Holding his team horses to a steady trot, the hounds loping alongside and the big zebra-dun riding stallion following without fuss, Scobie Dale drove his wagon out of Braddock and followed the trail which offered easiest traveling during the first miles to Desborough.
‘Mister,’ said the girl’s voice from behind him.
While not a man given to showing his emotions, or easily startled, Scobie whipped around on the seat and surprise showed on his face. He could hardly believe his eyes, but Pauline stood at the front of the wagon. All too well Scobie knew the fierce protective nature of the Bluetick bitch in the wagon. At the best, Vixen only tolerated strangers and certainly not when they entered what the bitch regarded as her private domain. Yet the girl stood behind Scobie, as large as life and unmarked or unflurried.
‘How the hell—?’ Scobie began.
‘I’ve a way with dogs,’ Pauline answered. ‘Thanks for saving me, and not letting on I was around.’
‘I didn’t know you were still around,’ Scobie corrected, wondering how the girl managed to get by Vixen silently and with the bitch mean with her pregnancy.
‘Thought it would be better if nobody saw me,’ the girl explained. ‘So I ducked into the wagon. I’d only just got friends with Vixen when the first of the folks came and I hid under your bunk.’
‘Which I call quick thinking,’ commented Scobie, and the wagon jolted over an excuse-me-ma’am iii in the trail.
‘Hey, easy!’ Pauline warned. ‘You’ve an expecting mother in back here.’ She glanced back in the bitch’s direction. ‘It’ll be any time soon, or I miss my guess.’
A shiver ran through the girl and Scobie realized that she must be very cold as her clothing was more suitable for the barroom than riding in a wagon on a chilly spring night.
‘There’s a wolf-skin coat on the bed,’ he said. ‘Need a match?’
‘I can find it,’ the girl answered and disappeared into the wagon. A few moments later she emerged wearing the heavy coat over her dress. Showing a shapely leg, she swung over on to the wagon box and sat at Scobie’s side, ‘Why didn’t you say I’d been with you when Skerrit came?’
‘Nobody asked if you had.’
‘I saw Zimmy looking in the back until Vixen scared him off. Maybe Skerrit told him that he was after me.’
‘Or maybe Zimmerman just wanted to get you back to work.’
‘You still don’t believe me!’ Pauline snorted.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Scobie answered.
‘You meant it,’ the girl insisted. ‘Didn’t Skerrit coming after me prove anything?’
‘Could be he wanted evens with me for clubbing him down in the saloon. A feller with his reputation wouldn’t want it known that happened to him, and he did nothing about it.’
‘Then why else would I be in your wagon?’
‘Not for my good looks, anyways,’ Scobie said dryly,
‘You’re not bad looking,’ Pauline replied seriously. ‘Apart from— How did it happen?’
‘A bear clawed me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘The bear got around to being. You can see his hide on the floor at the L Over V any time you’re that way.’
One of the things Scobie hated most about the disfiguration of his face was the fact that it came about partly from inexperience and particularly because of over-confidence. Early in his independent career as a hound dog man, Scobie bought one of the recently introduced Colt Lightning Express rifles. While the Winchester Models of 1873 and 1876 proved more powerful than the old ‘yellowboy’ 1866 rifle, neither struck Scobie as having quite the punch he required. Nor did he fancy a heavy caliber Remington or Sharps single-shot, accurate at long ranges though they might be, for general hunting – he did own a Sharps Old Reliable buffalo gun that found use for special work. So he bought the new trombone slide action Colt rifle, its .50.95 caliber striking him as heavy enough and its nine-shot magazine capacity proved the deciding factor. The Express caliber rifles were an attempt to lessen the trajectory of a black powder-powered bullet’s flight and increase accuracy, using a heavy charge and light bullet.
While hunting a bear, Scobie gave the rifle its first working trial and used factory Express bullets. The pack brought the bear to bay and Scobie came up to play his part. Although he held true, the light bullet shattered on the outside of the bear’s skull and provoked a determined charge. Three more bullets struck the bear before Scobie decided to take more effective measures. A shot from the old Remington pistol tore into the bear’s head at the last moment and tumbled it; but not before it managed to rake open Scobie’s face with its claws.
After patching up his face as best he could, Scobie skinned the bear, allowing the pack to feed on some of the meat and hung the rest in a tree. Then he mounted his zebra dun and rode eight miles to the L Over V ranch house to receive more effective treatment.
What annoyed Scobie most about the affair was that it had been a black bear weighing no more than two hundred and fifty pounds which gave him the injury. After that he always loaded his own bullets, using a solid lead ball which might not have the Express’ flat trajectory, but packed enough power to smash through the skull bones of any animal he had come across.
‘What will you do about me?’ asked Pauline, guessing that the subject of his face was distasteful.
Take you as far as you want to go, up to Desborough anyways. What’ll you do then?’
‘I’ve enough money to buy a stage ticket down to Arizona and I can find work there.’
‘In a saloon?’
‘Where else?’ she asked defensively.
‘Pull your horns in, gal,’ Scobie drawled. ‘Only if there’re fellers after your hide, working in a saloon’s the easiest way to lead them to you.’
‘A girl has to live.’
‘I ain’t gainsaying it. Only those fellers sent after you are hunters, like me. And I know better than go looking for cougar out on the open plains. Sure one might be there sometimes, but a cougar sticks to wooded country. That’s the way it lives.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Those fellers know you work in saloons. So they’ve a start to searching for you. And saloon folks talk, travel around. How long will it be afore word gets back to them where to find you?’
When it was pointed out to her, Pauline could see the truth in Scobie’s words. ‘But I don’t know any other kind of work,’ she protested.
‘Can’t you cook?’
‘Of course I can, but not good enough to make a living at it – or at least not as good a living as I can make in a saloon.’
‘It’s your life,’ commented Scobie.
‘If I can make enough to go East—’ Pauline began.
‘Thorpe can’t let you stop alive, East, West, or any other place, gal.’
‘Then you believe me?’
‘I reckon you told the truth.’
‘But what can I do?’ groaned Pauline.
‘Like I said, get work away from saloons. But you’ll spend your whole life wondering when they’ll find you. Why not go to the law?’
‘The law!’ Pauline gasped. ‘Thorpe has the Cheyenne marshal’s office in his pocket. They’ll not move against him.’
‘That’s local law. No man, from the Governor down, has Waco in his pocket.’
‘Waco?’
‘The United States marshal.’
‘How would I be able to reach him?’ the girl asked.
‘I might be able to help you there,’ Scobie answered. ‘Just afore he was appointed U.S. marshal, I was down on his ranch in Utah. Happen I can reach him, he’ll do what he can.’
Like most folks who worked in and around saloons, Pauline found little cause to trust the average peace officer who crossed her path. She had seen local lawmen bow to power and political pull, so wondered if a U.S. marshal would prove any different. With her life depending on it, she felt disinclined to take chances.
‘I – I don’t know,’ she finally said.
‘Think on it, gal,’ suggested Scobie. There’s no rush. We can’t do much until we reach Desborough. Let’s hope that nobody else can do anything faster.’
After the wagon departed, Zimmerman walked slowly back to the saloon. While walking, he tried to decide what might be best to do. Most likely the girl had been with Scobie Dale, hidden in the wagon and guarded by the dog. If so he should make a move at carrying out the work Skerrit had been sent to do. Which produced a problem. What had Skerrit been hired to do about the girl?
From the fear Pauline showed when Skerrit approached her she for one figured that he came to kill. Certainly his actions at the barn pointed that way. If he intended to abduct the girl, he would hardly have made the attempt from in the hayloft. True that would be his safest way of dealing with Scobie Dale, but the girl could escape before Skerrit reached the floor of the barn.
That simplified the problem. Kidnapping the girl might prove risky; but dead women were just as silent as men in the matter of telling tales. Only one thing need now be settled, finding somebody to go after and kill both Pauline and Scobie Dale. There were too many things against Zimmerman using his own men, but he reckoned something of a more satisfactory nature might be arranged.
On arrival at the saloon, Zimmerman studied the crowd. Townsmen and local cowhands could be discounted straight away. In fact, the saloonkeeper could see only three suitable candidates. A tall, blond-haired young man in the company of the best-looking girl Zimmerman hired caught the eye. Something of a dandy dresser, wearing the height of current range fashion and with a low-hanging ivory-handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in a fast draw holster, he looked just a mite too prosperous for an honest working cowhand. That was the trouble, the blond young man was too prosperous. He would not be willing to accept such a chore as Zimmerman had in mind.
Which left the other two and to the saloonkeeper’s way of thinking, they presented a much more satisfactory picture. Seated at a side table, they nursed a couple of schooners of beer with such care that it seemed likely they could afford nothing better nor more in the drinking line. Both wore range clothes, were tall and unshaven; and each carried a Colt in a tied-down holster, giving the impression that they knew how to use it.
Catching one of his bouncer’s eye, Zimmerman brought the man to his side. Without making his interest too obvious, the saloonkeeper indicated the two men.
‘Know them?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know what they’re called now,’ the bouncer replied. ‘Back in the Dakotas the one with the moustache was Packer and the other Spice.’
‘Are they part of the Wild Bunch?’
‘Not so’s to call Butch Cassidy, Harvey Logan or Ben Kilpatrick by their first names. Those pair’re small time; hoss-holders and spare guns.’
Not promising material to go against the man who killed Ike Skerrit, but ideal for Zimmerman’s purpose. He did not want important members of the Wild Bunch working for him. If things went wrong, the leading names of the loosely knit criminal fraternity known as the Wild Bunch had friends liable to require answers to how those things happened. While the super-organized gang – with secret oaths administered on joining, passwords, masterminded by Cassidy, Logan, Kilpatrick and a few others – did not exist outside the lurid paperback novels of the day, the Wild Bunch still packed some weight in Wyoming. Zimmerman certainly had no intention of antagonizing them; and, while the two men might occasionally be hired for menial work when members of the Wild Bunch performed a robbery, neither had such a close connection with any band as to claim its loyalty.
‘Get them into the office,’ he ordered.
No expensive liquor and costly cigars came out when Packer and Spice entered the office. After introducing them, the bouncer withdrew and closed the door behind him. Zimmerman looked at the two men from head to foot and they studied him with equal care.
‘I didn’t see you drinking much out there,’ Zimmerman said.
‘We read the sign behind the bar,’ answered Packer, referring to a notice bluntly declaring that credit would not be given.
‘Would you be looking for work?’ the saloonkeeper asked.
‘Not if it’s heavy toting,’ Spice replied.
‘You don’t look the heavy toting kind,’ Zimmerman sniffed.
‘That’s the living truth, mister’ Me ‘n’ Packer’s some too delicate for it.’
‘This chore wouldn’t want some shooting done on it, nor nothing dangerous like that, now would it?’ Packer went on.
‘Would you object if it did?’
‘Can’t say as we would – happen the price’s right and you’re not choosey on how we go about it.’
For a time Zimmerman did not speak. Doubts nagged at him, although he realized the extreme delicacy of his position. If he gave the wrong order, having the girl killed when Kale Schuster wanted her alive or vice versa, nobody would stop to consider that he merely acted for the best. Nor would his position be much better if he did nothing, or wired Schuster for advice. In either case, the girl might escape completely and bring recrimination down on the saloonkeeper’s head.
Of course if he made the correct decision, Zimmerman would find Schuster willing to listen to a request and maybe agree to it. Zimmerman’s ambition was to move into a big town, so as to share in the greater profits a saloon offered in such an area. Gaining possession of such a place took more than money, which he had. Permission must be granted by the men who controlled the town; without it no saloonkeeper could open, or if he opened, show a profit. Having Schuster backing him, Zimmerman would be able to open anywhere and might even be allowed to set up in Cheyenne; with all the possibilities given by living in the State capital.
Sucking in his breath, Zimmerman reached his decision. Every sign pointed to Schuster wanting the girl dead. If the worst came to the worst, Zimmerman figured he might claim that the dead Skerrit told him that Pauline must be killed. The fact that Zimmerman held Schuster’s letter requesting that every aid be granted to Skerrit would lend a ring of truth to the statement.
‘I want a killing done outside town and you can handle it any way you want,’ he told the waiting men.
‘Who is it,’ asked Spice, ‘and where?’
‘Now me, I’d say let’s hear how much we get first,’ interrupted the more practical Packer.
‘One hundred and fifty dollars each,’ offered Zimmerman, wanting to have the thing done for the lowest possible price.
‘For a killing?’ sniffed Packer.
‘Hell, there’ll be no risk to it. How does one-seventy-five each sound?’
‘All right, for openers – eh, Spice?’
‘Sure, Pack, we can always go up later.’
‘I want you to go after a wagon that’s headed out on the Desborough trail and learn if there’s a gal with it.’
‘And if there is?’ asked Packer.
‘Kill her,’ said Zimmerman, taking the plunge.
‘She traveling alone?’ Packer inquired mildly.
‘There’ll be a man along.’
‘He’ll not go for us killing the gal,’ Spice pointed out.
‘Then you’ll have to kill him too,’ Zimmerman explained.
‘On the Desborough trail?’ asked Packer, still suspiciously mild-voiced.
‘That’s what I said,’ the saloonkeeper agreed.
Packer and Spice exchanged glances, then turned towards the door. ‘See you, mister,’ Spice said.
‘You mean you won’t do it?’ yelped Zimmerman.
‘For a lousy one-seventy-five each – when the man’s Scobie Dale? Mister, me ‘n’ Spice may be close to the blanket, but we’re not stupid.’
‘We saw the fuss in the bar and heard what the Wells Fargo man told Dale,’ Spice continued.
‘Two hundred each,’ Zimmerman yelped as the men started to walk slowly towards the door. ‘Kale Schuster’s behind this. He wants it done.’
Even as he spoke, Zimmerman found himself wishing he had thought to mention Schuster before raising the price. Only the top names of the Wild Bunch might take chance on ignoring such an important man’s wishes and the pair in the office did not belong in that class. Turning, they came back to the desk.
‘Two hundred apiece,’ Packer agreed. ‘A bottle of whiskey and some rifle bullets. We’re both out and’re going to need them to handle Dale’s dogs.’
‘Which is a shame as the store’s closed up for the night,’ Spice continued.
There’s a box behind the bar,’ Zimmerman growled. ‘You can have them and a small bottle of whiskey. When you’ve done the job, you can have another.’
‘You toss money around like a man with no arms,’ Packer sneered. ‘Only we work like your sign behind the bar.’
‘Work best on a full stomach, which same neither of us’s the money to get right now,’ Spice went on. ‘So we’d surely admire to have more’n loving words afore we ride out.’
‘All right, you’ve a deal,’ said Zimmerman. ‘Fifty dollars down and the rest when you bring me Dale’s guns and the girl’s clothes. What you do with the bodies is your affair.’
‘Bring you all the gal’s clothes?’ Packer asked.
‘Sounds like it’ll be fun,’ Spice grinned, ‘It’s a pity we’ll have to kill her afore we lay hands on her.’
‘How about if the gal’s not with Dale?’ Packer inquired, throwing a warning scowl at his frivolous partner. ‘The hound dog man gets on real good with Butch Cassidy.’
‘Leave him be unless the girl’s there,’ Zimmerman confirmed. ‘Come back and let me know. That girl’s got to be found.’
‘We’ll see to it,’ promised Packer. ‘Make sure you let Mr. Schuster know how we helped.’
Like the saloonkeeper, Packer was aware of the rosy future which lay ahead of any man fortunate enough to come under Kale Schuster’s patronage.
Leading the way from his office, Zimmerman took the men to the counter and told the bartender to tend to their needs. After accepting the small bottle of whiskey, box of rifle bullets and money, Packer walked from the saloon with Spice on his heels.
The tall blond cowhand finished his drink and started to shove back his chair. Being aware that he carried a well-filled wallet, the girl seated at his table protested.
‘You’re not going, are you?’ she asked. ‘I’ve room at my place—’
‘Now there’s a thought,’ he grinned. ‘Only I want to go for a meal first. I – sleep – better on a full stomach.’
‘All right,’ smiled the girl. ‘But you come back now, after you’re fed and ready to – sleep.’