The Pinkerton Job (3 page)

SIX

“You ain't leavin' me here,” Tom Horn said stubbornly. “I don't mind if Adams comes along. We can use his gun. But I ain't stayin' here.”

“Tom,” Siringo said, “I've got to get back on their trail as soon as possible.”

“Fine,” Horn said. “Let me rest up tonight and I'll get on a horse tomorrow.”

“You can't,” Siringo said. “You'll bleed to death.”

“I ain't gonna bleed to death,” Horn said. “I'm too damn ornery to die. You get them hotel rooms?”

“Clint is gettin' them now.”

“Well, get me over there, then, so I can rest up,” Horn said. “Help me off this table.”

Siringo helped Horn down, wondering how the man was going to get on a horse when he couldn't even get off the table and stand up by himself.

*   *   *

Clint was standing outside the hotel when Siringo came along, with Horn leaning on him.

“Here are your keys,” he said, handing them to Siringo. “You need any more help?”

“No, we got it,” Horn said. “I just need to rest tonight. I'll be fine in the morning.”

Clint looked at Siringo, who just shrugged.

“Glad to hear you're comin' along, Clint,” Horn said, “but like I told Charlie, I ain't stayin' behind.”

“I guess it's your decision, Tom.”

“I'll get Tom into his room and come back down,” Siringo said.

Clint nodded, and sat in a wooden chair in front of the hotel to wait.

When Charlie Siringo came back out, he sat next to Clint.

“He's stubborn,” he said. “He's gonna get on a horse if it kills him.”

“Like I said, the decision is his.”

“If he decides to go, are you still gonna come?” Siringo asked.

“Sure,” Clint said. “You'll both still be outnumbered. And you may need help with him.”

“He might slow us down.”

“Oh,” Clint said, “I think if Tom Horn gets himself on a horse, he's not going to slow us down.”

“I hope you're right.”

“I think I am.”

*   *   *

After Siringo left Tom Horn on the bed in his room and went out, Horn got himself to his feet. He almost fell over, but put the weight on his right leg and kept himself up. The doctor had wrapped the thigh wound tight, and Horn thought he'd be able to sit a horse without opening the wound.

He walked to the window to look out, then walked back to the bed. By the time he sat back down on the bed, he was sweating. And hungry. Siringo was supposed to bring him something to eat, and he didn't want to be sweating when that happened.

He got himself back on the bed, with his legs up, and started to get his breath back.

He meant what he said to Siringo, and to Clint Adams. He was going to be back on a horse by tomorrow. No damn bullet was going to keep him from finishing this job, and finding that sonofabitch who shot him.

SEVEN

Before turning in, Clint and Siringo agreed to meet in the lobby in the morning, and have breakfast together. Siringo then went to a nearby café to get something for Horn to eat, and brought it to his room.

“I thought you needed a steak,” he said as he entered carrying a tray that was covered by a red-and-white-checkered napkin.

“It's about time,” Horn said. “I'm starvin'.”

Siringo removed the napkin, revealing a steak-and-potato plate, a knife and fork, with a bottle whiskey lying on its side.

“Ah,” Horn said, picking up the bottle, “this'll help, too. Get two glasses.”

Siringo walked over to a chest of drawers that had a pitcher, a basin, and two glasses on it. By the time he returned to the bed, Horn was attacking the steak with his knife and fork. He poured two fingers into a glass, handed it to Horn, and the man drained it and held it out for more. Siringo poured two more fingers, then set the bottle aside. Horn took the second glass of whiskey, but put it next to his plate and continued eating. He had a good appetite.

“How's the leg?” Siringo asked.

“It hurts,” Horn said truthfully. “But I'll live.”

“Well, I hope so,” Siringo said. “We have a lot of work to do.”

“You still thinkin' about leavin' without me?” Horn asked.

“I think it's gonna be up to you,” Siringo said. “If you can get on a horse, then the three of us will ride out of here tomorrow.”

“Clint will still come along?”

“Yes.”

“That's good,” Horn said. “We can use his gun.”

“But if you can't get yourself on a horse tomorrow,” Siringo went on, “then I suggest Clint and I leave and you rest a few more days before you follow us.”

Horn chewed his steak and thought about that.

“From your point of view, it makes sense,” he finally admitted.

“We'll even make it easy for you to follow us,” Siringo added.

“That won't be a problem,” Horn said, “but let's wait and see what happens in the mornin'.”

Siringo was thinking that, come morning, Horn probably wouldn't even be able to get out of bed.

Horn devoured his food, then downed the second glass of whiskey.

“What did you and Clint decide?”

“He and I are gonna meet in the lobby for breakfast,” Siringo said. “Then we'll come and check on you. After that, we'll all decide what we're gonna do. I don't wanna leave you behind, Tom, but if it's the best thing for you . . .”

“I get it, Charlie,” Horn said. “I get it. My own damned fault for bein' stupid enough to stop a bullet. I want to find the bastard who pulled the trigger.”

“If we get them all,” Siringo said, “it means we got the one who did it.”

“We'll get 'em,” Horn said, wincing as he changed position. “Let me have another shot, Charlie.”

Siringo poured him another shot, then set the bottle down across the room.

“My room is down the hall,” Siringo said. “Scream if you want somethin'.”

“Oh, I'll scream,” Horn said, sleepily setting the tray aside. He was asleep before Siringo went out the door.

*   *   *

Clint went to his room, marveling at how things had changed over the course of the day. He'd only stopped in Las Vegas to restock, never expected to run into somebody he knew, let alone two. And then to hear that they had been shot up. He was glad to see that Charlie Siringo was all right, and hoped Tom Horn would not be foolish enough to try and mount a horse the next day, not with that wound to his thigh.

Clint, being the kind of friend he was, could not let Siringo continue his hunt of the gang alone—not when he was tracking almost a dozen men. He had no choice but to offer to go along—whether Horn traveled or not.

Clint read from a Mark Twain collection of short stories for a while, then turned in. He heard someone walking down the hall before he went to sleep, then a door closed, and he assumed that it was Siringo. After that, all was quiet.

*   *   *

Siringo went to his own room and peeled off his clothes. He wished he'd had time to take a bath and get some clean clothes, but that wasn't to be. He slapped as much dirt from his clothes as he could, then set them on the wooden chair in the corner.

Whether Horn was ready or not, he intended to ride out of Las Vegas the next morning. He'd meant what he said to Horn. The man could follow after him and Clint when he was ready. He would probably catch up to them before they caught the gang. Hopefully, Sandusky thought they were dead, and would not recruit any more men. Going up against a dozen would be bad enough, but not as daunting as it might have been with Clint Adams along. Among the three of them, Siringo knew they had all the talent to make the perfect Pinkerton. Clint would fill in what Siringo and Horn were missing—a deadly accurate hand with a gun. Siringo and Horn could shoot, but they did not have the talent Clint Adams had.

Siringo slid between the sheets. It felt too good after so many days on the trail, and tomorrow night he'd be back on the hard ground. He didn't know whether to sleep on the floor, or go ahead and enjoy the mattress for the one night. Before he could make up his mind, he fell asleep.

EIGHT

When Clint came down to the lobby the next morning, he found Siringo waiting for him. Charlie was wearing the same clothes he'd had on the day before. He obviously hadn't had a chance to bathe, or buy clean duds.

“How's Horn?” he asked.

“He was okay last night,” Siringo said. “Ate a big steak, had a few drinks, then fell right to sleep.”

“He's going to be stiff this morning.”

“I know,” Siringo said, “but I learned a long time ago never to underestimate him. Besides, he's younger than we are.”

Both Siringo and Horn were younger than Clint, but Horn was the one who was not yet thirty. Maybe that would work in his favor when it came to healing.

“Let's get some breakfast,” Siringo said. “Then we can bring him some eggs and see how he's doin'.”

The hotel didn't have a dining room so Siringo took Clint to the same café he had gotten Horn's steak from. The waiter there told him not to worry about the tray; someone from the hotel would bring it back.

They got seated among the other diners. Clint had his usual steak and eggs while Horn went for bacon and eggs. When the waiter set a basket of hot biscuits on the table, they both attacked them.

“Tell me about Sandusky,” Clint said.

“He's a hard man,” Siringo said. “Forty or so, been on his own a long time. No relatives. He's a killer, and he's crafty. Up to now nobody's been able to catch him.”

“We're going to change that,” Clint said. “What about his men?”

“He grabs 'em where he can,” Siringo said. “The only one who rides with him all the time is a fella named Cal Anderson.”

“Don't know him.”

“They're friends, been ridin' together since the war,” Siringo said.

“That's a long time.”

“The others come and go,” Siringo said. “Sometimes Sandusky and Anderson just get rid of them.”

“Kill them, you mean?”

Siringo nodded.

“When they get tired of sharin' the proceeds of their jobs,” Siringo said. “That's what I hear anyway.”

“You wonder what makes anybody follow someone like that,” Clint said.

“They all think it won't happen to them,” Siringo said. “They think they'll get rich and ride away, but a lot of them don't make it in time.”

“Who sent you out on this job, Charlie?”

“William.”

“Still running the Chicago branch?”

“Pretty much. Him and Robert are runnin' the whole agency.”

“How do you think he'll react when he hears about me?” Clint asked.

“I ain't gonna tell 'im,” Siringo said. “Not yet anyway. If I do, it'll be after the job is over.”

They finished their breakfast and washed it down with a last cup of coffee.

“Okay,” Siringo said, “we better go up and see how Horn's doin'.”

They got a plate of bacon and eggs, a mug, and a pot of coffee and headed up to Tom Horn's room.

*   *   *

Tom Horn couldn't move.

He woke up lying on his good side, opened his eyes, and looked around. He didn't try to move right away. He felt all right if he lay perfectly still. The next step would be to try to move.

First he used his hand to feel his thigh. It was still wrapped tightly, and as he ran his fingers over the skin, he could feel his fingertips. That was good. The doctor told him to come back if the leg felt numb. Next, he tried to move the injured leg, ended up gritting his teeth at the pain. It was stiff, and it hurt to move, but he flexed it, then flexed it again. It wasn't as bad the second time as the first, so he did it again.

Not too bad.

Next he had to roll onto his back. He did that slowly, and not without some pain, not only in his leg, but also in his back. He felt stiff, but he knew he'd feel that, and he knew he'd feel pain. What he didn't want to do was start bleeding again.

He stayed on his back, staring at the ceiling, catching his breath. There was some sweat on his brow, and he waited for that to cool before he tried anything else.

Next would come sitting and then, finally, standing.

*   *   *

Clint carried the tray, and as they got to the door, Siringo used the key to unlock it. They walked in and stopped short when they saw Tom Horn on his feet.

“Well, well,” Siringo said. “How long did it take you to stand up?”

“Long enough,” Horn said. “I'm just tryin' to walk out the stiffness.”

As if to illustrate his point, he walked across the room, stiff-legged but steady.

“Looks good,” Siringo said. “We brought you some eggs and bacon.”

“Good,” Horn said. “I'm hungry.”

“Sit on the bed,” Clint said.

They watched him carefully as he walked to the bed and slowly sat down. He kept his weight away from the wounded thigh. Clint gave him his tray and he started to devour the eggs and bacon.

“Think you can sit a horse?” Siringo asked.

“I'm gonna try,” Horn said. “But just in case . . .”

“Just in case what?” Siringo asked.

“Well, if I start bleeding on the trail, we're gonna have to rewrap this wound.”

“I'll go over to the doc's and get some extra bandages,” Siringo said.

“Thanks,” Horn said. He looked at Clint. “You still comin'?”

“I'm coming.”

“Good,” Horn said. “We can walk over to the livery for the horses.”

“You two still got your horses?”

“Yeah,” Siringo said, “the same ranch hands who found us rode 'em down and caught 'em.”

Horn popped the last piece of bacon into his mouth and set the tray aside. Clint and Siringo watched him carefully as he got to his feet. He picked up his gun belt and strapped it on.

“Tom,” Clint said, “you could bleed to death.”

“That's why we're gettin' the extra bandages,” Horn said. “If I can sit a horse, boys, I'm ridin' along.”

“Okay,” Siringo said. “We better get goin'.”

The three of them walked out the door and down into the lobby, moving at Horn's pace.

Outside Siringo said, “I'll go to the doc's and meet you at the stable.”

“We'll have the horses saddled,” Clint said.