The Pinkerton Job (5 page)

TWELVE

Suddenly, the trail swung east.

“This is odd,” Horn said.

“Where could they be headed?” Clint asked.

“Santa Rosa?” Siringo asked. “It's the biggest town east of here.”

“Maybe they want to rest,” Clint said.

“Could be,” Horn said.

“We got no choice,” Siringo said. “We gotta follow.”

Horn shrugged and said, “Let's go.”

They rode along Santa Rosa Lake later in the day until they came to a cold campsite, with a worn-out shack next to it.

“They stopped here,” Horn said, looking around. “Looks like at least overnight, maybe two nights.”

“I'll check the shack,” Clint said, and rode over to it. He dismounted and went inside.

Horn dismounted on his own, stood there for a moment, then turned and started walking. He was stiff, Siringo could see that, but he wasn't complaining and—more important—he wasn't bleeding.

“I got maybe a dozen horses picketed here,” Horn called out.

“Lots of boot scuffs on the rocks here,” Siringo said. They weren't going to find many tracks because the ground was hard, but it was well scuffed. He bent over and picked something up. “Cigar butt,” he called.

“Lemme see,” Horn said, coming over.

Siringo handed it over. Horn smelled it, then tried a few puffs.

“It's dead,” he said, “but not long. Probably this mornin'.”

“They camped here 'til this mornin'?” Siringo said. “We're less than a day behind?”

“Looks like it.”

“Let's see what Clint's got.”

They started for the shack.

Inside the shack Clint could see that one man had camped there, probably the leader. There was an old shirt left behind, an empty whiskey bottle, a couple of flattened cigarettes, and burned matches. He touched the wall of the shack, realized it could fall in on him any minute, and got out of there.

“What's inside?” Siringo asked.

“Not much,” Clint said. “Looks like the leader kept himself apart from his men.”

“Sandusky,” Siringo said.

“If it's them.”

“It's them,” Horn said.

“How can you be sure?”

“The tracks led us here,” Horn said. “I recognize some of them. They're pretty distinctive.”

“Okay,” Siringo said, “then we're just a matter of hours behind.”

“Where'd they go from here?” Clint asked. “Santa Rosa?”

“We'll follow the tracks south,” Horn said, “but it wouldn't surprise me if they bypass Santa Rosa.”

Horn stretched and Clint asked, “How's the leg?”

“I'm fine,” Horn said. “Let's get back on their trail.”

Horn mounted with seemingly more ease than before. Clint wondered how much effort that actually took.

THIRTEEN

As Horn had opined, the gang bypassed Santa Rosa. Not only that, they swung west.

“Now what?” Clint asked.

“Still going south,” Horn said, “but now it's southwest.”

“Carrizozo?” Siringo wondered.

“Maybe,” Horn said. “It's small, but they can stock up there.”

The three men exchanged a glance.

“It's your call, Charlie.”

“If they bypassed Santa Rosa, they're gonna need supplies,” the detective said. “Carrizozo figures.”

“So we can stop tracking them and head straight there?”

Siringo thought about it.

“If we do that and they bypass Carrizozo, we could lose 'em,” Horn said.

“We're only a few hours behind,” Siringo said. “Let's stay on their trail.”

*   *   *

They followed the trail for the better part of the day. Horn drew his horse to a stop, Clint and Siringo following his lead.

“You okay?” Clint asked.

“I'm fine,” Horn said, although his face was very pale beneath his perpetual sunburn. “Looks like we were right. They're headed straight to Carrizozo.”

“Can we make it tonight?” Clint asked.

“If we ride in the dark,” Horn said.

That didn't sound like a good idea to Clint. All it would take was a small stumble and Horn's horse might unseat him. If that happened, his wound would burst open when he hit the ground.

“Why push it?” Clint asked.

“I was thinkin' the same thing,” Siringo said.

“You're both bad liars,” Horn said, “but I ain't gonna argue.”

As Clint had suspected, Horn's wound was giving him trouble.

“We'll camp and head out first thing in the morning,” Siringo said. “If they're in Carrizozo now, we won't be that far behind them.”

They made camp. This time Siringo fetched the water and built the fire while Clint picketed the horses. Horn sat down immediately after dismounting, leaning his weight off his injured leg. For the most part he'd been doing pretty well, but if he was going to start slowing them down, they'd have to leave him behind. Maybe in Carrizozo. But Clint figured it was up to Siringo to bring it up.

By the time Clint got to the fire, Siringo had the coffeepot going, and bacon in the pan.

*   *   *

When Sandusky and his gang reached Carrizozo, he sent three men to buy supplies while the others waited at the edge of town. A dozen men riding down the main street would attract attention, which he didn't need at the moment. Since the town was the county seat of Lincoln County, they were where they wanted to be, and Sandusky was anxious to get a move on.

While the men were sitting around the campfire eating that evening, Sandusky and Anderson were off to the side.

Sandusky said, “There's a ranch not far from here that usually runs five hundred head or so.”

“We can't drive that many to Mexico,” Cal Anderson said.

“We don't need five hundred,” Sandusky said. “We'll grab a hundred or so.”

“What ranch is it?” Anderson said.

“Used to be John Chisum's place,” Sandusky said. “Back in the sixties he was running a hundred thousand head.”

“Who owns it now?” Anderson asked.

“Don't rightly know, but I hear there's always plenty of cattle there.”

“It's gonna slow us down,” Anderson said.

“Who do you think is after us?”

“Siringo,” Anderson said.

“Yeah,” Sandusky said, “but if he's alive, he's alone. One against twelve. I'll take those odds every time.”

Anderson didn't look convinced. If Siringo was alive, Horn might be alive, too, even if Anderson himself had put Horn down. He knew he'd hit him at least twice, but he hadn't actually seen him die.

“Don't worry so much, Cal,” Sandusky said. “That's my job, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

Sandusky slapped his
segundo
on the back and said, “Just enjoy your meal. Tomorrow we'll pick up some cows and head for Mexico.”

“It's a long way,” Anderson said.

“It'll be worth it,” Sandusky told him, “when we get there.”

FOURTEEN

Clint had a decent pot of coffee ready when Siringo and Horn woke the next morning.

“I knew I wouldn't get away from this for long,” Siringo said, but he drank a cup. At the very least, it was eye-opening.

Horn rolled over and struggled to his feet, accepted a cup from Clint.

“No breakfast,” Clint said. “We'll have to buy some more supplies in Carrizozo. Maybe get a doctor to look you over.”

“I won't argue with that,” Horn said.

They broke camp, Clint dousing the fire and Siringo saddling the horses. This time Horn took some assistance in getting in the saddle.

They headed for Carrizozo.

The trail led right to the edge of town, where it got lost among other tracks leading into town. No matter, they could pick it up again on the other side.

Twelve men riding into Carrizozo would have been noticeable. All they had to do was ask.

“I'll talk to the local law,” Siringo said. “You get Tom to a doctor.”

“Right,” Clint said. “Let's meet at the mercantile.”

“Okay,” Siringo said.

They split up.

*   *   *

Siringo entered the sheriff's office. There was a time when Pat Garrett would have been there, but since killing Billy the Kid, Garrett had written a book about it and had moved on to Texas, where he was the captain of a company of Texas Rangers.

The present sheriff of Lincoln County looked up from his desk as the detective entered. He was a mild-looking bald man in his fifties.

“Help ya?” he asked.

“Charlie Siringo,” Siringo said, “Pinkerton Agent, Sheriff . . .”

“Hapwell,” the man said, “George Hapwell. I know who you are, Mr. Siringo. What brings you to Lincoln County?”

“I'm tracking a gang of rustlers,” Siringo said, “and have reason to believe they rode through here as recently as yesterday.”

“Rustlers?” Hapwell asked. “Through here? How many men are we talkin' about?”

“At least a dozen,” Siringo said.

“Sir, if a dozen men had ridden into this town yesterday,” Hapwell said, “I would know about it.”

“So you're sayin' they didn't come through town?”

“They did not.”

“Their trail leads right to the edge of town.”

“I don't know what to tell you,” Hapwell said. “A dozen men did not ride into this town yesterday, or in the past week.”

*   *   *

Clint found the doctor's office, helped Horn down off his horse, and took him inside.

“Can I help you gents?” a short, straw-haired man asked.

“Are you the doctor?” Clint asked.

“I am.”

“You're a little young,” Horn observed.

The doctor studied Horn and said, “Probably only a year or two younger than you. However, if one of you needs a doctor, I'm what you've got.”

“This man was shot several days ago,” Clint said, “and against his doctor's orders, he's been riding. We'd like you to take a look at the wound.”

“Of course,” the doctor said. “Step through that door, please.”

Clint helped Horn through the door and onto an examining table. The doctor followed them.

“I can take it from here,” he said to Clint.

“I'll be outside,” Clint replied. “Thanks, Doc.”

As soon as he left the room, the doctor closed the door.

*   *   *

“Okay,” Siringo said, “so a dozen men didn't ride into town. Have any strangers been through town?”

“Well,” Hapwell said, “now that you mention it, three men did ride into town yesterday.”

Siringo wondered if the sheriff was really this stupid.

“And did they stay overnight?”

“No,” Hapwell said, “they went to the mercantile, and then left.”

“So they were in town for . . .”

“Maybe an hour.”

“And you knew about this how?”

“I happened to be in the mercantile at the time.”

“So you know what they bought?”

“Some supplies,” Hapwell said. “I don't know exactly what. You'd have to talk to Wendell Court. He owns the store.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

“Do you think those were your men?”

“Some of them.”

“So where do you think the others went?” Hapwell asked.

“Probably just waited outside of town.”

“I hope you catch up with them.”

“Yeah, Sheriff,” Siringo said, “so do I. Thanks for your help.”

“Sure,” Hapwell said. “Let me know if there's anythin' else I can do while you're in town.”

“I will.”

“Any idea how long that might be?” Hapwell asked as Siringo walked to the door.

“No, idea,” Siringo said. “I have a friend seein' your doctor, but I'm hopin' not overnight.”

He left the office before the sheriff could ask another question.

FIFTEEN

The doctor came out and addressed Clint.

“Well, there's no infection,” he said. “That's good. He shouldn't be riding, but on the other hand, he hasn't done any lasting damage to himself—not yet anyway.”

“Then he can continue to ride?”

“That's going to be up to him,” the doctor said, “if he wants to take the chance that he will do some damage eventually.”

“Well, if I know him,” Clint said, “he'll want to take the chance.”

“His choice,” the doctor said. “What about you? Anything ailing you?”

“Me? I'm fine,” Clint said. “No, this was just for Tom.”

“Okay, then,” the doctor said. “He should be dressed by now, but he might need help getting down from the table.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Clint went into the room just as Horn was trying to get down.

“Here, let me give you a hand,” he said, rushing to Horn's side.

“Thanks.”

With Clint's aid, Horn managed to stand up without falling down.

“The doctor gave me a clean bill of health,” Horn said.

“Kinda,” Clint added.

“Whataya mean?”

“He left it up to you, I know,” Clint said. “You can ride if you want to.”

“I'll ride as long as I can,” Horn said. “When I fall off, you can leave me where I lay.”

“We'll see about that,” Clint said.

“Where's Charlie?”

“Talking to the sheriff,” Clint said. “We're supposed to meet him at the mercantile.”

“Let's do that, then,” Horn said, “and maybe after that we can get a drink.”

“Sounds good to me,” Clint said.

They settled with the doctor and left the man's office.

SIXTEEN

When they reached the mercantile, Siringo was standing at the counter, paying for supplies. A drink sounded good to him, too, so they stuffed their purchases into their saddlebags and crossed the street to a saloon.

The saloon was about half full, with plenty of room at the bar. They lined up and Clint ordered three beers.

Horn drank down half of his quickly with his eyes closed.

“Ahh,” he said, “I needed that.”

“I think you might need more than that,” Clint said.

“Whataya mean?”

“You need rest, Tom.”

“I think he's right,” Siringo said.

“I can rest after we catch Sandusky and his crew,” Horn said defensively. “Unless you think I ain't pullin' my weight.”

“That ain't it at all, Tom,” Siringo said. “Even if you're only half the man you usually are, you're twice as good as anyone else.”

That seemed to mollify Horn a bit.

“Then if it's all right with you two, I'll just keep on and rest when we're done.”

“It's okay with me,” Clint said. “The decision is yours.”

“Yeah, okay,” Siringo said. “Have it your way.”

“Let's get another beer before we move,” Horn suggested.

“Do we want to spend the night?” Clint asked, thinking of Horn's leg.

Siringo decided not to coddle Horn, if that was what the man wanted.

“We can't afford to,” Siringo said.

“Okay, so what did the sheriff say?”

“That if twelve men had ridden into his town yesterday, he'd know it.”

“So they didn't?” Horn asked.

“Not accordin' to him.”

“You believe him?” Clint asked.

“I'm not sure,” Siringo said. “But he did say three men rode in, and rode out after going to the mercantile.”

“Did you ask the clerk there if he knew anythin'?” Horn asked.

“I did,” Siringo said, “and I'm convinced that once I left there, he couldn't have described me a minute later.”

“So then let's assume the gang sent three men in to do their shopping, and then moved on,” Clint said.

“Which means they must've circled the town,” Horn said. “I propose we go back to where we lost their tracks and see if I can pick them up again.”

“Agreed,” Siringo said.

They got their second beers just as three men entered through the batwings and looked their way.

“See, I told you,” one of them said. “Tom Horn.”

“You was right,” a second man said.

The third man just glared.

“You know them?” Siringo asked in a low tone.

“I think so,” Horn said. “Might be the Monroe brothers.”

“And?” Clint asked.

“I might have had occasion to kill their brother last year.”

“Here?” Siringo asked. “You been here before?”

“No,” Horn said, “up north, near Taos.”

“They don't look happy,” Clint said.

“Horn!” one of them yelled. “You know who we are?”

“Not really,” Horn said, standing with his beer mug in his left hand, his right hand free. Clint and Siringo had adopted the same stance.

“Tell yer friends to move away,” the spokesbrother said. “We're gonna kill ya.”

“Gonna be up to them if they want to move away,” Horn said.

“If they get hurt, ain't gonna be our fault.”

“Which one are you?” Horn asked.

“I'm Josh,” the man said. “This here's Dal and that's Ed. You killed our brother Jess last year, up Taos way.”

“The way I recall,” Horn said, “he was askin' for it—much the same way you fellas are now.”

“That don't matter,” Josh said. “You killed Jess, and we gotta kill you. We promised our ma.”

“Can I make a suggestion?” Clint asked.

“What?” Josh asked.

“Do you think your ma would want to lose all her boys?”

“You sayin' you're takin' his part?” Josh asked.

“If he ain't sayin' that,” Siringo piped up, “I am.”

“Who the hell are you?” Josh asked.

“Oh, sorry,” Horn said, “I didn't introduce my friends. “This here's Charlie Siringo, and that's a fella named Clint Adams.”

“Clint Adams?” Josh asked.

“Clint Adams?” Ed echoed. “The Gunsmith?”

“That's right,” Horn said.

“And that's Siringo,” Dal Monroe said.

“I heard 'em,” Josh growled.

“What are we gonna do, Josh?” Ed asked.

“Shut up!”

“That's a good question, Josh,” Horn said. “How do you wanna do this? In here or outside?”

“Three against three?” Josh asked.

“Pretty even, huh?” Siringo asked.

“I don't think so,” Josh said. He pointed his finger at Horn. “We'll see you again when you ain't got your gunnies with you.”

“I hope not,” Horn said, “for your sake.”

The Monroes backed out of the saloon. When they hit the boardwalk, their footsteps could be heard hurrying away.

The rest of the men in the saloon were staring at the trio now, aware that Clint Adams, Charlie Siringo, and Tom Horn were in their midst.

“We better go,” Clint said, “before somebody gets brave.”

“Good idea,” Horn said.

They set their unfinished second beers down and headed for the doors. They stepped out, mindful of the fact that the Monroes might be lying in wait for an ambush—but they weren't.

Outside Siringo said, “Gunnies?”

“Ain't you ever been called a gunhand before?” Horn asked.

“Not to my face anyway,” Siringo said.