CHAPTER NINE
JONESY WAS SITTING on the steps in front of the saloon when Breckenridge and Madge returned. Clay waited until he’d unhooked the buggy and returned it to its place before telling his friend about the trip. Without a word, Madge disappeared inside to resume her cleaning chores.
“Did the young woman have any idea who might have been responsible for your brother’s killing?” Jonesy said.
“When she was talking with Madge, she mentioned somebody who had kept coming around, even after my brother started to court her. Said she didn’t like him, but he apparently wasn’t inclined to take no for an answer.”
“She give his name?”
“She doesn’t recall it, but said he worked for Baggett.” He paused for a second, then added, “So did my brother.”
It was late in the afternoon when they walked toward the tent encampment. “I spoke with Rayburn earlier,” Jonesy said, “and he informed me that we’ll be needing to take leave of our tent tomorrow. A herd’s coming in to make a rest stop.”
Routinely, cattle drivers would camp their herd a mile or so outside of town, leaving a small crew of wranglers to watch over the grazing cattle. The others would enjoy the luxury of Tascosa, sleeping in Rayburn’s tents, visiting the saloon, and stocking up on necessities at the mercantile.
“I’ll be interested to see if there’s any contact between Baggett’s folks and those driving the cattle through,” Clay said. “If we’re going to be sleeping in the open again, I suggest we pick us a spot that will provide us a chance to keep an eye on this incoming herd.” He already had a good idea what they would see.
“So what’s our plan between now and then?”
“We might see about helping Madge with the cleaning of her saloon,” Clay said.
She was surprised when they entered.
“We were wondering what kind of wages you pay for doing cleanup work.”
Madge laughed. “For pushing a broom or mop,” she said, “I can set out a bottle of whiskey. For anybody knowing how to mend broken furniture, I’d be inclined to cook up a steak.”
Clay reached for a broom while Jonesy asked Madge if she had any tools.
“Out back in the shed,” she said.
It was past midnight by the time things were back in order. The floors were swept and mopped. The chairs and tables that could be repaired were; the others had been hauled out back for kindling. The remnants of a mirror were taken down, replaced by an unimpressive painting of the saloon’s exterior a drunk customer had painted years earlier.
“I’d say things look presentable enough for business,” Madge said as they sat at the bar. She had cooked a late dinner of steak and potatoes and was bringing bowls of blackberry cobbler from the kitchen. “I’m appreciative of what you boys have done.”
Breckenridge explained that he’d told his friend about their conversation with Jennie out at the Broder farm.
Too tired to sleep, they continued talking by the light of nearby lanterns.
“If it’s none of my business, feel free to say so,” Clay said, “but I can’t help wondering how a woman like yourself got here to run this establishment.”
Madge smiled and took a sip of her whiskey. “Some years back my husband and I came here from Kansas City after learning this was a little town just getting started. It sounded like a place with a future, what with more and more cattle drives passing through. We came and used some money my father had gifted me after his success silver mining to open this saloon.”
In time, she said, her husband decided it was too much work for too little profit. He began spending more time losing at poker than he did tending bar. “He also became an enthusiastic consumer of the whiskey we’d stocked to sell.”
In time, he began disappearing, sometimes for several days and without explanation. “Every time he returned, he would have a good amount of money in his pocket—which he quickly set about losing at the poker table.
“This went on for some time before he finally got drunk enough one night to tell me what it was he was doing. He talked of this man Ben Baggett, who knew ways of making money. Good money, he put it, not like the piddling wages one earns selling drinks in a saloon.
“He talked of Baggett like he was some kind of genius, but actually he was just a common thief, the leader of an outlaw gang of good-for-nothings. A sorry lot my husband happily joined up with.”
Madge was getting tipsy as she talked of things she’d shared with no one before. “Finally, I’d had my fill and told him his choice was either me or being a thief. He slapped me hard against the side of my head, went behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and took his leave. It was the last time I ever saw him, and good riddance. I’d have divorced him if this two-bit town had a lawyer. These days, if I was to learn he’s dead and gone, I wouldn’t mind a bit. Fact is, it would be doing the world a favor. At least he’s had the good sense not to show himself in here.”
Clay felt a twinge of guilt as he listened to Madge’s miseries. Still, he pressed for more information. “What is it he does for Baggett?”
“Like all of them,” she said, “takes from those who can’t afford it or are unable to do anything about it. They rustle cattle, rob stagecoaches, take goods from traveling wagons, always careful to carry out their foul deeds where no law’s nearby.”
Her speech was becoming a little slurred as she passed along the information her husband had told her. He had described a rustling operation unlike any Breckenridge or Pate had ever heard of. Rather than making raids on large ranches, Baggett would dispatch groups in various directions to prey on small, unsuspecting ranchers. Each raid would result in a dozen or more stolen cattle and often go unnoticed. By the time a sizable number of cattle had been assembled, arrangements would be made with cattle drivers headed north. They would mix them with the herd they were moving until they got to the sale site, then cut them out and enjoy the profit. So cattle stolen from poor folks got sold off twice.
“Pretty clever thinking,” Jonesy said. “Downright sorry behavior but clever.”
Madge’s eyelids were becoming heavy. “Time I get to bed,” she said. “I’m about talked out anyway. Again, I much appreciate your helping me out . . . and listening.”
Clay had one more question as they walked toward the door. “Why do you stay here?”
Madge faintly smiled. “I got nothing else,” she said.
TWO NIGHTS LATER Breckenridge and Pate left the comfort of their tent and were camped out on a hillside near where a large herd of cattle grazed in the moonlight. Around a fire, a half dozen trail drivers sat, sharing stories. Occasionally, the sounds of laughter and curses echoed in the still night.
It was well after midnight when the quiet was interrupted by a gentle rumble of approaching hooves. Soon the flicker of torches appeared on the horizon. “Looks like they’re coming to do business,” Jonesy said.
They watched silently as the arriving cattle were driven into the main herd. Then there was the exchange of a saddlebag from one of the trail drivers to the leader of the group that had arrived with the stolen cattle.
The transaction was over in a matter of minutes. As the visiting riders left, their torches still aflame, Clay watched them disappear.
“I think,” he told Jonesy, “it’s time we figure out a way to see what’s going on down in that canyon. I’m of a strong mind that’s where we’ll find the man I’m looking for.”