Crooked M Killings Page 2

  ‘Now!’ barked Reuben and chose the best looking horse. ‘I’m taking this one. The government will pay.’ The old man started to protest but realized it was futile. ‘Where do I send. . . ?’

  ‘Sheriff’s office. John Miles’ll sort it out. Where is Sheriff Miles?’

  The livery man, at last grasping the seriousness of the situation, shook his head. ‘Don’t rightly know. Not seen him since Monday. Probably gone to his other office. He’ll be in Flintlock I guess.’

  So there was no chance of Miles raising a posse. Reuben considered the situation. Four of them. One of him. He weighed up the odds for a few seconds and urged the old man to hurry. Five minutes later he was following the trail left by the robbers. It soon became clear that they were retracing their tracks. They had spent time in the town only to take the bank and they were returning from whence they had come. That meant that they had almost certainly worked out an escape route which would be difficult to follow. After a relatively easy first part, where he tracked the trail in loose sand, he arrived at a wide stream after which the tracks disappeared. He looked for tell tale marks on the stones in the stream, which would indicate which way the men had ridden, but he found none, which suggested that they had had the foresight to wrap the hoofs of their horses in some sort of cloths before entering the stream.

  Reuben cursed under his breath then decided, for no particular reason, to ride downstream, looking intently on the banks for any traces of emerging horses. After half an hour he decided that he had made the wrong choice and retraced his steps to where he had entered the stream and started the process all over again, but this time moving upstream. The blazing heat was taking its toll.

  Another long half hour passed before he spied a patch of disturbed ground where a horse had obviously been ridden out of the water. For nearly two hours he trailed painstakingly over rocks and brush, often losing the trail and retracing his steps, until eventually he arrived at open land on which the hoofs had once again left easy to follow signals. He guessed that the outlaws had believed themselves to be safe when they passed this point and indeed there appeared to be no attempt to cover the trail now. He passed Roy Gregory’s Lazy Gopher ranch and headed towards the Crooked M, which came into sight as the sun began to slip slowly down to the horizon. He was very hot and near to exhaustion. Reuben could see no sign of life from the ranch as he urged his tired horse on. He had not met either of the owners of the Crooked M, but he knew their names, Ed and Sal McIntyre – and he aimed to change his horse for a fresher beast and also to find out if they had seen any riders before darkness made following the trail impossible.

  He urged the horse into a gallop, then as he approached the house he slowed to a trot. A sixth sense, finely honed through years of experience, told him that it was time for caution. It was possible that Cassidy had left a couple of men with rifles behind in the house to pick him off. He rode forward cautiously and his right hand drew his Winchester from its holster. As soon as he saw the dead horse lying still attached to the rig he dismounted and crouched behind a wooden post, remaining still and silent, rifle at the ready. He surveyed the area in the fading orange light and saw three bodies. Two he recognized immediately as members of the Cassidy bunch. The third, although he didn’t know it, was rancher Ed McIntyre. Even from this distance he could see by the unnatural posture that Ed was dead. Reuben remained silent and motionless for several minutes then he crouched down and moved towards the body. He checked and as expected, found that the young rancher was dead. Looking up, he could neither see nor hear any sign of life from the ranch house and he was still acutely aware of his exposure to attack in this vulnerable position, even though he felt pretty certain that the gang had moved on.

  He crouched even lower and moved crab wise towards the house. Removing his boots, he stepped silently on to the veranda porch. All was silent. He pressed his back to the wall, then after listening for a full minute and hearing nothing he spun round, kicked open the door, simultaneously flinging himself stomach down through the doorway, with his levelled gun in his hand. He lay there in the gloom, still and silent. His senses were taut and he was listening for any sound which might indicate that someone was in the house. At length he heard a low groan from the bedroom. It was a woman’s voice but still fearing a trap, he approached with caution.

  Sal McIntyre lay on the bedroom floor where the men had left her. Her top had been ripped, exposing a bruised left breast. Bruises and scratches also covered her legs and her face was purple on the right side where she had been savagely punched. Blood had congealed around her lip; she looked close to death. Reuben lifted her and gently placed her on the bed then went to find a damp cloth and some water. He returned and tenderly cleaned her and wiped away the blood, cursing the men who had done this thing. He wiped a dark stain of congealed blood from her nose and as he cleansed it and looked at the battered, possibly broken woman, he knew without any shadow of doubt who was responsible for this atrocity.

  Reuben took a deep breath and his lips twitched involuntarily. ‘Shep Cassidy!’ he growled.

  Reuben looked down at the still form again and tried not to think what she had been subjected to at the hands of Shep and his mob. Finally, he stood up and walked to the door. Standing outside the ranch house, he looked at the sky and made a promise to himself. ‘This ain’t just the law, Cassidy,’ he hissed quietly, ‘you’ve made it more personal than that, you bastard.’ Then he returned to the bedside and continued his ministrations. At length, she was clean and sleeping. Reuben took a hip flask and some coffee from his saddle-bag and poured himself a whiskey. He sat quietly on the wooden veranda looking at the stars in the cloudless sky and feeling the heat of the whiskey hit his throat. Not for the first time, he marvelled that the world carried on, still peaceful and beautiful, regardless of the horrors of the day. Above him, silence and indescribable beauty. A few yards away, three corpses.

  He stood up, still staring at the bright stars shimmering in the deep blue-black night, then his mind returned to the task in hand and he exhaled wearily, and walked over to where the bodies lay. He removed Ed’s guns and found a wallet in his pocket. It contained a few dollars – which he was surprised Cassidy hadn’t stolen – and a picture of he pretty young woman whose battered being lay in the ranch house. Automatically, as a mark of respect, he removed his hat. He didn’t want the woman to see the murdered man, whose face and head were badly damaged by the bullets from Pete’s gun, so he found a shovel, went out of the house and dug a grave for Ed McIntyre then laid him to rest near the gate. The other two he carried on horses and buried in shallow graves outside of the ranch fence. Then, postponing the chase for the moment, he returned to Sal’s bedside and waited for her to regain consciousness.

  It was six hours before she showed signs of life. She opened her eyes and asked for her husband before falling again into a deep sleep. Night turned into dawn and dawn into day and he went out with his Winchester and killed himself some food to supplement the rations and coffee in his saddle bag, then he settled down in the ranch again. It was frustrating to know that with every passing minute, the murderers were putting more distance between themselves and the lawman but Reuben had no option but to stay with Sal McIntyre, who still slept a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep. Dusk returned and he lit the oil lamp, poured himself a coffee, made himself a stew . . . and waited. He had fallen asleep in the chair by the fire when the screaming started. He leapt up and rushed to her bedside. She was wailing piteously and although her eyes were open she didn’t see. She scratched and punched when he tried to calm her. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead and rivulets ran down her face and chest. The writhing turned to convulsions and Reuben believed that she was about to die. Massive tremors caused her to throw herself across the room and Reuben had to lift her back and press her shoulders to the bed to save her from harming herself. She fell back on to the pillow, writhing and staring at the ceiling, shaking violently and moaning, then, eventually, she lay back and was st
ill. He pressed a damp cloth to her forehead to try and reduce her temperature and occasionally her eyes would open and she would stare at the ceiling with eyes sometimes full of pain and hate and sometimes blank and dead. Then the screaming started again and she flayed at the air. It was a considerable time before his soothing voice started to have any effect. Her screams lessened and eventually she subsided, mentally and physically exhausted. She fell asleep clinging on to him and without knowing it he sang a quiet lullaby he remembered from somewhere in his distant childhood. Her breathing became more even and slowly she loosened her tight grip. He sat with her throughout the night, occasionally dozing but always at her bedside, watching anxiously for any change. In the morning, about an hour after dawn when he was dozing, she opened her eyes and spoke in a calm, clear voice. ‘Who are you? Where’s Ed?’

  He tried to sound normal but he couldn’t meet her questioning gaze. ‘My name’s Reuben Kane, ma’am. Marshal Reuben Kane.’

  ‘Where’s Ed?’ she repeated and he averted his eyes. She stared at him and eventually he met her gaze.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he said softly. ‘I found a man outside. He’d been murdered.’ He described Ed and handed her the wallet and photograph which he’d removed from the body. She looked at the items for some time without making a sound, and then she pressed the wallet to her lips. The memories of the dreadful events flooded back and Sal McIntyre sobbed uncontrollably.

  Chapter Three

  The Beginning

  They sat facing each other over breakfast. Sal was drinking a mug of coffee and she frowned over the steaming liquid. ‘Tell me everything. What happened afore you found me?’

  Reluctantly, censoring some of the details, Reuben recalled the gruesome events and as he finished, he poured himself another coffee from the simmering pot. ‘As soon as you’re well enough to ride into town, Mrs McIntyre—’ He was interrupted by the sound of horses approaching the ranch and he immediately strapped on his guns and picked up his Winchester, checking that it was loaded and ready for action. Sal’s eyes widened with fear. ‘Stay here, ma’am.’ He looked cautiously out of the door and saw a well dressed man aged in his fifties on golden stallion.

  ‘Ed!’ the rider shouted. ‘Sal! You there?’ Reuben walked out and faced the horsemen, rifle levelled.

  Before anyone could say or do anything, Sal’s voice sounded behind Reuben. ‘Roy!’ she exclaimed. Reuben turned to see that she was standing in the doorway with her husband’s Colt in her hand. ‘Roy,’ she repeated, but quietly this time, then she sank to her knees.

  Five minutes later, a shocked Roy Gregory, owner of the Lazy Gopher ranch, listened in horror as Sal finished telling him the bare bones of what had transpired. The colour drained from his face and he looked at Reuben, then at the marshal’s badge which lay on the table. ‘And you were trailing the men who did this?’ Reuben nodded. ‘What are you aiming to do, Marshal?’

  ‘Now that you’re here, I’ll leave Mrs McIntyre in your hands and I’ll saddle up and get after those bast— sorry, m’am, those murderers and bring them back.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be only too glad to take Sal to the Gopher and I’ll ask some of my men to keep an eye on this place till Sal’s decided what she wants to do and—’ Sal interrupted him. Her face had changed and was set and hard. When she spoke, her voice was deadly quiet and allowed for no argument.

  ‘Thank you kindly, Roy. But I’m not staying. I’m going with the marshal.’

  Roy opened his mouth to protest but Sal waved him aside. ‘I would be pleased if you would keep an eye on my ranch while I’m away but whatever you say, I intend to hunt those bastards down or die in the trying.’

  There was a long silence, and then Reuben spoke. ‘These men are killers, ma’am. They are fast and accurate with their guns. They ain’t amateurs.’

  Sal fixed an unblinking stare on him, and then appeared to ponder his words for a few seconds before standing up and nodding in his direction.

  ‘Come with me, Marshal.’ She walked to the door and went outside, followed by Reuben and Roy. ‘Give me one of your Colts.’ It was an order rather than a request.

  Reuben looked at her hesitantly.

  ‘Why do you want a gun, ma’am?’

  She ignored his question and instead looked around and picked up five stones and placed them on the fence. Reuben stood in silence watching her and she spoke without looking at him.

  ‘I aim to get back into practice so I can blow their heads off’n their shoulders.’ She spoke in a flat, matter of fact tone and held her hand out. Reuben handed her his Colt and she checked their balance in her hands then, so quickly that it seemed she hadn’t even aimed, she fired five shots. The stones flew off the fence.

  ‘I only put five up in case I missed one. I’m rusty,’ she said with no trace of irony. Then she pointed at a small fragment of stone which had broken off one of her targets.

  ‘Throw that in the air.’

  ‘But. . . .’

  ‘Just throw it.’

  Reuben tossed the stone high into the air and as it began to arc downwards the gun barked and the stone shattered into even smaller fragments.

  Reuben pursed his lips and sucked in air. Recognition dawned. ‘Sally Seddon.’ He smiled faintly. ‘I knew I’d seen you somewhere before. I was at Dakota when you shot a cigar out of the mayor’s mouth. Some shooting. You sure know how to use a Colt, ma’am.’ He paused and looked at the ground and she knew as sure as day what he was going to say next. ‘But shootin’ at stones ain’t the same as killing a man who’s trying to kill you. That’s a totally different kind of shooting. Totally. To kill a man you’ve got to know how his mind works and if it’s someone like Blackeye you’ve got to sink to his level afore you meet up with him. You’ve got to abandon everything you think of as decent and just concentrate on killing him afore he kills you.’

  A long silence ensued, then she handed the gun back to Reuben and looked unblinkingly into his eyes.

  ‘I’m going after them, Marshal. I’ll go with or without you. It’s your choice. But I’m going after them.’

  Reuben smiled a mirthless smile.

  ‘I guess you are at that,’ he said quietly. ‘I guess you are at that.’

  Without another word she went back into the ranch house and minutes later she emerged in jeans, a loose fitting blue shirt and a buckskin top.

  ‘I’m going to saddle up. Roy’s gonna take care of the ranch. Are we going together or am I going to kill them myself?’

  ‘Which direction are you headed, ma’am?’

  ‘Wherever their trail takes me.’

  ‘We don’t know where they’ve gone, ma’am. The trail will be cold.’

  Sal was mounting her horse already.

  ‘Only way they could’ve gone is a mile or so south of the Lazy Gopher and on towards Flintlock. Nowhere else to go. Flintlock is about twenty miles away and there’s nothing else. When we get to there I’ll ask. When you’re as ugly as them you sure can’t ride through a small place like Flintlock without someone noticing.’

  Reuben nodded, accepting the irrefutable logic.

  ‘Well, Marshal, are you coming?’

  He looked up at the determined, unsmiling face.

  ‘I’m coming, ma’am.’

  And now she smiled a slight smile, which pulled at the cuts on her lip and made her wince.

  ‘Glad to hear it, Marshal. And if we are travelling together I’d be obliged if you called me Sal or Mrs McIntyre.’

  He nodded at her.

  ‘OK, Sal. And I’m Reuben. I don’t want my profession advertised. It can attract the wrong sort of attention.’

  ‘OK, Reuben. Saddle up and let’s be on our way.’

  Roy Gregory stood outside the doorway and watched Reuben saddle his horse. Deep in his heart he knew that Sal was making a bad mistake. She was a novice taking on hardened expert killers, but he knew her well and saw that her mind was made up. He approached her and laid his hand on the neck of h
er horse.

  ‘Take care, Sal.’ That was all he said and she smiled in reply. As they approached the gate, she stopped and looked at her husband’s grave and Reuben nodded. She dismounted and walked alone to the crude wooden cross and rested her right hand lightly on it.

  ‘I’ve gotta go, Ed. If I don’t sort this business I’ll never be able to farm here. I’ll be back, and when I am I’ll make the Crooked M everything we dreamed it would be. Keep an eye out for me, Ed. I love you.’

  Then they rode off towards Flintlock.

  For the first hour or so they rode in silence. She was deep in thought and he was looking for any signs to indicate that Cassidy and his men had passed this way, even though he knew the passage of time would almost certainly have erased any evidence. The silence was broken at length by Sal.

  ‘Do you know anything about these men?’ she asked.

  ‘Plenty,’ he replied. ‘I was first sent to find them after they murdered a bank clerk and a young boy about three months ago. The trail ran dry until an old prospector said he’d seen them heading towards Blanca Creek. Originally there were nine of them but arguments and bullets have whittled them down. Shep Cassidy is the undisputed leader. A giant of a man – sorry, ma’am,’ he apologized, cursing himself for his stupid insensitivity, ‘I guess you know that already. Cassidy was a soldier who fought fearlessly, but something in him turned bad and he started causing more and more trouble, brawling and drinking. In the end he killed a corporal in an argument over a card game. It was, legally at least, a fair fight as they both had guns. But the corporal was just a kid and his holster was a cavalry type with the lock on, so the reality was that he had no chance. Anyway, Cassidy was tried and found not guilty of murder but he was more trouble than he was worth and the cavalry decided to get rid of him. He turned to looting and bank robbery after being dishonourably discharged and he was perfectly suited to his new career. He has a well earned name for being ruthless and sadistic and he’s wanted in at least three states for robbery, rape and murder and a whole list of other offences. Uses one of the few Buntline Special copies because he reckons the advantage in range outweighs the speed of the draw you get with a Colt and he keeps a knife hidden down his right boot which he can throw as accurately as most men can fire a gun.’