Crow Bait (13 page)

Lancaster rode out of Flagstaff, heading west. There was no guarantee that these two men were on their way to meet with Sweet, but he wasn’t losing anything by riding after them.

There were any number of towns in the Texas panhandle, but heading there usually meant Amarillo. Lancaster had been through Amarillo before, but he hadn’t been there long enough to make any lasting friendships. Actually, he didn’t make lasting friendships most places he went, but neither had he left behind any lasting acquaintances. He was going to be on his own when he got there, unless he once again tried to bring in the local law. So far, though, the local lawmen he’d encountered had not filled him with any sort of confidence.

It was also too much of a coincidence to think he’d find both Sweet and Gerry Beck in Amarillo at the same time.

So he figured to follow the tracks described to him by the liveryman as long as they kept heading west. In the event they veered off, he’d have to make a decision.

He found their sign not far out of Flagstaff. He could see what the liveryman meant about their horses needing new shoes. It made them easy to
track. He took up a leisurely pace with Crow Bait, not wanting to catch up to the two men.

He camped each night, not bothering with a cold camp. He made sure he wasn’t close enough for the two men to smell his coffee. And even if they did, what would they care? As far as he knew, they weren’t running from anyone; they were simply riding, possibly to join up with Sweet. Besides, they’d be making their own coffee, so they probably wouldn’t smell his. He had some dried meat with him, and some canned goods, all in his saddlebags. In the old days he had traveled light, and old habits die hard. He usually restocked whenever he came to a large town, bypassed the smaller towns. By their tracks, the two men were doing the same.

He restocked after three days, and then four. Each time he discovered that the two men had come before him, purchased supplies, and caused no trouble. After the dustup in Flagstaff, maybe they were keeping their noses clean.

Amarillo was about six hundred miles from Flagstaff. He and the three men were keeping a sensible pace. They’d probably get there three full days ahead of him, according to the temperature of their camps when he reached them. But the entire trip would take a few weeks—perhaps a little less—unless they increased their pace toward the end.

Lancaster and Crow Bait were becoming fully bonded as horse and rider. He talked to the animal while they rode, and again at night when they camped. Crow Bait was responding to the sound
and tone of his voice. The animal could sense when Lancaster was relaxed, or when he was agitated. The horse took on a similar mood.

In each town they stopped in, Lancaster had to listen to disparaging words about his horse. It was starting to grate on him. At some point some big mouth was going to have to pay for the insults of others.

So far he’d been able to hold his temper.

But who knew for how much longer?

Amarillo, Texas

Amarillo was young, but already booming as the old West headed for the twentieth century. The site had been chosen by J. T. Berry along the tracks of the Forth Worth and Denver City Railroad, which extended through the panhandle. The town was already the county seat, and had become a fast-growing cattle market because of its railroad and freight service.

As Lancaster rode down the town’s main street, he saw that they had a Wells Fargo office. He bypassed it, but would stop in later to talk to the agent in charge.

The town had more than one livery stable. He picked one for no particular reason, withstood the eye-rolling of the liveryman when he saw Crow Bait.

“Got some nice horses you could look at before ya leave town,” the man said to him.

“No, thanks, I’m satisfied with my horse.”

“Really?”

“Just keep him well fed and cared for,” Lancaster said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Any other strangers in town in the past few days?” he asked.

“Lots.”

Lancaster gave what little description he had of Sweet.

“That could be a lot of men, mister,” the liveryman said. “Why you lookin’ for this jasper?”

“Friend of mine,” Lancaster said. “Supposed to meet up with him and a couple of other friends.” He described the two men who had fought with Ray, the bartender.

“Again, could be anybody, and they might not have left their horses here.”

“Yeah,” Lancaster said, “thanks.”

“Want I should recommend a hotel?”

“No, thanks,” Lancaster said. “I’ll pick that out myself.”

“Suit yerself.”

“I always do,” Lancaster said. “Take care of that horse.”

“That’s my business, mister,” the man answered. “I’ll take care of ’im like he’s my own.”

“See that you do.”

Lancaster came out of his hotel into the chaos that was Main Street’s traffic. Buckboards, freight wagons, riders and their horses pretty much choked the street. The foot traffic on the boardwalks was also heavy, and several times he had to step aside for ladies who were rushing somewhere. Men probably smelled that he was on the hunt, for they stepped aside for him.

Walking the streets, checking hotels, boardinghouses, and saloons would take forever. He wasn’t
sure that talking to the local Wells Fargo agent, or the local law, would be any kind of shortcut, but he had to try something. So far, in his search, he had not run across a lawman who impressed him. A good sheriff or marshal knew when strangers came to his town, and he checked them out. If that was the case in Amarillo, it would solve his problems, but he finally decided to go to the Wells Fargo office first. Maybe the agent there would be able to fill him in on what kind of law the town had.

He had passed the office on the way into town, so he knew where it was and headed over there.

At the Wells Fargo office he was surprised to find five men there. They were in a heated discussion with the agent, who Lancaster assumed was the man behind the desk. When he entered, all the men paused to look at him. Several of them continued to study him while one of them turned back to the agent and continued to berate him.

“If you think this is acceptable, then you’re sadly mistaken, Turner,” the man said. He was older than the others, about fifty, with steel gray hair and a tree trunk body. “My boys here are ready to take you apart if I give the word.”

“Now, look, Mr. Atkins,” the agent said, “there’s no need for that. You set these boys of yours on me and somebody’s bound to get hurt. That doesn’t get you what you want, does it?”

“If what I want is to see you get hurt, it does,” the man said.

“Don’t do it, Atkins,” the agent, Turner, said.

To Lancaster the man looked like he could handle himself in a fight, but the odds were four-to-one. Since Lancaster was technically working for Wells Fargo, he felt more than entitled to take a hand.

“Excuse me,” he said.

All faces turned to him. The spokesman, Atkins, was scowling.

“Just a second, fella,” he said. “I got business here.”

“Sounds to me like you’re just making threats, mister,” Lancaster said. “Doesn’t sound like business to me.”

“Mister, you oughtta mind your own business,” Atkins said.

“I am minding my business,” Lancaster said. “I work for Wells Fargo. You got a beef with Mr. Turner here, you got a beef with me.”

“Turner?” Atkins asked. “You know this fella?”

“Not by sight,” Turner said, “but I got a feeling his name is Lancaster. That right, friend?”

“That’s right, Mr. Turner. I assume you got a telegram about me?”

“Yes, sir,” Turner said. “Nice to see you—especially right about now.”

“Wells Fargo hirin’ gunmen now?” one of the other men asked.

“Shut up, Wiley.”

“Lemme take ’im, Mr. Atkins,” Wiley said. He was about thirty and anxious to die, apparently.

Atkins studied Lancaster, as if he was considering letting his boy go, but in the end he just shook his head.

“Son,” he said to Wiley, “this man would chew you up. You and the boys wait outside.”

“But, boss—”

“Just do like I say, boy!”

Wiley gave Lancaster a hard look, which Lancaster returned with a languid look of his own.
The other two men actually pushed Wiley out the door.

“This ain’t over, Turner,” Atkins said.

“I didn’t think it was, Mr. Atkins.”

Atkins walked up to Lancaster and fronted him. They were eye-to-eye. As thick as the man was, he was taller than he had first looked.

“You just get to town?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“Tryin’ to earn your money already?”

“I just came in to report to Mr. Turner,” Lancaster said. “You seemed to be makin’ an ass out of yourself, so I thought I’d save you from yourself.”

“You got a mouth on you.”

“My mother used to tell me that.”

“Your mother should’ve warned you to stay out of other people’s business,” Atkins said. “Next time I see you, maybe I’ll let Wiley have a go at you.”

“You were right,” Lancaster said. “I would chew him up, and you’d be minus a man.”

“Oh, he won’t be alone.”

“He wasn’t alone today, either,” Lancaster said.

“Two cowpokes weren’t gonna back his play,” Atkins said. “Next time will be different.”

“Time for you to leave, Mr. Atkins,” Lancaster said. “Me and Mr. Turner have official business.”

Atkins glared at Lancaster for a few moments, then walked past him and out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Turner let out a breath as Lancaster approached his desk.

“Most days like that?” Lancaster asked.

“Pretty much,” Turner said, “but Atkins is one of the bigger mouths around here. Unfortunately, he’s also one of the richest men.”

“Yeah, well, in my experience those two pretty much go hand in hand.” He stuck out his hand. “Lancaster.”

“Bud Turner,” the man said, shaking his hand. “Thanks for the help.”

“I thought you could’ve handled that character Wiley, but four-to-one odds is too much for any man to have to handle.”

“He would’ve set them on me, too,” Turner said. “They wouldn’t have killed me, but I would have taken a beatin’. Thanks again.”

“Sure thing.”

“Any word on Gerry Beck?” Turner asked, sitting down.

“Well, I did hear that he was headed this way, but he could’ve been here and gone by now. I’m also tracking a man named Sweet.”

“I heard. Somethin’ personal, right?”

Lancaster touched the scar over his eye and said, “That’s right.”

“Won’t let that get in the way of your Wells Fargo business, will you?”

“I’ll do what I’m being paid to do.”

“Speakin’ of which, you think Beck is around here? Or was?”

“Possibly,” Lancaster said. “But I just trailed two men here who may be meeting with Sweet.”

“Any chance Sweet is meetin’ up with Beck—or is that too much of a coincidence?”

“That’s way too big a coincidence for me to even consider,” Lancaster said. “Bad enough I have to deal with the coincidence of both of them even coming here.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“Well, I was going to talk to the local sheriff, but I wanted you to fill me in on him.”

“His name’s Jimmy Jacobs,” Turner said. “Career lawman on the way out. Be sixty next year. I think he’s gonna retire then.”

“Honest?”

“As the day is long.”

“So I can trust what he says?”

“Pretty much, although he may remember you from the old days, given his age.”

“I’ll chance it,” Lancaster said. “If I need it will you vouch for me?”

“Wells Fargo will.”

“Good enough.”

Lancaster stood up.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“When you walked in,” Turner said, “you sized up the situation pretty good.”

“Well,” Lancaster said, “I saw you facing four men, and didn’t think you were threatening them. It wasn’t that hard to pick a side.”

“Well, thanks for pickin’ mine.”

“No problem,” Lancaster said. “If you run into any more trouble while I’m in town, give me a holler and I’ll help if I can.”

“Much obliged,” Turner said.

As Lancaster reached the door, Turner called, “Come by the Red Ribbon Saloon later and I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Red Ribbon?”

“It’s owned by a woman.”

Lancaster nodded and went out.

Lancaster made his way across the crowded street and found the sheriff’s office. Seemed like all he was doing of late was going from the Wells Fargo offices to the sheriff’s office every time he hit a new town. He wanted to have this job over with.

“Sheriff Jacobs?”

“The man behind the desk was tall and lean, gray haired with eyes to match, and a heavily lined face. He seemed to wear his career as a lawman on that face.

“Help ya?”

“I just came from the Wells Fargo office,” he said. “My name’s Lancaster.”

“Lancaster.” It was as if he were tasting the name. “Seems familiar.”

“Maybe I can save you some trouble,” Lancaster said. “The Chancellorville Revolt? That was me. The Fort Vincent War? Me.”

“That Lancaster!” the man said.

“Yes.”

“Well,” the lawman said, “what war are you fighting around here?”

“I didn’t know there were any wars around here.”

“Oh, several. Unfortunately for you, wars these
days are fought less with guns and more with words. Actually, that’s unfortunate for you and me. See, we’re dinosaurs, Mr. Lancaster, as we head for a new century.”

“Well, Sheriff, I can tell you I ain’t looking forward to a new century.”

“You’re younger than me,” Jacobs said. “You’ll still be young enough to enjoy it. Me? I’m not even sure I’ll be around.”

The two men stood there, several feet apart, alone with their own thoughts for a few seconds.

“Well,” Jacobs said, breaking the silence, “what can I do for you, sir?”

“I’m doin’ some work for Wells Fargo,” Lancaster said. “Tracking Gerry Beck.”

“Have a seat,” Jacobs invited. “Beck’s been hittin’ them hard, I hear.”

“Hard enough to pay me to track him.”

“And you’ve tracked him here?”

“This direction, yeah,” Lancaster said. “And he might be meeting up with a few other men.”

“Like who?”

“Well, I’ve only got one name. A man called Sweet. Ring a bell?”

“Sweet.” Jacobs thought a moment. “Can’t say I recognize it.”

“There’s two more. But I don’t know their names.”

“And all trails have led you here?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, feel free to look around,” Jacobs said. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. We have had some strangers in town lately, but then we always have strangers in town. It’s that kind of place.”

“You have some deputies?”

“Two,” he said. “Young, both of them, but I think one of them is gettin’ ready to run against me next election. Probably beat me, too.”

“You don’t sound very confident.”

“I’ve had my time,” Jacobs said. “Might be time for some new blood.”

“How old are you?”

“Be sixty soon.”

“That ain’t old, Sheriff.”

“Yes, Mr. Lancaster,” Jacobs said. “It is.”

Lancaster stood up.

“If I find my man—or men—can I count on you for support?” he asked.

“If they’ve broken the law, it would be my job to aid you. So yes, you can.”

“I appreciate it.”

Before he could say any more, the door opened and two men walked in. Both were young—one in his late twenties, the other early thirties. Both were wearing deputy’s badges.

“Sheriff,” one of them said.

“Ah, boys,” Jacobs said. “This is Mr. Lancaster. He’s here tracking Gerry Beck for Wells Fargo. These are my deputies, Lyle and Bodeen.”

Both men nodded at him, and Bodeen said, “The Chancellorville Revolt? That Lancaster?”

“That was me,” Lancaster said.

“Damn,” Lyle said.

“I’ve promised Lancaster our support if he runs into his men here.”

“Men?” Bodeen asked.

“I’ll explain it to you both,” Jacobs said. “Lancaster was just leaving.”

“Thanks for your help, Sheriff,” Lancaster said on his way out.

“He’s trouble,” Bodeen said, when Lancaster left.

“Whataya mean?” Lyle asked.

“Wherever he goes there’s a war,” Bodeen said, “and if there ain’t, he finds one.”

“You’re talkin’ about the old days, Bodeen,” Jacobs said.

Bodeen was the deputy Jacobs thought wanted to be sheriff.

“I hope you’re right, Sheriff,” Bodeen said, “but if you don’t mind, I’m gonna keep an eye on him.”

“That’s your job, Bodeen,” the sheriff said.

“Right.”

Bodeen left and Lyle looked at Jacobs.

“He wants your job, you know,” Lyle said.

“I’ll tell you a secret, Lyle.” Jacobs held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “I’m this close to tellin’ him he can have it.”