Town Tamers (23 page)

T
he morning sun rose stupendous and bright over the prairie to the east and gradually spread its radiant glow over the foothills and higher slopes of the Rocky Mountains.

Asa sat at the campfire and sipped his first cup of coffee of the day. He was always up before the others. It came with age. He needed less sleep than they did.

Which was just as well, since he had a lot of pondering to do.

So far things had gone well. They’d pointed an accusing finger at Arthur Studevant without drawing the town’s ire on themselves. Their stagecoach antics and their visit to the hotel had set Ordville abuzz.

What it hadn’t done—which was the whole purpose—was set posses after them. If they’d killed someone or wounded a stage passenger, people would be outraged. As it was, the good folks of Ordville were more amused than angry—those who weren’t incensed at Studevant over Laura Baker.

Yes, things were going well.

Asa admired the sunrise and listened to the warbling of the songbirds and the cry of a magpie off down the meadow. He’d grown fond of the Rockies in the short time they’d been there. The lofty spires thrusting at the sky, the sea of forest, the magnificent vistas. It was no wonder so many folks flocked there.

Noona’s blankets moved and her head poked out. “Morning, Pa.”

“Daughter,” Asa said. “You and your brother have become layabouts.”

She grinned and laid her head back down. “It’s your fault. We never have much to do.”

“That’s about to change,” Asa said. “It’s been a week since the hotel.”

Her head popped out again. “What do you have in mind?”

“Your brother came up with another brainstorm last night after you turned in.”

“What is it this time? We burn down one of Studevant’s saloons? Or better yet, one of his whorehouses?”

“Your brother calls it a list of injustices against humanity.”

“Another note to the newspaper?”

“Why not? We want to keep them agitated. And keep Studevant mad. Did you know he had that fancy team of his brought all the way from New York?”

“I did not,” Noona said.

“He’s very fond of them, folks say.”

“I like horses, Pa. You’re not fixing to harm them, are you?”

“You know me better than that, girl. But they are pawns in the chess game, as your brother likes to think of this.”

“Just so we don’t hurt them.”

From under the blanket on the other side of the fire came a grunt of annoyance. “Talk a little louder, why don’t you? So what if someone is trying to sleep.”

“Rise and shine,” Asa said. “We’ll do those horses today like you suggested, and it’s a long ride to town.”

“Me and my brilliance,” Byron said.

Noona sat up and ruffled her hair and yawned. “I can’t wait to get back to Texas. I miss home.”

“It’ll be a while yet,” Asa said. “Remember, we have to do this slow and careful.”

“More’s the pity,” Byron said.

“I should stop and visit with Cornice,” Noona said. “She always has newspapers and grub for us.”

“We should go together,” Byron said. “She baked an apple pie last time.”

“It’s riskier with the both of you,” Asa said. “Your sister can slip in and out with no one catching on.”

Noona got up and fixed breakfast, eggs over easy and bacon sizzling with juicy fat. “We’re running low on butter,” she mentioned.

“We’ll ask Cornice to buy us some,” Asa said.

Byron forked a piece of bacon into his mouth and chewed lustily. “How long do you intend to stay at this? When will enough be enough and we send Arthur Studevant to hell where he belongs?”

“I haven’t set a date.”

“Are we talking days? Weeks? Months? I’d like to get on with my life and don’t appreciate the delay.”

“You mean you’d like to get on with that Olivia gal,” Noona teased.

Asa lowered his tin cup and scowled. “I warned you to stay away from her. You better listen. They know you were with her that night and might put a watch on her, thinking you’ll pay her a visit.”

“I’m not that stupid,” Byron said.

“I hope not,” Asa said, “for all our sakes.”

T
he man who got off the train was big and wide—so big he towered head and shoulders above the tallest of other men, so wide his shoulders brushed the compartments on either side when he moved down the aisle.

His attire added to his size. Even though it was summer, he wore a long-sleeved bear-hide coat that reached to his knees. Made from a black bearskin, it smelled like bear, too. Bear and sweat.

His hat was a stocking-cap fashioned from buckskin that hung to his shoulder and swung with every stride.

His moccasins were the knee-high kind Apaches were partial to.

He carried an old Sharps and had a cartridge belt and a large bone-handled knife around his waist.

Marshal Pollard and Deputy Agar were waiting when the big man got off.

“Cyrus Temple?” Agar said. “Mr. Studevant sent us to fetch you.”

Cyrus Temple scanned him from head to boots and then looked at Pollard and said, “At least one of you ain’t worthless.”

“Hey, now,” Agar said. “I’ve hardly spoken ten words to you.”

“It was enough.”

“We’re on the same side,” Pollard said. “You’d do well to remember that.”

“I don’t kiss law dog ass,” Temple said. “You’d do well to remember that.”

“You’re not very nice,” Deputy Agar said.

“No,” Cyrus Temple said, “I’m not.”

Studevant had also sent his carriage. They rode in silence to the hotel. Temple drew a lot of stares as he crossed the lobby to the stairs.

The Gray Ghosts were at their usual post. Temple stopped on seeing them, then said, “These two are more like it.”

“Like what?” Agar asked.

“Not like you,” Temple said.

Arthur Studevant was seated on a wood settee, one of the few items of furniture to escape the wrath of the intruders since it didn’t have cushions or upholstery.

He rose and offered his hand.

Shaking, Cyrus Temple regarded the destruction. “Twisters strike indoors now?”

Studevant told him about the three bandits and the invasion of his suite.

“It was a week ago and you haven’t cleaned the mess up yet?”

“I’m keeping it like this as a reminder,” Studevant said, “of how much I want them dead. I’ll have it cleaned up when they’ve breathed their last, and not before.”

“That’s why you sent for me, I reckon,” Temple said.

“I appreciate you coming so quickly.”

Temple cradled his Sharps. “I was between jobs when your telegram reached me in Cheyenne. I took the next train, and here I am.”

“Have a seat. I’ll have refreshments brought and explain my situation.”

“All I need to know is who I’m after and where I can pick up their trail.”

“I can give you their descriptions but not their names. As for a trail, we’ll have to wait for them to strike again.”

“That’s all right. I’m a patient man. Have to be, in my line of work.”

“I’m not except when it suits my purpose,” Arthur Studevant said. “And it doesn’t suit my purpose to have them continue to belittle me and mock me and try to turn the people of Ordville against me.”

“Strange bunch of bandits,” Cyrus Temple said.

“As soon as you can, I want them to be a dead bunch of bandits.”

“About that,” Temple said. “I’m a tracker. I don’t kill unless the law will look the other way.” He glanced at Pollard. “What way will your law look?”

“Need you ask?” Studevant said. “They do what I tell them to do. But even so, I’d prefer that you take this trio alive if you can. I want them dead, yes. But I want to do the deed myself.”

“So I find them and bring them here, or I come fetch you and take you to where they are?”

“It’s better if they’re not seen in town. When you find them, make damn certain they can’t go anywhere while you come get me.”

“You’re makin’ it harder than it needs to be,” Temple said.

“In my telegram I offered to pay you twice your going rate. For that much I can make it as difficult as I damn well want.”

“So long as I get to do the tracking my way.” Temple looked about him and walked over to a chair cushion that lay on the floor. It had been hacked almost to pieces. He nudged it with the toe of his moccasin and said, “You know this is personal, don’t you?”

“I know they’re out to bring me down,” Studevant said. “I suspect they’re out to bury me.”

“If all they wanted was to have you dead, they’d do like I do and sit off somewhere and pick you off with a rifle.”

“Perhaps they’re building up to that.”

“Could be.” Temple gestured at the destruction. “But whoever did it hates you, mister. Hates you somethin’ fierce.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “Or maybe they’re like me and were hired by someone who hates you.”

Arthur Studevant gave a slight start.

“Somethin’?” Temple said.

“I may need to thank you twice over,” Studevant said. “You’ve just given me food for deep thought.”

“Do you have many enemies?”

“I’ve made a great many of them.”

“That’s where I’d start lookin’. I take it you hope they strike again soon so you can get this over with.”

“The sooner, the better,” Studevant said.

T
he stable was only a few blocks from the Studevant Hotel. Studevant liked his team handy for when he needed to go somewhere on short notice.

Once it was a public stable, but Studevant bought out the owner and now it housed his six carriage horses and no others.

The horses were Clydesdales. Originally bred in the Clyde River Valley in Scotland, Clydesdales proved so popular as draft animals that soon they were being bred in Europe and the United States.

Studevant, though, insisted on owning only those of the purest blood. He imported his team from Scotland.

They were tremendous animals. Each weighed close to two thousand pounds and stood nearly seventy inches at the shoulders. When fitted with their trappings, they presented an imposing spectacle with their rapid gait, long strides, and the hair around their ankles.

The stableman, appropriately enough, was a Scotsman by the name of MacDougal. Studevant imported him from Scotland, too. He had no wife and no children and lived in a room at the back of the stable so he could be close to “his babies,” as he liked to refer to the Clydesdales.

On this particular night, MacDougal had tended to their needs and given each an affectionate pat, and then turned in, as he always did, about ten. He didn’t bar the front doors. He never did. Horse theft was unknown in Ordville, and besides, no one in their right mind would steal horses that belonged to Arthur Studevant.

The first inkling MacDougal had that this wasn’t going to be an ordinary night occurred when he awoke with a start to find a hard object gouging his cheek. Someone had lit his lamp but turned it low, and he saw that the object gouging him was a rifle barrel. Then he looked up. “Sure and by God, what’s the meaning of this?”

A man in a straw hat and overalls smiled. “Good evening, sir,” he said politely. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to impose on you.”

“Impose how?” MacDougal asked, struggling to collect his wits. He noticed two other men holding rifles on him and suddenly he remembered the newspaper accounts. “You’re those outlaws, by God. The ones who held up the stage and made a mess of Mr. Studevant’s suite.”

“As a matter of fact,” the polite outlaw in overalls said, “we never held up anything. As for the other, we’ve only just begun to make a mess of his life.”

“What did poor Mr. Studevant ever do to you?” MacDougal asked indignantly.

“Poor?” the polite one said, and laughed. “Of all the ways to describe him, that fits least. Bastard fits best.”

“I won’t speak ill of the man. He paid for my passage to America and gives me a good wage to take care of his team.”

“You don’t care that he rapes women and has people beaten and murdered?”

“That rape was never proved. And the idea of him killing is ridiculous.”

“There are none so blind,” the polite bandit said, “as those who will not see.”

“You have your nerve,” MacDougal said.

The outlaw in a Macintosh broke in with, “Enough. You’re wasting time. Get it over with.”

The shortest of the bandits came over and covered MacDougal while the polite one tied his wrists and ankles.

“Those aren’t too tight, are they?” the polite one asked when he was done.

“No,” MacDougal said.

“Good. Wouldn’t want them cutting off your circulation.”

“You are damned odd bandits, and that’s no lie.”

“Would you happen to have a clean handkerchief anywhere?”

“I would not,” MacDougal said. “I hardly ever use one.”

“How about a clean sock then?”

“For God’s sake,” the outlaw in the Macintosh said. “Just do it.”

The polite one turned to him. “Would you want a used handkerchief or dirty sock in your mouth?”

“Find something clean, then,” the outlaw in the Macintosh said.

“I have a washcloth,” MacDougal said, and nodded at a wash basin and a pitcher over on a small table.

“That will do. Thank you.”

MacDougal noticed that the polite one took particular care not to cause him discomfort as he placed the gag in his mouth and then tied a strip of towel around his head so he couldn’t spit it out.

“Remember to breathe through your nose, and you’ll be fine,” the polite one said.

The outlaw in the Macintosh mumbled something and the three of them departed.

They left the door to MacDougal’s room open.

Sliding off the bed, MacDougal eased onto his shoulder and wriggled to where he could look down the center aisle.

The outlaws were leading the Clydesdales from their stalls.

MacDougal was bewildered when the short one produced paint and brushes they had obviously brought with them. He couldn’t imagine what they would use it for, and was astounded when they began to paint yellow stripes on each of the Clydesdales.

MacDougal thought he must be dreaming.

The Clydesdales were well trained, and while several fidgeted and stamped when the paint was applied, none kicked or shied.

Then the man in the Macintosh opened the stable doors, and the outlaws led each Clydesdale outside and gave it a swat that sent it trotting off.

That accomplished, the three slipped off into the night.

The polite one in the straw hat left last, and he looked back and grinned and waved.

MacDougal had never seen the like. It occurred to him that these three weren’t outlaws.

They were lunatics.