Riders From Long Pines (23 page)

“How are we going to pay for supplies?” Harper asked with a blank expression.

“Dang it, Tadpole!” said Brewer. “Use your head.” He reached over with his battered hat and slapped Harper jokingly on his dusty shoulder. “We're every one of us sitting atop more money than we've ever seen in our lives.”

“But like Mac said when we started, that ain't our money we're carrying, right, Mac?” said Harper.

“That's right, Tadpole,” said Mackenzie. He frowned at the thought of using any of the money they had in their saddlebags.

“I agree with you,” Jock Brewer said. “But it ain't like we're stealing the money. We're just talking about using some, enough to feed ourselves until we find a way to turn it in.” He grinned, trying to make a joke of it. “I feel foolish living on lizard and jackrabbit up there while my saddlebags are busting with money.”

“I like lizard and jackrabbit,” Mackenzie said stubbornly.

“I know you do,” said Brewer, “about as much as we all do.” He paused, then said, “You're the trail boss, Mac, and I'll go along with whatever you say. But dang it. Look at us. You're shot . . . Thorpe is shot. We ain't none of us tried to do a thing but what is right. We didn't bring any of this on ourselves. We ought to at least be able to get some good from it.”

“Why?” Mackenzie said sharply. “What makes us so special? Because we're trying to do right?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Brewer said, spreading his hands out. “We didn't have to do what was right. We could have all run high, wide and away with all this money—”

“Doing right doesn't expect to get rewarded,” Mackenzie cut in. “Doing right
is
the reward. We did right because, dang it, that's how things are supposed to be.”

“You think?” Brewer said firmly.

“I think,” Mackenzie resolved.

Brewer blew out a breath. “I need convincing.”

“I've got nothing for you,” said Mackenzie. He looked from one to the other. “I was ramrod for this bunch on some trail drives. My job was to look out for you and tell you what to do and what not to. But that's all done. If you need me to
convince you
to do right after all this time, then I wasn't much of a boss to begin with.”

“He didn't mean nothing, Mac,” said Harper.

But Mackenzie continued, saying, “Davin Grissin owes us money. We've got every reason to take what's ours out of his money. But we won't, not if it's my call.” He looked around. “The money is all split up between us. I won't judge any of you if you want to hightail out of here and keep what's in your saddlebags.”

“But count you out,” said Thorpe, adjusting his wire rims on his nose.

“That's right, Holly, count me out,” Mackenzie said flatly. “I didn't earn that money with my own sweat, it's not mine to spend.”

The four remained silent for a long moment. Finally, Brewer said, “All right, pards, I'm taking the money and hightailing to old Mex. If you ever come to see me I'll be twirling some dark senorita with a red rose clamped between her teeth.” He grinned and twirled in the dirt on his boot heels. “I'll swear I never seen any of you saddle tramps before in my life!”

“Whoo-ieee!” said Harper. “Can I come with you? I've got money too!”

“You two go to old Mex,” said Thorpe. “I'm taking my loot and heading for Spain—get me a big ship and go discovering, the same way Columbus did.”

Shaking his head, Mackenzie gave in a little. He let out a breath and said to the three of them, “All right . . . if we keep tabs on what we spend—just for supplies, no foolishness. . . . I suppose we'd still be doing right.”

“Are you sure, boss?” Brewer gave him a dubious look and said, “I've kind of got my heart set on old Mex.”

“A bottle of rye whiskey too,” said Mackenzie, giving in. “And some clean dressing and salve for our wounds, all right?”

“Whatever you say, boss,” said Brewer. All three of them nodded in unison.

 

In the late afternoon, long after the four drovers had left on the last stretch of their journey, Stanton Parks followed the three sets of hoofprints into País Duro. He stepped down from his saddle at the same pitted iron hitch rail out in front of the cantina. Looking all around, he slapped dust from his shirt and his badge and walked inside, the big long-range rifle in hand.

Behind a low bar made of planks laid between three rain barrels and covered with ragged blankets, an elderly Mexican squinted at the badge in the dim light and said, “
Alguacil, acepta. Hombre de la ley son aceptan siempre aquí—”

“Speak English, you heathen,” Parks said, cutting him short with a raised hand.

“Of course,” said the cantina owner. “I said welcome, Sheriff. Lawmen are always welcome here—”

“I heard what you said,” Parks replied gruffly, cutting him off again. “I just don't like foreign tongue spoke at me.” He laid the big rifle up onto the plank bar top. “Do you have anything here fit for a white man to drink—something that has no dead critters in it?”

“I have some good rye whiskey, Sheriff,” said the cantina owner. He hurriedly set a fresh bottle and shot glass on the bar in front of Parks. As he opened the bottle he said, “I am Ramon Ortiz, and I too am a citizen
americano
, just like you.”

“Yeah, you look it,” Parks said skeptically, watching the man fill the shot glass.

“It is true,” said the cantina owner, pushing a point that he should have left alone. “My family was in this territory long before the French fur traders came down from the—”

“I don't give a damn,” Parks said, swiping the shot glass from the bar and tossing back the fiery rye. He made a hiss and set the glass down loudly. “Since you are such a proud
ciudadano americano
, you can help me uphold the law. I'm looking for three drovers who rode in here earlier today. From the looks of the tracks out front they might have met up with a fourth man and rode out together. Is that
correcto
?” he asked sarcastically.

“Sí—
I mean, yes, that is correct, Sheriff,” said Ortiz. “So few have come and gone lately, it is easy to remember.” He grinned and tapped his forehead. “Even for a fool like me, eh?”

“You said it, I didn't,” Parks grumbled, bumping his shot glass on the bar top for another drink. “What did they take with them?”

“Take with them?” Ortiz looked bewildered.

“Come on, Mex,” said Parks, “don't make me have to jog your mind. What did they take? Supplies? Lots of supplies? A few supplies?”

“Oh, supplies.” Ortiz nodded briskly. “They took plenty of supplies . . . and some bandages and some rye whiskey too, for medicine, I think.”

“Yeah, for medicine,” Parks said in the same skeptical tone, “that's why most drovers are carrying whiskey.” He threw back his shot and bumped the bar top for a refill. This time he swiped the bottle from Ortiz's hand and carried it as he walked over to a small open window and looked out toward a rugged hill range.

“These men, they have broken the law, Sheriff?” Ortiz asked.

“Oh yes, in the worst sort of way,” Parks said over his shoulder. He tossed back the shot and pitched the glass to the dirt floor. He took a long swig from the bottle and wiped his hand across his wet mouth.

“Are these men murderers? Did they kill many peoples?” Ortiz asked solemnly.

“Murderers, yes,” said Parks. “How many
peoples
did they kill?” he mimicked. “I expect we'll never know just how many. But a hell of a lot.” He took another swig and gazed off toward the hill line, the whiskey beginning to boil in his brain. “They stole money that was rightfully mine.” Without turning to face the cantina owner, he said, “Do you have any notion how serious that is, stealing money from a
real, honest-to-God
sheriff? A man of the law?”

“It is
most
serious, I think?” the Mexican ventured warily, not sure what his words might evoke.

“Most serious, you're damned right,” said Parks. He took another swig, then shook the bottle. Whiskey sloshed over the tip. “Whatever money they spent here was
my
money. So consider yourself paid.” He raised the bottle as if in a toast, then took another swig.

The cantina owner remained quiet, deciding it best not to raise a disagreement with this man.

“Where did they get their supplies?” Parks asked, his voice starting to take on a whiskey slur.

“At Widow Bertrim's Mercantile up the street,” said the cantina owner.

“At Widow Bertrim's Mercantile up the street,” Parks repeated under his breath. He walked over, snatched the big rifle from the bar, walked outside, grabbed the horse's reins and stomped away along the empty street.

Inside the mercantile, the tall, robust widow stood using a feather duster, dusting the same cans of airtights she'd dusted for weeks. When Parks barged in through the open door and stood staggering a bit in place, she looked him up and down, noting the badge on his chest.

“Good evening, Sheriff, and welcome to País Duro,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“You can do whatever I damned well tell you,” said Parks. “First, rustle me up some supplies, the same as you did for those drovers I'm hunting.”

The woman looked shocked, both at Parks' manner and at the four young men being wanted by the law. “Those well-behaved young men are criminals? My goodness!”

“Do like I told you, woman, before I put a boot in your ass,” Parks said drunkenly.

“Sheriff,” she gasped, “there's no call for that kind of language.” Even as she protested, she began grabbing supplies and stuffing them into a feed sack.

“As soon as you're finished, you climb right out of that dress,” said Parks. “I want to see what you've got under there. I might want some of it right there on the counter.”

But the widow stopped cold, bristling, and said in a harsh tone, “The hell you say.”

Seeing her take a stand, Parks leveled the big rifle at her. “Oh, you want to argue with the law?” he said.

“The law doesn't act this way, Sheriff,” said the tall sturdy-looking widow. “If you think you're getting inside my dress, you've got another think coming.”

“Suit yourself,” said Parks. “I'll burn this place to the ground.”

The woman looked even more shocked, as if this were all some terrible dream. “Sheriff, you're drunk. I don't think you know what you're doing!”

“Drunk or sober, I am
the law
, woman,” said Parks. “Get my supplies and get out of that dress. You can hang for refusing to obey a sheriff! Do you realize that?”

The widow doubled her fists, took a firmer stance and said, “Get your rope, you son of a bitch.”

From the cantina, the only other business open in País Duro, Ramon Ortiz heard the commotion and ran out front for a look. Through screams, gasps and curses, he saw both jars and cans of airtights fly out the broken window into the dirt street.
Uh-oh. . . .
He ran back inside his cantina, found his old eight-gauge shotgun and loaded it nervously.

But by the time he ran back out into the street and started toward the mercantile store, shotgun in hand, he saw Parks stagger out with the big rifle clamped under his arm. Shoving the rifle into its boot, Parks stepped up into his saddle with a feed sack of supplies slung over his shoulder. His hat was missing. Blood trickled from his right eye where the edge of a tin can had clipped him.

From the broken mercantile window a stream of black smoke began to roll out and rise up the front of the building. “What have you done?” Ortiz shouted, running forward, catching a glimpse of Widow Bertrim run half naked from the mercantile with an empty bucket in her hand.

From his saddle, Parks turned, raised his Colt and fired three wild shots at Ortiz before turning and racing away across the barren rock land northwest of town. Ortiz stopped long enough to shake his fist and bellow out loudly, “What kind of lawman are you? You son of a filthy pig!” Then he dropped the shotgun to the dirt and hurried to the water trough where the widow Bertrim had filled her bucket and ran back with it toward the burning store.

The ranger and Maria had ridden wide of the gunfire and managed to circle around both Parks and Davin Grissin and his men as the two sides shot it out on the main trail. Once around them, Sam picked up the hoofprints of the drovers' horses northwest of País Duro and followed them on toward Marble Canyon. The ranger had no fear of losing Stanton Parks, knowing that wherever the drovers were, Parks would be close behind.

Camped deep inside a hillside thicket of pine, the two had watched a spiral of smoke rise from the direction of País Duro. But they looked at each other in relief when they saw the smoke dissipate almost as quickly as it had sprung up. They drank their evening coffee without discussing the fire or what possible role Parks might have played in causing it.

On the ground between them, Sergeant Tom Haines lay sprawled, watching the low flames, his muzzle resting on his forepaws. “I've given it some thought,” Sam said after a moment, taking out the broken money band and examining it as he had numerous times before. “These money bands don't prove a thing. I won't be able to connect Davin Grissin to the bank robbery in Santa Fe—not if I want to rely on good solid proof.” He folded the money band and put it back inside his shirt pocket.

“Then Davin Grissin will get his money back?” Maria asked. “That hardly seems fair, when you know he is responsible for so much robbery that goes on.”