Trail West (A Sam Spur Western Book 6) Page 4

  “A proposition?”

  “A good one.”

  The Kid was already thinking. A proposition?

  “Go ahead.”

  The man put away his gun.

  “I want to be friendly,” he said. “I only mean you good. Believe me.”

  “What’s the proposition?” the Kid demanded.

  “The governor offered you a pardon if you helped bring in Lincoln and his two partners. Right?”

  The Kid was astonished. Only fifteen minutes back, Spur had put the idea to him for the first time and here was this jasper…

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Neither here nor there. I know. The governor wants these men alive. We wouldn’t like that. We want ’em dead. You with me?”

  “How much is there in it for me?” the Kid demanded.

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  “I get that for bringin’ them in alive.”

  “I want just one man dead.”

  “Who?”

  “Lucky Lincoln.”

  The Kid tried to think coolly. The governor hadn’t said they must be alive. He said they had to try to bring them in alive. “It’s a deal,” he said. “How do I contact you? I gotta know who you are. I ain’t comin’ in on a deal with a feller I can’t locate. How the hell do I know I’ll ever get my five hunnerd?”

  The man said: “I’m James Wainwright. You’ll find me at the Ralston House in town on Frazer.” He didn’t like saying it.

  The Kid stood up.

  “Play straight with me, Wainwright,” he said. “Or I come lookin’ for you.”

  The man said: “I’d expect you to.”

  “Now walk away,” the Kid said.

  The man turned and walked away. The Kid watched him from sight, then backed, ever suspicious. Too many men had hunted him in his short life and treated him to treachery. He backed till he was under cover, then he turned and ran. He returned to the cabin. Only Ben was there.

  “Where’s Sam?” the Kid asked.

  “He went walkin’. Wanted to think, he said.”

  The Kid went a little cold, wondering if Spur had seen him with Wainwright. There could be hell to pay … Spur was a soft-footed sonovabitch. It was possible. He wouldn’t put it past him to have overheard every word that had been spoken between himself and Wainwright.

  Spur was at that moment overlooking the valley and thinking. He built a smoke and puffed.

  Wainwright spotted him. He advanced cautiously, knowing that a man playing his game could get himself killed if he played his hand wrong. He spotted Spur, ducked into cover and started working his way silently toward him. When he reached a place from which he could cover the spot on which Spur had been standing, the man was no longer there. At first this puzzled and then scared him.

  He was right to be scared.

  A voice said: “Raise your hands. You’re covered.”

  He raised his hands. He heard a man approach from behind him and his gun was lifted from its holster.

  “Turn around and let’s see your face.”

  Wainwright turned. He looked at the famous Sam Spur and was taken aback by the inoffensiveness of the pleasant face. This didn’t look like a hardened criminal to him.

  “You Spur?” he asked.

  “I reckon.”

  “I came to see you.”

  “You doin’ it.”

  “I have a proposition to put to you.”

  “You took a risk comin’ up here,” Spur said. “You could of gotten yourself killed dead.”

  “The risk was worth it,” Wainwright said.

  “Spill it.”

  “Can I lower my hands?” Spur signed for him to do so. He lowered them. “You’ve been commissioned by the governor to bring back the three men who killed Ulster and Travers.”

  That shook Spur. He thought it was supposed to be a secret. It looked like it was a pretty open secret. He’d like to know how this man knew.

  “What’s your proposition?” he demanded.

  “I don’t want Pete Offing to be brought back alive. You kill him,” the man said.

  “Interestin’, said Spur. “How much is there in it for me?”

  “Five hundred dollars,” he was told.

  “Why Offing an’ not the others?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Up the offer an’ I’ll think about it.”

  “I don’t up it an’ you take it or leave it.”

  Spur smiled and said: “I’ll leave it.”

  The man thought a little, frowning.

  “I’ll up it one hundred,” he said.

  “Two,” said Spur. “Seven hundred.”

  “Done,” said the man. “Between us. Don’t tell your partners.”

  “Mum’s the word,” said Spur. “How do I contact you?”

  “My name’s Martin Goodyear,” the man said. “You can contact me at the Ralston House on Frazer.”

  “I’ll get in touch,” said Spur, “an’ you be there or I come lookin’ for you, Goodyear.”

  “I shall expect it,” said the man.

  “Here’s your gun. Handle it careful. Now walk away.”

  The man took the gun, holstered it with care, enormous care, seeing that he was in the presence of the master, and walked away. He was sweating.

  When he looked back, Spur had disappeared. He was glad that was over. Just one to go. The next one wasn’t going to be easy. He’d heard that Cuzie Ben was a hard nut to crack.

  He hung around for the rest of the day, but he didn’t get sight of the Negro. He slept rough in the hills and hated it. He crept back to the cabin in the dawn and then he had luck. From the cover of the trees he saw the Negro come from the cabin pick up a bucket and head for the creek. The man hugged cover, watched the Negro disappear from sight behind the creek bank. He followed with great caution, gun in hand in case of trouble. He found that he was very nervous—which was sensible of him.

  He crept to the bank and found himself looking down into the black eyes of a six-shooter.

  Ben said: “Who shoots first, white man?”

  The man found himself shaking.

  “I didn’t come for trouble,” he said. “I want to talk.”

  “Put your fool gun away, boy, or I blow your fool head off.”

  Wainwright or Goodyear put his gun away. He climbed down the bank and uneasily stood while the Negro covered him. He found Ben a little terrifying and he couldn’t be blamed for that.

  “I have a proposition for you,” he said.

  “Make it good. I’m purely nervous, man, an’ I’m liable to cut you down.”

  “You’re going after the killers of Ulster and Travers, right?”

  Ben blinked.

  “They talkin’ about it down town?” he asked.

  “No, but I have my sources of information.”

  “Wa-al,” said Ben, “what yo’sosses of information tell you ’bout me, boy?”

  “They said that for two hundred dollars you would kill Henry Strange instead of bringing him back alive,” said the man.

  “Man,” breathed Ben in some admiration, “that a piece of money. I’d sho’ like it to be mo’.” Ben chuckled to himself. He was going all stupid nigger for this white dude and he was enjoying himself. “Say fo’ hunnerd.”

  “Two’s the limit.”

  “Three,” said Ben.

  “All right, three. I’m not allowed to go higher than that.”

  Ben said: “Done.”

  “Not a word of this to your partners.”

  “Where I find you, white man?” Ben said.

  “Ask for Tom Harding at the Ralston House on Frazer,” said the man.

  “I sho’ come lookin’ for yo’, Hardin’,” said Ben. “An’ you sho’ better be dere or I sho’ goin’ to come lookin’ for yo’.”

  The man said: “I’ll be there.”

  “Now you walk away from heah,” Ben said.

  The man turned and walked away. He walked all the way to his horse
and got into the saddle. He started to breathe again. The ordeal was over. He could go back to his employer and report his mission accomplished.

  Ben took the bucket of water back to the cabin. He wondered why the man wanted Strange killed and not the other two. He asked himself if he should tell Spur. Why? A man could earn some cash money on the side, couldn’t he? What did it matter if a no-good piece of white trash like that Strange got himself killed? He was going to hang, any road. He decided for the moment to keep it to himself.

  Spur lay in his bunk, thinking. George Malcolm had talked in the governor’s yard before Spur had ridden away back into the hills. Spur had wanted to know more of what he was getting himself into and George had said he knew nothing more than Spur knew. But he had let drop one small piece of information. The governor did not believe that Lincoln and the others had killed Ulster for revenge. He believed it was a political killing.

  “You’ve got to tell me more than that,” Spur said.

  “I don’t know any more than that, Sam,” Malcolm told him. “But that’s enough. Lincoln, Strange and Offing are not the only ones in this. You watch out for yourself. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open here. If it is political, that means that Wayne Ulster knew something I don’t know, or something that I don’t know I know. The only reason for his being killed must be to shut his mouth.”

  And Malcolm hadn’t said any more than that.

  Spur reckoned he had let himself and the other two in for something bigger than chasing three hard cases and bringing them in. Catching Lincoln and the other two was a big enough order, but if there was somebody influential in the capital out for their hides as well, it could spell disaster. They would have to tread warily. And that was a habit with all three of them.

  He thought about Ben and the Kid, wondering if they too had been made an offer. That offer could come from the same source that had had Ulster killed. It now wanted the evidence wiped out. Lincoln and his two cronies knew more than was healthy for them.

  Bacon was sizzling. Ben was at work and the resultant smell told Spur he was hungry. He went down to the creek, washed and shaved. Ben yelled from the cabin that breakfast was ready and if they didn’t come and get it he’d throw it away. Spur went back to the cabin and found the Kid sitting at the table eating. Spur helped himself to bacon and beans and got busy. In silence they ate, and washed the food down with hot coffee, black and sweet the way they liked it. It was their last meal in the cabin, they meant to enjoy it.

  Spur built a smoke and said: “Feller come up to me and offered me seven hundred to kill Pete Offing.”

  There was silence in the cabin.

  Spur turned to Ben, met his eyes. Ben looked away.

  Finally Ben said: “Sure was temptin’. But he only offered me three hunnerd.”

  “Slave labor,” said Spur. “You, Kid?”

  The Kid looked mad. He wanted to keep it to himself and he hated to admit he hadn’t been offered as much as Spur.

  “He wanted me to kill Lucky himself,” said the Kid with a little show of pride. “I reckon he thought I could handle the most dangerous man of the whole bunch.”

  “Reckon,” said Spur dryly. “Either of you aim to do it? None of my business, of course.”

  “Me,” said Ben. “Why, man, you know me?”

  “That’s what’s worryin’ me.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to do it, Sam.”

  “You, Kid?”

  “Hell, why shouldn’t I earn a few extra dollars? No harm done. Them three ain’t no good any road. They’re goin’ to hang ’em, ain’t they?”

  “Kid, you kill one of ’em an’ you answer to me.”

  “You my boss or somethin’?” the Kid yelled.

  Spur said: “Will you get it into your thick head your whole future could depend on this? You want to be a hunted man all your life?”

  “You’re pushin’ me,” the Kid warned and tried to look dangerous.

  Spur said: “That’s right, I’m pushin’ you.”

  They glared.

  “Aw, hell,” said the Kid when he found he couldn’t stand Spur’s glare any longer. “If it’ll make you feel any better—I won’t kill the punk.”

  “Good,” said Spur. “An’ see you don’t. You put a slug in that feller an’ I’m comin’ after you.”

  “All right, all right, all right,” said the Kid. He looked sullen. He continued to look sullen all the time they were preparing for the trail.

  They caught up the horses and Spur’s gigantic and terrible mule, Albert, the pride of Kentucky and the scourge of the West. Albert hadn’t been worked for some time, except to tie reluctant wild horses to. An hour or two hitched to Albert and the fight went out of the hardiest. But he hadn’t carried a pack in months and he seemed to sense that was what he was going to do now. He fought. He kicked and he bit. His teeth coming together sounded like the snapping of an alligator. Ben and the Kid stayed clear of him. Spur was the only one who could handle him in that mood. Spur used a mixture of threats, blows and persuasion, and finally the mule stood long enough for him to be loaded.

  They were going to travel well-equipped with horseflesh, a necessity that both Spur and Ben had learned in their flights from the law. They let most of their horses out into the valley, retaining for the trip the little mare, Jenny, which was Spur’s very private horse, the stallion which they feared to leave behind because of thieves, and a bay which the Kid rode. Beside these three first-class animals, they would take along three broken mustangs which were the best of their stock—a black, a bay and a sorrel, all gelded.

  It was not an ideal arrangement, a stallion and a mare in the same company, but Spur and Ben were not going to leave their pet stud behind for somebody else to lay his thieving hands on. They packed in a leisurely fashion and were on their way by mid-morning, trotting their horses down the valley and coming to the now uninhabited cabin of Lucky Lincoln and his two partners sometime after noon. Here Ben got to work. The sign was several days old, but there had been no rain nor strong wind, nor had the men at this stage made any attempt to lose their tracks. The three of them followed without much difficulty. Through the day, they settled down to the routine of the trail. They didn’t change horses that day. But the following, they saddled other animals and gave the first a rest. They moved south in easy stages and by the end of the second day were pretty convinced that the men they were following were headed for the Border.

  Chapter Six

  The sun beat down. They were in Mexico. Spur and the Kid stayed in camp, hidden in the hills. They sweated themselves nearly dry and waited for Ben.

  It had taken them three weeks to find Lucky Lincoln and his two companions. They had been led a twisting and tortuous course, for Lincoln had, after leaving his cabin, started hiding his trail when he had been a day or so from home. Ben and Spur had cast about for two days in search of it and finally picked it up. Or thought they did. Luckily, the three fugitives had been sighted by an old prospector who had risked the Indians who were said to be in the hills. The old man had remembered them well and given a good description of them.

  They had lost them again near the Border, but found a vaquero who had caught sight of them traveling south along a dry wash. They picked up the trail and then lost it again on stony ground. Another day of casting around and they picked up again further south. They were now into Mexico and very much on their own.

  Now the trio they followed had thrown all precautions aside. They were headed, so the Kid claimed who knew this part of the country, for San Mateo, a small town about twenty miles distant. There was more name to it than that—it was San Mateo of the Angels and a lot more. But men called it simply San Mateo. It was tucked in a fold of the hills where they opened out onto the plain beyond. Ben went down to take a look around. Although a Negro might be somewhat conspicuous on account of his color, it was decided that he would not arouse as much suspicion as an Anglo. So off Ben went to sniff out their quarry.

  He departed at night and r
eturned in the day.

  He rode into camp, dismounted and said laconically: “Found ’em.”

  With a stick he drew a rough map of the town. They were in a house on the central plaza of the little town. They were well known there and had obviously lived in the house before. The woman who owned the house, Carmelita Gonzales, was Lucky Lincoln’s woman. The other two also had women there. Ben reckoned that some of the kids belonged to them. There were a swarm of them.

  Spur didn’t like that. He didn’t like the idea of there being women and kids around when there was a danger from shooting.

  Ben said: “I thought of that. They go to a place to drink of an evenin’.”

  “Too many folks around,” said the Kid.

  Ben said: “We get ’em on the way home. Drunk.”

  Spur agreed: “That sounds more like it. Though we could lose ’em in the dark.”

  “You can’t have everythin’,” said Ben.

  “Are there just the three of them?” Spur asked.

  “There’s other Anglos in town. Mostly men on the run from the States.”

  Ben thought it was a nice little town—he wouldn’t mind holing up there himself. It looked like they were going to snatch three men right out of a whole lot of fun.

  They decided to make their first try that night. Why wait? Spur wanted to know if the three men had spotted Ben and recognized him. Ben thought not. He got some sleep. They were on the move by dark. They found a man who kept goats on the outskirts of town and he agreed to look after the spare horses and the mule for a small sum. Spur told him to be sure to have them ready when they returned. It didn’t seem a very satisfactory arrangement, but they couldn’t think of anything else. They rode on into town.

  It was a beautiful evening with moon and stars bright overhead. There were people on the streets and on the plaza. Music was in the air; burros plodded patiently through the dust. Ben led the way to an inn, the main room of which seemed to be open to the street. There was music inside—guitars, trumpet and harp. The music jangled and blared. Lights were dim and men’s faces were shadows; dark eyes watched the newcomers.

  Spur thought: Hitch your horse where you can see it or it’ll be gone when you want it.