‘He can’t,’ Amos answered before Chris could reply. As senior company man he felt entitled to make decisions that affected his coach. ‘We might have to start back for Muddy Creek tomorrow. The stage from the north arrives tomorrow with a strongbox to go back through to El Paso. We’ve been told to wait for a telegram with instructions. If the company thinks it’s safe, we could be on the way home tomorrow.’

  ‘Too bad,’ the sheriff said and tossed down the last of his drink. ‘I’ll be leaving early so probably won’t see you. At least you should have a safer trip now the army has chased those Mexicans away.’

  Chris at last expressed the doubt that had been niggling at him since he heard of the Jones shooting. ‘You don’t suppose that Jones was this Grant character that Colonel Dwyer was after? The name John Jones sounds too plain to be real.’

  Brunskill laughed. ‘According to some papers I found on him, the late Mr Jones was really Wolfgang Guggenburger. If I had a moniker like that I wouldn’t use it either. It might have sounded fine in Germany where his folks came from but it’s a hell of a name to saddle an American kid with.’

  Amos looked doubtful. ‘That doesn’t clear him from being this Grant character. Seems to me that he’s had a bit of practice using false names.’

  ‘If that’s the case, Dwyer got what he was after so the rest of you can relax.’

  ‘What about the story Chris heard about Grant being a gunfighter?’

  Brunskill shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? It might have been a case of mistaken identity, or it could have been true. If he was, it gives me a motive for his murder but it’s nothing you need to worry about.’

  ‘I sure hope you’re right,’ Chris said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Wilmot was a little unsteady on his feet when he left the saloon where he had been holding court. The walk to the hotel was not a long one but he did not get there.

  A calloused hand clamped over his mouth as he passed the entrance of a dark alley and the cold barrel of a gun was thrust against his head. Drunk though he was, he recognized the menace in the voice that told him to be silent. Almost paralysed with fear, he made no sound as his captor dragged him deeper into the blackness of the alley.

  Two men and three saddled horses were waiting at the back of the buildings.

  ‘If you make one sound,’ Dwyer said softly, ‘you will die.’

  Wilmot did make one sound, a little whimper of sheer terror but apparently that was permissible, because he was not killed.

  His captors gagged him, tied his hands behind his back and hoisted him on to a horse. Another rope that went around his waist and the saddle horn was intended to keep him in the saddle but the colonel’s instruction to his men was an added incentive to remain mounted.

  ‘If he falls off, kill him. If he is still alive when you reach that place we found, one stays to guard him and the other brings back the horses. I’ll be in my hotel room. Now get going and don’t waste time. We have one more to take and one to kill.’

  Ellen was not sleeping well. The bed was lumpy and uncomfortable and the sounds of guests coming and going and the opening and closing of doors were in stark contrast to the silent nights on the family ranch. She was not sure of the time when she heard the thumping of boot heels and the jingle of spurs outside in the corridor. Nervously she reached for the gun she had placed on a chair beside the bed but to her relief the footsteps continued. She heard them halt at the end of the hall somewhere near the room in which Horace was lodged at stage company expense. Probably a couple of drinking mates calling on Horace, she thought.

  While still trying to get back to sleep she heard a knock on Horace’s door, a murmur of voices and a rattle as the door opened. More sounds followed, low voices, a few bumping noises, the sound of the door closing again and footsteps retreating down the hall. As she sought to get to sleep she had the impression that Horace had not welcomed his drinking partners and had sent them on their way. She thought she heard horses in the yard below and imagined that someone would have a long ride home. Then she lapsed into sleep.

  Chris was awake early in the morning. Amos had seen to that. He wanted his former passengers to come to the stage depot and sort out the belongings that the revolutionaries had mixed up and left with the stranded coach. The driver had an organized mind, and the sooner things returned to normal the happier he would be. Amos was also feeling the after-effects of his recent exertions. Bones and muscles were aching, he moved slowly and painfully and was not in the best of moods.

  Glad of the opportunity to see more of Ellen, Chris volunteered to go to the hotel and advise the passengers that their baggage was ready to be claimed and collected.

  Brunskill and four heavily armed men rode past just as the guard left the stage office. The sheriff seemed deep in thought and appeared not to notice Chris as he guided his tall black horse along the almost empty main street. The other posse members were talking among themselves as though enjoying the break to their normal routines. Mentally Chris wished them success in their hunt. He had liked Jones and was still puzzled as to the motive behind his death.

  He found Ellen and Maggie just leaving the dining room after breakfast. ‘I was just coming to see you ladies. Amos and I brought the baggage in from the coach last night. It’s down at the stage company office but it’s kind of mixed up. You will need to go down there and sort out who owns what. Have you seen Horace and Larry Wilmot?’

  ‘They weren’t at breakfast,’ Ellen said. ‘I think that Horace got in very early this morning. It sounded like some cowhands were delivering him to his room. Most likely he’s still sleeping. I don’t know about Larry though.’

  ‘I’ll give them a call,’ Chris said. ‘I’ll see you ladies later at the company office.’

  He knew the room numbers, so he ascended the stairs and walked down the long hall to Horace’s room. To his surprise the door was slightly ajar. When he knocked, it swung inwards. Even without entering, Chris could see that something was wrong.

  The bed was dishevelled and a six-shooter was lying in the middle of the floor. Horace’s gunbelt was near the bed but the holster was empty. One boot was beside the bed and the other was across the other side of the room. Horace’s battered hat was still hanging on the back of a chair where he had probably hung it before retiring. It was quite in character for a man like Horace, when drunk, to remove boots, hat and gunbelt before collapsing on the bed. But he was unlikely to leave his room without his boots and hat and certainly would not leave his gun lying in the middle of the floor.

  With a mounting sense of alarm, Chris went next door to Wilmot’s room. The door was locked but no sleepy voice answered when he pounded on the door. He hurried back downstairs to the desk clerk and explained the situation. The middle-aged clerk did not hesitate but took a duplicate key to the room and led the way back up the stairs. As he went, he advised Chris that the desk had not been manned during the night as the only guests were the coach passengers. The man explained that with the stage company picking up the costs there was no danger that the tenants would disappear without paying their bills. When he opened the door, they could see that Wilmot had not used his bed.

  Chris knew that something was seriously wrong. Wilmot liked his comfort too much to be sleeping off a skinful of whiskey in some stable somewhere. And, rough though he was, Horace would not be walking around town without his hat, boots, or gun. ‘Lock those rooms,’ he told the clerk. ‘Sheriff Brunskill might want to see in them later. I reckon Horace Weldon’s met with foul play. I have to go back to the stage company office. If you find out anything I’d appreciate you sending word to me there.’

  He ran back to the office where Ellen and Maggie had both checked and repacked their much battered suitcases.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ Amos demanded.

  Still panting for breath. Chris replied, ‘Horace and Wilmot – they’re both gone – I think someone’s taken them.’

  The driver snorted in disbelief. ‘Who would want to take that pair? There’s folks would pay them to stay away.’

  ‘What about that Mexican with the Irish name – Dwyer or whatever it was? He was mighty keen to meet some of our passengers.’

  ‘He’s running for his life with the army after him.’

  ‘Maybe not. I’ve seen Indian war parties split up and send decoys everywhere. Dwyer could easily do the same. What if he hasn’t given up the hunt for Robert E. Grant? This could be what his whole raid was about.’

  Amos shook his head like an old angry bull. ‘I don’t give two hoots in hell what that crazy galoot is about, and as far as I’m concerned he’s welcome to that pair of no-goods. It’s none of our business what sorts of shady deals those two have been making.’

  ‘I reckon it is our business, Amos. The Rutherford Stage Company is taking care of any passengers delayed here until the stages start running again. Legally we are responsible for them and this trip has cost the line a pile of dough already. If something happens to them and their relatives decide to sue us, this company won’t have enough money to pay the damages. We’ll both be out of a job.’

  ‘Ain’t a damn thing we can do,’ the driver said stubbornly. ‘Leave it all to Brunskill if they ain’t showed up by the time he’s back.’

  ‘The sheriff might not be back for days. I’m going to see what I can find out before the trail gets too cold. I won’t sit around waiting to see what someone in our head office thinks. I’m going to find out what happened to them if I can.’

  ‘You might need to find a new job while you’re at it,’ Amos reminded him. ‘The company would want you to wait for the sheriff.’

  Chris turned and walked to the door of the office. ‘To hell with the company. They can fire me as of now if they like. I think Horace and Wilmot are in real danger. But until I get word that I am fired, I’m borrowing a horse and saddle to take a look around.’

  ‘Don’t do anything rash, Chris. Those two are not the most reliable of characters and they’ll probably turn up later with some far-fetched story about what happened to them. You don’t even know Dwyer is around here.’

  ‘He’s here, or his men are here. That’s why we found those hats. They might not look too much like Mexicans any more but I’ll bet they’ve been here. I think they killed Jones and might already have killed Horace and Wilmot.’

  Ellen took a hand in the conversation then. ‘I might have heard Horace being taken from his room last night. I heard men going down the hall and there were horses behind the hotel under my window later. But I’m not sure what time it was.’

  ‘Thanks, Miss Ellen,’ Chris said. ‘I’ll go over there and have a look in case I can learn something from the tracks. I’d better go before someone walks all over them.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Amos called after the guard as he left.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The tracks behind the hotel were those of three horses and, to Chris’s relief, they led not to one of the well-used roads but to a brush-covered ridge west of the town. Someone seemed to be keen to avoid chance encounters on the regular roads. The tracks showed the horses travelling in single file so that the hoof marks were mixed up, but one animal left a distinctive trail. It had a dishing action and its near forefoot was placed slightly to the side of where a horse with a straight action would tread. Consequently the print showed clearly beside the other churned-up tracks. Because they had been travelling in the dark, the riders had left a trail of small broken branches that they could not avoid as they pushed through the brush in the night. Tracking would not be difficult.

  Chris collected his Winchester and hurried to the company stables where Alf Correy was feeding the horses. The young stable hand could see that something urgent was afoot. ‘Howdy, Chris. You look like a man in a hurry.’

  ‘I need the loan of a good riding-horse, Alf. Do you have something that is not a hairy-heeled coacher?’

  The groom indicated a red roan mare in a stall at the far end of the barn. ‘You can take that roan mare. One of the company’s agents bought her at a bargain price somewhere but she’s too light for coach work. We keep her here strictly for riding purposes. The exercise will do her good. The saddles and bridles are over there on the other wall. Help yourself.’

  Chris saddled the mare and was about to mount when Amos appeared, limping painfully with a disapproving frown on his face. ‘You should be leaving this to Brunskill. I’m not sure that the company would approve of you going off on your own.’

  The guard stepped into the stirrup and swung aboard the roan. ‘Too bad if they don’t. I might be barking up the wrong tree but I have to be sure because if I’m right things are looking mighty bad for Wilmot and Horace.’

  The guard’s argument seemingly convinced the older man. He paused a while, then said, ‘Maybe I should be going with you, but after all the exertions of the last couple of days I can barely walk, let alone ride. I don’t think I’d be much help to you.’

  ‘It’s best you stay here so you can keep the company informed and can tell Brunskill what’s happening if he gets back with the posse.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Good luck.’

  The mare was full of feed and energy and might have bucked if the rider had not held up her head and kept her moving. By the time she reached the back of the hotel though, the nervous tension was gone from her movements and she was beginning to relax.

  ‘Chris.’ The call came from an upstairs window of the hotel. The guard looked up to see Ellen leaning from the window. ‘Are you going for a ride?’

  ‘Just having a look around.’

  ‘Would you like some company? I have arranged to hire a horse from the livery stable. I’m going mad being stuck here. Could you wait for me?’

  At any other time it would have been hard for him to resist the girl’s offer but Chris had a strong sense of foreboding about what he was about to do. Trying not to sound too ungracious, he called back: ‘Where I’m going isn’t going to be very pleasant riding and I’m in a bit of a hurry. If you are still keen when I get back, we can have a nice ride somewhere else. I’m sorry but I have to go right now. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Enjoy your ride.’ There was a hint of frost in Ellen’s voice.

  If he heard it the guard seemed unaffected, for already his mind was on the tracks leading into the brush and up the rocky hill behind the town.

  Dwyer was menace personified as he stood over the two bound and gagged prisoners at his feet. He was bluffing as he said: ‘Now, Robert E. Grant, I have you at last. Nobody double-crosses Colonel Dwyer and lives. How smart do you feel now?’

  The two prisoners, faces pale and eyes wide in terror looked at each other and made grunting noises behind their gags.

  ‘I forgot,’ Dwyer told them. ‘You can’t speak.’ He nodded to Carrenza.

  The Mexican drew a large Bowie knife from his belt and advanced on the two cowering prisoners. He cut away both gags in turn although he accidentally nicked Wilmot’s cheek in the process. Wilmot went almost rigid with fear.

  The colonel smiled and continued his game of bluff, hoping that the man he sought would reveal himself. He knew that Jones might well have been the elusive Grant but was not prepared to consider that situation until he had ruled out the other two.

  ‘Jones talked before he died. I know that he was not Grant. It was one of you. Now which one of you miserable pigs is Robert E. Grant, the thief?’

  Horace looked at Wilmot and said, ‘He is.’

  The accused man was nearly speechless with terror but eventually croaked. ‘He’s lying – he’s Grant.’

  For the first time for several days Dwyer was beginning to enjoy himself. He would soon find out the truth. But first he had an easier question. There was the matter of his cousin’s death. ‘Do you know the name of the shotgun guard on the coach?’

  Both prisoners were keen to ingratiate themselves but Horace answered first. ‘Sure do. He’s a new man called Chris Unwin.’

  ‘Was he at the saloon last night?’

  This time Wilmot answered first. He remembered seeing the revolutionary with his bandaged head. ‘No. He was probably down at the stage company office.’

  ‘I can tell you what he looks like,’ Horace volunteered. ‘Maybe we can do a deal?’

  ‘I know you will tell me what he looks like eventually and you can forget about any deals. All I needed was a name.’

  ‘But the law’s out after you,’ Wilmot argued.’ You just can’t walk into a town and grab him like you did us. I might be able to lure him out to where you can get him more easily.’

  ‘The law is after Colonel Miguel Dwyer from Mexico. It is not after Mike Dyer, an Anglo rancher from New Mexico. I can come and go as I please. I would not trust either of you treacherous swine and all you have done is to convince me that one of you is Robert E. Grant. My man Carrenza has often seen the handiwork of the Apaches and is very good at interrogating prisoners. We will soon find out which one of you cheated me.’

  ‘What happens to the one that ain’t Grant?’ A note of hope crept into Horace’s voice.

  Dwyer smiled. He was enjoying himself. ‘He dies but probably less painfully than the other. We are in an isolated place, a long way from trails or people who might interfere. I am really going to enjoy this but I doubt that either of you will. Nobody is going to hear any scream.’

  Wilmot groaned and fainted.

  Distracted by the sound, Horace looked sideways to see Carrenza honing his knife on a small whetstone. He wished that he too could faint.

  Ellen urged her hired mount through the brush following the tracks left by Chris and the others. From helping her father on the ranch she had acquired the necessary skill to track cattle in the brush and had no trouble following the horses.

 

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