Snake Eyes (9781101552469) (8 page)

“Many are, but not all. The Basque are few in number, and we seldom marry outside of our own group of countrymen and women.”

“Are you married, Mike?”

Mike shook his head. “No. I was married, but my wife died in childbirth after we arrived in Wyoming.”

“Will you marry again?”

Mike laughed as if chewing on that bit of irony.

“Ah, if the Fates so decide, perhaps. But I have not seen that glow in a woman's cheeks, nor the flash in her eyes when I come near. As I said, we are few, not only in Europe, in Spain, but here in this country. And we Basques don't really have a country of our own. We don't really have a nationality. We're like orphans of the world.”

Smoke entered Brad's nostrils, and he sneezed into his cupped hands.

“Bless you,” Mike said.

“That tobacco must have a bite to it, Mike.”

“It's Virginia grown. Bought it in Denver.”

“Well, maybe it's got some Virginia dust in it.”

Mike laughed.

“When's the funeral for your brother-in-law?” Brad asked.

“Probably early in the morning. At sunrise. We'll have our hands full when all those sheep get here. I expect they'll be streaming in here all day and into the night.”

“Quite a big herd, then.”

“Yes, and we'll graze some of them in that other valley. Bill and I may have to find new pasture for them.”

“Which means?”

“We may have to look beyond those bluffs and see what's higher up.”

Brad looked up at the bluffs.

“That's where Schneck is grazing his cattle.”

“I know. But we have grazed there before Schneck came barging in. It's just below eleven thousand feet, and you'll see our trails all over the place.”

“I didn't see any when I rode up there.”

“A sheep trail is not very wide. And, after we leave, the deer and elk use the same trails.”

“Maybe I did see your trails, or one of them.”

“And you saw grass growing, too, didn't you?”

Brad nodded.

“So, you see, we do not ruin pasture. We keep the sheep moving, and they leave their droppings on the ground, which feeds the grass and keeps the roots warm in winter.”

“Cattle do the same.”

“Too bad cattle and sheep can't live together in such a beautiful country,” Mike said.

“As long as there is prejudice among cattlemen toward sheep, you'll never see cattle and sheep grazing together.”

“And that's a shame,” Mike said.

“Which reminds me,” Brad said, “I did meet and talk to one of the men who works for Schneck. I don't believe he's one of the killers.”

“How do you know? How can you be sure?”

“He's not a cattleman. He's not a drover nor a wrangler, either.”

“What is he?” Mike asked.

“He's a woodsman, from up north. I think he works as a scout for Schneck.”

“A scout?”

“I think he might have been the man who found that valley where Schneck's cattle are grazing. I think he also found this valley and probably told his boss about it. Maybe before you got here.”

“Or after,” Mike said, a rueful half smile curving his lips.

“That's a possibility. His name is Thorvald Sorenson. He's a Swede. He didn't know who I was, of course. He thinks I'm up here hunting elk.”

“You are hunting, all right,” Mike said. “But two-legged animals. Because that's what they are those cattlemen—animals.”

“I think it's just Schneck who's the animal,” Brad said. “He is the one who gives the orders.”

“But his men carry them out.”

“That doesn't mean his men like the orders he's giving them.”

“Maybe you are too tolerant for this job,” Mike said, and Brad sensed a testiness in his tone.

“I'm not tolerant of murderers, Mike.”

“But Schneck may not have killed my cousin or my brother-in-law. Those murders took more than one man.”

“I agree. The men who carried out those orders are equally guilty under the law. I am not absolving them of blame. But they are the body of the snake. It's my job, as I see it, to cut off the head of that snake. And from all indications, that is Schneck.”

“What about the men who did the actual killing?”

Brad took in a deep breath.

Mike had asked an important question. It was a question he could not answer just then. He thought he knew what Garaboxosa wanted to hear, but he would not give him that satisfaction. Not yet.

If he were to go after the killers who worked for Schneck, he would need help. Armed help. And that would mean a full-blown range war between cattlemen and sheep ranchers. Such a war might become a western tragedy, involving townspeople, lawmen, and even, perhaps, the military. He didn't want that, and he was sure Pendergast would not want him to carry that much power in his weapons or use that much force.

No, he would not start such a war. He had his assignment and Mike knew damned well what it was. Find the man who ordered the murders and bring him to justice.

Or kill him.

And that was assignment enough for any one man, Brad knew.

He might not be able to exact a pound of flesh from those men who obeyed Schneck's orders, but he had a hunch that he would not have to look for trouble.

Experience had taught him that.

No, he would not have to seek out trouble.

Trouble would find him.

Otto Schneck was a stalwart man, bullnecked, heavy-shouldered, stocky as a Hereford bull, with orange hair, a brushy blondish moustache threaded with rust, and a mouth as pudgy as a blowfish's. He wore leather straps on each thick wrist, and a wide gun belt draped his ample waist. His pistol nestled in a tie-down holster that was made of woven leather that matched his kangaroo boots. His large hooked nose emphasized the jutted jaw, the high chiseled cheekbones. His eyes were a pale blue that was almost colorless, giving him a vacant expression that was chilling.

He sat at the rustic table listening to the account of the two men who had helped hang the sheepherder. Halbert Sweeney and LouDon Jackson were both from the panhandle of Texas, both bowlegged as pairs of parentheses and balding under their ten-gallon hats. They called Sweeney “Hal” because he didn't like “Bert,” and they called Jackson “LouDon,” making it into a single word.

Outside were the sounds of cattle and of men chopping wood up on the ridge. Otto could hear the groaning of the wheels on the wood cart as it rumbled onto the flat, and somewhere a horse neighed an arpeggioed ribbon of nasal and throat sounds.

“Sit down,” Schneck commanded. Both were standing at one end of the long table having just entered the log cabin to report to their boss. “Where is Rudolph?”

“Rudy's dead, Snake.” Hal fished a cheroot from his shirt pocket and bit off the end.

“Dead?”

“Yes, sir, one of them sheepherders shot him plumb dead,” Hal said.

“Only I don't think it was no sheepherder,” LouDon said.

Schneck fixed Jackson with those cold pale eyes of his.

“What was he, then?”

“He's faster'n greased lightnin', Snake,” LouDon said. “He looked more like a damned gunfighter than a sheeper. Rudy never had no chance.”

“That right, Hal?” Schneck said, turning his attention to Sweeney.

“They was a bunch of them sheepmen ridin' to where we hanged that Messican kid and this one jasper got off his horse and walk toward where Rudy was hidin' in the bushes. Rudy stood up and went to shoot the man, but he didn't have no chance. No chance at all.”

“Why in hell did Rudolph stand up? If he was hiding in the brush, he should have stayed there,” Schneck said, his neck pulsating and bulging like a bull in heat. He looked over at Jackson.

“The man did somethin',” LouDon said. “He pulled somethin' from inside his shirt. I couldn't see what it was, but Rudy jumped up like he was scared and started down the hill like somethin' was chasin' him.”

“I think there was somethin' in that brush,” Hal said. “Somethin' sure as hell put fire to Rudy's feet. He boiled out of there like somethin' was bitin' him on the ass.”

Jackson struck a match and lit Hal's cheroot.

Schneck waved the cloudlet of smoke away after it spewed out of Hal's mouth.

“We heard somethin', I think,” Jackson said. “I mean it was far off and hard to hear, but we might have heard it.”

Sweeney gave Jackson a dirty look that Schneck could not fail to miss.

“Did you hear something or did you not hear something?” Schneck asked. He looked straight at Sweeney when he said it.

“It all happened so fast, Snake,” Sweeney said. “I mean one minute that tall drink of water was walkin' toward the hill where Rudy was hidin' and ready to pick him off a sheepherder or two when they cut down the man we hanged. Rudy never had no chance. One minute the man was just standin' there and the next he had a pistol in his hand. He plugged Rudy with one shot and Rudy fell down dead.”

“Rudolph Grunewald was a favorite of mine. He was turning out to be a mighty fine cowhand.”

“Yes, sir,” Hal said. “I'm real sorry Rudy got kilt.”

“I don't know, Snake,” Jackson said, blurting the words out. “I heard maybe a buzzin' sound. Coulda been a rattler in them bushes.”

“A rattler? This time of year? It's a little early, I think,” Schneck said.

“Maybe Rudy woke this'n up,” Jackson said lamely.

“I didn't hear no rattler,” Hal said, a little too belligerently to suit either Jackson or Schneck.

One of the woodcutters came into the cabin just then. Schneck looked up at him.

“I got somethin' to report, Boss,” Cass O'Malley said. “Did you hear them shots up on the ridge a while back?”

“I did. What were you shooting at, snakes?”

“No, sir, weren't us shootin'. It was us getting shot at.”

“Maybe you'd better sit down, Cass,” Schneck said. “Might as well listen to another tall tale. This seems to be the day for it.”

Cass sat down, a puzzled expression on his face.

A horse galloped up near the cabin, and they all heard the creak of leather as a man dismounted.

Then it was quiet. Schneck looked toward the open doorway as if expecting someone to walk through it. But he only heard the sound of the horse pawing the ground outside.

Cass told about the stranger riding up, and how he and Percy Wibble and Ned Kingman challenged the rider.

“We had him braced, Snake,” Cass said. “Ned told him to drop his gun belt, and he looked like he was a-goin' to do it, then he up and slid sideways off'n his saddle, drew his pistol faster'n you could say ‘Jack Robinson,' and come plumb at us, a-shootin' that six-gun square at us. Well, sir, we all splayed out on the ground and he rode right on past us. Scared me plumb out of my wits. Them bullets plowed the ground right next to me and Percy.”

Cass wiped sweat from his forehead with a swipe of his sleeve. He was plainly rattled.

“Did you try and shoot him when he rode on past?” Schneck asked.

“Nope. I was pissin' my pants as it was, Snake. I mean, I thought that man was part Injun or somethin', the way he flattened out aside his big old horse and come at us with his pistol spittin' fire and lead flyin' all around.”

“Would you say that this man could have shot you dead, Cass?” Schneck asked.

“Hell, I don't know. It all happened so fast. I didn't even see him draw his gun. We never expected him to come right at us like that.”

Schneck looked at Hal and LouDon.

“Sound familiar, boys?” Schneck asked.

Jackson and Sweeney looked at each other.

“Was he a tall man wearin' a Stetson and ridin a strawberry roan with a white blaze on its forehead?” Hal asked.

“Yep. It sure was a man on a strawberry roan.”

“Same man,” LouDon said.

Just then, Thor Sorenson stepped inside the cabin. He had been standing outside listening to Cass tell his story.

“Thor, did you hear all that?” Schneck asked. “You were standing right outside.”

“Horse had a splinter under its hoof. I didn't hear anything,” Sorenson lied.

“I wonder if you saw a waddie riding a strawberry roan,” Schneck said.

Sorenson shook his head.

“Did you hear him shootin' at us?” Cass asked.

“Nope,” Sorenson said. “I have been making the marks on the trees for you fellers.”