The Killing Season Read online

  The tall man spoke, his lips barely moving under his mustache. “You know why I’m here, Dallas Steele. I’m calling you out.”

  “I reckoned on this happening, Seth.” The man in the gray suit showed no sign of a weapon. “I thought you might come after me.”

  “Calvin Downs was just twenty-three years old.”

  “Your brother was old enough to kill three men in Horse Neck, working for a rich man who wanted to get richer at the expense of everybody else.”

  “Downs was all right.” Seth shrugged his shoulders.

  “He was a snake, Seth. You knew it then and you know it now.”

  “Damn you, he was my brother, and you killed him. I can’t let that pass.”

  “I guess you can’t, Seth. You know I’ll kill you, don’t you?”

  “I have to try.”

  “Walk away from it, Seth. Downs made his reputation killing old men and farm boys. A tinhorn like that isn’t worth dying for.”

  “I’m faster than Downs, Dallas,” Seth said.

  “Downs wasn’t fast. He didn’t come close to being fast.”

  “I have to try.”

  Dallas nodded, but said nothing. He looked pained, like a man recalling old, unhappy memories of similar situations that had gone before.

  Clitherow tried to rise to his feet, but Ironside held him down. “You’re outclassed here, Jim. You stay put.”

  But Clitherow pulled out of Ironside’s grasp and stood, his hand dropping for his gun.

  “Damn you, Steele!” Seth yelled.

  And he drew.

  He was fast. Lightning fast. His gun had even cleared leather when Dallas Steele’s bullet crashed between his eyes.

  For a single, horrified moment before the darkness took him, Seth Benson, gunman, gambler, man killer, learned what a fast draw really meant.

  Jim Clitherow pulled free of Ironside as scared patrons stampeded for the door. “It’s over,” he yelled. “Go back to your seats and finish breakfast.”

  “Damn you, Clitherow,” a miner in a plaid shirt and lace-up boots said. “You served us up a dead man for breakfast.”

  Another male voice claimed that his wife was “all a-tremble” over the killing and other diners muttered their sympathy.

  Ironside rose to his feet and in a voice like a thunderclap roared, “The sheriff didn’t kill that man.”

  People looked at each other in puzzlement, then at Ironside.

  “I killed him.” Dallas Steele walked into the middle of the floor and looked down at the body. “His name was Seth Benson and he called me out.”

  “Sheriff”—a matronly woman pointed at Steele—“arrest that man.”

  “For what? It was a fair fight.” Ironside was irritated. “Benson went for his gun first and Steele fired in self-defense.”

  Shamus stood up at the table. “I second that. The gentleman here”—he motioned to Steele—“tried to make it go away. You all heard him.”

  Several diners muttered agreement and Steele said, “Seth was informed, but he couldn’t let it go. It was his way.”

  Sheriff Clitherow had been silent, but now he looked up at the shooter and said, “You’re Dallas Steele, the one they call the Fighting Pink.”

  “Yes, I believe that’s what they call me.” Steel gave a little bow. “At your service, Sheriff.”

  “Are you here in Recoil on official business?” Clitherow asked.

  “You could say that. I was asked to assess the situation and report my findings to Washington. This affair with Seth was a complication I neither anticipated nor sought.”

  Ironside had been the first to declare that Steele had acted in self-defense, but he hadn’t warmed to the man. “Where’s your gun, mister? The sheriff may want to take it.”

  Steele pulled back his coat and revealed a short-barreled blue Colt in a shoulder holster. “Do you want my gun, Sheriff?”

  “No, I guess not.” Clitherow looked around the room. “Somebody get Elijah Doddle. We’re sure keeping him busy.”

  Chapter Five

  “First my sleep was interrupted and then my morning coffee. May I join you gentleman and share another pot?” Steele saw the surprise in Shamus’s face and added, “I believe we may have a friend in common, Colonel.”

  “Sit here.” The sheriff stood and offered his chair. “I’m going back to my office. Colonel, Luther, I’ll see you later.” He turned and left the restaurant.

  Steele waited to sit down until the sheriff left.

  Shamus offered his hand to the young man. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Oh, we haven’t met before,” Steele said, shaking the colonel’s hand. “But I overheard you addressed as Colonel, and you called this gentleman Luther, therefore I assume you are Colonel Shamus O’Brien of Dromore.”

  Ironside frowned. “Here, have we had gun trouble with you afore?”

  Steele smiled. “No, my friend Jacob O’Brien has told me all about you.”

  Surprised, Ironside asked, “You’re a friend of Jake’s?”

  “Indeed I am. I have him play the piano for me whenever we meet. He’s a fine classical musician. And a very complex man.”

  “It seems that just about everybody knows Jacob,” Shamus noted. “He’s my son.”

  “That was my impression, Colonel.”

  It came grudgingly, but Ironside managed, “Any friend of Jake’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Did you teach Jacob to play the piano, Luther?” Steele asked.

  “My sainted wife Saraid taught him how to play,” Shamus answered before Ironside could speak. “Luther taught Jacob and my three other sons riding, gun fighting, profanity, whoring, and whiskey drinking. You will notice a notable lack of instruction on Holy Scripture and nothing at all about attendance at church and the partaking of the holy sacraments.”

  “Damned popery,” Ironside growled.

  Shamus gave Ironside a sharp look. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, Colonel. I didn’t say nothing.”

  “I should hope not.” Shamus peered hard at his segundo. “Are you sure you didn’t mutter something derogatory about the Holy Mother Church?”

  Ironside shook his head. “Not a word, Colonel.”

  Steele saved Ironside from further embarrassment. “Colonel O’Brien, what do you make of this night rider business?”

  Before Shamus could answer, the waitress laid a pot of coffee on the table. She looked at Steele. “I know what they are, those night riders.”

  “Really? Can you enlighten us?”

  The girl’s brown eyes widened as she leaned forward and whispered, “They’re skeleton riders, the living dead come from hell to punish us for our sins.”

  Shamus crossed himself. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the saints in heaven preserve and protect us.”

  “And how do you know this?” Steele asked the waitress.

  “I’m walking out with the son of preacher Hall and he says that’s what his pa says.”

  Steele smiled. “Maybe he’s right.”

  The girl glanced over her shoulders, then leaned down closer to Steele. “The night riders carry torches that Preacher Hall says were lit from the very fires of hell.”

  “Well, we’ll be careful we don’t get burned.” Steele smiled.

  “Oh, sir, please don’t make a joke, or the demons will ride into town and kill you like they did poor Mr. Rawlings.” As though scared by her own talk, the waitress hurried away, leaving behind a scent of lye soap and lavender water.

  “People are scared,” Shamus said. “But in answer to the question you asked, I don’t know what to make of the whole sorry business.”

  “By my count, the night riders have killed close to a dozen people,” Steele said. “It’s getting serious.”

  “What could be their motive?” Shamus wondered again.

  “I don’t know,” Steele said. “But I intend to find out.”

  “You’re staying around?” Ironside questioned the Pinkerton man.

  Steele nodded. “I believe I will. And you?”

  “We’re here to help Sheriff Clitherow any way we can. He saved my life in the late war and I owe him,” Ironside declared.

  Shamus gave his reason for being in Recoil. “Luther is my friend. So we both owe Jim Clitherow.”

  “Any chance of Jacob coming here?” Steele asked.

  “No. I asked him to stay at Dromore for the spring gather,” Shamus answered.

  Steele took a drink of his coffee. “Pity. We could sure use his gun.”

  “Dallas, from what I saw this morning, you don’t need anybody’s gun but your own.” Luther smiled. “Who gave you the handle Dallas?”

  “My parents are both physicians,” Steele said. “They were in Dallas to attend a medical conference when Mother gave birth prematurely.”

  Shamus nodded. “And she called you after the city.”

  “Exactly. I’ve never been real fond of the name, but it’s the one my folks gave me so I’ve kept it.”

  “They still alive?” Shamus asked, making conversation.

  “Yes, but they’re both retired. They moved to England and bought a corner of an estate from Lord somebody or other. Father grows roses and mother volunteers at a local hospital for the poor. They seem to be happy enough, especially since father is invited onto the estate for the grouse shooting season.”

  “Did your pa teach you to shoot?” Luther asked, the subject dear to him.

  Steele thought about that for a few moments. “Luther, what I do with a gun can’t be taught. It’s a skill a man is born with, like Jacob’s gift for music.” He drained his cup and stood. “I’ll see you gentlemen later. I have to talk with the undertaker and honor my dead.”

  Shamus watched the young man leave the restaurant, then poured himself another cup of coffee. “Well, Luther, where do we go and what do we do?”

  “I say we wait and hear what Jim’s deputy has to say. He might have something we can go on.”

  Shamus looked at Ironside over the rim of his cup. “Why are the night riders doing this? I can’t wrap my mind around it.”

  “For money, Colonel. Isn’t that the usual reason for such things?”

  Shamus frowned. “What is there of value in this wilderness?”

  “A gold mine, maybe?”

  Shamus shook his head. “You don’t ride all over the country killing and burning to get a gold mine. If they want a mine, why not just take it and be done?”

  “It beats me, Colonel,” Ironside said.

  “There’s something else, something I just can’t figure.” Shamus sat in thought for a few moments, then shook his head and sighed. “No, I can come up with nothing.”

  Ironside stared out the restaurant window. “Riders comin’ in. Looks like it’s Jim’s posse and them boys look pretty beat.”

  Shamus stood up. “Then let’s go and hear what they have to say.”

  Chapter Six

  Stutterin’ Steve Sparrow’s eyes were frozen in his head, like a man who’d stared too long at a sight that had horrified him. Like the other eight men in his posse he sat his tired horse outside the sheriff’s office and made no attempt to dismount.

  Shamus and Ironside exchanged glances, trying to make sense of what they were seeing.

  Jim Clitherow stepped out of his office and stood on the boardwalk. He was silent for a while, then said one word. “Steve?”

  Sparrow’s head moved in the sheriff’s direction. “G-g-grangers.” Then, after a struggle, “All dead. M-m-men . . .”

  “Women and children, all murdered.” This from a man who rode a dust-covered pony that could’ve been any color. “Three wagons burned, up by Black Mountain Draw.”

  “Night riders, Steve?” Clitherow spoke softly, like a man talking to a frightened child.

  The deputy nodded.

  “How many dead?” Clitherow said.

  Sparrow took a deep breath and tried to force out the words as he exhaled. “Th-three men. F-f-four half-grown boys. Six w-w-women and g-g-girls.”

  “All shot?” Clitherow said.

  Sparrow shook his head. “B-b-b-burned.”

  Clitherow closed his eyes slowly, seeing images in his mind, and when he opened them again they were haunted.

  “The s-s-smell . . .” Sparrow said. “I’ll never eat m-m-meat again.”

  Clitherow nodded. He’d already seen and smelled the massacre in his mind. He looked over the tired posse men. They reminded him of soldiers who’d suffered a crushing defeat in the field. “Any of you men see anything, tracks maybe?”

  It took a while before the posse reacted, then a rider reached behind his saddle and produced a piece of board. He held it up for Clitherow to see. Two words had been branded into the pine. Hell Fire.

  “Got a ring to it, don’t it,” Ironside said, his face grim.

  Shamus turned his head and stared at him for a moment, but said nothing.

  “Clem, give me that damned thing,” Clitherow said. “The rest of you men return to your homes and get some rest. Steve, that goes for you as well.”

  None of the men made any objection. Clem handed Clitherow the board then rode away with the rest. Only Sparrow still sat his horse and gazed at the sheriff.

  “Go home, Steve,” Clitherow said. “Get some rest. You’re all used up, man.”

  “Phantoms,” the deputy said. Then, with barely a stutter, “W-we can’t fight phantoms.” He was a compact man of medium height with hard gray eyes and a black, spade-shaped beard. He didn’t scare worth a damn.

  But he was scared that morning.

  He swung his horse away and rode down the street, his chin on his chest, a man who’d caught his own personal glimpse of hell.

  “I surely hate to ask you this, Shamus,” Jim Clitherow said.

  “Ask away. That’s why we’re here,” Shamus said.

  “Would you and Luther ride out to the massacre site and look around? Those men in the posse were tired and scared. They could’ve missed something.”

  “What’s the country like up there?” Ironside said.

  “Thorn scrub desert, mostly,” Clitherow said. “It’s long-riding country, to be sure.”

  “How far a ride, Jim?” Shamus asked. It was a question a man with a sore back would ask.

  “Near thirty miles. Better take supplies. You’ll probably want to make camp tonight and head back tomorrow morning.”

  Shamus rose to his feet. “Then we’d better saddle up.”

  “I’ll arrange for some grub and a coffeepot,” Clitherow said. “There are creeks in the area, but they might be dry. Better take your own water.”

  “Sounds right cozy,” Ironside said.

  “I know it’s a hell of a thing to ask you,” Clitherow said, “but I reckon my place is here in town. The night riders have struck here before. They may do it again. Oh, Elijah Doddle pulled out an hour ago with two wagons and a couple helpers. You’ll probably catch up with him.”

  “He bringing in the bodies?” Ironside asked.

  Clitherow hesitated, then said, “Yeah, what’s left of them. I guess giving those folks a decent burial is the Christian thing to do.”

  “It is indeed, Jim,” Shamus said. “And may God bless you for that.”

  “You boys take care, huh?” Clitherow said.

  Ironside smiled. “Hell, Jim, we’re gettin’ too old to do anything else.”

  By noon, Shamus and Ironside were within sight of Turquoise Mountain, known to the Navajo as Tso odzil. The Indians believed the peak was fastened to the earth by a stone knife and covered with a blue-sky blanket decorated with turquoise. But there was little turquoise to be seen, just the grassy slopes of the mountain that ended here and there in stands of piñon, aspen, and up higher, spruce.

  The land was vast and empty, hammered by the sun, and the air smelled like newly-sawn timber.

  “What the hell were grangers doing in this place?” Ironside said.

  “Maybe headed up Silver City way,” Shamus said.

  Ironside looked around him. “You can run cattle on this land, but it ain’t fit for sodbusters. I swear maybe two inches of soil sits on top the bedrock.”

  Shamus shook his head. “Luther, there’s just no accounting for folks. They do what they want.” He arched his back in the saddle and groaned.

  “Hurt some, Colonel, huh?” Ironside said.

  “Yes, some. I’m already missing my soft bed at Dromore.”

  Ironside said. “Well, maybe tonight we’ll spread our blankets on some nice rock moss.”

  Shamus smiled. “Just what I need, Luther.”

  The south end of Black Mountain Draw lay between Black Mountain and Coyote Peak in a wilderness of thorn scrub, cactus, and piñon. At two in the afternoon, Shamus and Ironside, saddle weary, caught up with Elijah Doddle and his parked wagons. Scared like everyone else in that part of the territory, he and his assistants greeted the two riders with leveled rifles.

  Shamus and Ironside drew rein.

  “State your intentions.” Doddle was a tall skinny man dressed in a black claw-hammer coat, collarless white shirt, and a top hat perched precariously on his bald head.

  “My name is Colonel Shamus O’Brien and this is my associate Mr. Luther Ironside.”

  “Then we’ll give you the road,” Doddle said. “You may be on your way.”

  “We’re friends of Sheriff Jim Clitherow. We’re here at his request to investigate this terrible affair.”

  Doddle thought that through. Finally he lowered his gun and said, “Well, I didn’t take you fer night riders. The burned-out wagons are in the draw.”

  “And the bodies?” Ironside said.

  “In the wagons.” Doddle mopped his sweating face with a blue bandana decorated with white spots. “But be warned, it’s not a sight any God-fearing man would wish to see.” Then, as though he’d just remembered, he said, “These are my assistants, Lem Trace and Patrick McGowan.”

  Trace was a fat, red-faced man who looked too jolly to be an undertaker. McGowan was younger, a gangling youth with clear blue eyes and fiery hair.