The Pinkerton Job (4 page)

NINE

Horn was willing to step aside while Clint saddled the horses, but when it came time to mount, he insisted on doing it himself.

“If I can't even get on,” he said, “I've got no business going.”

Clint agreed and withdrew his helpful hand.

Horn hesitated, trying to decide how to do it. Normally he put his left leg—the injured leg—into the stirrup, and lifted himself into the saddle. He could have walked around to the other side and mounted using his right leg, but in the end he just went for it. If the wound exploded . . . he might as well find out now.

He put his left leg in the stirrup, grabbed the saddle with both hands, and lifted, taking as much of his weight as he could on his arms. He swung his right leg over, and just like that, he was mounted, and there was no explosion of blood.

“How was it?” Clint asked.

“Surprisingly,” Horn said, “not bad.”

“Come on,” Clint said, “we'll wait for Charlie outside.”

*   *   *

Siringo accepted the extra bandages from the doctor, who also instructed him on the proper way to wrap the leg.

“And put some of this on the wound,” he added, handing Siringo a jar of ointment. “It should keep it from becoming infected.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“The man's a fool,” the doctor said. “Somewhere along the line, he's gonna have to pay for this.”

“Well,” Siringo said, “we'll help him as much as we can.”

“He'll need it.”

“Thanks again, Doc.”

Siringo settled the bill with the doctor, and headed for the livery stable.

*   *   *

While Horn remained mounted, Clint stood holding the reins of Eclipse and Siringo's horse. The detective appeared, carrying a bundle. They each had some supplies in their saddlebags, which Siringo had purchased the day before.

“How did he get up there?” Siringo asked.

“All by himself,” Clint said.

“Well, he ain't fallen off yet, so I guess he's okay.”

Siringo walked to his horse and stuffed the bundle into his saddlebag. He took the reins of his horse from Clint and mounted up. Clint walked Eclipse away from the other two and swung himself into the saddle.

“We got everythin' we need?” Horn asked.

“Pretty much,” Siringo said.

“Then we better get goin'.”

Clint and Siringo both looked at Horn. There was no telling how he'd react to the rigors of riding. Just the bouncing up and down could start him bleeding or, at the very least, cause him pain.

“Tom,” Siringo said, “let's just take it easy to start and see how your leg responds. Whataya say?”

“Sure,” Horn said, “makes sense.”

“Where do we start?” Clint asked.

“Right where they bushwacked us,” Siringo said. “We should be able to pick up their trail from there.”

“I'll take the lead,” Horn said. “That way if I fall off my horse, you'll see me.”

TEN

They rode at Horn's pace. Clint figured Horn took the lead because that was where he was accustomed to being, but also so they wouldn't be able to see the expression on his face.

“How's he look to you?” Siringo asked, keeping his voice low.

“He's sitting okay,” Clint said. “I guess we'll really find out when we start to ride faster.”

“I can hear you both back there,” Horn said. “If you got somethin' to say, just say it.”

“We was just sayin' you're lookin' good, Tom,” Siringo said.

“How do you feel?”

“I'm fine,” Horn said. “Just stop mutterin' behind me.”

“Yeah, okay,” Siringo said.

*   *   *

When they reached the point where Siringo and Horn were bushwacked, Horn remained mounted while Clint and Siringo stepped down.

“This is where they got us,” Siringo said.

Clint could still see some blood on the ground. He wondered how much of it belonged to Siringo and Horn.

“Looks like you might have done okay,” he said. “There's enough blood to indicate you hit some of them.”

“If I know Sandusky,” Siringo said, “he's already replaced those men.”

Horn was riding his horse in circles, studying the ground.

“Tom?” Siringo yelled.

“I got 'em,” Horn said. “Ten, twelve horses. Doesn't look like they left anybody behind.”

“Which way are they headed?” Clint asked.

“South.”

“South it is,” Siringo said.

The detective and Clint mounted up, rode to join Tom Horn.

“I was thinkin' they might go north, back to where they came from, since they thought we was dead, but no.”

“Maybe,” Siringo said, “they ain't assumin' we're dead.”

“Then why didn't they finish us off?”

“I don't know,” Siringo said.

“Well then,” Horn said, “we should just get started trackin' them. Maybe at some point they'll double back.”

“Maybe,” Siringo said.

But by the time the sun started to go down, the tracks still had not doubled back. The Sandusky gang was still heading south.

“We better camp here,” Siringo said.

“I'm fine,” Horn said. “Don't stop on my account.”

“I ain't,” Siringo said. “It's just time.”

They reined their horses in, and Clint and Siringo dismounted first. They both watched as Horn stepped down, and both saw the red stain on his trousers.

“When did that start bleedin'?” Siringo asked.

“What?” Horn touched his thighs, his hand coming away red, then saw the red smear on his saddle. “Damn, I didn't even feel it.”

“We better take a look at it,” Siringo said. “We'll need a fire.”

“I'll see to the fire,” Clint said.

“I'll take the horses,” Siringo said. “Tom, just settle down somewhere.”

“There's a stream,” Horn said. “I can get some water.”

“Just sit down somewhere,” Siringo said. “Don't be a fool and make it any worse.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Clint got the fire going, and then went and got the water. Siringo got all three horses unloaded, rubbed down, and picketed. Then he carried the saddlebags to the fire.

“You see to Tom's leg,” Clint said. “I'll cook.”

“I remember that trail coffee of yours,” Siringo said. “You could clean your gun with it.”

“I'll take it easy,” Clint promised.

Siringo walked over to Horn, who had found a boulder to sit on.

“Gotta get them trousers down, Tom,” Siringo said.

“Yeah, okay.” Horn stood stiffly, undid his gun belt and belt, and lowered his trousers.

Siringo tossed the man's bedroll down and said, “Lie on that.”

Horn got down on his stomach and Siringo began to unwrap the bloody bandage. Clint brought over some water so Siringo could clean the wound.

“I didn't realize that bullet took such a chunk out of you, Tom,” Siringo said. “Damn, you should be in bed, resting and healing.”

“Just do what you can and wrap it,” Horn said.

“Okay.”

“And then I want to eat.”

Siringo cleaned the wound, applied the salve the doctor had given him, then put a clean bandage in place and wrapped it as tightly as he could.

“You got another pair of trousers?” he asked Horn.

“No.”

“Damn,” Siringo said, “I'll have to go to the stream and do your laundry. You'll have to eat in your skivvies.”

“As long as I get to eat.”

Horn got himself up again and sat on the boulder, keeping his bandaged leg straight out, with no pressure on the wound.

Siringo went down to the stream and soaked Horn's trousers, trying to get as much of the blood out as he could.

By the time he got back, he could smell the bacon and beans Clint had prepared, and Horn was already working on a plate. Clint handed one to Siringo as he approached the fire.

“How's it look?” Clint asked, referring to Horn's wound.

“Bad,” Siringo said, “but I didn't see none of what the doctor said infection would look like.”

“Well, that's good anyway.”

Clint stuffed some bacon and beans into his mouth as Siringo sipped his coffee.

“Oh, Jesus,” the detective said. “You sonofabitch.”

“It's good for you,” Clint said. “Make a man of you.”

“Damn!” Siringo put the cup down between his feet on the ground. Clint knew he'd finish it and ask for more.

“If the gang keeps going south,” Clint said, “maybe they're headed for Lincoln County to do some rustling there.”

“Could be.”

“Although it might be better if they double back.”

“Either way,” Siringo said, “we'll catch up to them.”

“Sounds like this might be personal for you and Horn now.”

“Every job is a little personal,” Siringo said.

“Yeah, but you don't get shot in every job,” Clint said. “Speaking of which, how's your arm?”

“It's fine,” Siringo said, picking up his coffee cup. “If it starts to hurt, I can just pour some of this on it. That should take care of any infection.”

ELEVEN

Harlan Sandusky looked out the window of his cabin. It was a shack, really, just barely standing. The rest of the men were camped outside, but Sandusky was the leader, so he slept inside.

He stared out the window at his men and knew they were a motley lot. Still, they didn't have to be smart to rustle cattle. That was his part.

He saw his
segundo
, Cal Anderson, walking among the men, talking to some, barking at others. Anderson kept the men in line, and was the only man Sandusky trusted.

He turned and looked at the woman in the room. Delilah West was the only female member of the gang. As such, she was the one who had to make Sandusky the happiest.

She was sitting on his cot, wearing only a pair of jeans. Her feet were bare, and so were her big breasts. Sandusky, who was totally naked, walked up to her, his raging hard cock leading the way. As he approached her, she smiled. She was forty, missing a few teeth, and her face and body were dirty and sweaty. He wished she was prettier, but she wasn't exactly ugly. Maybe just plain. But she had a wide mouth with full lips, and when she wrapped them around his cock, he forgot about pretty or ugly. He reached down to squeeze her breasts and nipples while she sucked him eagerly, holding on to the base of his huge cock with both hands. The shack was eventually filled with wet, sloppy noises.

Sandusky began to growl as he came near to exploding in her mouth, but before that could happen, he grabbed her by the hair and threw her off him. Then he pushed her onto her back and yanked her jeans off her. Once she was naked and he could see that wild tangle of red hair between her legs, he became single-minded. He mounted her on the cot, grabbed her ankles, spread her legs, and drove his hard cock into her, fucked her brutally enough that the men outside could hear her screaming . . .

*   *   *

Later he threw her jeans and torn shirt at her and said, “Get out. I got some thinkin' to do.”

“Jesus, Harlan, lemme get dressed at least,” she complained.

He grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the door, saying, “Out!”

Battered and bruised—her big brown nipples swollen for more than one reason—she staggered out of the shack even before she could get dressed. The other men eyed her nudity for as long as they could, and then, fully dressed, she approached the group, slapping two or three of them, until one of them tossed her a bottle of whiskey. She opened it with her teeth and guzzled the remains, then laughed . . .

*   *   *

Sandusky, still naked, went back to his coffeepot and poured a cup. While he drank it, he thought about Charlie Siringo being on his trail for the Pinkertons. He wished he'd had time to go back and check to make sure Siringo and his partner were dead, but those ranch hands had heard the shooting and showed up pretty quick. His men were tired and he didn't want to get into a full-scale firefight.

If he knew for sure Siringo was dead, he would have taken his men back to Santa Fe County for some more rustling. However, not knowing for sure, he had to execute another plan. They could go to Mexico and wait for the heat to die down, but that didn't mean they couldn't stop off in Lincoln and grab some more cattle. They could drive them to Mexico and find a buyer there.

His thoughts went back to Siringo. An ex-cowhand turned detective, he turned out to be a damned good one. Charlie Siringo was literally the only man Sandusky was concerned about.

Sure wished he knew for sure if he was dead.

And suddenly he wished he hadn't kicked Delilah out so soon . . .

*   *   *

Clint had taken the last watch, so he had breakfast on the fire when the others woke up.

“Ah, damn it!” Tom Horn growled as he came awake.

“You okay?” Clint asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Horn said, “just stiff.”

“You need help gettin' to your feet?” Siringo asked, standing.

Horn seemed to give the offer some thought, then said, “Ah, why not?”

Siringo went over and gave Horn a hand. Horn grabbed it and Siringo hauled him carefully to his feet.

“Ahh,” Horn groaned as he straightened. He started to walk around a bit, testing his leg. “You musta done a good job, Charlie.”

“I hope so,” Siringo said.

“Come on over here and have some breakfast,” Clint suggested. “Might make you feel even better.”

“Not his coffee,” Siringo warned.

“What's wrong with his coffee?” Horn asked. “I like it. Good trail coffee.”

“Jesus,” Siringo said, shaking his head, but he accepted a cup from Clint.

After breakfast Horn decided to pitch in, so he said he'd refill the canteens. Clint broke camp and killed the fire, while Siringo saddled the horses.

They were ready to go.

Horn insisted in mounting his horse on his own, so Clint and Siringo fell back, ready to jump in if he fell. But he managed to get himself in the saddle. Clint and Siringo mounted up, and they started south.

*   *   *

Sandusky pulled on his jeans, then called Anderson into the shack.

“Close the door,” he said, not that it made any difference. The windows had no glass, and the walls were so thin, anybody who wanted to listen in could.

“What's up, boss?” Anderson asked. “Man, you sure tore Delilah up, huh? She looks sore as hell.”

“I wanna stop over in Lincoln County and get some cows, Cal.”

“Where we gonna sell 'em?”

“Mexico.”

“We're gonna drive 'em all the way to ol' Mexico?” Anderson asked.

“It ain't that far,” Sandusky said, “and we can use the money.”

Anderson shrugged and said, “You're the boss.”

“You think these men are up to it?” Sandusky asked.

“Most of 'em are,” Anderson said. “Skeeter, Nelson, Rosario . . . they're good men.”

“All right, then,” Sandusky said. “Start breakin' camp and we'll head to Lincoln.”

“What do I tell the men?”

“Nothin',” Sandusky said. “They'll find out when the time comes.”

“Right.”

“Anderson.”

“Yeah?”

“I know you got friends out there,” Sandusky said, “but don't get too attached, huh?”

Anderson gave a wolfish grin and said, “I getcha, boss.”