Passin' Through (1985) (10 page)

It was a beautiful starlit night and all of a sudden I was wishing I was out on the trail, makin' my own camp, goin' to sleep with the stars overhead and a breeze stirrin' the aspens.

Maybe I wasn't much of a people man. Maybe I was just fixed for the out-of- doors, for the wide open country where the coyotes run and the eagles fly.

At the door I took down my lantern, lifted the globe, and struck a match to light the wick. Then I went inside. I hung up the lantern and taken off my jacket. As I hung it up my eyes went to the table where I'd left the letters and for a moment I stood real still, just lookin'. Somebody had moved them, moved them carefully so's they thought I'd not notice. But I'd left them so I would know.

A person lookin' at such truck would leave it much as it was found, but disarranged. Whoever had looked at those letters had tried to leave them exactly as I'd left them.

Standing where I was, I looked around, checking everything. Now, I'd been makin' my bed army-style the way McCarron left it, the top blanket tight enough to bounce a coin on it. It was made up the same way but wasn't nowhere near as tight as I'd left it.

Somebody had looked under my pillow and had examined the bed, somebody who tried to leave it so's I'd not know they'd been around.

The spare pistol I left in the bed was still there and I picked it up. Now, when a man handles guns ever' day of his life he comes to know their feel, and something about this one, my own gun, felt wrong. Mostly I carried a Colt, but this was a new gun I'd picked up. I swung out the cylinder to check it, and started to close it again when something caught my eye. I looked again.

Now I always kept my guns full loaded. Some left an empty chamber under the hammer, but not me. When I wanted a gun I wanted it bad, and this one was loaded, but something caught my eye and I knew I was lookin' at an exploded shell. Now, when I fire a shot I reload. I never left a gun with empty shells in it.

Dumping these out in my hand, I swore softly, bitterly. Somebody wanted me dead. Somebody who had removed three cartridges from my gun and substituted three empty shells placed so the next three shots I tried to fire would be wasted.

Somebody who had access to the granary and my bunk wanted me dead, no matter where or by whom.

It was time I was getting off down the trail. One thing I wanted, and they had offered to pay me. I wanted the Death Horse. I wanted that blue roan. That was a mighty fine animal and left here somebody would shoot it, feelin' as they did. Maybe that horse would carry me to my death, but if so it would be a mighty nice ride.

Right then I made up my mind. I was gettin' out of here. No reason why I should stay. I'd stopped figurin' to help a couple of lone women fix up their outfit, but it seems they were gettin' shut of the place anyway.

Gatherin' up the letters, I put them in a bundle, but after I'd put the light out so's nobody could see what I was doing. I climbed up and checked my tin can where I'd hid the will. It was there, undisturbed. I put it back.

That Pinkerton man, now, he had never actually said what he was lookin' for or who sent him. If he was still in Parrott City I'd look him up. Also, I'd get what I needed for the trail. I was gettin' out, goin' on down the road.

When I saddled up, I chose the roan, and the horse seemed pleased. I roughed up the hair on his back a little, scratchin' him around the ear, too. Then I smoothed out the hair on his back and threw the saddle on him. All the time I was thinkin', tryin' to work my way out of the woods. What to do about that will worried me.

Mrs. Hollyrood had inherited the property with a will written by Phillips. She had come in and taken possession of it, satisfying the sheriff and the local judge that her claim was just. Now I'd found this other will, and it didn't seem logical that a man who spoke of his beloved niece would then disinherit her without so much as a mention.

Rightly speakin' it was none of my affair, and I had troubles enough of my own. Nobody needed to tell me that I hadn't seen the last of the Burrows outfit. They'd get all liquored up someday an' come huntin' my scalp.

Moreover, I wanted my two horses and my gear, and if I went after them I'd be walkin' right into trouble. Yet I was a stubborn sort of feller and wanted what was mine.

Matty came to the door when I led the roan out to mount up. "Will you be gone today?"

"No, ma'am. Just ridin' up the road a piece." I hesitated. "By the way, you an' Mrs. Hollyrood both wanted to pay me for the work I've done, and neither of you or anybody else wanted this roan. If you still want to pay, why not just give me a bill of sale on the roan and we'll call it quits."

"I'll ask her." She came down to where I stood and spoke softly. "If you're going, go quickly. I don't mean now, I mean leave the ranch. Get away from here."

I made as if I was tightening the cinch. "Any pa'tic'lar reason?"

"Just go. Don't ask questions." She turned away, then looked back. "You're a nice man. I don't believe you should mix into other people's troubles. Go . . . please go!"

Well, I stepped into the leather and waved to her. "Tell Mrs. Hollyrood I'm ridin' into Parrott City to see if I can find that buyer you're askin' about."

A half-mile up the trail I saw a camp alongside Cherry Creek. It was a man with two horses. He was wearin' a suit and had his pants tucked down into his boot tops, and a narrow-brimmed hat. It was the Pink. I walked my horse down to where he had his fire.

"You're on private property," I said, "but as long as you don't let that fire get away we won't complain."

"You planning to stay around? If I were you I'd give it some thought. Those Burrows boys are some upset. Sooner or later they'll be coming after you."

"Well, I ain't huntin' trouble, but if they come after me they'll find it. I don't run very well, an' neither does my horse."

"I see you're riding the Death Horse."

"Death to somebody else, not me." I stepped down from the saddle and sat down across the fire from him. "Did you find that blonde you were huntin'?"

"Would I be here if I had?"

"What d'you want her for?"

"Murder."

That shut me up. I just didn't have anything to say. Only he wasn't through.

"It may not have been the first time, and unless we find her it won't be the last."

"How old a woman?"

"Thirty, maybe thirty-five. We aren't sure, as she's covered her tracks well, but my guess is closer to thirty-five."

Right away I felt better. "The women on the ranch," I said, "wouldn't fit. The youngest one is about twenty, and the older woman, Mrs. Hollyrood, is better than fifty. I'd say about sixty. She used to be an actress."

"Mrs. Hollyrood? Never heard of her. What was her first name?"

"I never heard that. It ain't likely I would. I'm just workin' for them a mite, and I guess I've only seen her three or four times. Ate some meals with her, that's about it."

The Pink stirred the fire. "My name's Bell, Reed Bell. I've been with the agency since during the War."

"I'm called Passin' Through because that's what I'm doin'. Least, that's what Mrs. Hollyrood calls me, and I've decided I like it."

Bell studied me. "I don't remember you from any of the bulletins we get on wanted men."

"Likely not, I reckon I'm one of the most unwanted men you're apt to find.

"You say the woman you're huntin' is wanted for murder?"

"Uh-huh. She told this gent she was going to fix him a really nice supper, and she did it, too. Only the next morning he was dead."

Chapter
Ten

The place he'd chosen to camp was a little hollow alongside the creek. There was a sort of a draw that ran back up the mountain to a saddle below the highest peak. It was a right pretty place.

"Nice place they've got there," Bell commented. "I'll be sorry to leave."

"You ridin' on?"

"Got to find that woman." He looked over at me. "You shape up like a man who rides for the brand. Well, in my line of work I do the same thing. I've a job to do. I've got to find that woman before she murders somebody else."

"You mean this is a pattern?"

"Not that we can prove, except in one case, but there appears to be more cases. Up to now she's been reasonably successful. She made a slip back down the line and we got the first solid evidence." He glanced over at me again. "She murdered the man she'd been working with. He was a handwriting specialist, a forger, and a good one. I guess he was greedy and wanted too much, or maybe there was a younger woman. At least, so we heard."

He finished his coffee and dumped out the pot on the fire, watched it sizzle for a moment, then kicked dirt over it. He'd built a circle of rocks around where he'd had his fire, which confined it some. There was no way it could cause trouble.

"I'm going to miss this place," I said. "It grows on a man."

Bell was saddling up. He paused, looking around at me. "You got any money?"

"A little."

"Was I you," he replied, "I'd be careful where I ate my meals."

Well, I turned the roan and rode away. Bein' a detective just naturally makes a man skeptical. Most of the time he'd be dealin' with the worst kind of folks, so he'd naturally have his doubts about anybody. If you deal with crooks all the time, pretty soon you begin to believe everybody is a crook. There were plenty of them around, but a lot of honest folks, too.

There was a kind of trail, made by deer, most likely, and it led up the mountains back of that hollow where Bell had camped. I walked the roan up the trail, weaving in and out through the scrub oak. Some of the trees had grown to fair size, but most of them were small with much undergrowth, a good place for wildlife.

Deer tracks were there aplenty, and once I glimpsed a lion track where he'd been stalking a deer. The trail widened into what was almost a lane through the aspen. It was still, no sound but the aspens moving with the slightest breeze. I drew up, listening.

A fawn came out of the aspens and walked with dainty hoofs across the land, turning its head to look at me an' the roan, but we stood quiet and it walked on, without alarm.

We walked on, heading east and away from the ranch. The trees thinned ahead of us and I could look along the trail to Animas City and beyond. The trail was empty. Frowning a little, I wondered about that. There was no way Reed Bell could have ridden out of sight along that trail, not even if he was running his horses. So where had he gone?

Suddenly uneasy, I turned my horse and scrambled up a bank and into a dense stand of aspen, weaving our way through the trees and around deadfalls into deeper cover. There I pulled up and waited, listening.

A moment, and I heard a faint stirring. A rider was coming, more than one rider. I saw a faint shadow of movement through the trees. I put a hand on the roan's neck. "Ssh!" I whispered.

They came along quietly, following my tracks. In a moment they would see where my horse had gone up the bank and into the trees.

Glancing around, I saw a narrow way where we might go. When I looked back they had pulled up and were listening. One of them offered a clear shot. I shucked my pistol.

"Looking for something?" I spoke in a low tone but loud enough for them to hear in that silence.

The nearest man jumped like he'd stepped on a cactus and whipped around, gun in hand. He saw me just as I fired.

He was no more than fifty feet away, but he must have jerked back as he saw me because my bullet cut the top of his gun- filled hand, creased his chest, and went into his upper arm.

The roan started into the trees, weaving its way out of the aspens and in a dead run along the mountainside, jumping brush, ducking under tree limbs, and heading far away from there.

Behind me somebody yelled, "Get him, dammit!"

"Get him yourself!" The voice was angry. "He got me!"

Wheeling around a thick stand of scrub oak, I grabbed my rifle and hit the dirt running. The roan pulled up to a stand as I went into the trees. Cattle had been bedding down here, so the brush was gone and the lower twigs broken off the trees. I went through fast to cover the way I had come. But when the rider appeared he was lower down, about where I had gone into the aspens.

I didn't want to kill a good horse so I shot high, aiming for his shoulders. The shot hit him as I saw him jerk in the saddle and then he was off, running.

For a few minutes I sat easy, listening and waiting. I wasn't wishful of killing folks, and here lately the laws had been tightenin' up. This was the 1880s and folks didn't look kindly on killings. I had no wish to tangle with the law in a country where I was a stranger. The sore spots on my neck were just healed and were still tender.

Finally I came out of the woods after scouting my horse, then when I saw it was safe I came out, mounted up, and started back to the ranch, cutting across country. Twice I startled deer.

It was a time to be careful. I walked the roan, keeping under cover when possible, checking my back trail and around the country. The only part that worried me was the ridge. If somebody got up there I'd be a wide-open target, so I scanned the ridge, time to time. When I came down to the ranch it was from behind the big barn. Dismounting, I shifted my riggin' to the buckskin and turned the roan into the corral. Keeping my rifle, I walked back to the granary, glancing toward the house. Nobody was in sight, so I opened the granary door and pushed it wider with the muzzle of my rifle. I am not what you'd call a trusting man and had no idea who might have been here since I left.