Flaming Feud, page 2
With a wry grin, Fiddlefoot gathered up his gun and trampled Stetson. Pushing aside the grimy fly curtain, he stepped inside. Jose, the portly proprietor, palpitated behind the bar, panic in his eyes and his three chins wobbling in unison. Except for him, the place had emptied, and emptied fast, judging from the overturned tables, scattered bottles and smashed chairs.
Then the rider saw a limp form, stretched beside a table, gun gripped in a slackened fist. Blood showed wet upon the grey shirt, fast spreading in an ever-widening stain. Around it, the flies were already black.
Fiddlefoot crossed the floor, dropped upon his knees beside Small, the Cattle Association detective. The body was still warm, but there was no life in it. "Ripped from belly to brisket," muttered the rider, "The yeller sidewinders!"
Straightening, he eyed Jose's quivering form. "Who did this?" he demanded in fluent Spanish.
The Mexican's plump hands fluttered like the wings of an agitated hen. "I do not know, señor," he quavered. "The rurales, they weel come. Four times now has there been a killing in La Paloma." He moaned, engulfed in self pity.
Brow furrowed, Fiddlefoot eyed the dead man. The detective was little more than a stranger, met across a poker table. But this was Mexico. If he left the cantina, he knew well that the panicky Jose would strip the body of everything of value and destroy all identification. Maybe this jasper has a wife and kids. Again he dropped down and, conquering his distaste, emptied the victim's pockets—a fat silver watch, engraved "J.S." a jackknife; a roll of bills; the inevitable makin's; a metal badge, stamped "J. Small, #51, Arizona Cattleman's Protective Association." But nothing to show where he made his home or whom he left behind.
Paper crackled beneath the pressure of the rider's searching fingers. Flopping aside a blood-soaked vest, he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket. He smoothed out the folded sheet inside. It bore the printed he; of the Cattlemen's Association. Curiously, he read:
Jack Small
General Delivery
Nogales, Arizona.
Dear Small:
Drop your present assignment and proceed to Adobe Skeleton Valley, immediately. Chris Hansen, Boxed H, reports an outbreak of rustling and states he has suffered heavy losses. This is apparently the work of an organized gang. The rustlers are unusually aggressive. Hansen has been shot at and several of his crew wounded. Butch Mulloy, Barred M, north of Hansen's spread, has a bad rep. Served one term in Canyon City Pen., Colorado. Suggest you contact him in guise of grub-line puncher. He may need a good "cow hand." Report fully after investigation. Mail will be sent to Adobe.
Yours very truly,
John Sessions, Secretary.
The kneeling rider's body stiffened as an idea hit with the impact of a forty-five slug. Rigid, he considered its implications. His eyes strayed down to the badge, watch, the pitiful little pile on the dirty floor. It was a loco idea, he told himself, he'd be as crazy as a coon to try it, but its very audacity was fascinating…and it would get him across the Border.
He rose at a sudden decision "Jose, you want tuh keep this killing quiet?"
"Si, Si, Señor!"
"Kin you cache this jasper's body, and bury him decent?"
"Si, si!" The fat Mexican panted around the end of the bar, eager to grasp this unexpected solution to the problem of explaining away another killing.
Windows were patched yellow against the night when Fiddlefoot jogged into Adobe. It was little different from a hundred other cow towns—a broad main street hock-deep with powdery dust, flanked by smooth hitch rails and squat store buildings, mainly of adobe, their canopied fronts forming an almost continuous awning over the worn wooden plankwalks. Off Main Street, a few crossroads, unpaved and abounding with chuckholes, gave access to frame houses and clapboard cabins, scattered beneath discouraged cottonwoods as though strewn by a careless hand. Beyond the placid river lay the Mexican section, a clutter of squat adobe huts, the only relief to their drabness strings of brilliant red peppers dangling from the vigas.
Fiddlefoot kneed his calico to a hitch rail that fronted a wide, timber-and-adobe building on the facade of which a crudely lettered sign read, "The Longhorn Saloon."
Inside the batwings, he paused in quick survey. A long wooden bar ran to his left, lined sparingly by spurred riders and shirt-sleeved townsmen. More were grouped around small tables sprinkled over the hard-packed earth floor. By the right-hand wall, punchers were bunched thick around a table. He blinked as he glimpsed a redheaded girl dealing in a card game.
He strolled up to the bar, ordered a slug of bourbon. At the far end, a small plump man, dressed in somber black, sat on a high stool, smoking a thin cigar and alertly watching the house. A smooth smile of affability wreathed his features, red and rosy as a ripe apple. Fiddlefoot saw that his small, shrewd eyes were hard as black beads, and noted a bulge beneath his neatly buttoned coat that indicated a hideaway.
"The boss?" he inquired casually of the barkeep.
"Yep!" replied the other, polishing the varnished bar top with a dirty towel, "Nick Dardon."
A brass token rattled on the bar beside Fiddlefoot and a mournful voice drawled, "One bottle of hawgwash!"
In the back-bar mirror, he focused a tall beanpole of a rider with long, dolorous features. A faded blue shirt, thin from many washings, lay loose upon his narrow shoulders. His wide mouth drooped dismally at the corners and there was an eager friendliness in his faded eyes that reminded Fiddlefoot of a bedraggled but hopeful puppy.
The beer check clinked into the cash drawer and a bottle of beer was set before him. The beanpole sipped doubtfully. His face twisted with disgust and he banged the bottle down. "Warm beer!" he ejaculated hollowly, "I'd jest as soon take a swig at the hawse trough, but water always did rust my innards."
Fiddlefoot chuckled, pushed over the bottle of bourbon, "Have a real drink, mister!"
With alacrity, the lanky rider grabbed the bottle and tilted it. His prominent adam's apple bobbled. He set the bottle down with a deep sigh. "Icewater was never more welcome in hell," he commented solemnly. "I'm thanking you, mister. The brand is Weary!"
"My tag reads Fiddlefoot," volunteered the blocky rider.
Weary sighed again, carefully shook the remaining remnants of dust from the corners of a deflated tobacco sack into a brown paper. Match in hand, he half raised a scuffed boot—dropped it. "Nope," he commented ruefully, "Can't scratch it on the sole. I'd burn my doggoned foot."
Fiddlefoot grinned, "You ride f'r a spread hereabouts?"
"Nope, I'm saddlesore riding the grub line, pard, and grub's mighty scarce now the grass is dryin' up."
"You and me both," responded Fiddlefoot. "Ain't there no holes in spreads around these parts?"
"They're always plugged when I ride in!" Weary flicked a match with his thumbnail, draped his length across the bar and eyed the bottle with the longing intensity a child would regard forbidden candy.
"Gargle!" invited Fiddlefoot, "Afore you break my heart. Ain't the Barred M hiring?"
His tall companion choked on his drink, wiping his eyes with the end of a stained bandanna. "Wal pard, it ain't considered exactly polite tuh ride for Butch Malloy."
"How come?"
"Some claim his rope's a mite sticky."
Fiddlefoot thought it expedient to change the subject, "Who's the gal?" he inquired carelessly.
"Monte Molly?" Weary indicated the crowded gambling table.
"Yep."
"I wouldn't know, she jest drifted in casual. Deals blackjack, likes a little three-card monte and she sure ain't no floosie—most scratched the eyes out of Droop-eye, rides for the Circle S, when he got reckless and offered tuh split his blankets."
Weary's eyes caressed the bare two-fingers that remained in the bottle. "The boys are loco over the filly. All they crave is to gaze into her baby-blue eyes and liquidate their pay checks. Me," he added morosely, "I ain't tempted, I don't have no pay check."
"Maybe I should ramble over for a looksee," commented Fiddlefoot, with growing interest.
"Pard, when you're through," said Weary mournfully, "Remember I got a bunk reserved for you on the straw down at the livery—for free—she sure won't leave you no room rent."
Fiddlefoot built a smoke and wandered across the saloon, joined the circle of punchers standing behind the players close-packed in chairs around the blackjack table…and eyed the redheaded girl who banked the game. She was, he considered, as pretty as the Queen of Hearts. Her flaming hair was banked high and secured by black combs studded with tiny brilliants, while the crimson of her full lips accentuated the pale cream of her oval features. She sat straight-backed, shapely and full breasted, her charms not hidden by a green silk dress, cut low. Her face wore no make-up and, considered Fiddlefoot, she sure didn't need any.
With casual self-confidence, she dealt the cards, paid bets and swept in her winnings with sure, slender fingers. Her voice held a soft Texan drawl.
Fiddlefoot with unconscious intensity was studying her features when, unexpectedly, her gaze came up from the table for an instant, her clear blue eyes locked with his, then dropped quickly back to the game.
He fell to watching the play and noted that she won— far too often. Either the redhead was uncommonly lucky, he concluded, or she was dealing crooked cards.
An old rider, whipcord thin, with desert-eroded features, jingled across the floor. "I reckon, boys," he told the players in a gentle voice, "we gotta drift."
"Hell Dave," grumbled a freckled puncher, "Lemme lose this last dollar."
"As well as your good sense?" drawled the foreman.
Fiddlefoot started involuntarily at sight of the blazing hatred that flared in the girl's eyes, to be instantly veiled by her downcast lids. When she glanced up again, her gaze was friendly and untroubled. "Bye, bye, boys!" Her voice was low and tantalizing, "It's time you were tucked in. Come again!"
The Boxed H contingent trooped across to the bar for a final drink and, briefly, Fiddlefoot stood by empty chairs alone except for the seated girl.
Molly riffled the cards, eying him with cool speculation, "Want to sit in?" she invited.
He extended a hand, "After I lamp the deck!"
Quick anger sparked in the redhead's eyes. She hesitated, then contemptuously tossed the pack on the table. He leaned forward, swept up the cards, ran his fingers over their edges. Reversed the pack and fanned it, examining the backs. With a slight lift of his broad shoulders, he threw the cards back. "No soap!" he said with a tight grin.
"What do you mean by that?"
"You ain't content with using a stamped deck, you trim the edges, too. Both ends against the middle! Hell, ma'am, you sure don't believe in giving the suckers half a break!"
The girl's chair crashed as she sprang to her feet, lips a tight scarlet slash against the pallor of her taut features. "If I was a man I'd shoot you for that!" Her small fists were clenched and she almost choked in the intensity of her anger.
"Ef you was a man, you'd be pushing up daisies," he retorted.
She snatched up the pack and flung it full in his face. Her scream rose shrill above the mumble of voices and tinkle of glasses. Quick silence held the saloon. Every head swivelled towards the green-swathed form of Monte Molly and the slow-smiling stranger facing her, cards still splattering around his feet.
Chapter 3
Spilling tables and kicking aside chairs in their eagerness to reach the girl, the Boxed H contingent charged across the saloon. In a trice they ringed the pair.
"What's the trouble, Molly?" demanded a touzled-headed puncher.
"That cheap skate—insulted me!" she panted. "Give me a gun, someone!"
"You don't need no gun!" The puncher swung around to face Fiddlefoot, his belligerence plain. Grey eyes wary, close pressed by the pack of punchers, Fiddlefoot fingered his gun butt. Before he could jerk the iron, a hand latched upon his wrist from behind. The touzled-headed rider came in swinging. Fiddlefoot checked him with a vicious jab in the ribs with his free arm, then the punchers swarmed all over him. Hopelessly, he fought back, overwhelmed by a rush of men. Indignant hands grabbed his arms, shoulders, legs. Kicking and struggling, he was hoisted off his feet and hustled in the midst of a swaying, sweating knot of punchers towards the entrance. Here the batwings blocked them, so they flung him through, out onto the plankwalk. Instinctively protecting his head with bent arms, he hit the planks, face down. The breath knocked out of his body, he lay motionless, every joint jarred by the shock. Nose streaming red, he straightened and weaved to the hitch rail, head whirling. Resting his bruised body against the rail, he balled his bandanna and endeavored to staunch the blood that flowed from his damaged nose.
A tall, weedy form pushed through the batwings and was silhouetted against the light of the oil lamps within. The newcomer stood searching the gloom, focused Fiddlefoot's slack form by the hitch rail and moved forward on ungainly legs. In one hand he held the victim's gun, which had shaken out of the holster; in the other, a scuffed Stetson, dented by many feet. "I guess, pard," he observed solicitously, "you must hev left these behind. I recollect you did leave kinda sudden. Do you generally check out of saloons thisaway?"
The blocky rider grinned wryly, "Wal, with me it's getting to be a habit, but there warn't time for a fond farewell."
He set the hat over his dishevelled hair and took the gun, dug into a pants pocket and brought out two silver dollars. "Go get yourself a drink," he directed, "since it seems you got a thirst like a camel, and buy me a new deck of cards. Bring 'em down to the livery barn." He dropped the silver into Weary's ready palm. "Me, I'm scairt of thet redhead."
When Weary picked his way across the loose planks of the barn, thirty minutes later, Fiddlefoot was snug in his soogans and his pony munched oats in a stall. His bedroll was spread over a pile of straw in the rear of the barn.
Over his head, a stable lantern, hanging from a peg, gave feeble light.
Weary dropped an unbroken deck of cards beside him, sat on the straw and started to yank off his boots.
Fiddlefoot broke the seal of the pack, slid out the cards and fingered them. "Stamped and shaved," he murmured.
"What was thet?" inquired Weary.
"I gotta shave—at sunup," explained the other. "How would I reach the Barred M?"
"Follow the river upstream f'r seven-eight miles and you'll hit the west fork. Tie tuh that for mebbe another five miles and you'll bump plumb into Butch's spread." At a thought he fumbled in the pocket of his tobacco-crumbed vest. Fiddlefoot's glance grew suddenly intent as he fished out a small metal badge and pitched it down.
"Another little doo-funny the boys shook outa yore jeans," explained the tall cowpoke. "Gordamit, Fiddlefoot, you shed like a fuzzytail in spring."
Fiddlefoot caught the badge. It was stamped, "J. Small, #51, Arizona Cattlemen's Protective Association." Mentally he cursed his luck. "Any other jasper lamp this?" His voice was sharp.
Weary spread his worn blanket unperturbed. "I guess not," he drawled.
"Can I bank on you tuh button up?" demanded Fiddlefoot.
Amusement gleamed in Weary's tired eyes as he dowsed the lantern. "You kin rest easy, pard. My maw always said I was as dumb as a cigar store Injun." He stretched out. His sleepy tones floated to Fiddlefoot's ears, "Mebbe I'll ride tuh the Barred M and side yuh. I'd sure hate tuh decorate a tree, but, dammit, a feller's got to eat and I've swallowed so much grass I'm ashamed tuh look a cow in the eye."
In the darkness the features of Monte Molly floated before Fiddlefoot—a female gambler, peaches and cream, with a strong seasoning of pepper. Despite her trickery, there was something about Molly that drew him. One thing was sure — Nick Dardon, the saloon keeper, was working in cahoots with her. Every pack of cards he sold was probably shaved and marked for crooked play, as was the pack Weary had bought. And what brought the swiftly masked hatred to her eyes when the Boxed H foreman stepped up to pull away his crew?
Wan light filtered into the barn when Fiddlefoot slipped out of his soogans. Weary still slept when he clattered out of the barn.
North of town, the faint parallel prints of an old wagon road followed the river. Fiddlefoot jogged leisurely between the ruts, revelling in the brisk morning air, fragrant with the scent of the squatty greasewood, spiced with the pungent odor of sage. Around, the flats lapped to misty infinity, green-veined by chaparral and specked by grazing cows. Quail piped from the willow-bordered river bank and cottontails bobbed into the brush.
As the pony jogged tirelessly along the trail, the sun rose in blazing splendor and the coolness of the dawn shrivelled in the mounting heat. The soothing grey of the far-flung flats were transformed into glare and the bare peaks of the Dragoons, bulking black against the horizon, gleamed as though washed with molten gold.
A long line of willows ribboned across the plain. This, considered Fiddlefoot, should be West Fork.
Where the waters met, he crossed a shallow ford and followed his shadow westward, making a beeline across the swales, West Fork creeping in long lazy curves to his left.
Ahead, buildings took shape, half-veiled by the chaparral of the stream. He eyed a squat, timbered cabin, chinked with mud; a dilapidated wagon shed and gaunt barn. A bay gelding regarded him with pricked ears from a pole corral in the rear. Behind it, looped the barbed wire of a pasture.
He stepped down outside the cabin, trailed his reins, stuck his head through the open doorway—and gasped with surprise. A young fellow in loose-fitting tweeds sat at a rough table. He was lean-faced and smooth-shaven. His blond hair was carefully brushed back from a high forehead and his white shirt was open at the neck. Before him, on the table, was a sack of sugar and can of milk, together with the remnants of breakfast. But the tweeded young man was engrossed in a pack of cards, which he was shuffling and re-shuffling with swift dexterity. What further held Fiddlefoot wide-eyed was a white rat, calmly lapping milk from a tin plate beside the sugar sack.
