Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming Read online

  Bob said her name. “Mee-Kee,” and that seemed to soothe her a bit. While he took a turn staying with her to keep her from bolting, he set in motion an idea he’d thought of earlier but hadn’t yet had time to follow up on. He sent Doc Tibbs to Bullock’s saloon and told him to fetch a girl named Kim, who worked there.

  Bullock’s was considered the highest class drinking establishment in town. Still, considering Rattlesnake Wells was only a relatively small place—boom or no boom—in the middle of Wyoming Territory, that didn’t exactly take it to lofty heights. Like most saloons in the West, Mike had working girls on hand.

  They preferred to be called hostesses or barmaids and they did indeed serve drinks part of the time. Quite at their own discretion, they frequently escorted men up to their rooms for some private service. Kim was one of the hostesses. She also happened to be Oriental, capable of speaking decent English as well as her native tongue. It was the marshal’s hope that she would be able to communicate with Mee-Kee and help settle her down.

  In a lousy mood for having been rousted so early after the late hours she kept, Kim calmed down after she heard Bob’s account of how he’d found Mee-Kee and what her circumstances had been, followed by his explanation of why he’d sent for Kim. She quickly showed compassion for the girl’s plight.

  Her compassion increased as the two began to converse. Mee-Kee wept openly, so happy was she to find someone she could understand and talk to. Without going into too much detail, at least not right at the moment, Kim confirmed to Bob that everything he’d speculated on and pieced together had been reasonably accurate. To the marshal’s gratitude and relief, Kim then offered to take the girl back to her quarters and look after her there until more permanent arrangements could be made.

  With that problem settled, at least for the time being, Bob finished out the morning finalizing authorization for hiring two deputies. When he took the news and the pay offer to Curtis Pardee and the Macy brothers, he was pleased to find them all receptive. Among themselves, they had decided that, providing the deputy jobs worked out, Lee would remain with his uncle and they would head out for Pardee’s digs first thing in the morning. Peter and Vern would continue to rent the big Gold Avenue tent they’d all been sharing, at least until they’d drawn some wages and could afford some better accommodations. Pardee had a cabin up at his digs for him and Lee.

  After saying his good-byes to Pardee and the youngster and leaving it with Vern and Peter that they would report in the morning for swearing in and duty, Bob wrapped up the first half of the day feeling everything had turned out pretty well. He decided to go home for lunch before returning to his office, where he hoped some telegrams would continue the good trend by providing him clear direction on what he should do with Arlo Sanders.

  Chapter 16

  It was the middle of the morning when Pete Stuben rode back into Rattlesnake Wells. After coming down from the Shirley Mountains hideout, he’d swung a good distance west before turning south again for the final leg into town. Just in case anybody was paying attention, it would appear as if he was coming from the direction of the Prophecy range where the gold strikes were, and he’d look like part of the steady flow of traffic that passed between the gold fields and Gold Avenue. Coming from the direction of the Shirleys might strike some nosy parker as suspicious, and that was the last thing he wanted on his little foray. He couldn’t be too careful.

  As he rode past the tent wreckage and the burnt area, the result of the raid he’d participated in, Stuben couldn’t keep one corner of his mouth from quirking back somewhat smugly. Men were picking through the ruins, salvaging what they could and hauling away in pushcarts what was damaged beyond hope.

  Damn fools never knew what hit ’em, Stuben thought. Before they were done reeling from that episode, if everything went according to plan, they were going to get spun around by another dose.

  Halfway down the street, he spotted an establishment with a façade of fresh-cut pine logs hammered together without particular skill. Behind the pine front stretched a long, high-peaked tent. Nailed above the front door was a wide plank, painted white with bright red lettering that read BEER—WHISKEY—POKER. Below that, in smaller letters also red in color, was added COME IN—WET YOUR WHISTLE—TRY YOUR LUCK.

  Stuben grinned. It looked like a good place to begin. With the wreckage he’d passed, he had the perfect starting point for striking up a conversation—playing it up as a newcomer to town, which he basically was, and asking what the heck had happened.

  Forty minutes later, he assessed that things were going fairly well. For early in the day, the joint had a decent crowd and he’d had no problem finding an in-progress poker game to sit in on. Enough other patrons milled about so their movement and conversation did a good job of preventing his talk and questions from making him stand out to any degree.

  In short order, he had the events of the recent raid and attempted bank robbery related to him with lots of enthusiasm yet not quite as much embellishment as he might have expected. The number of raiders involved was amusingly inflated, though he could hardly offer a correction. Otherwise, the account was pretty straightforward. What was more, he got confirmation that the notorious gang leader Arlo Sanders was indeed behind bars in the local jail with only a relatively minor wound.

  The men Stuben was playing cards with—alleged prospectors who, from every indication, didn’t have a lot of ambition for doing the actual work of digging for gold—were such dreadful poker players it created a big problem for him. He found it difficult to keep from winning pot after pot, as he’d been warned not to do for the sake of drawing undue attention to himself.

  Furthermore, he came to understand that the men, all recent arrivals due to the gold boom, had no real sense of the town’s overall mood or what measures of preparedness might be in the works in case of another raid. For that, Stuben realized, he needed to go to the older, more established part of town and see what the talk was there. He had plenty of time before he needed to head back to the hideout. With luck, he’d find another establishment with another poker game that would offer a challenge so he could maybe enjoy himself a little while gathering some additional information.

  * * *

  Just before noon, on the south end of Front Street, another stranger rode into town. He was a tall man, broad across the shoulders, wearing a flat-crowned black Stetson, a black frock coat, and gray-striped trousers. His wide, fleshy face featured a tobacco-brown walrus mustache and above that alert, restlessly moving eyes of the same color. On his right hip, prominently displayed by a swept back fold of his coat, rode a Colt .45 revolver with grooved bone grips.

  The stranger rode directly to the marshal’s office, swung somewhat wearily down from the saddle, and tied his horse casually to the hitch rail. Entering through the front door, he found Deputy Fred seated behind the desk, fidgeting with some telegrams that had been delivered by Harold Feeney.

  Fred looked up. “Hello. Can I help you with something?”

  The brief hint of a smile touched the stranger’s mouth. “I hope so. Are you Marshal Hatfield?”

  “No, I’m his deputy. Chief Deputy Fred Ordway.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Deputy Ordway. My name’s Brock. Vernon Brock. I’m a U.S. marshal up from Kansas.” As verification, he pulled back his lapel and revealed a U.S. marshal’s badge pinned to his shirt.

  Fred’s eyebrows lifted. “Kansas, you say. Wow, you’re pretty far off your range, ain’t you?”

  “Happens sometimes with this job. Speaking of what comes with the job, mind me asking if that’s how you got those prizewinning shiners you’re packing around there?”

  With a note of pride, Fred said, “That’s exactly how I got ’em. We had some owlhoots make a try at robbing our bank just yesterday morning. I got these, along with a busted nose, in the act of stopping them. Well, me and the marshal, that is.”

  “Sounds like some mighty good work, apart from the damage and discomfort to you.”

 
“Aw, it ain’t no big thing. It don’t hardly hurt any more today.”

  “That’s good, then. Where is your marshal, by the way?”

  “He’s been out most of the morning taking care of matters with the town council and whatnot. Considering the time, he may be at lunch now. I expect him back right after the noon hour, though. Do you have some business with him?”

  “Yes, I believe I do. You see, I have to admit that I arrived here already knowing about your trouble from yesterday—the raid and the attempted bank robbery. I heard about it down in Laramie, where I was trying to pick up the trail of a certain fugitive I had reason to believe had fled up this direction. Ironically, when I heard it was the Arlo Sanders gang that hit you and that you ended with ol’ Arlo himself behind bars, well, that sort of changed my priorities.”

  Brock reached inside the front of his coat, withdrew a folded sheet of paper, and shook it open. It proved to be a wanted poster for Arlo Sanders. Holding it up for Fred to see, he continued. “As it says right here, our Dodge City office has been after Sanders for a good long while. Since he’s wanted on federal charges, that not only puts me in a good position, but it gives me the full right to take him off your hands and transfer him into my custody.”

  Fred looked impressed. “I guess that would work out pretty good all the way around. I know that Bob—er, Marshal Hatfield that is—has been wondering what to do with this varmint. You know . . . because him and his gang have cut such a wide swath over the past couple years and are wanted in so many different jurisdictions.” For some reason he didn’t feel inclined to mention the telegrams that had come in about that very subject.

  Brock waved the wanted poster. “Like I said, this is a federal claim. That trumps all lesser jurisdictions.”

  “What about other federal charges, though? You know, for crimes committed in places besides Kansas.”

  Brock went tight around the mouth and for a minute Fred thought he was going to turn angry. The moment passed and half the mouth lifted in a lopsided grin. “Look, I’m just a fella who runs ’em down and hauls ’em in. Not that much different from what you do, right? Who has the first claim or the biggest claim or any of that crap is for the courts and judges and shyster lawyers to figure out, you know what I’m saying? The main thing is that the dirty skunk is captured. None of the rest of it can happen at all until that part gets done.”

  “That’s for sure,” agreed Fred.

  “So I’ll hash it over with Hatfield when he gets back, and we can decide how to play it from there.”

  “That’s a good idea. That would be best.”

  “In the meantime, how’s chances I can go back and have a word with the prisoner?”

  Fred’s brow puckered with uncertainty. “Jeez, I dunno, Mr. Brock. I mean, seeing as how you’re a lawman and all, I guess it should be okay. But the marshal has really drilled into me that we need to be extra cautious about anything and everything concerned with this Sanders hombre. I hope you understand why that makes me sorta reluctant to—”

  “What the hell? Do you think I’m going to try and break him out or something?” Brock snapped.

  “Well, no, of course not. It ain’t that, but—”

  “What then?” Brock insisted. A flush of color showed on his face and once again he looked ready to turn very angry. Then once more, he calmed himself and exhaled a deep, even breath. “Never mind. I wouldn’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with or something that might get you in trouble with your boss. I rode hard all yesterday afternoon and this morning and haven’t had much rest or a decent meal in all that time. I guess I’m a little testy. Sanders has been on the run somewhere out ahead of me, not to mention a lot of other folks, for a long while now. I reckon another hour or so until the marshal gets back and I can talk directly with him won’t make that much difference.”

  Fred looked relieved. “I think that would be best. Listen, if you want to catch some lunch for yourself, there are some good cafés and restaurants in town. As you can probably tell, I know ’em all pretty good.” Fred patted his thickened middle to emphasize the point. “This time of day, Bullock’s Saloon puts out a nice spread of fresh baked bread, cold cuts, cheese, and other stuff for practically no charge as long as you’re doing some drinking.”

  Brock grinned. “Well now. A cold beer or two and a feast such as you describe sounds mighty appealing. Where might I find this Bullock’s?”

  Fred jerked a thumb. “Three blocks up the street, opposite side. You can’t miss it.”

  Chapter 17

  Bob enjoyed a nice, leisurely lunch at home with Consuela. It was the first chance he had to tell her about the new deputies he’d be adding. She was very glad to hear this, saying she hoped it meant a reduction in the long days she felt he too often put in and would result in more time for him to spend with Bucky.

  What Consuela left unsaid was that it would also mean more time for him to spend around her. It was a thinly veiled secret in their relationship that Consuela was in love with Bob. Had been since she was quite young, actually, and developed a huge crush on her big brother’s best friend.

  Unfortunately, for too long that was all Bob saw her as in return—Ramos’s pesky kid sister, always hanging around and getting in the way. By the time Consuela’s crush had solidified into genuine love and Bob finally got around to noticing that the pesky kid sister had turned into a very lovely young woman, his heart was already being won over by Priscilla. Consuela could only look on and pine for what apparently could never be.

  When Priscilla’s health began to diminish after Bucky was born, it was Consuela who stepped in to help care for the child as well as the frail mother. Looking back, she often asked herself if it was purely the result of compassion on her part, or if it was done more as a means for her to stay close to Bob. All these years later, after the passing of Priscilla and caring for the boy and his grieving father, Consuela still could not be certain.

  The only thing she knew for sure was that she continued to love Bob and—even after the dark, bloody time associated with the Devil’s River Kid—found him to be one of the finest, most decent men she’d ever met. She also clung to the belief that he had developed a fondness for her in return, but it was the inherent decency in him that prevented him from expressing it or acting on it in any way. Not yet anyway. But someday . . .

  Over lunch, Bob also told Consuela about his discovery of Mee-Kee and her former pimps that he’d subsequently run out of town, things he hadn’t been able to discuss in front of Bucky at breakfast.

  Consuela saw his rescue of and concern for the abused Oriental girl as further evidence of his decency. “But what will become of her now?”

  “Don’t rightly know at this point,” Bob was forced to admit. And then he stubbornly added, “But anything is a darn sight better than the way she was living before.”

  * * *

  Bob thought about Consuela’s question regarding Mee-Kee’s future as he walked down the slope from his house and made the turn onto Front Street. Now that he’d intervened and had taken her away from everything she’d ever known—both good and bad—what was he going to do with her? Not that it had to be his problem exclusively, but since he’d done what he had, he felt primarily responsible for what would become of her next.

  He was still pondering the new predicament he’d more or less heaped on himself as he started past Bullock’s Saloon. Something caught his eye and he slowed his steps. One of a half dozen horses tied at the hitch rail in front of the popular establishment was a solid-looking blue roan with some unusual white streaking in its mane. After a couple more steps, he stopped walking completely to study the animal. Something about it was making the short hairs on the back of his neck prickle, trying to tell him something. What was it about this nag that . . .

  And then he knew. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned it clearly, backlit by the illumination of rising flames. He had seen this very horse, with the odd marking in its mane, being ridden by one of
the raiders who made the diversionary hit on New Town two nights ago!

  With the certainty surging inside him, Bob’s hand dropped to the grips of the .44 holstered at his side and he took a step toward Bullock’s front door. But he halted again. While he was positive about his identification of the horse, the man who’d been riding it was just a shadowy form with a murky face. Bob would never be able to pick the man out amid the lunch-hour crowd. If he simply barged in, flashing his badge and demanding to know who belonged to the roan, one of two things would likely result. Either the rider would stay cool and calm and do nothing to give himself away, or he might panic, go for his gun, and unleash a shoot-out, putting a whole bunch of other patrons at risk.

  He could hang back, wait and see who came out and got on the roan. That could take hours, and Bob knew he didn’t have that much patience, especially not in this instance. He wanted to flush that skunk and do it quick.

  As the marshal stood there pondering a reasonable way to go about getting the roan’s rider to show his hand, Joe Peterson, who ran the town’s main livery stable, emerged from Bullock’s, sucking on a toothpick.

  An idea quickly formed in Bob’s head. “Joe. Come here a minute.” He motioned urgently.

  “What’s up, Marshal?” Peterson said, walking over, a frown forming on his face.

  “Listen. I need your help and I don’t have time for a lengthy explanation.”

  Peterson’s frown deepened. “Well . . . sure, Marshal. I’ll do what I can. I ain’t gonna end up in the middle of a bunch of flyin’ lead, am I?”

  “Not if you do what I ask and then just stand back out of the way.”

  “What is it you’re askin’ me to do?”

  “Turn around and go right back inside. Act a little excited. Then holler out that whoever has this blue roan stud out here on the hitch rail had better come a-runnin’ because his horse is kicking up a big fuss and threatening to pull free.”