen to know who owns those two horses out front?”

She poured coffee from a steaming pot and looked out the window.

“I see five horses,” she said.

“One's an Appaloosa, the other's a chestnut Trotter,” Brad said.

“Al, isn't that colored horse yours?” the woman said to one of the men on a stool.

“The 'Paloosa's mine. Just bought him, matter of fact. Less than an hour ago.”

“Trotter's mine,” the other man said. “I bought him from the same men Al did. Why? You want to buy them?” he said to Brad.

“No, but I'd like to talk to the man who sold them to you. If they're still in town.”

Al, a short, thin man in his thirties with a week's beard stubble on his face and chin, a small wet mouth and a crooked nose, said: “Likely you'll find them at the Wild Cat,” he said. “They had cash money burnin' holes in their pockets when they left here.”

“Men?” Brad asked.

“They was three of 'em. They brought a half-dozen horses. Sold four of 'em to Todd Sperling, who owns that hard-rock mine bein' blasted in the cliff yonder.”

“Benji,” the woman said to the man sitting with Al, “you cheated those men sure as I'm breathin'. You wouldn't pay his price until he come down a whole ten dollars.”

Benji laughed. He was a chubby man in his forties with a rosy button nose, a full beard streaked with gray, and a doughy neck pleated with rolls of fat.

“Horse needed new shoes,” he said. “So, he knocked ten dollars off his price.”

“How much did you pay for the horse?” Joe asked.

“Thirty dollars. Man wanted forty. Said his name was Curly, but he was bald as a hen's egg.”

“Yeah, I had to pay thirty-five for the Appaloosa,” Al said. “Shoes warn't too worn.”

Benji laughed again.

Brad blew on his coffee and sipped some of it.

“That'll be fifty cents apiece,” the woman said.

“Fifty cents for a cup of coffee?” Joe said.

“That coffee has to be hauled up from Denver like everything else in this town,” she said. “One dollar and four bits for the three of you.”

Brad pulled some bills from his pocket and laid out two one-dollar bills.

“Keep the change,” he said to her.

The woman smiled broadly and snatched up the bills in her flabby hand.

“Why, thank you, sir. You're a gentleman.”

“Drink up, boys,” Brad said. “I want to talk to Curly and the other men he's with before they ride out.”

“Oh, they ain't goin' nowhere real fast,” Al said. “Them three was wantin' to jine up with a couple of glitter gals what works at the saloon. I expect they'll stay the night in what some calls a hotel here. More like a bunkhouse with walls.”

Benji laughed again.

“Well, I want to talk to them before they hit the feathers,” Brad said. “Thanks for the information.”

“They told me they could get us more horses if we needed 'em,” Benji said. “Them three was real horse traders, I tell you.”

“That's good to hear,” Brad said as he drained his cup and stood up.

The old man at the table had finished his pie. He looked at Brad.

“You ask me,” he said, “them three warn't no horse traders ner ranchers. They were hard cases and packed big pistols on their hips. I seen their kind before, you bet. Them was pistoleros like I seen in Taos.”

“Gunmen, you say?” Joe said as he stood up.

“Yep. Mean faces, big guns. I bet they stole them horses they brung up here.”

“Oh, Petey, you just shut up,” the woman said to the old man. “You think everybody who comes to town is out to steal your poke.”

The man shook a bony finger at her.

“Mabel, you don't know nothin',” he said. “Them were hard cases. Sellin' them horses so cheap, they had to have stole 'em.”

“Thanks, old man,” Brad said. “We'll sure watch out for them down at the saloon.”

“You better,” Petey said, wagging his finger at Brad. “Watch yore back, stranger.”

Brad, Joe, and Julio left the café and walked out onto the street.

“We can walk to the saloon,” Brad said. “Do you see a hotel anywhere?”

Joe looked down the street.

“Next to the saloon, there's what looks like a boardinghouse.”

“We'll see,” Brad said.

“What do you aim to do, Brad?” Joe asked.

“Ask some questions,” Brad said.

“You might not get the answers you're looking for,” Joe said.

They walked toward the Wild Cat Saloon.

“Maybe they do not answer no questions,” Julio said as they neared the saloon.

“No answer is the same as answering,” Brad said.

“If that old man was right, there could be trouble,” Joe said. “Gunplay even.”

“That, too, is an answer, isn't it, Joe?”

“I reckon so,” Joe said.

“I smell blood,” Julio said.

They passed a number of wagons parked in between buildings. Down on the flat there was an arrastre with a mule hitched to it, walking around in a circle, the mechanism breaking rocks, ore carts next to it. Along the creek, men were shoveling dirt into dry rockers and squatting with gold pans that they dipped into the stream. Farther down, men were pouring shovelfuls of water and sand onto a placer rig.

And there were three saddled horses in front of the Wild Cat Saloon.

They all bore the same brand, a J Bar K.

Warning klaxons sounded in Brad's brain. These were not altered brands. These were the real McCoy.

The building next to the saloon had a small sign that said
ARROWHEAD HOTEL
, and underneath,
ROOMS FOR RENT
.

“Well, there's the saloon,” Brad said. “With a hotel right next to it. Only one thing seems to be missing.”

“What's that, Brad?” Joe asked.

“There should be an undertaking parlor right in between.”

Joe loosened his pistol in his holster. So did Julio when he saw what Joe had done.

Brad fingered the thong around his neck, but he did not shake it. The rattles nested against his breastbone under his shirt.

He pushed on the bat-wing doors and entered the saloon.

Motes of dust danced in the beam of sunlight. The saloon was dark and quiet at that hour.

Three men sat at a table near the entrance.

They looked up at Brad, and their eyes gleamed in the sudden shaft of sunlight.

The bat-wings creaked and stopped swinging as Brad, Joe, and Julio stood there, adjusting their eyes to the gloomy inside.

The eyes of the three men at the table went dark, as if they had retreated into a cave, like feral creatures in hiding.

FOURTEEN

The upper torso of a man standing behind the bar appeared out of the dimness.

“Howdy, gents,” he said. “Don't just stand there blockin' off all the air. Have a seat.”

Joe headed for the bar. He blinked his eyes as if to wash out the sunlight that lingered there.

“Might as well,” Brad said to Julio. “Come on and wet your whistle.”

Julio followed him to the end of the bar. Brad pulled out two empty stools next to Joe, who was leaning over the bar.

“I'm Chet Macklin,” the barkeep said. “What's your pleasure, gents?”

“A beer, if it ain't too hot,” Joe said.

“Oh, we ain't had no snow here in a month of Sundays, but it keeps fairly cool in the keg.”

“I'll have a beer, too,” Brad said. “Julio, order whatever you want to drink.”

Julio sat down next to Brad.

“You have any tequila?” he asked Macklin.

“Nope, you got to go south a ways for them spirits. Pueblo, maybe. Or Santa Fe.”

“I will take a beer,” Julio said.

Brad sat down, and Joe pulled out a stool and seated himself.

“Comin' right up,” Macklin said. He was a man in his mid-thirties with a thin hatchet face, a crop of wiry red hair, and a scarred nose. He stood about five foot nine and was muscular under his pale chambray shirt that had seen many washings. He poured three glasses, heavy beer glasses, to the rim and scraped off the foam as he set them on a tray. He carried the tray to the end of the bar and set the glasses down in front of each man.

“That'll be six bucks,” he said.

Joe groaned as he reached for his wallet.

“I'll get it, Joe. Goes on the expense account.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

“Don't thank me. Thank Harry and Cliff.”

Joe chuckled as Brad pulled out some bills and laid out six ones on the bar top.

“You fellers some kind of agents, maybe minin' agents, or something?” Macklin asked as he shoveled the bills from one hand to another.

“Why do you ask that?” Brad said.

“Talkin' about an expense account and all. Ain't none of my business o' course.”

“No, we're not mining agents,” Brad said. “We're range detectives.”

Joe nearly choked on his beer as some of it went down his windpipe.

Brad spoke loud enough for the three men at the table to hear and he looked at them with a sidelong glance. They seemed to stiffen in their chairs and one of them jerked his lit cigarette from his mouth and glared at Brad and his two companions.

“Well, there ain't no range hereabouts,” Macklin said. “So what brings you to the Gulch? If you don't mind my askin'.”

“Horses,” Brad said in a loud voice.

Joe cringed. A flicker of a smile played on Julio's bronzed face. Macklin looked puzzled.

“Horses?” he said.

“Yeah, we want to buy some. Heard we could find some here in the Gulch that were pretty cheap.”

One of the men at the table sat up straight as if he had been jolted by a cattle prod.

Able Avery rose from his chair and stood there for a moment. Curly and Nels scraped their chairs. Nels lifted a hand and stuck it in front of Avery to halt him.

“Stay out of it, Abel,” Nels said.

“Hell, they want to buy horses, Nels. Let's see what they're willing to pay.”

“I don't like the smell of it,” Curly said.

Abel pushed Nels's hand aside and walked over to the bar. He stood at the corner for a moment.

Brad fixed the man with a searing look.

“Who wants to buy horses?” Abel asked.

“I'm looking for some good horses,” Brad said.

“And who might you be?” Abel asked. He walked behind the three men and stood close to Brad. He looked Brad up and down with a look that was a mixture of scorn and curiosity.

“What's my name got to do with it, stranger?” Brad said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a long wallet. He opened it and flashed a stack of greenbacks. The bill on top was for one hundred dollars. Beneath the bills was a torn scrap of blue cloth.

“You said you was a range detective,” Abel said. “For all I know you might be wantin' to buy horses what was stole. If you do, we can't help you none. But we're traders and it looks like you got the cash.”

“What've you got?” Brad asked. “And how much are you asking?”

“Why, we got all kinds of horses, mister. You name it. And, we only want what's a fair price, dependin' on the breed and age of the horse.”

Julio and Joe turned on their stools to look at Abel. Brad looked past him at the two other men still sitting at the table. They were all ears.

“How long would it take for you to bring me a half dozen head to look at?” Brad said. “I'm lookin' for some good cutting horses.”

“Why, it wouldn't take more'n a half day,” Abel said. “I got cuttin' horses, you bet.”

“We'll go with you,” Brad said. “No use you ridin' both ways.”

A look of suspicion crept onto Abel's face.

“Ain't no trouble. We sold some horses we brought up today. We'll bring 'em to you.” He looked at the open wallet again. “'Course you might want to give us a little earnest money.”

“Oh, I don't think old Earnest would like that,” Brad said. “He's tighter than a widder's purse.”

“That ain't funny,” Abel said.

“You want something funny,” Brad said as he slipped the torn swatch of blue flannel cloth out from under the bills. “Take a look at this. It's still got a little blood on it.”

Brad thrust the cloth at Abel. Abel jumped backward a half foot, his hands up as if to ward off something evil or untouchable. His eyes bulged like those of a besotted bullfrog as he stared at the piece of blue cloth.

“What in hell's that?” Abel barked.

“You might recognize it. It's a piece of my wife's nightgown. She was wearing it when three men cut it off her, then raped her and slit her throat.”

“I don't know nothin' about that,” Abel said.

“About what?” Brad asked, shaking the cloth at Abel.

“'Bout no woman gettin' jumped and kilt.”

“You're a lying sonofabitch,” Brad said in a soft, even tone of voice.

“Them's fightin' words where I come from,” Abel said as he backed away another foot or two.

Brad slipped the cloth into his shirt and pulled on the leather thong around his neck until the rattles were just out of sight inside his shirt.

Abel spread his legs in a gunfighter's stance and held his arms out like a pair of parentheses, ready to draw.

“Snake,” Brad shouted and looked down at Abel's feet.

He shook the rattles, and Abel jumped three inches off the floor. His face drained of blood as he looked around. The two men at the table scraped their chairs and lifted their boots off the floor. They, too, were looking for a rattlesnake crawling around somewhere.

Abel's right hand streaked for his gun.

Before he could clear leather, Brad snatched his pistol from its holster. He thumbed back the hammer on the rise as he brought the barrel up to bear on Abel's gut.

Brad held his breath and squeezed the trigger.

The .45 Colt bucked in his hands as its blue-black snout spewed lead, orange sparks, and white smoke.

The bullet smashed through Abel's belt buckle just as the barrel of his pistol was still an inch from being fully drawn. He doubled over as the bullet cracked into his spine and blew a hole the size of a small grapefruit in his back. His blood spattered the two men at the table, Curly and Nels. They scooted away from the table and jumped to their feet.

Abel crumpled up as his knees gave way and he slumped to the floor, wild red blood gushing from the hole in his stomach. The stench from his ruptured intestines filled the air.

Curly and Nels ran for the bat-wing doors.

“Hold on,” Brad shouted.

Julio and Joe both drew their pistols.

Brad swung his pistol in a small arc as he hammered back for another shot.

But the two men were out the doors and climbing into their saddles.

They both drew their pistols and fired through the doors. The bullets splintered wood and plowed furrows in the wooden floor.

Brad ducked, then squatted, staring at the swinging doors.

He could not see the two men, so he did not shoot.

Julio fired a shot from his pistol that cleared the tops of the doors and whined off into the air as it caromed off a post outside.

Abel croaked as blood spewed up into his mouth and gushed onto the floor. He was paralyzed and losing blood so fast it streaked across the floor and made dark little pools. He didn't even twitch because he could not move his legs. He gasped and struggled to draw air into a mouth filled with blood and whiskey.

Brad heard a sound and turned toward the bar.

Macklin stood there behind the bar with a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun in his hands. He had a thumb on one of the hammers.

Brad swung his pistol to take aim on Macklin.

“You cock that Greener,” Brad said, “and you'll draw your last breath.”

Macklin dropped the shotgun onto the bar as if it were red-hot. He threw both hands up in the air in a sign of surrender.

“D-don't sh-shoot,” he stammered.

“Step away from that shotgun,” Brad said. “Julio, grab it.”

Julio holstered his pistol and picked up the shotgun.

Brad walked over to the bar. Macklin was pressed against the wall, his hands held high, bare palms showing. He was shaking like an aspen tree in the wind.

“You saw it all, Macklin,” Brad said. “That man went for his gun first. It was a fair fight.”

“Yeah, yeah, I did. I saw it all. Abel went for his gun first. I never saw nobody draw as fast as you.”

“If you have law in this town, you tell it like it happened.”

“Ain't no law here in the Gulch,” Macklin said.

They all heard men running out in the street. The footfalls sounded closer.

“Whoever that is out there, you tell 'em it's all over,” Brad said.

Joe holstered his pistol and picked up his glass. His eyes were fixed in a blank stare.

“Mister,” Macklin said, “I think I know who you are.”

“Who am I?” Brad said as he holstered his pistol and walked to his bar stool.

“You're the one they call the Sidewinder, ain't you?”

“Why do you say that?” Brad asked as he picked up his glass and took a swallow.

“I heard of you. Down on the flat. I heard the rattlesnake, only it was you makin' the noise.”

Brad smiled as men beat through the bat-wings and came to a halt when they saw the body of Abel on the floor. Abel wheezed and his eyes turned glassy for just a moment as he expelled his last breath and could not draw in another.

“What the hell happened in here?” growled a large man at the head of the small pack behind him.

Todd Sperling was covered in dust. His face bore the ravages of wind and weather. His white hair flowed to his shoulders, and they were wide, brawny shoulders under a checkered shirt. Suspenders held up his heavy-duty duck pants and he smelled of dynamite and crushed limestone, the very earth that covered his work boots.

“Mr. Sperling,” Macklin said, “this here's the man they call the Sidewinder and he just put Abel Avery's lamp out. It was a fair fight.”

Macklin pointed to Brad.

Brad smiled at Sperling.

“Nice little town you have here, Mr. Sperling,” Brad said. “Nice, once you sweep out the trash.”

Brad nodded toward the dead man.

Sperling looked at Brad, the faint curl of a smile on his liverish lips.

Flies zizzed around Abel's face and speckled the wound in his belly. For several seconds, that was the only sound.

The sunlight pouring through the windows and the empty places above and below the bat-wing doors was a pale yellow, swirling with dust and striking small sparks off the whirring wings of the sniffing flies.

It was quiet and solemn for several seconds as the men behind Sperling craned their necks to look at the body and at the man known as the Sidewinder.