Ragtime Cowboys (23 page)

They let go of him while they were studying the book. He got to his bowie first and cut a path through the crowd, making for the house he'd rented and fitted with locks and shutters.

After twenty minutes dodging wild rounds from the ports he'd cut in the shutters, they left men to watch the house and returned to the union hall to discuss strategy. All night long he heard their voices raised in violent argument, blows struck when words ran dry. Without being able to follow the conversation except by the fluctuating volume, he knew their decision by the harmony of the pitch near the end. As dawn broke over the raw earth of Gem, Colorado, the striking miners emerged from the building where they'd planned their revolt and surrounded the house, raw-boned men with the whites of their eyes glistening in their dirty faces, carrying picks, shovels, and dynamite …

*   *   *

That time he cut a hole in the floor and made his escape between the timbers of the foundation. This time he drew the ladder up behind him and lowered the trapdoor.

It was stuffy in the unfinished room under the rafters. Siringo opened the window, but not for air. He found an empty burlap sack, folded it, laid it on the floor, and knelt on it, resting the carbine's barrel on the sill and cocking the hammer. He had a fine view of the sheriff's big touring car, and of the sheriff himself as he drew the brake and stepped to the ground, a big muscular man gone to suet, the star shining on the vest of his dusty black suit. He took off his homburg, mopped his red ham face with a handkerchief the size of a placemat, and started toward the house. He stopped when a screen door strained open at the end of its rusty spring and shut with a bang. The porch roof obstructed Siringo's view, but he recognized Charmian's voice.

“Good morning, Sheriff. Is this a social call?”

“'Morning, Miz London. How do, Becky. I'm afraid it's law business. I need to speak to your guests.”

“Guests?”

“The hotel in town's part of my rounds. Fred, the clerk, told me two strangers checked in last night and out again this morning. The names they registered under didn't fit their description. I'd like a word with Siringo and Hammett.”

Becky's voice answered. “What makes you think they'd be welcome here? The last time they brought a killer with them.”

He scratched his burry head.

“
Killer's
harsh. The fellow was trying to throw a scare in someone, and he sure enough did. I got the location of that stolen horse out of young Butterfield before I got back to town. I figure the shooter's in line for a good citizenship medal.”

“Even if he were, how would
you
find him?”

He showed his teeth in Charmian's direction: one grown-up to another.

“They left their bags behind. I searched 'em and found a couple of jars of contraband liquor, but I ain't here to make a federal case. It's enough to hold 'em till I get some answers.”

“Be that as it may,” Charmian said, “they're not here.”

Dillard scowled down at his hat, appeared to notice for the first time that it wasn't on his head, and put it on. It seemed to contain most of his authority, as his voice got louder and deeper.

“I see it's time to put my cards on the table. Somebody swore out a complaint against 'em for theft, which I reckon is why they faked their names this trip. Where are they if they ain't here, I'd like to know.”

“You're the lawman,” Becky said. “I'm sure you can figure it out. Perhaps not, on second thought. I forgot who I was talking to.”

His face darkened a shade.

“There's no call to talk to me like that, little missy.”

“You left two women here without official protection after someone fired a shot through our window. What is the call if not that,
I'd
like to know.”

“You don't have any objection to me going in and looking around, I guess.” He took a step toward the porch.

Charmian said, “You guess wrong, unless you've come with a warrant.”

He stopped.

“I was sheriff when your husband was still digging up other folks' oyster beds. I never had to get a warrant to go in anyplace in this county.”

“Never's a long time. You're not coming in and that's that.”

“Who's to stop me?” He strode forward.

Siringo drew a bead and squeezed the Winchester's trigger. Dirt sprayed the sheriff's pants cuffs from the slug he'd placed at his feet. The echo of the report growled over the rolling hills of the
Valley of the Moon.

 

29

He ejected the shell, chambering the next round, while Dillard was still reacting. The sheriff jumped back two feet, fumbling a big cedar-handled revolver from under his coat, looked around, heard the action of the lever, and stared up at the window.

“You're lucky you're slow,” Siringo said. “You almost ran square into that first slug.”

“Who the hell are you?” Dillard was shielding his eyes from the sun with his free hand.

“The deciding vote in the next election, if you take one more step toward the house.”

“Siringo?”

“Yup.”

“Where's Hammett?”

“The other end of this Roscoe,” said a voice directly beneath Siringo's feet.

The sheriff lowered his gaze. “You men are in serious trouble, threatening an officer of the law.”

“I see it as defending the Constitution. Get back in your car and don't come back here without a piece of paper signed by a judge. Your best bet's J.C. MacNamara. He's on Kennedy's list.”

“You admit you stole it?”

“I did,” Siringo said. “Hammett's just my accomplice.”

A lazy grin spread across the red ham face.

“There's no call for all this gun stuff. Give me the notebook and we'll say it was all just a misunderstanding. Mr. Kennedy said he ain't interested in pressing charges so long as he gets back what's his.”

“We'll take our chances in court, if it's all the same to you. The prosecutor can enter it as evidence.”

“That'd be the Honorable Oliver Wentworth,” said Hammett.

The sheriff's smile fled. “Be reasonable!”

“I thought that's what we was being,” Siringo said. “You're the one standing out in the hot sun in a wool suit when you could be enjoying the breeze on the way back to town.”

“How do I know you won't shoot me in the back?”

Charmian spoke up. “You have my word they won't. I know these men better than you do.”

“A woman's word don't—”

A shot rang out below. Dillard's homburg flew off his head. He scrambled back into his automobile.

“This ain't the end of it!” he shouted over the roar of the motor. He swung the vehicle around and headed back the way he'd come.

“That was neat,” Siringo called out to Hammett. “I didn't know you was a trick shot.”

“I'm not. I was aiming at the car.”

*   *   *

“How many of these guns work?” Siringo asked.

They were in the main room of the house, where most of London's collection of firearms was on display.

“All of them,” Becky said. “I make it a point to keep them clean and oiled. Daddy showed me how.”

“What about ammo?” said Hammett.

Charmian opened a drawer in one of the display cases. It was lined with cardboard boxes labeled with different calibers. “Do you think they'll be needed?”

Siringo said, “I hope not; but you can't hope your way out of a fix. I know Dillard. I met plenty of him in the old days. They do things the hard way. He'll come back with an army and that warrant—if he remembers to get the warrant.”

“There won't be any trouble if you're not here when he does,” Becky said.

Charmian scowled. “Don't be a child. They'll take us prisoner and use us to smoke Mr. Siringo and Mr. Hammett out into the open.”

Someone knocked. Gripping his Colt, Siringo went to the window beside the front door. “It's just the hat-hater.”

Charmian opened the door. The ranch hand had his own hat off and a slash of white bandage across his nose, sharply contrasted with his sunburned skin. He stiffened when he saw the man who'd broken his nose standing behind his employer.

“It's all right, Ivan. We're all on the same side.”

“I heard shots.”

“We're okay, but we're expecting trouble later. How many of the hands are conversant with firearms?”

“Convers—?”

“Can they shoot?” barked Siringo.

“I can work a gun if I have to, but I'm not an expert. Yuri is; he hunted tigers in Siberia. I can't say about the rest.”

“Round 'em up.”

Charmian said, “Tell them it's voluntary. I can't ask them to put themselves in danger just because I pay them to work the ranch.”

“Miz London, there ain't a thing all them men wouldn't do for anybody named London. If it wasn't for your husband, I'd still be in San Quentin. Every one of 'em's got a story like it.”

“Thank you. These men are in charge. I hope you can put any bad feelings behind you.”

Ivan stared at Siringo for a long moment. Then he held out his hand. “Sorry about the hat.”

“They don't last long here.” Siringo accepted his powerful grip. “Sorry about the nose. I was saddle sore and took a bigger swing than intended.”

The ranch hand grinned, displaying some gold plate.

“I guess where you're concerned a man has to look out for either end.”

When he left, Hammett and Siringo began snatching weapons off the walls and from cases. When they were finished, the dining table was an arsenal of shotguns, rifles, revolvers, and semiautomatic pistols, representing many manufacturers from many countries. Siringo pulled the drawer filled with cartridges out of the display case and laid it across the arms of a rocking chair. “Start loading,” he said.

All four got to work.

*   *   *

“What are you doing?” Becky demanded.

She found Hammett seated in her father's study, working his bandaged foot into a high-topped brogan he'd found in a cupboard.

“Working a jigsaw puzzle, can't you tell?” Wincing, he laced the shoe tight.

“You're going to make your injury worse.”

He stood, testing his weight on the foot. “Time enough to recover after today. Meanwhile it gives me support.” He grinned at the unmatching footwear. “I may not make the cover of a gents' magazine, but I'm no good to anyone wobbling around on a cane.”

“What are you going to do?” She followed him into the main room.

“Mr. Siringo and I discussed it. I'm setting up shop in the stable. That way we can catch anybody who tries to charge the house in the crossfire.” He selected a gas-loading Mauser rifle from the weapons on the table and hefted it. The boxes of ammunition had been sorted and placed beside the firearms they belonged to. He loaded the magazine, racked a cartridge into the chamber, and put the box in his pants pocket.

Siringo came in, accompanied by Charmian. “You was in the army,” he told Hammett. “How are you at drill?”

“Better than I was at driving an ambulance. I never killed anyone on the parade ground.”

All four picked up as many firearms and boxes of ammunition as they could carry and went out into the front yard, where the ranch hands waited in a ragged line. Hammett approached Yuri, the Russian with the imperial whiskers, and showed him a bolt-action rifle of Scandinavian manufacture. “Know how to load it?”

The slope-shouldered worker snatched it and the box from Hammett's other hand, slid open the breech, poked a long brass-shelled cartridge with a copper nose inside, and slammed the bolt home.

Hammett went down the line, handing out rifles, handguns, and ammunition until he ran out, then got more from Charmian and Becky. Standing there afterward, some holding long guns, others with revolvers and pistols stuck under their belts and in the bibs of overalls, they looked like peasant rebels.

Hammett had raided a dump in back of the house of empty coffee tins, lard buckets, and glass jars. He rammed kindling sticks from the fireplace into the ground, hung the vessels on top, ordered the men to stand thirty yards away, and had them fire one by one, indicating to each which target he was to shoot at. When everyone had fired six times, he told them to put up their weapons and inspected the results.

He signaled them to follow him to the yard where they'd stacked their farm implements in a pyramid. He disarmed Ivan and two men whose names he didn't know and told them to take their pick from the stack. “If you can get close enough to lop off someone's head with a scythe, do it,” he said. “Otherwise I don't want any one of you birds within a hundred feet of a trigger.”

Siringo took command, sending Ivan to the house to watch the back and sing out if anyone tried to dry-gulch Yuri while he guarded the front, Ivan to the stable for the same reason regarding Hammett, and distributing the others among the pigpens and other outbuildings.

“And you, Mr. Siringo?” asked Charmian. “Where will you be?”

He pointed at the concrete-block silo. “I saved the best view for myself.”

She glanced down involuntarily at his bad leg. He grinned.

“I trust my old complaint over Hammett's new one. Anyway, last time I was under siege, I had to go down to get out. This time I'm going up.”

“And I?”

“You and Becky load for Yuri and lay low.”

She raised her chin. “I'm as good a shot as Jack was. We hunted pheasants together from the time they were imported from China until he was too ill to go.”

“Pheasants ain't men.”

“I agree. They're twice as fast and they can fly.”

“Okay, I know when I'm licked. Becky, you're loading for your stepmother. Ivan can load for Yuri. That way we got guns on both sides of the house, which I like better.”