A Good Day To Kill (19 page)

“A dozen
vaqueros
and their food, plus support, would cost several hundred dollars. If you can insure those bangtails won't come back to the ranch, I'll spend the money. Otherwise, find me some horse hunters to shoot them.”

Ortega nodded.

“I know you want to feed the poor down there, but if we get rid of those horses, I want to be sure I'm rid of them.”

Ortega smiled. “I understand. We plan a roundup to get the best older horse colts rounded up for our own remuda.”

“You'll need them.”

Ortega smiled. “There is a blue roan horse down there among the bachelors. He is three or four. I think you would want him.”

“You kind of teasing me about a great roan horse?”

“No. I will catch him and show you a great horse.”

“Ortega, I believe what you tell me.”

“What if I hire less to take them off the ranch and down into Mexico.”

“You think it will work?”

“I will see and get back to you.”

“Good, I trust you. You and JD have that to solve. But I sure want to see that good roan horse.”

Ortega laughed. “You will really like him.”

He was looking for Randall and the windmill. They should be there in another day. Earlier, he'd met the well drillers, Crazy Ed and his grandson Mike, who were setting up their small derrick to drill on a rise west of the headquarters. The old man was what he called a geezer, but they both worked hard and sure acted grateful for the workers JD sent to help them set up. When Chet went to bed on the ground that night, he wondered if there were any more problems hatching.

One of the riders sent to meet Randall came in at dawn. Chet and JD got up from their breakfast to greet him.

“The freighter had some wagon spoke problems,” the man said, and shook his head. “We bound them with rawhide, but if they get it here today, I will be surprised.”

“Thanks, Chavez,” JD said. “We figured you had problems and were going up to see about you today.”

“That equipment they bring is real heavy. And those wagons are—what you say—old?”

“Well, why don't we get what we can down here and then go back to get the rest with their good wagons?” Chet asked.

JD agreed. “I can ride up there and do that. Chavez, get all the men ready. They'll need help to unload them here when they arrive, so we can go back and bring in the rest.”

“
Si
, I can do that.”

“Since I hired them, I'll go along,” Chet said, and they soon rode up the dim wagon trail that led north.

They met Randall in a light wagon well ahead of the train.

He introduced JD and they discussed the new plan.

“That would work,” Randall agreed. “I'll tell my contractor the plan and with your men's help we can move the rest on the good wagons to the ranch.”

“You look tired,” Chet said to the man.

Randall shook his head wearily. “It has been a helluva trip down here so far.”

“Well, we'll help get this done. What's the freighter's name?” Chet looked at the dust they raised on the northern horizon.

“John Acorn. He's tired, too.”

“We'll get this worked out.”

“Thanks, Chet.”

“Nice to meet you,” JD said, and they rode on to meet the rest.

Acorn was a tall man in overalls, riding a stout bay horse with sweaty shoulders. He shook their hands. “Been a helluva trip. Never realized I'd have this much trouble.”

“Park the wagons you have problems with. We'll go on to the ranch, unload, and come back, and transfer the load to the good ones. We have help and JD has some good blacksmiths who can repair those wheels and get them all rolling for you to go back.”

“My God, man, that takes a big load off my shoulders. Let's do that then.”

They soon had the train stopped. The drivers of the two most rickety wagon wheels unhitched their teams to ride and lead them on to the ranch. Everyone on the wagons looked dirty faced and worn out. They headed for the ranch, arriving in late afternoon.

The women had cooked a big meal in preparation for their arrival. The visitors took baths and were in good spirits when someone struck a guitar up and they had a
fiesta
.

Randall sat on a bench with Chet. “You really think this will make a ranch?”

“Yes. All we need is water development.”

The man laughed. “That's all they need in hell—water.”

“There, too, maybe. We're getting set to make it one anyhow.”

“Tomorrow, I'll start making the pipe for the windmill pump. It must be a strong well.”

“You know as much as I do. It's watered stock and these people here over the last five years.”

“Oh, I imagine it's a good one. We should be pumping water in a few days. Will they have the water stand built?”

“I plan to get them on it tomorrow.”

“Good. I brought more steel stock tanks. I figured we'd need them once we got things going. I also have two sheepherder shower fixtures we can install.”

“I may have to send for lumber. JD told me he has hay coming for the stock. But we might need to thin those numbers of horses we feed down some. We'll need to feed his horses, after we get Acorn unloaded.”

Randall agreed. “Oh, I'm sure Acorn needs to get back.”

“Good. Hay is not cheap hauled down here.”

“I bet that's right. Maybe you'll get an artesian well and can irrigate some of this land.”

“We'd love that.”

“You met the driller and his grandson?” Randall asked.

“Yes. They are going to start a well tomorrow west of here on a high point, in case they get a gusher.”

“It pays to plan. Great food and music here tonight.”

“Mexican people love both. They'll be glad when you have the windmill going.”

“Take me a few days. But they are good windmills and, if maintained, will serve you for a long time.”

“They'll be maintained.”

JD joined them. “We should have those other two wagonloads back down here and unloaded tomorrow. I spoke to Acorn about bringing the wheels down here and us fixing them. But he's going to try to pull them back to Tucson with no load and may skid the axle. He just wants to get home.”

“I'll pay him his hauling bill,” Randall said.

“Fine. I can't understand why he won't let us fix them, but that's his decision.”

“Hell, I think he just wants to get out of here,” JD said, and laughed. “There are other haulers, if we need more pipe.”

Chet nodded in agreement. “I'm going back over to Tubac if all this is settled in the morning. JD, you can figure out the rest.” He turned to Randall. “I appreciate your coming and installing the windmills. Hope the driller finds water and we have two up and running. We'll consider buying more from you when we need them.”

“Thanks, sorry we had so much trouble.”

“No problem, Randall, it goes with the business. Good night.”

 

 

In the morning, he took Jesus, Cole, and Shawn back with him to Tubac. On the way, he went by to check on the well driller and his teenage grandson. The old man, Crazy Ed, was odd sounding, but the boy showed lots of get-up-and-go. Their little steam engine was thumping the cable drilling rig. Wood to fire his boiler might be another problem, but the men had so far snaked a lot of deadwood in for them. He left them working.

 

 

He planned to wind up the Force business and then go home for a spell. The ranch was JD's to make it work. Plus, he had Ortega to help him. He had water development and the buildings soon going up. They would see about the rest in the future.

The next day, when Chet and Shawn arrived, Roamer had a few things for them to check on. He left that for Chet to decide after he read them.

“Number one, they stole six horses from a rancher up north of Tucson. He thinks they're going to try to sell them in Tombstone. The market for horses there is sky high and no one asks questions. The horses all wear the rancher's brand, the HKY. They're well-broke ranch horses. I have their ages and colors. Let's see, his name is Ace Stroud. Florence, Arizona Territory.”

Chet nodded, sipping on the steaming Arbuckle's coffee Marie poured for him in a tin cup. “Those rustlers may already be over there.”

“May be,” Roamer said. “Business number two, this says Bill Hunter and Slim Blandon cheated a rancher named Harley Wiles on a gold flimflam scheme. The two men brought him some gold-flecked specimens to his ranch and offered him half interest in their claim for five hundred dollars. He bought it and they left. He later went to their so-called mine and found nothing but caliche. I have a description of the two. They're supposed to be in the Tombstone District. Lord knows where.”

Roamer continued. “Third, a man named Trent Marks shot his brother, Abraham Marks, and killed him. They were both drunk, supposedly arguing over a woman, name unknown, over on Whiskey Creek, and got into a gunfight. Abraham's body was found at their homestead and no one has seen his brother since then.”

“What the hell do Behan's deputies do over there?” Cole asked in disgust.

“Sit on their thumbs and count cattle for tax purposes,” Roamer said.

“That's probably right. Roamer, you and Cole see about the rustlers. They may be holding those horses outside of town until they find a buyer.

“Jesus, you and Bronc see if you can locate those phony mine sellers in the Tombstone area. Then Shawn and I will ride up on Whiskey Creek and try to find out where that shooter went. No border crossers doing mischief up here?”

Roamer shook his head. “Nothing like we've had in the past. But that don't mean they ain't around.”

“Four days from now, we'll meet that evening at the O.K. Corral Livery. We'll have a good supper at Nellie Cashman's place. If you're still out chasing, you can just wire me there. I'll check at the telegraph office for any telegrams.”

After a predawn breakfast, they left out, separated enough to not be recognized as a group. He told Marie his plans, then he and Shawn headed east. Whiskey Creek was north of the mining district. He had little hope of solving much, since the crime had happened a week before and the tracks were probably gone. Maybe someone knew something—that would be his only hope to solve a crime like this.

They had a packhorse and bedrolls. The high temperatures had slipped a little lower as they moved into fall. It was already September and the year had progressed so fast. But he was about ready for a change. His job had shrunk to almost the duties of an ordinary deputy sheriff. Marshal Blevins could hire some good men to do this kind of housekeeping, if local sheriffs wouldn't do their jobs. Arizona needed Rangers, but they were politically a disaster in the legislature. After passing the legislation for them, they had conveniently dropped any funding for the new arm of the law.

This killer needed to be removed from society. But running him down should be under the sheriff's authority and he should handle it. But even in his own county, it wasn't being done. Why should he expect Behan to do it? The constant newspaper stories of rope justice being done by citizens told him people didn't trust the law to curb the criminal element. Riding through the chaparral, cactus, yucca, and century plants with Shawn that morning, and listening to the sharp cries of the California quails, he wondered if all his team's efforts were really curbing the lawlessness in the territory. The two of them and the mourning doves had the grassland to themselves.

They avoided going into Tombstone and camped north of the town. The next morning, at a small store, they spoke to the keeper about the murder.

“My name is Chet Byrnes. I'm a U.S. Marshal, Mr. Cline.”

“Call me Mel. How can I help you?”

“Trent Marks supposedly shot his brother, Abraham.”

Mel nodded. “Yeah, they found his brother's body up there two weeks ago.”

“Did he do it?”

“If he didn't, no one else had a reason that I know about.”

“I understand this incident was over a female.”

“Oh, you mean Carol Scott.”

“Who's she?”

“Well, I think she has a place next to them, and I understand she”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“entertains men.”

“Busy lady. Where is she?”

“About four miles north of here, at her ranch, the Y-Y-T-Four.”

“Thanks. I'll check back. You learn anything else, I'll be back.”

“Sure, Marshal. Nice to meet you, and your deputy, too.”