Vengeance Creek Page 9

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  Thomas and James tried to look the stalls over without stepping inside. There were plenty of tracks made by the horses, but neither of them could pick up anything distinctive.

  After that they had Ron Hill take them out back to look at the horses in his corral.

  “Which ones were theirs?” Thomas asked.

  “You know anythin’ about horses?” the liveryman asked them.

  “I do,” James said. Thomas had to admit, his younger brother was a better judge of horseflesh than he was. He didn’t exactly know when that had happened, but it had.

  “Well, then you can pick them out,” Hill said, “’cause they ain’t mine.”

  At first Thomas was going to tell Hill they weren’t there to play games, but maybe this would take his brother’s mind off other things. He watched as James opened the corral door, entered, and closed it behind him. There were enough horses in the corral—twenty head or so—that he could have been trampled if he wasn’t careful, but he moved among them with surprising ease, and just as surprising, they seemed to accept his presence.

  “This one,” James said, putting his hand on a big bay mare that, even to Thomas’s unpracticed eye—and now that his brother had pointed it out—had obviously seen better days.

  “That’s one,” Hill said.

  James nodded, examined the horse, then lifted each of the animal’s feet to check the bottom. That done, he walked among the animals again and picked out a dappled gray that seemed to be a bit swaybacked. When Hill affirmed that this was, indeed, the other horse, James repeated the inspection and then left the corral and returned to his brother’s side, after locating and identifying all the horses the bank robbers had ridden into town on.

  “So, what did you find out?” Thomas asked.

  “Not much.”

  “But you looked like you knew what you were doin.”

  “I didn’t,” James said. “I guess we better go and find Pa.”

  James headed off, and a confused Thomas hurried after him.

  Shaye’s hip was screaming bloody murder by the time he reached the Road House Saloon. When he walked through the front door, he was almost dragging his leg.

  “Twice in one week,” Al Baker said to him. “What an honor, Sheriff. You lookin’ for Thomas?”

  “I know where Thomas is,” Shaye said.

  “What happened to you?” Baker asked as Shaye limped to the bar.

  “I think you probably already know.”

  “Yeah,” Baker said, “I heard about the robbery.”

  “And the murders?”

  “Yeah. Uh, listen, I’m, sorry I didn’t come to help, but it was all the way at the other end of town, and by the time I heard about it, it was all over.”

  “I’m lookin’ for Rigoberto.”

  “The Mex? What for?”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Check the back room,” Baker said. “He sleeps back there. I haven’t seen him yet this mornin’, so he’s probably still sleepin’ last night off.”

  “Thanks.”

  “He’s usually up before noon,” Baker said as Shaye headed for the back room, “so last night must have been pretty bad.”

  Great, Shaye thought, the one day he might need Rigoberto Colon, and the man was sleeping off a good one.

  Rigoberto Colon was another man in town about whom he knew something nobody else did. People tended to think town drunks had always been town drunks, but that wasn’t the case with Colon. In Mexico, Colon had been part of an aristocratic family, until his father lost all their money and committed suicide, taking Rigoberto Colon’s mother, brother, and two sisters with him. Colon happened to be out that day, and so had survived the day’s massacre. Since then that was all he had done—survive, rather than live. He wandered from town to town, eventually left Mexico and wandered through Texas and New Mexico until he found his way to Arizona. Around that time he decided he could not deal with the guilt anymore, and crawled into a bottle. He’d been there ever since.

  Shaye entered the back room and heard snoring. It was dark, and while his eyes adjusted, he followed the sound and found the sleeping Colon.

  “Rigoberto.”

  The man didn’t move.

  “Berto!”

  This time he followed with a kick to the ribs, not hard, but enough to wake up most sleeping men. Unfortunately, Rigoberto Colon was no normal sleeping man.

  “Damn it,” Shaye said.

  By this time his eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the room. He located a bucket and took it to the back door. He went outside, walked to a horse trough, filled the bucket, and brought it back into the room. He stood above Colon and upended the bucket, pouring the contents over the Mexican’s head.

  Colon came to with a roar and then a sputter. He was sleeping on the floor, so when he rolled over he simply traveled across the floor a few feet before coming to a stop and sitting up.

  “Wha—Who—Hijo de un carbon—”

  “Wake up, Berto!” Shaye shouted.

  The man looked up and squinted at Shaye through the gloom. “Señor Shaye?”

  “That’s right, Berto,” Shaye said.

  Colon looked down at himself, then back up at Shaye again with a confused look on his face.

  “Que pasa?” he asked. What happened?

  “I needed to wake you up,” Shaye said, showing the Mexican the empty water bucket. “You were sleepin’ pretty good.”

  “I am all wet.”

  “Well,” Shaye said, “get dry and I’ll buy you some breakfast. Meet me out front. I have a proposition for you.”

  As Shaye passed the bar on the way out, Baker asked, “Did you find him?”

  “He’ll be along,” Shaye said. “Don’t give him anything to drink.”

  “Whatever you say, Sheriff.”

  “I mean it.”

  Baker put both hands up in a gesture of surrender and said, “I gotcha, Sheriff.”

  Shaye went outside to wait for Colon.

  Rigoberto Colon wolfed down a plate of steak and eggs while he listened to Shaye’s proposition.

  “I owe you much, señor,” Colon said when Shaye was finished, “but…why me? I am but a humble borracho.”

  “That may be so,” Shaye said, “but you were not always a drunk, Berto. When you’re sober, you’re a dead shot, and you can track.”

  “Si, that is true,” the Mexican said, “but I am drunk now.”

  “I think,” Shaye said, “what you need is a reason not to be.”

  Colon washed down a mouthful of food with a huge swig of coffee, then pushed the plate away from him.

  “Perhaps you are right, señor,” he said, “but what would this reason be? Money, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps,” Shaye said, “but I was thinkin’ more of this—if you let my sons get killed, you will live to regret it.”

  Colon thought a moment, then said, “Sí, I can understand where that would be a muy bien reason, señor.”

  Shaye leaned forward and looked at the man intently.

  “However,” he said, “I’d rather you do this because I’m askin’ you, Berto, and because you owe me.”

  Colon sat back in his chair and heaved a great sigh.

  “Sí, señor,” he said, “but I will need a gun, and a horse, and I will need—”

  “I’ll get you everything you need, Berto,” Shaye said. “What I need is you, to help back up my sons. Do we have an agreement?”

  He extended his hand across the table.

  “Sí, señor,” Colon said, accepting the hand and shaking it, “we have a bargain.”

  31

  Shaye considered giving Colon some money to buy supplies, but decided not to risk it. The Mexican might just go and spend it on whiskey. Instead he took him to a nearby bathhouse, paid for him to have a bath, then told him to come to the office when he was finished.

  “Don’t make me come lookin’ for you, Berto,” he added.

  “No, señor,” Colon sa
id, dreading the bath, “I will not.”

  Shaye left him there and went back to the sheriff’s office, to find his sons waiting for him.

  Shaye listened while his sons related to him the events of the past hour or so.

  “So we really couldn’t see anything unusual about the horses’ tracks in the stalls,” Thomas said, “and James looked over their horses and couldn’t find anything.”

  “Did they have the same brand?”

  Thomas and James exchanged a glance. James had lifted the horses’ legs to inspect the hooves because he thought he might see something there, but neither brother had inspected the brand on either horse. Shaye knew this from the looks on their faces.

  “Okay, it doesn’t matter,” Shaye said. “You have to get on the trail or it’s gonna be too cold to follow.”

  “When should we leave, Pa?” Thomas asked.

  “Within the hour. Get yourselves outfitted to spend a lot of time on the trail. You both remember last time.”

  “Yes, Pa,” James said. “We remember.”

  “Pa,” Thomas said, “we don’t have a posse.”

  “I got you some help.”

  “You did?” James said.

  “Who did you get?”

  The door opened at that moment and the gunsmith, Ralph Cory, entered. He was carrying a rifle, saddlebags, and was wearing a gun belt.

  Thomas and James both looked at their father expectantly.

  “Boys, this is Ralph Cory,” he said. “Cory, my sons—and deputies—Thomas and James.”

  Thomas approached Cory with his hand out. “I’m Thomas. You’re the gunsmith, right?”

  Cory shook hands, looked past Thomas at Shaye for a moment, then said, “That’s right.” Obviously, he’d expected Shaye to have told his sons who he really was by now.

  “Glad to meet you.”

  James also shook hands with Cory.

  “Is this what you meant when you said you got us some help?” Thomas asked Shaye, then said to Cory, “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Yes,” Shaye said, “Mr. Cory and one other man.”

  “One more?” James asked. “Four of us?”

  “Better than just the two of you,” Shaye said.

  “Pa,” Thomas said, “we can handle this.”

  “Thomas,” Shaye said, “what were the brands on those horses again?”

  Thomas looked down and James looked away.

  “Who’s the second man?” Cory asked.

  “He should be here in any minute,” Shaye said. “His name is Rigoberto Colon.”

  “The drunk?” Cory asked.

  “Rigoberto, Pa?” Thomas asked.

  “Sober, he’s a good man.”

  “When is he sober?” James asked.

  “He knows horses,” Shaye said, “and he can handle a gun.”

  “And what does Mr. Cory bring to the table?” Thomas asked.

  Cory left it to Shaye to answer.

  “Cory can track,” Shaye said, “and he can handle a gun.”

  There was an awkward moment, then James said, “Well, it sounds good to me. The sooner we hit the trail, the better.”

  “James,” Shaye said, “I’d like you to take Mr. Cory over to the livery and show him the stall where the horses were. Also, show him the horses the bank robbers left behind.”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  “Answer whatever questions he has,” Shaye added. “Fill him in. And get him a horse. Tell Hill the town will pay him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thomas….”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Ribogerto is going to have to be outfitted. Clothes, gun, horse…take him and get him whatever he needs. Tell the merchants the town will pay.”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  “Be back here by three. You should have enough light left to pick up the trail…don’t you think, Ralph?”

  Cory nodded. At that moment the door opened and a clean, wet-haired Rigoberto Colon walked in, looking sheepish.

  “Berto, that’s Ralph Cory. He’ll be goin’ along.”

  “The gunsmith, es verdad?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Con mucho gusto,” Colon said, shaking the man’s hand.

  “Berto, these are my sons, Thomas and James. Thomas is gonna take you and buy you what you need.”

  Thomas walked over to Colon, shook his hand and asked, “Shall we go?”

  “Bien,” Colon said. “I am ready. Lead the way, Tomas.”

  “Thomas, when he’s outfitted, take him to the livery and show him what we have as well—and get him a horse.”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  As they left, Cory said to Shaye, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  James looked from his father to the gunsmith and back, then said, “I’ll just wait outside.”

  After James left, Shaye asked, “What’s on your mind, Cory?”

  “You haven’t told your boys who I really am.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I thought that would be up to you,” Shaye said. “All they have to know is that you’re willin’ to help. The rest is your business.”

  Cory studied Shaye for a moment, then asked, “What about the Mexican?”

  “What about him?’

  “Is he just a borracho? Or is he not who he seems?”

  “I guess that’ll be up to him to say too, if he chooses.”

  Cory stared at Shaye for a few more moments, then nodded as if satisfied with the answers he’d gotten and left.

  32

  James watched while Ralph Cory studied the ground in the two empty stalls. Standing off to one side, the livery man, Ron Hill, also watched.

  “Did you and your brother walk in here?” Cory asked.

  “No,” James said, “we stayed outside.”

  Cory started to step into the stall, but remembered that Shaye wanted the Mexican, Colon, to examine them as well. He stepped back and swept the floor of each stall with his eye.

  “Do you see anything?” James asked.

  “Yes,” Cory said, hunkering down in front of one of the stalls, “but it’s understandable that you and your brother missed it.”

  James came over, squatted next to the man and said, “Show me. I want to learn.”

  Cory looked at James, then said, “All right. Look there.” He pointed to a set of tracks. “This horse steps more lightly on his left hind leg.”

  “Is he lame?”

  “No,” Cory said, “it’s just an odd gait the animal has. Otherwise, it’s perfectly sound.”

  James looked at the man with undisguised admiration.

  “Well, I’ll be…” Hill said, scratching his head. “I never woulda noticed that.”

  “I don’t think my pa would even have seen that.”

  “Don’t sell your pa short, son,” Cory said, straightening up. “Take me out to the corral and show me those other two horses.”

  “Yes, sir. This way…”

  Thomas and Colon went to the general store and got the Mexican outfitted with saddlebags, blankets, a bedroll, and some new shirts and trousers. With both of them carrying bundles, they walked to the livery to get him a horse and let him have a look at the now empty stalls where the bank robbers’ horses had been.

  Upon entering the livery they set the bundles aside on a bale of hay, then Thomas showed Colon the stalls.

  “Muy bien,” the Mexican said after only a moment. “I have seen enough.”

  “Then let’s find Hill and get you a horse,” Thomas said. “Must be out back.”

  The two men went out to the corral, where they found Hill and James watching while Ralph Cory inspected the horses formerly owned by the bank robbers.

  “Mr. Hill,” Thomas said, “Rigoberto needs a horse.”

  Hill frowned at Colon and asked Thomas, “He got money for a horse?”

  “The town does,” Thomas said. “They’ll be footin’ the bil
l.”

  “Go ahead and pick one out, then.”

  “Con permiso,” Colon said. “I will wait for Señor Cory to finish.”

  “Fine,” Thomas said. He walked over to his brother, who quickly told him what Cory had found in the stalls.

  “The Mexican said the same thing,” Thomas informed his brother.

  “He did?” James was shocked. “I guess Pa’s right about him not bein’ just a drunk.”

  “We been livin’ here as long as Pa has,” Thomas said. “How come we don’t know these two men?”

  James shrugged and said, “’Cause we ain’t Pa.”

  Cory came waking over to them, remaining inside the corral. “Double W brand,” he said. “Know it?”

  “Never heard of it,” Thomas said.

  “Me neither,” James said.

  “Maybe your old man has,” Cory said. “You buyin’ the Mexican a horse?”

  “Yes,” Thomas said, “but he’s—”

  “That claybank over there looks good,” Cory said, “but I expect he’ll want to pick his own out.”

  He opened the gate and exited the corral.

  “What about you, Mr. Cory?” Thomas asked. “Do you need a horse?”

  “I have my own, thanks,” Cory said. “Did the Mexican see what I saw in the stalls?”

  “Uh, yeah, yeah, he did,” James said.

  “Good,” Cory said, “then he’s got a good eye. When are we pullin’ out?”

  “One hour,” Thomas said. “We’ll meet back here.”

  “Fine,” Cory said. “I’ll see you then.”

  As the man started walking away James asked Thomas, “Should I go with him?”

  “No,” Thomas said. “We’ll see him in an hour.” He turned. “Rigoberto, time to pick a horse.”

  The Mexican came over and stood next to the two brothers. “I already have, Tomas.”

  “What, without goin’ into the corral to look them over?”

  “Sí,” Colon said. “I have—how do you say—the eye for horseflesh? I can ‘see’ what makes a good horse.”

  “Which horse?” Hill asked.

  “The claybank.”

  “Good choice,” Hill said.

  Thomas and James exchanged a glance.

  33

  “Double W?” Shaye asked.

  “Yes,” Thomas said.