Novel 1971 - Tucker (v5.0) (13 page)

Kid Reese
…

My wait was over then; they were here.

After a moment or so, they rode on, disappearing in the direction of Los Angeles Street.

Returning to my bed, I stretched out, pulled the covers over me, and began to think about the situation.

Hampton Todd and Bob Heseltine…I’d keep out of sight and see what developed from that situation, but in the meanwhile I’d locate the outlaws’ horses and the place where they chose to stay. So far as I knew, Heseltine was not well known here. Reese was certainly a stranger.

After some time I fell asleep, with nothing solved except to wait. There are some times when a man has to go in, guns a-blazing. There are others when it pays to just wait and see what develops.

At breakfast I saw Hampton Todd across the room. He glanced my way, his eyes level and cold. Now, what was that about? I’d never met the man. Paying strict attention to my food, I found myself feeling worried.

Ruby Shaw—or Elaine Ross as she called herself here—had a way with men. She might have seen me and, preparing for what might come, had told Todd some cock-and-bull story about me. Or the bartender might have said something.

Actually, I’d said nothing for anyone to take offense at, but the bartender had taken it badly, and so might others. I was going to have to stay away from Ruby Shaw, and I was going to have to move with care.

The first thing I did was to go to Wells Fargo and send part of the money I’d gotten in Prescott to the folks back in Texas.

After arranging to send the three hundred dollars I figured was their share, I said to the agent, “If you wanted to sort of keep out of sight in this town, I mean if you were an outlaw, where would you go?”

He glanced at me. “Sonora Town. It’s the Mexican end of town. There’s Mexicans all over town, but they are mostly the ones who have been here for years. The drifters and the newcomers live in Sonora. There are a lot of good folks over there, but they mind their own business. There are a lot of bad ones there, too, and a man could go among them and they’d hide him.”

He finished an entry in a book, put my money away, and then he said, “If it’s anybody I should know about, it might help to tell me.”

“Ever hear of Bob Heseltine? Or Kid Reese?”

He took some papers from a pigeonhole in his rolltop desk. “I’ve got a flyer on them. Suspected of a stage holdup.”

“That’s right. Does it say anything more?”

He glanced at the flyer. “Reported to be traveling with a woman, Ruby Shaw. A blonde, five foot three, one hundred and twenty-five pounds.…” He looked up. “You must be Shell Tucker. You were the stage-company agent.”

“For a short time. Heseltine and Reese rode in last night, in company with another man.”

“You are sure it was a man? Not the woman?”

I looked him straight in the eye. “It was a man. The girl was already in town. She got here before I did.”

He did not make the connection. “Well,” he said, “if you need any help, you can come to us. That is, if you have a warrant.”

“I haven’t.”

He shrugged. “There’s not much I can do, then, except to put out some feelers. I have friends over in Sonora Town and they’ll listen around. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

I made one last attempt. “The girl will not be using her own name, I imagine, and won’t be living over there. She likes to spend money and live high on the hog.”

I surveyed the street with care. I pulled my hat-brim down and studied each face I saw, each window I passed. They had tried to kill me before, and if they so much as imagined I was in town, they would try again.

Had it been mere chance that they stopped under my window last night? What if Ruby knew I was in town and had somehow passed the word along?

As well as the outlaws in Sonora Town, there were others holed up in the canyons of the Santa Monica Mountains. While there were cattle on the hills, there were not nearly so many since the four-year drouth that had ended in 1868. The cattle business in the vicinity of Los Angeles was, they told me, a thing of the past.

Suddenly I saw a man crossing the street toward me. It was Hampton Todd. He stepped up on the boardwalk and stopped. “Are you Shell Tucker?” he asked.

“I am.”

“I understand you have followed Miss Ross to this city. That you are persecuting her. Well, I want to tell you—”

“I do not know a Miss Ross,” I interrupted.

“What?”

“I came here,” I answered, “in pursuit of two outlaws and a woman friend of theirs, Miss Ruby Shaw. I do not know anyone named Miss Ross, nor do I have any interest in a person of that name.”

Deliberately, I turned away and started down the street. I had taken only two steps when he was upon me. He took hold of my shoulder, and I turned swiftly, throwing his hand off.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Todd,” I said. “I have no trouble with you, and I don’t want any.”

He glared at me, angry, but suddenly wary. He was wise enough to see I was ready for trouble if he wanted it.

“Leave her alone,” he said. “Or I’ll kill you!”

“Take my advice, Todd, and ask the Wells Fargo agent to see his flyer on Heseltine. Do that before you get yourself killed. And watch yourself. Heseltine is in town.”

“What’s he got to do with me? This…this Heseltine?”

“Look at the flyer,” I said, and walked away from him.

“Go to hell!” he shouted after me.

Chapter 13

T
HE LAST THING I wanted was trouble in Los Angeles, but Ruby Shaw had planted suspicion of me, and I doubted if Hampton Todd would examine the flyer. Nor would the Wells Fargo agent be inclined to speak up under the circumstances.

He had probably overheard the altercation in the street, as others had, but he had to live here and stay in business, and from his standpoint his best course was to know nothing one way or the other.

Hampton Todd was known and liked by many; he was disliked by some. But I was a stranger, and therefore suspect. The woman they knew as Elaine Ross was beautiful, and conducted herself as a lady.

There were many solid, able men in Los Angeles. From all I heard the town had been fortunate in many of its early settlers, for such men as John Temple, Abel Stearns, and Benjamin Wilson had come to build, not to make their money and get out. Most of these men would be friendly to the Todds, and I knew none of them.

It would be well for me to act with caution or I would find myself in trouble with people for whom I felt no animosity.

At the livery stable I collected my horse and rode slowly down Spring Street and out of town, taking the road west toward Rancho La Brea.

My best thinking was done when alone, and west of the settlement there were only a few scattered huts, clumps of oak trees, and in some areas, forests of prickly pear.
⁴
This was land where cattle had grazed until the drouth had killed many of them and caused others to be slaughtered to save the hides and tallow. Farther west was the little town of Santa Monica, with visions of becoming a great port, to rival San Francisco. A railroad had been completed not long before that led from Los Angeles to Santa Monica, and a pier built to deep water where ocean-going vessels could dock.

As I rode I occasionally glanced back toward the pueblo, but I saw no one. It was a sunny, pleasant day. I could catch glimpses of sunlight on the sea, and in the distance I could see Catalina Island.

Several times I drew up just to look out over the vast panorama before me. Close on my right were the mountains, a low, rugged range covered with chaparral and split by occasional canyons that offered a way to San Fernando Valley beyond. There were grizzlies in those mountains, although there were fewer now.

My best bet, I thought, was to avoid Ruby Shaw and her new friends. Bob Heseltine and Kid Reese had ridden into Sonora Town and gone into hiding…no doubt they knew to whom they could go for shelter.

Along the slope of the mountain I found a wagon trail, no more than two ruts in the sparse grass, but it was a trail, so I followed it, and soon overtook a wagon with an old Mexican driving.

He lifted a hand to me and I slowed my horse to a walk. His smile was pleasant.

“It is a splendid view,” I said, waving a hand at the wide expanse of grassland, oak clumps, and cacti that lay between us and the sea.

He drew rein and I stopped beside the wagon. “It is a thing to be seen,” he said, “and always the light is different. I have looked many times from here, and”—he gestured toward the mountains—“from up there.”

“I hear there are outlaws in the canyons,” I suggested. “You are not afraid?”

He shrugged. “I am an old man,
señor
, and a poor one. Why should they bother me?”

“No man is poor,” I said, “who can look on beauty. It lifts the spirit.”

He glanced at me, then away. “You have come from far?”

“Texas,” I said, “and Colorado.”

“Ah, I know them. When I was younger,
señor
, I was a traveled man. You come here for land?”

“No,” I replied, “I follow two men. They have taken what did not belong to them.”

“You are a Ranger?”

“I am a man.”

He nodded to indicate the road ahead. “My home is near. At this time of day I drink coffee. You will join me?”

Now, many people might have thought it a waste of time to talk with this old Mexican, but I had learned by now that no man’s friendship is to be despised, and especially not by me, who had no friends here.

His house was small, an adobe that stood on a shoulder of the mountain. There was a small corral close by, and several burros, two horses, and a small flock of goats. The house was poor, but neat.

There was a young girl there, of sixteen or so, and a boy a couple of years younger.

“My grandchildren,” he said. “They help me. It is good to have grandchildren when one is old.”

“You had a son?”

“Three sons. One is in Mexico, and two are gone. They were vaqueros,
señor
, and the way of a vaquero is hard. One was killed when his horse fell with him after he had roped a wild bull. My son killed the bull, but the bull had a horn into him first. He was three days getting home,
señor
, and it was too late to help him.”

“And the other?”

“The desert,
amigo
. The desert killed him, as it has killed others. At least, he went into the desert and he has not come back. Perhaps it was the Mohaves, for they had stolen horses from the ranchos. He pursued, separated from the others, and we have never found him. It was three years ago. If he could have come, he would have, for these children are his, and he was a good man, a good son.”

We sat at a table inside the adobe and looked out through the open door. From where we sat we could look far across the low hills to where the sun glinted on the sea. Below us was the almost flat plain, and the cienaga with its marshy ground. He rambled on, talking of his family, of his life there, and of the country around.

And then he said, “These men you spoke of? They are gringos?” He hesitated, embarrassed. “I am ashamed. It is not a good word, gringo.”

I smiled at him. “What is such a name? It is nothing. I do not mind at all. It is a convenient name. People should not allow themselves to be disturbed by such little things. Yes, the men are gringos.”

My description of the men was as clear as I knew how to make it. The boy listened, too, and when I had finished he spoke in Spanish to his grandfather. Spanish was not new to me, for I had grown up in Texas, where half of our riders were Mexican. I knew what he said, but made no comment.

“My grandson says there are such men in Sonora Town. He has seen them. They live at the house of Villareal—or so he calls himself. He is a man who puts on names as he does shirts…and changes them more often.”

“He knows where this house is?”

“He does know. He saw them only last night when he was at the house of a friend. They ride fine horses, and they leave their horses at the corral of Villareal. He has a cantina,
señor
.”

A cantina in Sonora Town? “It is a tough place? I mean, is it a place where bad men get together?”

“
Si
…it is. You must not go there,
señor
.”

It might mean a gun battle, more than likely with someone other than the men I wanted, and it would bring me no closer to the money that belonged to us.

“Could your son slip a message under the door without being seen? At night, perhaps?”

The boy nodded. “Of a certainty. I go sometimes to a store that is close by. I pass the cantina.”

I wrote one line:
Tell Ruby Al Cashion was not good enough
.

If they did not know already, that would tell them that I was in town, and then they must hunt me down. I did not think they would be wise enough to wait to see what I might do.

Toward evening I rode back to town, but not by the trail I had left by. I rode down past the pits where Hancock’s men were digging asphalt for roofs, skirted a few huts, and rode south to enter the pueblo from that side.

After stabling my horse I went back to the hotel, but I had just reached my room before there was a rap on the door. A moment I hesitated, and then spoke. “Who’s there?”

“Sheriff Rowland. I’d like a word with you, sir.”

He was a well-set-up man, with a mustache and chin whiskers, laugh wrinkles around his eyes, and a pleasant expression. I’d heard of him. He was a good man, and only a short time before had engineered the capture of the bandit, Tiburcio Vasquez.

“How do you do, Sheriff? I am Shell Tucker.”

He was amused. “I know. That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about. You have business in the city?”

“I am looking for a place to settle, and this is a beautiful spot.”

“I see.” I indicated the rocking chair and he sat down. “I had word you were hunting a couple of men.”

“Yes, two men who robbed me. They later tried to rob a stage on which I was riding shotgun.”

“I had not heard of that.” He frowned. “What is your official capacity?”

“I do not have any. I’m acting to recover money they stole from me months ago.”