SEVEN

‘It’s about time,’ Killeen grumbled an hour later as Mark Calhoun returned to Wally Shoup’s stable. ‘Where in hell have you been?’

‘I told you, Killeen,’ the army lieutenant answered a little huffily as he swung down from his horse, ‘I have been conferring with the marshal.’

‘Have you now? I have a good view of the marshal’s office from here. Slattery’s been there for at least half an hour.’

Calhoun muttered and mumbled without really saying anything as he unsaddled.

Killeen said, ‘My pony’s rested and I’m ready to ride, Lieutenant. I suppose you’d better rent a mount.’

‘Ride where?’ Calhoun asked in confusion.

‘To find the man with the rifles – I think I know where he is.’ Killeen smiled and shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you about it along the way. I hope you at least got Marshal Slattery’s blessing.’

‘For the –?’

‘For the wedding, you damned fool! Now find yourself a pony and let’s get moving.’

Ten minutes later they were riding the sundrenched street out of Westfield toward Paulsen’s barn – Killeen again in the saddle of his dumpy dun horse, Mark Calhoun riding a leggy sorrel. They had just reached the town limits when a group of incoming riders – five or six men in all – passed them going in the opposite direction. Their leader was a bulky man with a flourishing black mustache wearing a flounced white shirt and dark twill trousers. Killeen thought he recognized the man and quickly turned his head away so that he, himself, would not be recognized.

‘That was a tough-looking bunch,’ Lieutenant Calhoun said after the men had exchanged dust and continued on their ways.

‘Yes. They are,’ Killeen answered and Calhoun studied him more deliberately.

‘You say that as if you know them.’

‘Not all of them, not personally, but they are part of a gang of border raiders. And the man with the big mustache was their leader, Alberto Mingo.’

‘You sound pretty sure.’

‘I am. A long time ago I was scouting for General Crook when he had a little dust-up with them. We pursued them toward Mexico, but we had to stop at the border. The raiders, of course, kept going.’

‘What could they be doing in Westfield?’ Mark Calhoun asked, now worried not only about the mission, but about the safety of Marie Slattery.

‘I have an idea, and it should have occurred to you as well by now.’

‘You don’t mean the new Winchesters!’

‘I do – think about it. What bigger prize is there for them to try to take around here?’

‘We should return and warn the marshal!’ Calhoun said, his voice growing a little hectic.

‘No. We should find and secure those rifles as soon as possible,’ Killeen argued.

‘Yes,’ Calhoun said, ‘of course you’re right, Killeen. That is all we can do.’

‘We at least have an idea now of who has the model ’73s and who they are intended for. That’s a lot further ahead then where we were yesterday.’

‘All thanks to you,’ Lieutenant Calhoun said dismally.

‘I fell into some luck – almost literally,’ Killeen answered. ‘That’s all there is to it. Besides it doesn’t matter; we’re here to work as a team. That’s what Major Fain sent us down here for.’

‘Yes,’ Mark Calhoun said, nodding, ‘but I wonder if he didn’t send me down here because I am an army officer, and you to baby-sit me.’

Killeen didn’t answer. The young lieutenant was taking things too hard. Maybe he felt that he had neglected his duty by riding to see Marie. Killeen didn’t blame him for that; he might have done the same in Mark’s position. And it was difficult to see what help Calhoun could have been had he remained in town. As he had told the officer, Killeen had just stumbled upon the right man to point him in the right direction. Now the trick was to find Folger and the cache of weapons before Mingo did.

Killeen didn’t like the image he could create in his mind of the havoc thirty of Mingo’s savage border raiders armed with the ’73s might raise across the territory. As Major Fain had pointed out, even the army would have no chance against a large force of men armed with the new repeaters.

They rode steadily eastward across a land studded with occasional stands of oak trees, the sun glinting in their high reaches, Killeen occasionally consulting the crude map Tombstone Jack had sketched out for him at the depot.

‘If only we could –’ Mark Calhoun began when they were suddenly approached by a man driving a surrey toward them. Behind the seat was a canvas tarp covering a pile of goods.

‘This could be our man,’ Killeen said quietly. Beyond the oaks he had caught sight of a gray, leaning barn.

‘Do you think so?’

‘I don’t know, but we’re going to halt him and have a conversation,’ Killeen said.

They guided their horses to the center of the road, leaving no room for the surrey to pass by. The driver, obviously irritated at their lack of road courtesy, reined in the roan horse drawing his buggy.

‘It’s him,’ Killeen said, basing his certainty only on a vague description that Tombstone Jack had provided and the fact that the man was pulling away from the disused barn. ‘Take charge, Calhoun, you’re the officer.’

Calhoun did, resuming or feigning confidence. He took the bridle of the roan horse and said authoritatively: ‘So we’ve finally run you down, Folger!’

‘Get out of my way!’ Folger shouted. ‘Who are you?’

‘Lieutenant Mark Calhoun, Fort Thomas. Mister Killeen – examine the property this man is carrying.’

Killeen rode alongside the unhappy Folger’s rig – he had not denied his name – and whipped the tarp away from the covered goods in back. Calhoun’s triumphant expression fell away as he did; Killeen’s own face must have reflected disappointment. What they had found were half a dozen bolts of cloth, some glass panes and six brass-bound clocks, all obviously stolen merchandise, but of no interest to them.

‘What are you men looking for?’ Folger demanded.

‘More of these,’ Nate Killeen said coldly, for he had seen sunlight glimmer on the metal of a rifle barrel and he leaned low in the saddle to lift the new Winchester ’73 that Thad Folger had taken for his own use from the stolen shipment.

‘I can’t see –’ Folger sputtered, reflecting that Tombstone Jack had been right when he had advised him not to carry the weapon around.

‘That seems to be US Army property,’ Calhoun said coldly. ‘You have a choice – cooperate with us or be hanged.’

‘You can’t –’ Folger began to object before realizing that he had no idea what they could or could not legally do.

‘Will you take us to the rest of the weapons?’ Killeen said. ‘You might as well know that Tombstone Jack has already confessed.’

‘That damned drunk,’ they heard Folger mutter.

‘Maybe,’ Killeen answered. ‘But Jack is off the hook now and you’re still on it, Folger. Tell us where those rifles are and maybe we can still keep you off the scaffold.’

Folger was silent for a few minutes: greed, his native slyness, sense of self-preservation and panic all circling his mind.

‘I’ll show you – if you give me a promise in writing not to prosecute,’ he finally said. ‘You’ll need a wagon, though.’

‘Lieutenant?’ Killeen asked.

‘I think we can provide both, on my own authority but God help you, Folger. If you renege, I’ll hang you myself!’

Mark Calhoun, Killeen thought, was so fiery because he believed that his career hung in the balance with this mission. He would become either a decorated young officer sure to be promoted for achieving a difficult task or a man disgraced because he had been off wooing a girl when he should have been concentrating on his job. Well, no one but Killeen could know that but as they started back toward Westfield for a wagon, Calhoun’s eyes betrayed his mistrust of Killeen.

‘Let’s start back toward town, then,’ Calhoun said, his primacy restored. ‘We’re going to need a heavier wagon.’

‘Maybe now is the time to let Marshal Slattery in on affairs,’ Killeen suggested.

‘Yes, it might be,’ Calhoun answered as they started back toward Westfield. If all went right this could boost his stock with not only the army but with Marie’s father. Temporarily buoyed, Calhoun led the way sitting tall in the saddle of his rented sorrel horse, a dejected Thad Folger following.

‘I suppose I owe you for this,’ Mark Calhoun said to Killeen.

‘For what? As I told you we were sent down here as a team.’

‘I mean – you still must be angry with me about what happened out in the White Mountains.’

‘No,’ Killeen answered. ‘I just took you for a green officer in his first campaign, which is what you were.’

‘I ordered that village razed,’ Calhoun said, remembering back to the day when Killeen had defied his order to burn the Indian camp.

‘I recall,’ Killeen said. ‘I have always held it in mind that if the enemy has to be defeated through the use of arms, then it must be done. But destroying the homes and belongings of civilians can only provoke more hostilities.’

‘I see,’ Calhoun said, and he seemed to understand Killeen’s point finally, yet it still nettled the young officer that his order had been defied by a shaggy, undisciplined civilian. Major Fain had listened later to Calhoun’s complaint and unexpectedly taken Killeen’s side. That too had irritated Mark Calhoun. He had been taught that the entire concept of battle was to destroy your enemy’s ability to wage war. No one had told him that there was a point at which you draw the line between warfare and vengeance.

Killeen had fallen back a little to ride beside the heavily perspiring Thad Folger. The man was obviously now losing all of the nerve he had had.

‘It’ll go easier on you, Folger, if you come clean with us. We already saw Mingo and some of his band riding toward Westfield.’

‘What are you talking about! Who’s Mingo?’

‘The man wanting to buy the rifles,’ Killeen answered, although Folger showed no comprehension. ‘If that bunch ever get those Winchesters, dozens of people, soldiers among them will die as a result. If you thought that talk of hanging you was an exaggeration, I can assure you that it wasn’t.’

‘I don’t know anyone called Mingo – I might have heard the name somewhere, I’m not sure,’ Folger said, steadily guiding his horse and buggy toward the outskirts of Westfield as the sun rose higher, becoming smaller and hotter in a smoky sky. ‘I was dealing with a man named Waco who told me he knew some people with the money to pay for the rifles.’

‘Waco?’ the name triggered nothing in Killeen’s memory although from his days on the border with General Crook a few of the more prominent border raiders were familiar to him. He shook his head. This Waco was apparently a middleman arranging the sale. That, too, was only a guess. Killeen supposed it did not matter. What mattered was finding the rifles and returning them to the army before Mingo obtained them, and they were holding the key to the stolen rifles. Tombstone Jack said he had no memory of where they had hidden them, and Killeen was forced to believe that Jack’s addled mind had forgotten what they had done with the weapons.

Folger was another matter. The man, a petty thief obviously ill-equipped for transactions of this size, knew full well where the Winchester ’73s were hidden. All they needed just now was a heavy wagon, Folger’s continued if reluctant cooperation … and a lot of luck.

At Wally Shoup’s stable they reined in. The stable owner stood watching them, hands on hips as he instructed a twelve-year-old kid what to do with the wheelbarrow full of manure he had shoveled up from inside the building.

From across the street in front of the Starshine Saloon, Waco’s eyes narrowed as he watched Thad Folger draw up his buggy and set the brake. He cursed silently and went inside to find Trevor Steele who was talking with some of the old border gang over beer and whiskey.

‘Finished with that horse already?’ Shoup asked, stroking the neck of the rented sorrel Lieutenant Calhoun had been riding.

‘Haven’t even begun,’ Mark Calhoun said in a more confident tone than he had used recently.

‘We need a wagon,’ Killeen said, swinging down from his dun horse.

‘There sure has been a run on those lately,’ Shoup said, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘You want the same one you had the other night, Mister Folger?’ he asked the despondent petty thief. ‘The heavier one is the one that Colin Babbit rented the other day to –’

‘Either one,’ Lieutenant Calhoun said.

Shoup nodded, knowing that no one was going to listen to his tale. He walked around to the back of the stable and began rigging a two-horse team to the wagon Tombstone had used. Shoup wondered if he should invest in another wagon or two. He was getting a lot of calls for rentals these days.

Killeen watched the stable man’s flurry of activity for a few minutes, then strolled back to where Lieutenant Calhoun still sat his horse, watching the nervous Thad Folger. ‘Now’s the time to have a talk with the marshal,’ Killeen said. ‘Tell him what you think he needs to know.’

‘Me?’ Mark Calhoun said, apparently surprised.

‘Of course, you’re practically part of the family. I’ll watch our friend here.’

‘I have to talk to you, Steele,’ Waco said, interrupting a low-stakes poker game his boss was playing with Mingo, Tom Bull and a few of the border riders Waco did not know.

‘Is it important, Waco?’ Steele asked, giving the thin blond man a glimpse at the hand he was holding: a full house, kings high, sixes under.

‘Very,’ Waco answered.

‘I’ll fold, gentlemen,’ Trevor Steele said reluctantly, shoving his cards, face-down into the middle of the baize table. Mingo’s dark eyes flickered, but he said nothing. He knew Steele well, had played many a card game with him and he knew that the gambler had been holding a good hand.

Steele followed Waco to the front doors of the Starlight, lighting a thin cigar along the way. He said, ‘I hope this is important, Waco. You just cost me a few dollars – though I never play for high stakes with friends, especially dangerous friends,’ he said, glancing back toward the table where Mingo sat scowling toward the bat-wing doors.

‘I think I might have saved you a lot more than you could have won at that table,’ Waco said, flushed with pride. ‘Look over there at Shoup’s stable.’

Steele looked that way, seeing only a man in a buggy talking to a tall, curly-haired stranger. Beyond them an erect young man was crossing the street toward Marshal Slattery’s office.

‘What are you showing me?’ Steele asked with a touch of irritation.

‘That’s the man! The one in the buggy,’ Waco said with urgency. ‘He’s the one who has the Winchester 73s.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure! He’s the one who lifted them from the railroad.’

‘Who’s the man he’s talking to?’ Steele wanted to know.

‘I never saw him before, but something is up, that’s for sure.’

And the other man, another stranger, had just entered the marshal’s office. Wally Shoup was now leading a heavy wagon around from the back yard of the stable. Something was up for sure. To Steele it smelled of missed opportunity. He couldn’t disappoint Mingo now. The border bandit was a terror when disappointed. Steele thought for only a moment.

‘Get Tom Bull. I want you two to shadow that wagon wherever it goes.’