‘That lil gal, Sybil, sure wasn’t what she seemed to be,’ Jefferson Trade commented, bringing the conversation around to a subject which he had frequently introduced during the past six days.
‘I’ve yet to know the woman who was,’ Brady Anchor answered dryly. ‘But I’ll go along with you, nephew. She sure was one surprising young lady.’
After concluding their business, which had included advancing Brady and Jeff a thousand dollars to cover their expenses during the hunt for the counterfeiters, Barnstaple had taken Sybil Cravern from the cabin. Presumably they had returned to Rocksprings with the intention of informing the banker and the sheriff of the scheme’s progress. Before leaving, Barnstaple had warned Brady and Jeff that the local peace officers would have to put out a wanted poster on them. However, he had assured them, it would not offer a sufficiently high reward to attract bounty hunters. It would also carry the advice that the reward would only be paid if they were returned to Rocksprings alive and in good health.
‘Which’s just how we’d want it to be,’ Brady had said, on being told of the final item. ‘When a dodger says “Dead Or Alive”, folks’re likely to go for the first as being easier all round.’
To make the details appear more natural, in case Sheriff Minter had gone through the motions of turning out a posse and hunting for them, Brady and Jeff had decided against spending the night in the cabin. Taking their horses, they had ridden for a few miles. Although they were strangers to Edwards County, they had possessed a strong enough sense of direction to make for the area in which they had quit the owlhoots’ trail. They had spent the remainder of the night sleeping under the stars, within a mile of the valley.
Next morning, Jeff had found the gang’s tracks and started to trail them once more. The sign was no longer fresh, but it was not so old that he met with exceptional difficulty in following it. In this, he had been helped by the fact that the owlhoots had been careful to steer clear of even scantily populated regions. Mostly they had traversed open range, with only an occasional bunch of cattle, or herds of wild animals, crossing their line of march.
The gang had continued to move in a south-westerly direction, roughly towards the town of Langtry, in Val Verde County. Instead of reaching that town, they had turned northwards, paralleling the stagecoach route, and made for Pandale, on the Howard Creek of the Pecos River.
Brady and Jeff had been puzzled by the change of direction, but had drawn a conclusion or two from the tracks’ story of the owlhoots’ actions. On coming into sight of the trail, the trio had ridden to where a large, hollow old cottonwood tree loomed majestically over a bend. From what Brady and Jeff had been able to discover, one of them had removed a sheet of paper which had been thumb-tacked inside the trunk. The tree was obviously a well-known local landmark and served as a notice-, or general message-, board. A few wanted posters, an advertisement for a travelling show and other information was attached to the dry interior, where they would be safe from the elements.
Without having anything definite to go on, Brady and Jeff had formed their conclusions on the owlhoots’ actions. Jeff had suggested that they had come to collect information from the counterfeiters, but Brady did not agree. It was, he had stated, highly unlikely that they would leave information in a public place when doing so might guide the law to them. Brady was inclined to believe that the men had taken away a wanted poster which gave their names and descriptions. Having nothing further to guide them, they had continued to follow the trio’s trail.
Rain had wiped out the tracks on the night that Brady and Jeff had reached Pandale, but it had not proved to be a serious impediment. The owner of the small hamlet’s only saloon had been most helpful. Remembering them from their ‘mustanging’ expedition the previous year, he had been very pleased to see them again. What was more, on hearing the three owlhoots’ descriptions, he had shown no hesitation to talk about them. They had spent the previous night at his place and, although they had all been clad in range clothing, he had identified them to Brady’s satisfaction.
Assuming that the trio were rival mustangers, the saloonkeeper had apparently decided that Brady and Jeff were interested in them for that reason. If they had told the truth in the course of a heated discussion, which had struck Brady as being likely seeing that they had not realized that the owner was able to hear them, they were going west to Terrell County’s seat, Sanderson. He had not heard all that had been said, only how at last the gaunt cuss—who had appeared to be the leader—had prevailed as to their destination.
‘Maybe he was wanting to take them there to get ’em all ree-formed,’ the saloonkeeper had remarked with a grin. ‘They’d sure been interested in that poster there’s the Widow Snodgrass had me put up last time she passed through.’
‘Didn’t know you’d go for that sort of thing on your wall, Zach,’ Jeff had remarked, for the Widow’s handbill declaimed vigorously against drinking, gambling and most of his other sources of income.
‘See you boys ain’t met up with the Widow,’ the saloonkeeper had replied.
‘Can’t say we have,’ Brady had replied. ‘Nor even heard much about her.’
‘Happen you come across her,’ the saloonkeeper had grinned, ‘you’ll know why I’ve left it there.’
Apparently, according to the man, Widow Snodgrass was a lady of forceful personality. She had been very highly thought of by the local ‘good’ ladies, including his wife. So he had raised no objections to exhibiting the handbill, nor had he taken it down after the Widow and her Daughters of the Lord had gone on their way.
Taking up the trail once more, Brady and Jeff had followed the shortest and most direct route to Sanderson. They had traversed the trail used by the Overland stagecoaches, making good time but without picking up further clues concerning the trio. Either the owlhoots were staying away from the trail, or they had avoided the way stations and other travelers.
During the journey, whilst discussing other matters, Brady had noticed how Jeff had kept bringing their conversation around to Sybil Cravern.
It had caused the stocky man some concern—and still did.
Not that Brady objected to his nephew taking a healthy and natural interest in attractive members of the opposite sex. Brady himself was anything but a monk and had an eye for a shapely female; although his tastes now ran to ladies with fuller figures and a greater worldliness than the blonde had displayed.
Sybil had been a most attractive girl, Brady could not deny that; but there had been a number of things about her which had led him to assume that she would not be the most suitable company for young Jefferson.
For all her elfin features and lisping, vague manner of speaking, she had dealt with Deputy Briskow in a most effective manner. Nor had she been in the slightest vague while explaining the situation. The hesitation and apparent forgetfulness had been well done, but were—unless Brady was far mistaken—nothing more than play-acting. On top of that, when disturbed from her sleep, she had whipped out her gun like an exceptionally efficient pistolero. Not just a stingy gun, of the kind a saloon girl might carry holstered to her garter, more noisy than dangerous. It was a Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket revolver; .45 in caliber and with a kick like a mule due to the powerful cartridge and its own light weight.
No, sir. The way Brady Anchor saw it, Sybil Cravern was not the kind of girl his nephew should be getting sweet thoughts over.
Coming to the town of Sanderson, with the sun dropping towards the western horizon, Brady and Jeff rode slowly along the main street. They attracted little or no attention, for Brady had changed into his work clothes of a blue denim jacket, Levi’s pants and high-heeled, fancy-stitched boots. He still carried the Thunderer in the directional-draw shoulder holster. Jeff was dressed much the same as he had been in Rocksprings and, likewise, wore his revolver in concealment.
From the moment that they entered the town, Brady and Jeff were aware that Widow Snodgrass had paid a visit. Her handbills were attached to the walls, or displayed in windows, of the various business establishments.
‘I’m beginning to think I’d like to meet this here Widow Snodgrass,’ Brady drawled, studying the handbills. ‘She sure must be a mighty interesting lady.’
‘She’d be all right, maybe, happen you take to glory-chasers,’ Jeff replied disinterestedly.
‘Could be a right nice woman,’ Brady pointed out.
‘I’m betting she weighs over two hundred pounds, has a face like a thirty-year cavalry sergeant and that her Daughters of the Lord’re so ugly a man’d quit sinning just so’s he could stay far away from them.’
‘It’s possible,’ Brady admitted. ‘But you could be ... ’
‘Those four horses standing outside the Golden Eagle look sort of familiar, Uncle Brady!’ Jeff interrupted, nodding to a big, two-storey saloon on the left side of the street.
‘Bay, blue roan, dun and brown,’ Brady drawled, studying the animals in question. ‘The bay’s got him a fancy Mex saddle. I didn’t pay them no mind as I went by in Rocksprings—’
‘I did,’ Jeff assured him. ‘Figure I’d best, in case they got away.’
‘You did the right thing,’ Brady praised, aware that his nephew had a remarkably good memory where horses were concerned and would be unlikely to make a mistake. ‘So we’ll play them careful.’
‘How do we handle it?’ Jeff wanted to know. ‘Ole Whip Staine’s likely still marshal. Trouble being his office’s way on the other edge of town.’
‘Yes. And while we’re going to get him, they could pull out.’
‘So we go in and make a citizen’s arrest on ’em?’
‘That’s our right under the Constitution, nephew,’ Brady drawled. ‘I’ll take the front door and you come in from the side.’
‘Sure,’ Jeff agreed. ‘They’ll be less likely to recognize you.’
‘I’m counting on it,’ Brady admitted. ‘Don’t forget, we want them alive—unless there’s no way of getting them like it.’
‘I’ll mind it,’ Jeff promised.
Guiding their horses to the hitching rail outside the Golden Eagle Saloon, Brady and Jeff dismounted. They looped their split-ended reins loosely over the rail, knowing that their horses would not attempt to pull free and stray.
‘They’re tied to the hitching rail,’ Jeff remarked, indicating the suspected animals.
‘Not every owlhoot’s smart enough to train his horse to stand with ’em hanging over,’ Brady pointed out. This bunch could be some who haven’t been.’
They was smart in a heap of other ways,’ Jeff reminded him.
‘You’re sure it’s the right horses?’
‘Near enough. I’ll go ’round to the side door, Uncle Brady.’
‘Go to it, nephew.’
Jeff did not offer the suggestion that his uncle should wait until he had had time to reach the side door and was ready to enter. Nor did Brady present his nephew with equally unnecessary advice. Having been together for a number of years, they had complete faith in one another. Brady had trained Jeff as a peace officer. So they could count upon each other to perform in smooth co-ordination and without needless discussion of what they should do.
Watching Jeff stride away, to disappear down the alley at the right side of the building, Brady shoved back his planter’s hat a trifle. He did not attempt to look in the saloon’s windows. To have done so might have let him be seen and recognized by the owlhoots, putting them on their guard. He waited for over thirty seconds, then crossed the sidewalk to the batwing doors. Pushing them open, he stepped inside with apparent nonchalance and lack of concern.
Pausing on the threshold, Brady looked quickly, yet thoroughly, around the big bar-room. Its furnishings and fittings suggested that it was the best place in the town. A large number of assorted customers were drinking, gambling, or talking to the garishly-attired pretty girls who wandered between, and occasionally sat at, the tables.
Waiting until Jeff entered through the side door, Brady started to advance across the room. He glanced at the first floor’s interior balcony, from which a wide flight of stairs led downwards. Several customers and girls occupied the balcony and, beyond them, doors gave access to private rooms.
The door of one of the upstairs rooms opened. Before Brady could discover who was coming out, his attention was diverted elsewhere.
‘Quit chawing on that tobacco and make your play!’ demanded an irate voice. ‘We’re wanting to get on with the game.’
‘I’ll do it when I’m good and ready,’ came an equally annoyed reply.
The tones of the second speaker struck Brady as being familiar.
Looking around, Brady saw a poker game in progress. It was evidently for high stakes, as’ it was taking place in a partially curtained alcove at the left side of the room. All the players he could see were well-dressed, prosperous-looking men. Their attention appeared to be centered upon one of their number who was hidden from Brady’s sight by the curtains.
Glancing in Jeff’s direction, Brady saw that he was still standing by the door. Their eyes met briefly. A quick nod towards the card game was all the information his nephew would require. So Brady gave it. Then he strolled in a leisurely fashion towards the alcove.
Moving around, so that he could observe the area which had previously been concealed by the curtain, Brady had his suspicions confirmed. Although clad in range clothes and unshaven since his departure from Rocksprings, or so it seemed from the stubble on his face, the player was the gaunt ‘undertaker’ who had led the gang. His left cheek bulged in an unnatural manner as he scowled from his cards to a small stack of chips, then at the sizeable pot in the centre of the table.
‘Hello, Jeff-honey!’ said a delighted voice. ‘It’s great to see you back.’
‘Hey there, Winnie,’ Jeff replied to the pretty brunette who had confronted him and was smiling a welcome that seemed sincere.
‘Come and buy a gal a drink,’ Winnie suggested hopefully. ‘This town’s sure been quiet, after you and Uncle Brady left.’
‘Later maybe,’ the red-head countered, returning his gaze to Brady.
‘You forget her, whoever she is!’ Winnie advised, misinterpreting his action. ‘I’m all the gal you can handle.’
‘And more,’ Jeff drawled, and Winnie moved to take his right arm.
‘Come and buy me a drink,’ the girl insisted.
From Jeff’s position, he could not see the upper part of the stairs. If he had been able to, he would have felt considerable concern for his uncle’s welfare. The ‘rancher’ and the ‘drummer’—the latter now attired in the fashion of a cowhand—had emerged from one of the private rooms accompanied by two girls. On leaving, the girls had detached themselves from their escorts and wandered away. The ‘rancher’ scowled after them, then made as if to follow.
‘Leave ’em go,’ the ‘drummer’ advised, easing his companion to the front of the balcony. ‘You should’ve expected them to pull out when they found we was getting broke.’
‘Let’s hope Spit’s having better luck,’ the ‘rancher’ growled, swinging his eyes in the direction of the alcove. ‘I need some more mon ... Hey, Rupe!’
‘What’s up?’ asked the ‘drummer’, swinging his attention from the departing girls.
‘Look at that feller going to the game!’ the ‘rancher’ requested.
‘What about hi... ?’ the ‘drummer’ began, then stiffened. ‘Hell, yes! It’s the chubby cuss we robbed in Rocksprings.’
‘He’s after Spit!’ the ‘rancher’ ejaculated, right hand going to his gun.
‘Maybe,’ replied the ‘drummer’, blocking the other’s draw. ‘Only that’s no answer. Come on. Let’s get going downstairs. If he is after us, we’d best be ready to get the hell out of here.’
Halting on the opposite side of the table to where the ‘undertaker’ was sitting in brooding contemplation of the cards, Brady stood still. He was too much of a gentleman to interfere before the end of the pot. So he waited, watchfully alert but silent and—as far as he could tell—unobserved by the leader of the owlhoots. If the ‘undertaker’s’ attitude was anything to go by, he was too engrossed to bother looking at the kibitzers; or anything other than the five cards in his hands.
‘All right,’ the ‘undertaker’ growled, munching savagely at his wad of tobacco. There was a spittoon placed conveniently for his use, but he ignored it. Shoving forward the remainder of his chips, he laid three kings, a jack and a four face up on the green baize. ‘I’ll see you.’
‘That’s a good hand,’ admitted a burly man in expensive town clothes, his tones mock congratulatory. He watched the other reaching eagerly towards the pot and exposed his, own cards. ‘Only it’s not quite good enough. Not against three eights and two lil deuces.’
Anger flushed across the ‘undertaker’s’ face. He seemed to be making an effort to control his temper as he watched the other raking in the pot. Yet a third player was gathering the cards.
‘Seeing’s how it’s dealer’s choice, gents,’ the player remarked, ‘I’m going to deal us a game of stud.’
‘I’m cleaned out!’ the ‘undertaker’ said bitterly.
‘I shouldn’t let a lil thing like that bother you,’ Brady drawled. ‘You can always steal some more.’
All talk and motion ended abruptly at the table. Every player’s eyes swung to the speaker. A couple of them could remember Brady from his previous visits and were not fooled by his cherubic appearance. Those less well informed wondered why such a harmless-looking cuss had made a remark calculated to cause real bad trouble.
The ‘undertaker’s’ head snapped up and, for a moment, he scowled in a puzzled, irritated manner. Then recognition crept across his gaunt features. It was partially replaced by a blank, but menacing-eyed glare.
‘I can’t say’s I think that’s funny,’ the ‘undertaker’ warned and started to come to his feet. His right hand dropped closer to the butt of the Colt Peacemaker in its tied-down holster.
‘It wasn’t aimed to be,’ Brady replied. ‘No funnier, anyways, than the way you and your boys robbed the bank at Rocksprings.’
Throwing a quick glance at the stairs, the ‘undertaker’ saw his two companions just starting to descend. From their attitudes, they had identified the stocky man and were ready to take cards. Tensing slightly, the ‘undertaker’ gathered the tobacco juice which had accumulated whilst he was mulling over whether to call or pass. He had been on the point of ejecting it into the spittoon, but had found a better use for it.
With a casual-seeming motion, the ‘undertaker’ spat out the stream of brownish liquid. At the same instant, his right hand dipped to and closed about the butt of the Colt.
The juice was flying straight towards Brady Anchor’s eyes.