Buckskin Page 10

  “Don’t make any difference, does it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  The teamster laughed.

  “Chester.”

  “How far is Appaloosa?”

  “Fifty miles.”

  The kid looked around the room, thinking.

  The teamster said, “I live here, but I’m gone a lot. I haul to and from the mines and up and down the river, and move goods to ranchers and other towns, Yaqui and Appaloosa. I keep my work normal. This work is on the side. I like it here. A train stop and there are always new folks passing through . . . Where you staying?”

  The kid shook his head.

  “No place, just yet.”

  “Let me help you out then.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. You can stay with us if you like.”

  “Who is ‘us’?”

  “My wife and me.”

  “Don’t want to put no one out.”

  The teamster smiled. He liked the kid.

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  The kid smiled.

  25

  We questioned the four Baptiste gunmen that we’d locked up about the missing miners. We talked with each one separately, and with the exception of Johnny Rodriguez, they were all tight-lipped. And their stories were all the same: they knew nothing and told us nothing about the miners. Johnny also said nothing about the missing miners, but he let us know where they were all boarded and that their job was to do what Victor Bartholomew told them to do. And so far, according to Johnny, they’d just been riding back and forth between Appaloosa and the gold mines.

  We knew it would be only a matter of time before we would have to deal with the McCormicks’ lead gunman, Edward Hodge. Same with Baptiste’s lead gunman, Victor Bartholomew. What we did not expect was how we would have to deal with them.

  Virgil and I sat with Lloyd on the porch of the sheriff’s office as the sun was setting. We were listening to one of Lloyd’s Texas Ranger stories when we heard a horse galloping. It was Skeeter, Book’s young deputy. He rode his stocky roan fast around the corner and came straight up to us. He pulled to a hard stop, kicking up a swell of dirt in front of the office.

  Skeeter was a scrappy and small Mexican fella. He was the youngest of Book’s deputies, but tougher than most men twice his size. Skeeter was also a smart fella with a good head for law work.

  “The gold-mining man,” Skeeter said, breathing hard. “McCormick. He has died.”

  “Which one?” Virgil said.

  “The taller one,” Skeeter said. “The younger one.”

  “James?” I said.

  “Sí,” he said. “James.”

  “How do you know?” Virgil said.

  Skeeter pointed.

  “I saw him. I saw it happen. In front of my eyes.”

  “Where?” Virgil said. “Where did you see this?”

  “In front of a home, over on Fourth. I was patrolling on Fourth Street when I see him.”

  “You sure he’s dead?” Virgil said.

  “Sí.”

  “How?” I said. “How did he die?”

  “I am not sure how.”

  “Murdered?” I said.

  “I do not know,” Skeeter said.

  “What did you see?” Virgil said.

  “I came around the corner there, off Raines Street onto Fourth. Then I see at the far end of the street a man. He’s walking wobbly down the steps of a house. Then he falls into the street. A woman, she comes out of the house and runs to him and I ride over to them. I got off my horse to help them, to help her, to see what was wrong, and the woman yelled at me, ‘My husband is dead.’”

  “You hear any gunfire?” Virgil said.

  “No.”

  “Did you see if he was wounded?” I said.

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t know how,” Skeeter said. “Or know what has happened. I did not see blood.”

  “What did his wife say?” I said.

  “She just yelled at me to get help. To get lawmen. This much is all that I know.”

  “Did you notice anyone else there at the house,” Virgil said, “or nearby?”

  “No, sir,” Skeeter said. “I see a few of the people come out of their homes to see, they hear the woman yelling at me.”

  Virgil glanced at me and shook his head.

  “That was it,” Skeeter said.

  “Is this McCormick’s house?” Virgil said.

  “I think so,” Skeeter said.

  “And you sure it was James McCormick?” Virgil said.

  “Sí.”

  “How do you know for sure?” Virgil said.

  “Well, I saw him before, when he came here to talk with you,” Skeeter said. “He is James.”

  Virgil shook his head.

  “Here we go,” I said.

  I stepped into the office and got my eight-gauge, and as I gathered it and the shells, I looked through the open door leading to the cells. And I could see Bartholomew’s gun hands, Noah Miller, Johnny Rodriguez, and Wayne. They were all leaning on the bars. They obviously overheard Skeeter.

  “You need anything from us, Deputy Marshal,” Noah said with a smirk, “just holler. We’d be happy to show you what to do and how to do it.”

  They started laughing. I answered Noah by closing the big door that separated the hall to the cells from the front room. But I could still hear them laughing as I walked out onto the porch.

  “I tried to tell her,” Skeeter said. “I tried to tell her that I was the police and she just yelled at me louder. She yelled at her neighbor to stop looking. She was yelling at me and yelling at everybody who came close, just yelling. She is mad.”

  26

  Johnny Rodriguez had provided us with information as to where the Bartholomew gang was staying, a bunkhouse hotel called Dag’s near the depot. And up to this point in time, we had no real reason to knock on Victor’s door at Dag’s, other than to question him about the men who were missing. And knowing Victor like we knew Victor, that line of questioning without some kind of evidence would go nowhere. But now with this news about James McCormick falling over dead in the middle in the street, I figured it might be a good idea that we pay Victor a visit before too much time passed.

  Skeeter was still talking with Virgil when I stepped out with my eight-gauge.

  “How about Skeeter and I have a look-see at Dag’s,” I said. “Maybe talk to Sandy. Maybe the old man that is there all the time? See what they know. Maybe see if anybody might be doing something that they might not ought to be doing. Like leaving town in a hurry after killing someone.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “We’ll just take a peek,” I said.

  “Only one other gun hand beside Victor that’s not locked up,” Virgil said.

  “We’ll see what they might do,” I said.

  “Victor’s a snake,” Virgil said. “Careful.”

  “We’ll come right to you after,” I said.

  Virgil moved to his horse.

  I mounted up and turned my horse.

  “Come on, Skeeter.”

  Skeeter and I rode with some pace. We crossed the tracks and turned uptown toward Dag’s. When we got to the hotel we slowed.

  “Let’s pull up right here,” I said.

  We stopped shy of the place and sat our horses.

  “What are we looking for?” Skeeter said.

  “Just watching,” I said. “Just to see if anyone is coming in or going out.”

  After a short time watching the place, I stepped out of the saddle.

  “Let’s tie up here.”

  Skeeter followed and we tied our horses on a fence across the road.

  “When we get in here, Skeeter, you keep your gun in its leather unless I tell you otherwise, com
prende?”

  “Sí.”

  Dag’s was a grungy place Virgil and I had been in a few times, looking for one miscreant or the other. It normally housed mining crews. But it also attracted those types prone to lawlessness.

  The main room smelled of tobacco spit, smoke, and whiskey. It was a narrow, high-ceiling space packed full of café tables and barrels for chairs. Spittoons were under the tables, and, as always, the stuffed buffalo was the only thing on the wall. It sported a pink bonnet.

  The one person in the room was Sandy, sitting behind the counter. Sandy was the same caretaker that greeted us every time Virgil and I had been in the place. She moved her heavyset frame to the edge of the counter and smiled, showing her missing teeth.

  “Well, what did I do to deserve the pleasure?” she said with a slight whistle.

  “Hello, Sandy,” I said quietly, then put my finger to my lips as we neared her.

  She nodded.

  When Skeeter and I got closer, she raised her eyebrows and whispered, “Hello, Marshal Hitch.”

  “Sandy.”

  “What are we whispering for?”

  “Victor Bartholomew here?”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Victor who?”

  “Skinny man with the bullwhip?”

  “Oh, him,” she said, shaking her head. “No, he ain’t, that no-good shit.”

  “He’s not here?” I said

  “Nope, not no longer. The spindly fuck,” she said. “He said his name to be Ben Davis, but I knew he was lying. ’Course damn near everyone that walks through that door lies about who they are. Except for lawmen like you. Always giving a name other than the name they was given. But I don’t need to tell you that. That all you are interested in?”

  She batted her eyes.

  “For the time being,” I said, “Sandy, it is.”

  “There was others with him staying here for a while, but them others been gone the last few days. Not sure where they took off to. I suspected them all to be up to no good.”

  “When is the last time you saw him, Victor, the Ben Davis fella?”

  “This morning,” she said. “But they took off.”

  “Know where?”

  “I don’t,” she said. “All of them had their horses stabled across the way there at Deek’s. Maybe he knows something.”

  “You said ‘they,’” I said. “Was there someone with Victor this morning?”

  “Yeah, they. It was him and another fella was still staying here with him,” she said. “But, like I say, they took off. Took what few things they had and left.”

  “What can you tell me about the other fella?”

  “Real tall like a goddamn giraffe and skinny as bale wire. Mean eyes. Him and that other fella Ben Davis or Victor whatever that you are looking for look sort of like brothers.”

  I nodded.

  “They are,” I said.

  27

  James McCormick’s body was being loaded into the ambulance by a few of Doc Burris’s men as Skeeter and I approached. It was past dark when we neared, but I could see Virgil. He was standing with Doc on the tall porch of James McCormick’s stately home.

  Seated on the porch were James’s brother, Daniel, and two women. One a slender pretty woman I figured to be James’s wife. The other woman was older, tougher-looking, and I figured she was likely the wife of Daniel.

  Skeeter and I came up the street from the south. When we pulled to a stop, Hodge and three of his men came riding in fast from the north. I thought they were likely the other gun hands Daniel had told us he hired. The four horsemen reined to a halt in a waft of rolling dirt in front of McCormick’s house.

  “I am damn sure sorry to hear what has happened here,” Hodge said.

  Daniel got to his feet and took a few steps toward the edge of the porch.

  “What has happened here?” Virgil said.

  “What?” Hodge said with a sharp look at Virgil.

  “Who told you?” Virgil said.

  “None of your goddamn business,” Hodge said.

  Virgil took a step toward the porch edge, looking down at Hodge.

  “It is,” he said.

  “No trouble, please,” Daniel said.

  “I was at your damn office. I come to see you, like you asked me to do. And your boy there, Lawrence, and them other fellas in the office was all crying about this. Said you left. Said your brother had died in front of the house, in the street here. That is how we know.”

  The other horsemen nodded.

  “That your brother, James, is dead here at his home, died in the damn street . . . Now has come the time for us to do what we came here to do.”

  “I appreciate your sentiment and your intention, Mr. Hodge,” Daniel said. “But now is not the time.”

  “In all goddamn due respect, it is the time,” Hodge said. “Them boys shot and wounded one of my men and now they done this. I goddamn know what happened here and I aim to make things right.”

  “Mr. Hodge, please,” Daniel said. “We don’t actually know what has happened to James.”

  “You might not actually know. But I do, and we aim to do what we were hired to do.”

  “I understand your feelings,” Virgil said.

  “Goddamn good to know,” Hodge said.

  “But feelings will get you killed,” Virgil said.

  Hodge shook his head.

  “Your law work is what you do,” he said. “But what we do is something else altogether different.”

  “We already got two of your hands locked up,” Virgil said. “So unless you boys want to join them, you need to turn around and skedaddle.”

  “Fuck you,” Hodge said as he jerked the reins of his dun. “Let me tell you something—”

  “Enough,” Daniel said. “We don’t even know the cause of my brother’s death here.”

  “Bullshit,” Hodge said.

  Hodge turned his dun and rode close to the ambulance. He leaned down, trying to see inside through the curtain-covered glass. But it was too dark to see anything. The faint outline of James’s body covered with a blanket was all that was visible. Hodge, full of bluster and bravado, was trying to make a point. He turned his horse and moved toward the porch.

  “You telling me he died out here in the street, all by his self, of natural causes?”

  “I’m not telling you anything,” Daniel said. “Other than I want you and your men to go, please, just go.”

  “You hired us to—”

  Daniel interrupted. “I know why I hired you.”

  “Then let us do what we were hired to do.”

  “This is not the place or time for this sort of brouhaha,” Daniel said.

  Hodge nodded but did not seemed too convinced. “Just go,” Daniel said. “I need you to respect me and my family at this most unfortunate time.”

  Hodge shook his head, then turned his horse away.

  “This ain’t over.”

  “It is,” Virgil said.

  I moved up on my horse and Skeeter followed me.

  Hodge turned back to Virgil.

  “This is war,” he growled.

  Hodge reined his horse around and rode off, with the other men following him. After the sound of the rider’s hooves faded away, an odd silence remained. No one said anything. Then, after a minute, James’s wife stood up. She was an elegant, slender woman with auburn hair. She walked stoically past Virgil and Daniel and came down the steps to the street.

  “Bernice,” Daniel said.

  But she paid him no mind. She kept walking. She moved past Skeeter and me, then walked up to the ambulance. She stared at James’s body behind the curtains covering the glass sides of the carriage.

  Doc held up his hand, signaling the ambulance driver not to move.

  “I told hi
m something like this would happen,” she said. “I knew when this gold was found that something like this would happen. I did not know what or how exactly, or when. But I knew.”

  She was not addressing anyone in particular.

  “Filthy gold.”

  The older woman got to her feet and walked to the edge of the steps.

  “Bernice, dear,” she said. “Let’s go inside.”

  “I never wanted to move here in the first place,” Bernice said. “I was perfectly fine where we were.”

  “Bernice,” the woman said again.

  Bernice remained looking at her dead husband for an extended time. No one said a word. Then she turned and stared at all of us who were watching her. She was not crying. Nor did she seem particularly upset now. She was just matter-of-fact.

  “What is it about greed?” Bernice said.

  “I don’t know, dear,” the older woman said.

  Bernice started walking toward her house. She walked up the steps past Virgil and Daniel and the other woman. She entered the house and closed the door behind her.

  28

  The teamster had a small homestead over the bridge with a large barn surrounded by corrals and trees. There were chickens and pigs and goats and a stable full of mules, with a garden next to the house.

  Right away the kid was awestruck by the teamster’s wife. More than awestruck. He thought her magnificent. He’d never seen a woman anything like her before in his life. She was a big striking woman. She reminded him of photographs he’d seen in books of ancient Greek gods. She was as tall as the teamster. The kid figured she was likely as strong as the teamster, too. She was dark, with mounds of dark curly hair piled atop her head and dark, penetrating eyes under eyebrows that touched in the middle. She smoked a long pipe and spoke with a thick accent. An accent the kid had never heard before.

  She fed the kid food like he’d never tasted. It was a spicy meal of tomatoes, carrots, and lamb rice with oil, creamy sauce, and fried bread. After the meal, the three of them sat outside in front of the house under the stars. The night was clear and bright, with a near full moon that hovered above the eastern horizon.