Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles (19 page)

“Just keep walking,” Wes ordered. “Out the back door and into the alley.”

Nance and Whitmire stepped into the alley, where drifted snow was still almost waist-deep. Wes and El Lobo followed, Wes carefully closing the door behind them.

“What do you aim to do with us?” Nance demanded.

“What do you expect?” said Wes. “Shuck your gunbelts and throw ‘em over yonder in the snow, near the back door.” Wes then removed his own gunbelt, and getting the idea, so did El Lobo.

“So that's it,” Whitmire said with a snarl.

“That's it,” said Wes. “Let's see what you can do in a fair fight, without a whip in your hand.”

In silent understanding, El Lobo went after Nance, leaving Whitmire to Wes. Wading in, Wes smashed a right and then a left into Whitmire's face. Nance didn't wait for El Lobo, but flung himself at the Indian. But the snow was deep and Nance slipped. El Lobo brought up his knee, slamming the outlaw under the chin. Dropping facedown in the snow, Nance didn't move. Whitmire drove his fists at Wes, but they seemed to have no effect. Seizing the front of the outlaw's coat in his left hand, Wes repeatedly drove his right fist into Whitmire's face.

“Damn you,” Wes gritted, “this is part for me and part for Macklin.”

But Whitmire was unconscious, a dead weight, and after a final, brutal blow, Wes flung the outlaw into a snowbank.

“I should kill him,” said Wes, breathing hard.

“
Sí
,” El Lobo said. “Nance dead.”

Nance lay facedown where he had fallen, his neck twisted at an odd angle.

“My God,” said Wes. “We'd better grab our guns and go.”

“Leave hotel,” El Lobo said.

“Yes,” said Wes, “and the sooner the better. When Whitmire comes to, he'll either be gunning for us, or he'll run like a scared coyote. The sneaking varmint might even go to the law. Us bein' here, he'll know hell's busted loose at Hawktown, so he can't go there.”

Quickly Wes and El Lobo returned to their room, and with Empty following, made their way to the lobby. Having paid their bill, they crossed the street to the livery just as Baker and Olson were returning from the telegraph office. Appearing not to notice, the pair went on into the hotel. Pausing in the lobby, they watched Wes and El Lobo ride out.

“Damn,” said Olson, “there goes twenty-five thousand. Come on.”

Without bothering to check out of the hotel, they hurried to the livery. Saddling their horses, they followed Wes and El Lobo. There was still enough snow to make traveling difficult and few had ventured out, so the trail was plain enough.

“We ought to just keep riding west,” Wes said, “but in those mountains drifts will be neck-deep to a man on a horse. We'll have to find a place to hole up for a few more days.”

To the west of town, with a view of the forbidding mountains, they found a
hacienda
with rooms to rent. Owned by a Mexican couple who spoke only Spanish, meals could be included, and there was a makeshift stable behind the house. Empty was readily accepted, and Wes paid for three nights. Quickly they stabled their horses, feeding them a measure of grain and forking down some hay.

“They don't aim to ride out for a while,” said Olson as he and Baker watched from a distance. “There'll be some godawful drifts in them mountains.”

“There'll be some prime places for an ambush,” Baker said. “Since we got to tote the dead bodies back to Boulder, we can't risk a shootin' close enough to town to involve the law. Why in tarnation did they leave the other hotel in a hurry, just to come here?”

“Who knows?” said Olson. “They won't be leavin' here for a couple of days, so we don't have to watch the place. Even if they ride out ahead of us, there'll be a trail. There can't be much travel across them mountains this time of year.”

By the time Baker and Olson returned to the hotel, a battered and beaten Whitmire was stretched out in the lobby, a doctor working over him. Half a dozen men, including the desk clerk and a deputy sheriff, stood in a silent group. Olson looked at Baker. Now they knew why Wes and El Lobo had left the hotel.

“What happened?” Baker asked the deputy.

“We don't really know,” said the lawman. “Him and his partner wasn't checked in more than an hour, and the other man's dead. Somebody purely beat hell out of them. I aim to talk to this one, when he's able.”

“He won't be able,” the doctor said, getting to his feet. “He's dead.”

The deputy sighed. “I'll have him taken to the funeral parlor, with the other one. Nobody leaves this hotel until I've had a chance to talk to them.”

“Two checked out and left, maybe an hour and a half ago,” said the desk clerk.

“You have no idea where they were going, I reckon,” the deputy said.

“No,” said the desk clerk.

“Did you see any cuts or bruises?” the deputy asked.

“No,” said the desk clerk. “They wore heavy coats and gloves. Wasn't nothin' showin' but their faces.”

Olson and Baker went on to their room, closing and locking the door behind them.

“Whitmire and Nance wasn't no shorthorns,” Baker said. “How in tarnation did they get caught up in that?”

“They been used to havin' the high hand in old Judge Hawk's mine,” said Olson. “They got careless, and without a whip or gun, they wasn't so tough. They damn well got what they deserved.”

“I reckon,” Baker said. “A shame we can't use the law to get our hands on them that done it. One word from us ...”

“One word from us to that deputy,” said Olson, “and we'd be out twenty-five thousand dollars. We never seen that pair of dead varmints in our lives. We got no idea who cashed ‘em in, or why.”

“We'd better stay out of sight as much as we can,” Baker said with a shudder. “Nance and Whitmire might not be the only ones from Hawk's raiders. The rest of ‘em may be around somewhere, and they won't know Hawk's out of business.”

“No matter,” said Olson. “Most of the others never saw us. We was shuffled off to old Hawk's mine. The only ones that might recognize us was Whitmire and Nance. All we got to do is gun down Stone and the Indian, and we'll be set for life.”

 

 

Wes and El Lobo spent a comfortable night in their room, returning there immediately after breakfast. Their host and hostess—Miguel and Maria Espanosa—fed their guests well and seemed to delight in watching Empty wolf down his food. The second day, when Wes and El Lobo went to supper, Miguel was reading a newspaper.

“
Malo
,” said Miguel, shaking his head.

“
Quien es?
” Wes said.

Miguel handed him the paper, and for El Lobo's benefit Wes read aloud an account of two men who were beaten to death behind a hotel. The deputy who had investigated had no motive and no suspects. Having read enough, Wes returned the newspaper to Miguel. But the newspaper was published three times a week, and in the next edition there was a great deal more information. Wes read it, and when they returned to their room, he told El Lobo what the law had discovered.

“The law's decided there may have been a falling out among thieves,” said Wes. “Nance and Whitmire had a great deal of stolen jewelry in their saddlebags. Jewelry that had been taken in a raid somewhere south of here. The law's decided that Nance and Whitmire were outlaws, and that whoever cashed them in may have done the territory a favor.”

“
Sí
,” El Lobo said, “but we no mean to kill them.”

“No,” said Wes, “but we would have had one hell of a time convincing a judge or jury of that. Now all we have to concern us is what Olson and Baker had on their minds. I'm not convinced they don't aim to come after us, once we leave Santa Fe.”

“We ambush them,” El Lobo said.

“Yes,” said Wes, “but there's a telegraph office here. They may have contacted the varmint that sent that bunch of paid killers from Boulder. If he knows we're here, he'll see that all of Golden Dragon knows. They'll be waiting for us in Nevada and California.”

“They'll be ridin' out any day now,” Olson said. “We'd best find us a place to watch that
hacienda
where they're holed up. We can track ‘em easy enough, but we don't want them gettin' too far ahead. I don't aim to get too deep into them mountains, not knowin' when there'll be another storm.”

“My God, no,” said Baker. “I don't like this snow country. Boulder and Denver was bad enough, but gettin‘ snowed in up yonder in the mountains could be the death of us.”

“No use for both of us settin' out here watchin' that house,” Olson said. “It ain't likely they'll ride out after dark, so if you'll keep watch until noon, I'll watch for the rest of the day. Important thing is that we don't attract attention or let ‘em know we're watching.”

Baker nodded, and Olson rode back to the hotel. When he returned at noon, Baker had nothing to report. Olson spent an equally uneventful afternoon, returning to the hotel after sundown. There were sounds of merriment around the town, for it was Christmas Eve. Wes and El Lobo enjoyed roast turkey for supper.

“We ride at dawn,” said Wes. “There'll still be snow in the mountains, but if we wait too long, there'll be another storm.”

“
Sí
,” El Lobo said. “We find shelter.”

“Maybe we'll reach a settlement in southern Utah,” said Wes. “We must make it across the Colorado River before another storm blows in. I've heard there's nothing much in the northern part of Arizona except hostile Indians and lobo wolves.”

“It don't seem right, hunkered down keepin' watch on Christmas Day,” Baker grumbled.

“You ain't a kid no more,” said Olson. “Christmas comes for us when we salt down them hombres and claim the reward. Now get over yonder and watch that house. I'll come and relieve you at noon.”

Baker reached his point of observation just in time to see Wes and El Lobo ride out, heading west.

“By God,” said Baker to himself, “Olson was right.” Kicking his horse into a gallop, he rode back to the hotel for his companion.

Wes and El Lobo rode northwest, following the Rio Chama River. Empty loped ahead, seeking a path that avoided the worst of the snowdrifts. Wes reined up occasionally, his eyes on their back trail. Both men hunched deeper into their heavy coats, for it had grown colder the farther west they rode. Their hands were protected by sheepskin-lined leather gloves, while woolen scarves beneath their Stetsons and tied under their chins kept their ears from becoming frostbitten. A pale sun had crept out, only to hide its face behind a bank of forbidding gray clouds. There was still enough snow to slow their progress, and it became necessary to rest their horses often. There was no graze. They would have to rely on the sacks of grain they carried behind their saddles. After more than four hours on the trail, while resting their horses Wes and El Lobo chewed on jerked beef taken from their saddlebags.

“Maybe we can have a hot supper,” Wes said, “if we can find a protected place for a fire and enough wood to fuel it.”

They continued following the river, hoping to find an arroyo that offered shelter, yet was near enough to the river where they might have convenient water. But they found no such shelter, and at sundown were forced to make camp on the lee side of a rise that only offered respite from a rising wind. Dead limbs from a wind-blown uprooted cedar provided enough wood for a supper fire. They led the horses to the river for water, but relied on melted snow for their coffee.

“Wish we could keep the fire going,” said Wes, “but I can't shake the feeling that we may be followed.”

“
Sí
,” El Lobo said. “Feel same.”

“We'll depend on Empty to warn us tonight,” said Wes, “and tomorrow I'll spend some time on our back trail. If we're being trailed, we can't allow them enough time to circle around and get ahead of us.”

“Baker and Olson,” El Lobo said.

“That's who I'm expecting,” said Wes.

But their sleep was uninterrupted, and they waited for good daylight before lighting a fire for their breakfast coffee.

“Mount up and ride on,” Wes said when they had finished breakfast. “If somebody's on our back trail, I should spot them sometime today. If I don't catch up to you by sundown, choose as good a camp as you can, but don't light a fire.”

El Lobo nodded and rode out. Empty lingered, but Wes pointed in the direction El Lobo had ridden, and Empty followed. Leading his horse, Wes made his way back to the river, where he soon found what he was seeking. Water flowed across stone, and a huge stone abutment rose a dozen feet above the riverbank. Carefully seeking crevices for his hands and feet, Wes climbed to the top. From there he could see for several miles down a gradually increasing slope up which he and El Lobo had traveled. There was no protection from the wind, and he clung there in misery for an hour before his patience was rewarded. At first he wasn't sure the tiny figures were real, for they vanished, only to reappear as he strained his eyes. But as the distance lessened, the two figures became men on horseback. Wes slid to the ground. He was tempted to take his Winchester and cut down on them when they rode within range, but he resisted the temptation. He would be firing downslope, and should he miss, the two could separate and flank him in a crossfire. He mounted his horse and rode on. El Lobo reined up when he saw Wes coming.