Flint Page 11

  “Will he get away?”

  “I think so. He knows they are there, and he knows you aren’t. I think he planned what he would do before he fired those shots and by now he is probably a half-mile from where he was.”

  Gaddis was waiting when they caught up. “You’ve got to know where to ride when you cross the lava,” he said, “some of this solid-looking stuff is eggshell thin. Here and there you can see places where the roof of some blister has fallen in, leaving a pit nothing could climb out of.”

  Gaddis led the way up on to the lava. Their hoofbeats sounded like iron upon iron as they followed in single file. They went only a short distance, then descended into a hollow where there was dampness in the air and their horses rode through grass.

  “The trail was smoothed long ago,” Gaddis said. “Some Indian before Columbus came, probably. You have to know how to find it.”

  Firelight flickered on Otero’s face when they dismounted. They were deep into the great twelve-thousand-acre pasture, surrounded by walls of lava nowhere less than twenty feet high.

  “Do your other riders know this place?”

  “Most of them. They have been with us for years, and when a man works range as long as they have, they get to know it. Also” — she gestured — “this was used to hide cattle from Utes and Apaches. The Hopi and Zuni Indians knew of the place, I think, but the raiders were always strangers.”

  Bent was breaking branches to make a bed for Flynn. Thomas had propped himself against a pine trunk and was building a smoke. His face looked ghastly under the leather-brown skin, but when he caught Flint’s eye he winked.

  “My advice is to sit tight. I’m pulling out.”

  Nancy turned on him. “You’re leaving?”

  “I want to send a telegram.”

  Gaddis was watching Flint make coffee. “I’d say more coffee. We like it strong.”

  Flint added more coffee, glancing up at Gaddis. “Something bothering you?”

  Gaddis’ eyes seemed to shade over. “Should there be?”

  Flint got up. “Not that I know of, Gaddis.”

  He walked away from them toward the mare. She looked beat. She had been ridden steadily of late and she was no longer young. He made his decision then. He was going to ride the red stallion.

  Sending the telegram would destroy his carefully arranged disappearance. Everyone would know where he was. But they would never know about the hideout in the lava bed. Once the land fight was over he could go there to die, as planned.

  The trouble was Flint did not feel like dying. He had been warned that when his time grew near he would feel better, and there would be less pain.

  He wanted to live. There lay the trouble. Before he had not cared. The prospect of death had been almost a relief after the failure of his one grasp for happiness.

  The reason was obvious. Nancy Kerrigan made the difference, and even if he were to live he could not marry her.

  She came to the fire just then, stretching her fingers to the warmth of the flames. “What can we do, Jim?”

  He put a few drops of cold water into the coffee to settle the grounds. “Leave it to me,” he said.

  “What can you do against them all?”

  “They aren’t so many. In any such fight it is not only what you do, it is where and how you do it. An enemy has many fronts, and if one seems impregnable, attack on another.”

  Hoofbeats sounded and Gaddis reached a hand for his rifle. Flint faded into the shadows, waiting.

  Two riders showed suddenly at the edge of the firelight. “Our boys,” Gaddis said, and Flint recognized one of them as Scott. The other was introduced as Rockley. Scott was a powerfully built man who rarely smiled; Rockley, narrow-faced, with a wry twist of humor to his lips and a dry way of speaking. Both were seasoned men.

  “Mornin’, ma’am,” Rockley said. “Nice weather for a picnic.”

  “How’s Ed?” Scott asked.

  “He stood the ride better than we expected.” Nancy indicated the pot. “The coffee’s fresh, hot, strong enough to float a mule shoe.”

  Scott walked to his horse and stripped off the saddle. As he did so he glanced at Flint, who was tightening the cinch on the mare. “Better ride Flynn’s horse. Your mare’s done up.”

  “I’ve another horse.”

  Rockley glanced at Gaddis but said nothing. He was wondering what they all were. Where did Flint keep his other horse? And who was Flint?

  Flint returned to the fire for a cup of coffee, and picked up his rifle. Rockley glanced at it enviously. “That’s quite a weepon. You never bought that on cowhand’s wages.”

  Flint looked over at the cowhand and smiled, realizing with surprise it was the first time he had smiled at any of them.

  “I could if I robbed stages and got away with it,” he said. “But that wasn’t how I got it.”

  “No.” Rockley shot him an appraising glance. “I’d not say it was.”

  Flint put down his cup and, with the rifle in the hollow of his arm, walked to the horse and took up the bridle. He did not look at Nancy, just started away.

  “Come back soon, Jim,” she said.

  He walked away, making no response. How could he promise to come back? No matter how much he might wish to return, how could he promise?

  Rockley filled his cup again. “Six-Shooter brand — that’s one I never heard of.”

  Gaddis said nothing at all, watching the rider walk away across the shimmering grass. Day had come, but he was not thinking of that. He was thinking that he liked this man, and he might have to kill him.

  “I’d say that was pretty much of a man,” Rockley said. “I don’t know where he came from, but wherever it is they cut them wide and deep.”

  Scott said nothing, watching Gaddis with curious eyes.

  “I’m a right curious man,” Rockley said, “and I’m wondering where a man could leave a horse and be sure he was still there?”

  “He said something about sending a telegram,” Thomas said. “He didn’t say where.”

  They were silent then, and they could hear Flynn’s heavy breathing. If he survived this ride, it would be a miracle.

  Nancy walked from the fire and stood looking after Flint. He had almost reached the path across the lava.

  “Who is he?” Rockley asked.

  “The name is Jim Flint,” Otero replied, “He had a run-in with Nugent over east of here, and told him where to get off. One of Nugent’s own men tells it.

  “He had a run-in with some of the Baldwin riders out on North Plain, when he was bringing Flynn to the ranch. He killed one of Baldwin’s gunhands, then he faced Baldwin down in some kind of an argument and Baldwin’s hands set on him and beat him up.

  “When he came out of that, he went up the street and shot the devil out of Baldwin’s crew. I’d say it isn’t important where he comes from or who he is as long as he’s on our side.”

  “Now that telegram,” Rockley mused. “Where could he send a telegram that would help us?”

  Nobody said anything further, and the sun was up, and the fire was going out.

  Chapter 11

  JIM FLINT studied the big stallion with some trepidation. The horse had become quite a pet, but how would he react under a saddle?

  And how would he take to going into the tunnel?

  The stallion came for the sugar and made no fuss except to jerk his head a little when the bridle was slipped on. He worked his jaws and tongue over the unfamiliar bit, and quickly accepted another chunk of sugar. When the saddle was put on he side-stepped only a little.

  When the saddle was cinched tight, Flint gathered the reins, put a foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. The stallion took a couple of quick steps forward under the weight, and then stopped, looking around inquiringly as if to ask what Flint was doing on his back.

  However, the stallion had seen the mare ridden frequently, and when Flint booted him lightly in the ribs, he walked off a few steps and stopped. When Flint booted him again, he
walked off again. Flint rode him slowly around the pasture, followed excitedly by the other horses, and then Flint mounted and dismounted several times.

  When Flint led him up to the tunnel, the red horse pulled back a little, but after some coaxing, came on and followed Flint through the passage.

  Once outside the lava beds, Flint mounted again and started north for McCartys, the small station east of Alamitos. The stallion stepped out fast, ears pricked and attentive.

  Only two horses were tied at the tiny hitching rail before the saloon, and Flint rode directly to the station.

  Tying the stallion there, he looked around carefully. There was nobody in sight. He stepped into the station, a small room with a pot-bellied sheet-iron stove. Behind a half partition the telegrapher sat tipped back in his chair, reading a newspaper.

  There was paper on the counter. He wrote a quick message to his Baltimore attorney. He followed it with three others, to the president of the railroad in which he was a principal stockholder, to Burroughs, and to an official of the railroad whom he himself had arranged to appoint.

  The telegrapher took the messages, read them, and then looked up at Flint. He looked again at the name “Kettleman” signed to the messages. “What is this? Some kind of a joke?”

  “It is not. Send those messages and send them now.”

  The telegrapher still hesitated, glancing from Flint’s rough cow-country clothing to the messages. He touched his tongue to his lips. “Mister, you may be crazy for all I know. A man just doesn’t come off the range and start sending telegrams like these, why it would be as much as my job is worth if …”

  “If you don’t get those wires off, and fast, you won’t have any job. You’ll be walking down the track wondering what hit you.”

  The telegrapher sat down behind his key. “And when you start sending, remember that I can read Morse as well as you can.”

  The telegrapher scratched his long jaw, and after a hesitant beginning, began to tap out the messages. After the first one there was a flurry of sending and then the telegrapher looked up. “The dispatcher down the line says you got to — “

  “I heard him. Here is the identification.”

  The telegrapher glanced at the papers and then hurried back to his key.

  Flint waited, smoking a cigar, while the messages were sent. All hell would break loose now. He had started the action to revoke Baldwin’s right to represent the railroad in land deals of any sort at all, and with the voting power he had, he could make it stick. Once Baldwin was aware of what had been done, he would be out for blood.

  Flint got into the saddle and turned the red horse down the road toward Alamitos, starting off at a fast trot.

  No sooner was he out of sight than the telegrapher ran across the street to the saloon.

  The two riders loafing at the bar, Saxon and Strett, were Baldwin men. The telegrapher, whose name was Haskins, did not like the riders. Earlier, they had given him a bad time and, no hand with a gun, he had pretended to ignore their ribald remarks.

  Haskins stepped up to the bar. “Rye,” he said. Then, winking at the bartender, he said, “You better enjoy yourselves while you can. You’ll be riding the grub line in a week.”

  They turned on him. “What’s that mean?”

  “A wire just went through,” Haskins said, enjoying himself, “that will revoke Baldwin’s right to represent the railroad. Another wire went to a lawyer who is going to start an inquiry in Washington.”

  “Aah, don’t give me that!”

  “Wait a minute, Saxon,” the other rider interrupted, “who sent those wires?”

  “A man named Kettleman,” Haskins said cheerfully. “James T. Kettleman!” He tossed the newspaper on the bar in front of them. On the left side of the page was a news story: FINANCIER VANISHES!

  The second rider read it slowly, brow puckered. “Come on,” he said suddenly, “Baldwin will want to know this.”

  “Hey!” Haskins yelled. “Gimme back my paper!”

  “Go to hell!” Saxon said over his shoulder.

  “Now if that’s true,” the bartender said, “it’s going to play hob. Every train is loaded with land-hungry folks. They ain’t gonna like this.”

  “I like it,” Haskins said grimly. “You can’t make me believe any honest man would have that bunch of riffraff working for him. This will be a good country when all that crowd is run out of it.”

  “Who will run them?” the bartender asked calmly. “Some of them will take a sight of running, seems to me.”

  Neither of the two Baldwin men had seen Flint, and had no reason to connect him with the telegrams. They went by him, running their horses, and he could guess what message they carried.

  He rode swiftly into town and went to the office of the judge, who had refused Baldwin an order to arrest Flint.

  Swinging down, he went inside. The judge recognized him at once. The mottled blue and yellow of old bruises was still on him, and there was a scarcely healed scar showing through the hair on the side of his head, below his hatbrim.

  “I want to get an injunction to stop Porter Baldwin from selling any more land.”

  Judge Hatfield tipped back in his swivel chair and looked at Flint with shrewd eyes. “On what grounds?” he asked mildly.

  “He does not represent the railroad in any sense, nor does he have title to any land in this area.”

  “You are sure of this?”

  Flint seated himself. Briefly, he surveyed the facts of Baldwin’s arrival in the vicinity and what had followed, most of which he was sure the judge already knew. Then he covered the subject of railroad and government land and the fluid condition of all land deals at the moment.

  Knowing Baldwin, and knowing something of conditions here due to familiarity with the railroad land and right of way, as well as the study he had given to possible shippers of stock who might use the railroad, Flint was able to present a very lucid and concise outline of the situation.

  “You understand, Mr. Flint,” Hatfield said finally, “that we have no sheriff here, and no town marshal.”

  “If I issue the injunction it is highly probably it will, for the time at least, be ignored.”

  “As you may have discovered,” Hatfield added dryly, “the letter of the law means very little out here. Conditions are fluid in more ways than one. My own presence here is due to interests in the locality although this does come within my jurisdiction.”

  “I understand that, sir. The injunction would remove any shadow of legality from Baldwin’s actions. I doubt if even he would attempt to consummate a sale in face of an injunction.”

  “Might I ask what is your interest in all this?”

  “It’s simple enough. Porter Baldwin is making a bold attempt to push both Tom Nugent and Nancy Kerrigan off their land. They do not hold title, although both have lived upon their land for years, and have made improvements that, in the case of Miss Kerrigan, might legally constitute a title.”

  “I take it your interest is in Miss Kerrigan’s ranch?”

  “Yes.”

  Judge Hatfield sat up. “I will see what can be done, Mr. Flint.” He got up. “You do not talk like a drifter.”

  “I’m not a drifter. Nor do I have any interest here in land or titles to land … except, perhaps, in railroad land. And I can assure you that within forty-eight hours there will be a wire in Porter Baldwin’s hands, and a copy of it delivered to you, denying him any right to sell, lease, or in any way involve himself with railroad land.”

  After Flint was gone, Judge Hatfield opened his newspaper again and glanced at the item on the upper left-hand corner of the page. And then he wrote out a telegram of his own to send to the capital in Santa Fe.

  Jim Flint stood for a few minutes beside the big red horse, rubbing his neck and talking to him. It was time he returned to the Hole-in-the-Wall. He mounted and started away.

  ****

  A HALF hour before, Saxon and Strett had reached Baldwin at the Grand Hotel.


  Baldwin received the news with skepticism. “Kettleman here? Nonsense! It’s a trick… or a practical joke.”

  Strett passed the newspaper over to Baldwin. “Take a look,” he said.

  Baldwin scanned the item. Kettleman was not in New York, and his wife could not be reached for comment. Peres Chivington had, however, stated that Kettleman had not seen his wife in several weeks, and that he was dead or missing.

  Baldwin swore softly and strode to the window. For a minute he stood there, chewing on his cigar.

  What would bring Kettleman to New Mexico? Land? Railroads? He thought swiftly. He must get copies of those wires. Despair hit him and in its wake came fury. What right had Kettleman to come barging out here and butt in? He had money enough of his own without messing up other people’s plans. He paced the floor angrily, while the two gunmen waited.

  Suppose … just suppose that Kettleman were here and were to die here? How many knew of his presence?

  The telegrapher at McCartys, and these two, Saxon and Strett.

  Lottie had wanted Kettleman dead, and if he died, she would inherit. If he died, opposition to Baldwin would disappear, and if he died and Baldwin knew about it, Baldwin could take advantage of the fact to make some money on the market. The news of Kettleman’s death was sure to have its impact.

  He must wire Lottie, and he must find Kettleman. If he was not at the hotel, where was he? Not the Kaybar, for the Kaybar was now in Baldwin’s possession. Perhaps at Nugent’s, or west of here at Fort Wingate.

  “Go back to McCartys,” he told Strett and Saxon. “Get a description of Kettleman from that telegraph operator. And get it from him. I want him located, Strett. There is a hundred-dollar bonus to the man who can place Kettleman for me.”

  Strett took a cigar from Baldwin’s desk and clipped the end end with his teeth. “You want this Kettleman alive?” he asked mildly. “Or dead?”

  Baldwin offered a cigar to Saxon. “I just want to know where he is,” Baldwin said. “And I’d like to be sure he stays some place out of the way. The longer, the better.”