Collection 1983 - Bowdrie (v5.0) Read online

  “Why not?” Bowdrie looked around. “Bartender, bring the man a beer.”

  They sat without speaking, then Tensleep said, “You notice something? Those youngsters back there? Never a whimper out of ’em, an’ they must have been scared.”

  “Sure they were scared. I was scared.” Bowdrie glanced at Mooney, a reflective glint in his eye. “You know, Mooney, what you need is a wife. You need a home. Take some of that wildness out of you. Now, I—”

  “You go to the devil,” Mooney replied cheerfully.

  Historical Note:

  FORT GRIFFIN

  THIS FORT WAS established to restrain Comanche raids on settlers moving into the area, and a town catering to buffalo hunters sprang up around it. It was the nearest market south of Dodge City, and a supply point. Later, when the buffalo hunting had become a thing of the past, it became a stopping place on the Western Trail.

  A wild, rough town with more than its quota of saloons, gambling houses, and other places of entertainment, it was a notorious hangout for some of the roughest and wildest of western characters as well as a stopping place for a good many sober, serious pioneers moving into the western country to build homes.

  Pat Garrett, Billy the Kid, Bat Masterson, John W. Poe, Dave Rudabaugh, Jesse Evans, Jim East, Cape Willingham, and dozens of others paused in passing, some of them several times. It was here, according to the stories, that Wyatt Earp first met Doc Holliday.

  THE ROAD

  TO CASA PIEDRAS

  CHICK BOWDRIE HOOKED his thumbs in his belt and watched the dancers. Old Bob McClellan and his two strapping sons were sawing away on their fiddles, lubricated by Pa Gardner’s own make of corn whiskey.

  Pa, flushed with whiskey and exertion, was calling the dances from a precarious platform of planks laid over three benches. Any platform would have been precarious, for Pa had been imbibing freely from his own keg of corn. Being the owner of the whiskey as well as the tin cup hanging from the spigot, he was the only one aside from the musicians who could take a drink without paying.

  Emmy Chambers, blond and beautiful, whirled by Chick and smiled at him. A strand of her cornsilk hair had fallen over her eyes but she looked excited and happy. Chick couldn’t see it himself, but womenfolks seemed to think a lot of dancing. Personally, he thought, it was better out on the sagebrush country with a good horse under him.

  He never had been given to duding up, but lately some of the Rangers had been getting themselves some pretty slick outfits, so he followed the trend and had gotten himself up for this dance. He was wearing a black broadcloth shirt of the shield variety with a row of pearl buttons down each side, and for the first time in months he had his collar buttoned and was wearing a white string tie. It made his neck itch and he felt like he was tied with a rope halter.

  His gunbelts were of black leather inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver, likewise the holsters. His trousers were black, and he wore new hand-worked boots with California-style spurs with two-inch rowels, all shined up and pretty.

  Emmy Chambers was the prettiest blond in the room, and Mary Boling the prettiest brunette. Mary was a dark-eyed girl with a hint of Spanish blood. This town was not his usual stamping grounds so he knew none of these people beyond a few names. He was about to leave when Emmy Chambers ran up to him.

  “Chick, it isn’t fair! Why aren’t you out there dancing? Now, come on!”

  “Now, ma’am,” he protested, flushing, “I’m not a dancing man. I—” His words were cut off by the sharp report of a pistol shot, then another. An instant later they heard the pounding hooves of a racing horse.

  Bowdrie caught up his hat and as he swung toward the door his eyes caught Mary Boling’s. There was a strange brightness in them, almost a sort of triumph. Did that big cowhand affect her that way?

  Chick stepped into the street, men and women crowding past him and around him.

  Aside from the schoolhouse, where the dance was taking place, there was but one lighted window in the place, the stage station next door. With sudden realization, Bowdrie sprinted for the station. He was the first to arrive.

  Shoving open the door, he saw John Irwin sprawled across his desk, his life’s blood staining the clustered papers on which he had been working. His right hand dangled limply over the edge of the desk and his six-shooter lay on the floor beneath the hand. Irwin had died trying.

  Bowdrie picked up the gun and sniffed the barrel. Then he checked the cylinder. The gun had been fired and one chamber was empty except for the cartridge shell.

  “They got the money!” Ed Gardner exclaimed. “Twelve thousand dollars!”

  Bowdrie glanced at him. “How’d you know that?” The fact that Irwin had the money in his safe was supposed to be known to but three men.

  “When I stopped by before the dance, Irwin was countin’ it.”

  Aside from Bowdrie himself, only Irwin, Sheriff Sam Butler, and Deputy Tom Robley were supposed to know the money was here. Butler and Robley had been at the dance. Bowdrie had seen them not three minutes before the shots were fired.

  Bowdrie looked over at Butler. “You notify his folks, will you? No use doin’ anything until morning. We’d just mess up whatever sign was left.”

  The crowd filed out and disappeared toward their homes. The dancing was over for tonight.

  John Irwin had a cash deal for a herd of cattle, and as there had been several recent holdups, he notified the law that he would have the money on hand. Pa Gardner, who had seen the money, was not, despite his faults, a talkative man, yet somebody had known.

  Bowdrie walked back to the schoolroom where the dance had taken place. A few couples stood around, reluctant to end the festivities or talking about the murder and robbery. Tom Robley was there.

  “A pity,” he said. “Irwin was a nice old man.”

  “Somebody else knew the money was there. If you come up with any names, let me know.”

  Tom stared at the knuckles of his big fists. He seemed unnaturally tense. “I will,” he said, “believe me I will.”

  Mary Boling came over to them. “Hello, Tom!” Then to Chick, “You’re the Texas Ranger, aren’t you? I heard there was one in town.”

  Bowdrie’s dark features were impassive. “You look mighty pretty in that dress,” he commented.

  She wrinkled her nose disdainfully. “This ol’ thing? It’s all right, but I’ll have prettier dresses. I’ll be going to New Orleans for my clothes. Or to New York.”

  “You’ll keep some young rancher busted,” Bowdrie said dryly. “Clothes are costly.”

  “Maybe the man I marry won’t be just a rancher.” Mary tossed her curls, smiling at both of them. Tom Robley looked miserable.

  “Ranchin’ ain’t so bad,” Robley protested. “Anyway, Al Harshman’s a rancher, and Jim Moody’s a cowhand.”

  She laughed at him, squeezing his arm. “And you’re a deputy sheriff!” she said. “But you might become almost anything. As for Al, he won’t always be a rancher. Al’s got ambition.”

  “So’ve I,” Robley protested. “You’ll see.”

  TEN MILES OUT of town, Chick Bowdrie reined in the hammerhead roan, indicating the track on the edge of the shallow hole where rain had formed a pool.

  “Headin’ northeast. That track was made followin’ the heaviest part of the rain, but before the last shower. Reckon he’s our man, all right.

  “Doesn’t know the country too well. He’s ridin’ by landmarks. The trail’s just a half-mile off to the east, but this gent is headed for Pistol Rock Spring, usin’ that thumb butte over there for a marker.”

  “How d’you figure that?” Robley asked. He had believed he was a good man on a trail, yet he had seen very little since leaving town, while Bowdrie had ridden right along, only occasionally pointing out something he had seen.

  “Twice he’s swung too far west, and he’s swung back until he’s lined up on that butte. He’s travelin’ fast, so if he knew about that trail, he’d be usin’ it. He wouldn’t be afraid of m
eetin’ anybody in this rain. Far as that goes, the trail isn’t used much, anyway.”

  The three men rode on. Sam Butler had seen more than Robley, but not as much as Bowdrie. Tom’s eyes were hollow from lack of sleep.

  “He’s got some help somewhere ahead,” Bowdrie commented, “or else he’s a damn fool. No man in his right mind would run a horse like he has his unless he knew there was another waitin’ for him. He’s headin’ right into that wasteland of the Horse Thief Mesa country.”

  The sun lifted over the brow of the hill and threw lances of sunlight across the sagebrush levels. Ahead lay the waste of Tobosa Flat, a flat stretch of creosote bush, tobosa, and burro grass. Here even the showers of the previous night had not settled the dust.

  It was very hot. Their passing raised a dust cloud. If the man they pursued was watching his back trail, he knew he was followed. Then Bowdrie spotted the bush and rode over to it.

  “Tied his horse here. Prob’ly either a stolen horse or one he just got hold of. It doesn’t like him and he doesn’t trust it. He tied fast instead of ground-hitching, an’ when he started to get back into the saddle, it acted up. But let’s see what he did when he got down from the saddle.”

  They trailed boot tracks to a nest of boulders on a low hill. There the man had knelt in the damp sand while watching his back trail. Had he seen them? They had not reached the dusty part at that time.

  “Maybe daybreak, or right after. The first time he could see good, he stopped to look back.” Bowdrie indicated a mark in the sand near where he had knelt. “Carries a rifle. Judging by the print of the butt plate, it could be a Winchester or a Henry, but that’s just guessing.”

  He indicated the length of the man’s stride. “Six feet tall, I’d say, weighs about one-seventy. Got a run-down heel on his right boot, and pretty badly run down. By the look of his tracks, I’d say he had something wrong with that leg. Else he’s got an odd way of walkin’.”

  He went back to the bush where their own horses waited. He picked a black hair from the mesquite bush. “Black mane an’ tail. From the stride I’d say about fourteen hands high. We’ll have a picture of him real soon.”

  Butler agreed. Then he added, “You’re like an Injun on a trail. Part of that trail back there I couldn’t even see, yet you kept right on a-goin’.”

  “Instinct, maybe,” Bowdrie said. “You pick up little things. Man on the run will usually keep to low ground until he wants to look back.”

  The desert became wilder and more barren. The mesquite thinned out and there was more burro grass. Even that became less and then they dipped down into a sandy draw littered with boulders. The man they followed had slowed to a walk here and Bowdrie did likewise. Pausing, he held up a hand for silence.

  Nothing.

  They rode up the slight incline and then the roan stopped suddenly, nervously.

  Across the small, still pool of Pistol Rock Spring stood a bay horse; however, Bowdrie was not looking at the horse but at the sprawled body of a man. He had been shot three times through the stomach by somebody who could use a six-gun. The three holes in his chest might have been covered by a silver dollar.

  The coffeepot lay on its side, most of the contents spilled into the sand. The dead man’s gun was in its holster, and not far from the tethered bay was a saddle, but no rifle or scabbard.

  “The man we followed must have killed this man for his horse,” Butler suggested.

  “No,” Bowdrie said, “this is the man who killed Irwin. His partner waited here, shot him, and rode off with the loot.

  “Look. See that run-down heel? An’ the height and weight are about right. The other gent sat right over yonder. He let this man pick up the coffeepot in his right hand and then he shot him.”

  Bowdrie walked around the fire and the pool. There were the prints of boots, pointed toward the pool. The man had squatted here, his back against the rock, and from there he had killed the newcomer.

  He glanced around. Tom Robley was staring at the dead man; he looked pale and shocked. “That’s Jim Moody!” he said.

  Butler came over and looked at the dead man’s face. “That’s Jim, all right. He was always a pretty good hand. Shot dead, an’ he never had a chance.”

  Butler looked up. “Why, I wonder? Why would his own partner kill him?”

  “Money. Moody held up Irwin an’ killed him, but for all this second man knew, Moody was seen. But he didn’t care. Moody pulled off the holdup, now this second man has all the loot. He’s got twelve thousand dollars and he’s scot-free.”

  “And we don’t know anything about him,” Butler said.

  “We know a couple of things. He’s a dead shot with a pistol, and he’s left-handed. Also, he was somebody who knew Jim Moody.”

  “Left-handed?” Robley asked.

  “He sat with his back braced against that rock, waitin’. He smoked cigarettes. Now, you just take a look at those two stubs of cigarettes and the burned matches. They are on the left side of the fire. If he was right-handed, they would be on the right side.

  “He waited, smokin’, and he flipped the cigarette stubs an’ matches into the fire. Some didn’t make it.

  “Somethin’ here I don’t understand. The killer took Moody’s saddle. He was ridin’ a bronc saddle with an undercut fork. That saddle was dropped right over yonder an’ you can see where the fork butted into the wet sand. He also took the rifle Moody had.”

  “It figures,” Butler agreed. “So far as I know, Moody never rode over this way. He rode for the Circle W away the other side of town. He never rode in except to see his girl. I doubt if he knew anything about this part of the country.”

  “Somethin’ else that’s curious. That mark to the right side of his right boot. That mark was made by a holster touching the sand. Now, if this gent is left-handed, why does he wear his gun on the right side?

  “Unless . . . unless he wears it for a cross-draw? If he wore that gun in front of his right hip an’ had his right side toward a man, he could draw almighty fast.”

  Tom Robley’s head came up sharply, his eyes filled with a dawning realization. Bowdrie stared at him. “Tom, d’you know anybody like that?”

  Robley flushed. “I ain’t sure,” he muttered. “I just ain’t sure.”

  Bowdrie looked down at the dead man, but in his mind he was studying the young deputy. Robley had been acting very strange. His reaction to this situation was odd, and had been so from the beginning. Since they had found Jim Moody’s body he had seemed upset, almost frightened.

  What could Tom Robley know? Did he have a clue they did not possess? Always, in any criminal situation, human passions and feelings are involved, and Bowdrie knew too little of the townspeople and their relationships with each other.

  Bowdrie mounted and began casting for a trail. He knew he had his work cut out for him. The killer did not intend to be followed and was using every trick in the book. He had brushed out the tracks where his horse had stood waiting, so there were no identifying tracks. Nearby there was a wide, rocky shelf several acres in extent where he would leave no tracks. Searching for the place where he left the rock shelf, Bowdrie found nothing.

  After two hours of fruitless searching Bowdrie sat his saddle looking out over a waste of scattered tar bush, yeso, and tobosa. There was no trail.

  Tom Robley suddenly broke the silence. “I’m headin’ for town. Nothin’ more to be done here.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned back toward town.

  Butler stared after him. “Now, what’s eatin’ that youngster? Never seen him cut up so.”

  Bowdrie was concerned with the matter at hand. Moody was dead and Robley would report it in town. But what did he know about the man they must now pursue? That he was utterly ruthless, left-handed, and knew this desert well. The rock shelf was no accident. The man had planned well. That was indicated by his choice of a meeting place. Bowdrie gestured toward Moody’s body. “He was a tool, Butler. The real criminal is the man who killed him. He worked all this
out ahead of time.”

  Bowdrie was searching for more than an obvious trail across the desert. He was trying to find the trail left by the man’s secret thoughts. Each move the man made helped to outline his character. His cold-blooded planning indicated he did not intend to leave the country. If he had so planned, he would have paid less attention to his trail and just kept going.

  He had been looking, looking . . . His eyes caught at something tangled in the cat claw. It was a low clump of the brush growing close to the ground. One of its vicious thorns had caught . . .

  Burlap!

  He held up the thin strand to Butler. “Wrapped his horse’s hooves in burlap sacking so’s it would leave no trail. No wonder we couldn’t find where he left the rock shelf.”

  He swung to the saddle. “Sam, that gent, whoever he is, won’t be wanderin’ around. He won’t travel fast with that sackin’ on his horse’s hooves. From here there’s just three trails that lead to water. To Horse Thief Mesa, to Casa Piedras, or to someplace on the upper Cibolo.”

  “My guess would be either of the first two. He wouldn’t be gettin’ noplace goin’ up to Cibolo.”

  Bowdrie agreed. “You take the Casa Piedras trail. I’ll head for the mesa. Scout for some of that burlap fiber, or tracks. If you see any, holler or give a shot.”

  They separated and Bowdrie began painstakingly to search the desert, yet scarcely ten minutes had gone by when he heard a long cowboy yell from Butler. When he rode over to him Butler pointed out a thin thread of burlap caught on some prickly pear.

  For an hour they followed at a walk, picking up occasional smudges or signs of passage. Suddenly the trail they followed merged with a cattle trail and the ground was torn by their passing.

  Butler swore. “Lost him! Too many critters come this way.”

  “We’ll follow along. He’ll get rid of that burlap soon, I think.”