Chapter Thirty-three
The Lordsburg stage had often been late, but when it pulled into Recoil just before noon on the morning of Maurice Bird’s funeral, it was a day late, a fact that alarmed Sheriff Clitherow.
If the driver, the dashing, buckskinned Tom Gill, was also concerned at his tardiness, he made no show of it. He stopped the stagecoach and helped his three passengers alight outside the Rest and Be Thankful Hotel, still scarred from the bomb that missed killing Colonel O’Brien and Luther Ironside.
Clitherow crossed the street to the stage. “Tom, what the hell?”
Then he saw the faces of the passengers.
All three were men, a couple of drummers, the third a young counter clerk by the name of Alan Clark who worked for the Recoil Bank and Trust and had been visiting his ailing father in Lordsburg.
The men looked like the damned who’d just taken their first glimpse into hell. Their eyes were wide, stunned with the remembrance of a horror that, until then, they couldn’t even imagine. Clitherow had seen that look before in the eyes of soldiers who’d had a limb amputated, unbelieving, staring around them but seeing nothing.
“Tom,” Clitherow said, “what the hell happened?”
“Gunter Station happened, Sheriff,” Gill said. “Hick and his wife dead, three more men dead on the ground. It seems that old Hick made his fight.”
Clitherow opened his mouth to speak, but Gill talked over him, eager to finish his story. “We buried the dead best we could, me an’ Buff Ferguson, who was riding guard, an’ the passengers. Never seen them as done it, except for the rannies that ol’ Hick shot. They took all the mules from the corral. I spied that my ownself from the tracks. Hick was a mean old codger, but he ran a good station, and his wife was a fine cook an’ just as pretty as she could be. She didn’t deserve the end she got. Neither of them did.”
Clitherow went at it gently. “Tom, where were the tracks headed? Can you recollect?”
“Sure I recollect. They were headed east. Southeast, you would call it.”
In his mind’s eye, Clitherow pictured the lay of the land from Gunter Station southeast. “They were maybe headed for the Apache Hills. In that general direction anyway, huh?”
“Could be. I wouldn’t know. It’s off my route.” Gill stepped away and said to the passengers, “Are you men feelin’ all right? You’ve been through a lot and look used up.”
The drummers exchanged glances, then one of the said, “We will be all right after we have a drink or three.” He looked at the bank clerk. “You care to join us, young feller?”
“That woman was . . . was . . .”
“I know,” the drummer said. “You want to join us, get them tintypes out of your head?”
“Damn right I do,” Alan Clark said.
“How about you, driver?” the drummer asked.
Gill shook his head. “I got mail for Sonora and I’m already running behind. Thanks fer the offer, though.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Yeah, and good luck to you too.”
“So you can see that this thing has come to a head,” Sheriff Jim Clitherow said. “Nate Condor is headed for the Apache Hills and I bet he’s after the army wagon if it’s still there. That’s where we’ll find him.”
“When did Condor raid the stage station?” Dallas Steele asked.
“About this time yesterday, maybe a little earlier.”
“He could be long gone by now.”
“We’ll find him,” Clitherow said.
“Who have we got?”
“You, me, and—”
“Us,” Shamus said. “Luther and me.”
“Five with Deputy Sparrow,” Steele said. “Is that enough?”
“It’ll have to be,” Clitherow said. “We can’t depend on anybody else. Not to go up against Nate Condor and his boys we can’t.”
“What about Shaw?” Steele asked.
“Silas Shaw?” Clitherow said, surprised. “What about him?”
“Chastity Ludsthorpe told me that Shaw handled a gun pretty well at the stagecoach holdup.”
“He was lucky,” Ironside said. “Any one of them bandits could’ve taken him without even tryin’.”
“Maybe,” Steele said, “but I think we should bring him along as an extra gun.”
Clitherow sighed. “Whatever you say.” He motioned to Sparrow. “Steve, go get Silas. Bring him here and tell him to wear iron.”
The deputy nodded and left.
“After I talk to Silas, we saddle up and head directly for the Apache Hills,” Clitherow said. “Damn it, boys, we’ll run him to earth this time.”
“You’ll have to ride a hoss, Steele,” Ironside said. “This isn’t work for a burro.”
“I don’t have a hoss.”
“I’ll find you one,” Clitherow said.
“I don’t like horses,” Steele said. “I never did cotton to them much.”
“You’ll learn to love them, Steele,” Ironside said, his lips twitching under his mustache. “We’ll make a horseman of you yet.”
The office door swung open and Sparrow stepped inside. Silas Shaw, wearing a brown apron over broadcloth pants and a collarless white shirt, was right behind him.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” Shaw asked. “I am very busy, you know, with the hotel being repaired and all.”
“Steve didn’t tell you?”
“I thought Silas should h-hear it from you, Jim,” Sparrow said.
“The night riders are headed for the Apache Hills, and it could be they’re after an army pay wagon carrying more than a hundred thousand in gold and silver coin. We’re going after them and time’s a-wasting.”
“How do you know this?” Shaw said, his face drained of color, something Steele noticed.
“They raided a stage station yesterday, killed the owner and his wife and stole a mule team,” Clitherow said. “Tom Gill come up on the place and he said the bandits left tracks that headed in the direction of the Apache Hills. Just for your information, Silas, the leader of the killers is a man by the name of English Nate Condor.”
“Condor is a former pirate and slave trader,” Steele said, watching Shaw’s reaction closely. “He’s a man that needs killing.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Shaw rubbed his left arm and his eyes were wary, guarded, and pained.
“I’m forming a posse and I intend to trap Condor in the hills. I’d like you to join us, Silas.”
“But I’m not a gunfighter. And I have my poor wife . . . and my store to consider.”
Steel smiled inwardly. Perhaps the man doth protest too much.
“I can’t force you to do this, Silas,” Clitherow said. “I’m asking you as a friend.”
“Then I’ll do it.” Shaw’s eyes hardened to chips of gray flint. “When do we leave?”
“Now.” Clitherow rose to his feet and extended his hand. “You’re a brave and honorable man, Silas.” He and Shaw shook.
Steele, silently observing, did not share Clitherow’s opinion of Silas Shaw.