Unbound by Law Page 3

  “Could be the women married men with different names,” Clint said. “There could be brothers and sisters, or all brothers.”

  “I’ve sent a telegram to the authorities in Baltimore. That was the return address on some of the letters. Looks like the family’s name was Eckert.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Some children’s names,” the lawman said. “Johnny, Beth, Megan . . . don’t know which kids, but at least that’s something.”

  “Maybe, by the time we’re done, we’ll have all their names for headstones,” Clint said.

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “You surprise me, Sheriff.”

  “How so, Adams?”

  “When I first met you, you didn’t seem too thrilled about me being here,” Clint explained. “Or about coming out here with me.”

  “When we met,” Scott admitted, “I had a helluva hangover. Sorry.”

  “Problems?”

  “At home,” Scott said.

  “Wife?”

  Scott nodded. “Maybe not for much longer, though,” he said. “She’s not happy here, wants me to quit my job and leave town.”

  “And you don’t want to?”

  “I don’t know,” the lawman said. “I’m not as sure of things as she is.”

  “How long have you been married?” Clint asked.

  “Ten years. You?”

  “Never been.”

  “Do you have a home?”

  “My saddle, mostly,” Clint said. “I’m not the type to put down roots.”

  “Never came close?” the sheriff asked.

  “Once,” Clint said, “but she died.”

  “Too bad. I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  They passed the place where the dead coyotes had been. They were all but gone—just some bones left behind by the buzzards.

  When they reached the wagons, all was as it had been when they left. There was nothing left for the scavengers to be interested in—and, apparently, no two-legged scavengers had come along.

  The men dismounted.

  “I’m gonna go through the wagons again, see if I missed anythin’,” Scott said.

  “I’m going to walk around, see what kind of signs, if any, I can find.”

  Scott nodded, walked to one of the wagons, and climbed in.

  Clint could hear the sheriff going through the wagons while he walked the camp, studying the ground. He found it odd that the only hoof prints he could find had apparently come from the wagon teams. It looked as if no one had ridden into camp, or out, on a saddle mount.

  “Anythin’?” Scott called.

  “I can’t find any sign of anyone else in camp,” Clint said. “Just the families.”

  “I found some weapons,” Scott said. “Rifles, handguns. They kept them in the wagons.”

  “Very trusting of them. Didn’t find any on the bodies, right?”

  “No.”

  Clint waved at the ground. “This concerns me.”

  “Why?”

  “All signs indicate there was no one else in camp with these families.”

  “So?”

  “It means if they were poisoned, they were poisoned somewhere else,” Clint said. “Or, their food was poisoned somewhere else.”

  “So they ate once and died,” the sheriff said. “That means if the food was poisoned, it happened a day’s ride from here. Somewhere they stopped.”

  “Unless it was a slow-acting poison,” Clint said. “Maybe they had to ingest it more than once.”

  “But the coyotes seem to have died from it,” the lawman pointed out.

  “They did, but they’re smaller animals,” Clint said. “Anyway, I don’t know that much about poison. We should leave that to the doctor, I guess.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Maybe,” Clint said, “we should load everything of value onto one wagon, go back to town, get a team, and drive it back. Eventually, somebody’s going to come along and help themselves.”

  “True,” the sheriff said. “We could save the stuff for the family back East.”

  “If there is any.”

  “But we came out here to find out somethin’,” Scott said.

  “Yes, we did. So before we do that, I guess we better backtrack on these wagon tracks and see where they were coming from.”

  “They head off toward Hondo,” Scott said, “but they must turn off somewhere.”

  “Then let’s mount up and find out.”

  NINE

  They followed the wagon tracks back toward Hondo and, as they suspected, they turned off halfway back, heading east.

  Or, more to the point, they had come from the east.

  “What’s that way?” Clint asked.

  “Several small towns,” the sheriff said. “Geneva, Canyon, Coldwater . . .”

  “How small?”

  “Smaller than Hondo.”

  “Could they have outfitted in one of them?”

  “Sure,” Scott said. “There’s a mercantile or trading post, in all of them. They’d be able to get some supplies.”

  “And food.”

  “Yeah, and food.”

  “If we follow these tracks,” Clint said, “will it take you out of your jurisdiction?”

  “I’m already out,” Scott said. “I’m just a town sheriff, you know.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I could go, and you could return to town, come back with a team, and take one of the wagons back with you.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “Check out those towns, see which one they came from,” Clint said.

  “Clint,” Scott said, “we still don’t know for sure that they were poisoned. It’s still a theory from the doctor.”

  “I know it,” Clint said, “but I could ask some questions. It’d be better than just sitting around in the hotel, or the saloon.”

  “I could go with you . . .”

  “Yeah, you could,” Clint said, “but then you’d have to be away from town overnight. That would leave Hondo without a lawman.”

  “So?” Sheriff Scott asked. “The drunks will have to put themselves to bed in a cell, for a change.”

  “No,” Clint said, “I’ll go alone, see what I can find out, and then come back. You go back to town, be the sheriff. You don’t want to upset your mayor.”

  Scott opened his mouth, as if to say something, but caught himself. Instead, he said, “Okay. Here.” He handed over the burlaps sack. “Just some coffee, beef jerky—and a bottle of whiskey.”

  “Whiskey?”

  “For snakebites,” Scott said.

  “The kind that leave hangovers behind?”

  “Yeah,” Scott said, “that kind.”

  “Tell me in what order I’ll come to these towns,” Clint said.

  “Coldwater first, then Geneva, then Canyon.”

  “And after that?”

  “If you go farther than that,” Scott said, “it means you’ve gone too far. It’ll take you a while to get back.”

  Clint tied the sack to his saddle, then extended his hand to the lawman, who shook it. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “Don’t take any chances,” Scott said. “Each of those towns has a lawman. Check in with them.”

  “I usually do. Do they have telegraph offices?”

  “No, they’re too small for that.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I’ll just introduce myself, and hope they believe me.”

  “They will.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You have a sincere face—and you’re the Gunsmith.”

  TEN

  “Where’ve you been?”

  Johnny Devlin stared at his boss a bit sheepishly.

  “I had to camp overnight,” Devlin said.

  “And?” Harry Cantrell asked.

  “I, uh, overslept.”

  Cantrell was undoubtedly the most successful businessman in the town of Roswell. He also had many businesses in the larger tow
n of Carrizozo, but had not yet become as successful there.

  “You’re the only man I know who can sleep on the ground and oversleep,” he said to his man.

  “Sorry, boss.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Just like you planned.”

  “Did you stay around to see if anyone found them?” Cantrell asked.

  “Uh, no, you didn’t tell me to do that.”

  “Oh, I forgot,” Cantrell said. “You only do exactly what you’re told to do.”

  Devlin frowned, wondering what else he was supposed to do. He always did what he was told.

  “Okay, Johnny,” Cantrell said. “Go get yourself a drink.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “I’m leaving for Carrizozo today. I won’t be back here for a couple of weeks.”

  “Uh, am I gonna get paid before you go?”

  “Oh, sure.” Cantrell opened his top drawer, took out some money, and held it out to Devlin.

  “Thanks, boss.”

  “You need anything else while I’m gone, talk to Grant.”

  Grant Sutcliffe was Cantrell’s “partner” in Roswell. He thought he was a full partner, but there was a lot going on behind the scenes that Sutcliffe didn’t know about, and never would. Even Cantrell’s partner in Carrizozo didn’t know everything that was going on. Harry Cantrell was not full partners with anyone but himself.

  “Okay, boss.”

  “Or send me a telegram.”

  “Right.”

  “You know how to send a telegram, don’t you?” Devlin looked hurt. “Sure, boss.”

  “Okay, then get out,” Cantrell said. “Have a couple of beers.”

  “If you say so, boss,” Devlin said, and left.

  Once Devlin was gone, Cantrell packed his saddlebags, mostly with money that he would deposit into his bank account when he got back to Carrizozo. His trips to Roswell were usually only to collect his profits. This time there had been trouble that he’d had to take care of, and only Johnny Devlin knew the details of that. Actually, Devlin was reliable because the man did everything he was told. It didn’t matter much that he had no initiative. In fact, it was preferable. He didn’t need somebody like Devlin all of a sudden thinking he had brains.

  Sutcliffe was a different story. He was a good businessman, but there was no reason for him to know what was going on behind the scenes. Cantrell preferred not to have to explain his decisions to anyone. The days when he had to justify himself to others were long gone.

  Harry Cantrell was well on his way to being the biggest businessman in all of New Mexico, and he wasn’t about to explain his methods to anyone.

  Johnny Devlin did have the ability to make up his own mind when came to his vices. His boss had told him to go and have a couple of beers, but when he entered the Red Sand Saloon and went to the bar he said, “Whiskey.”

  He knew men who said beer cut trail dust better than anything, but for Devlin it was whiskey. And after a few glasses of whiskey, his other vice popped up—literally. Drinking whiskey always got Johnny Devlin in the mood for a whore.

  “Thanks, Barney,” he said, and left.

  Even Barney the bartender knew where Devlin headed after a few drinks.

  By the time the whore got down on her knees in front of Devlin, he was ready to pop. She undid the buttons on his trousers and reached in, drawing out his impressive erection.

  Her name was Goldy, and the first time she’d ever seen Johnny Devlin naked she’d been impressed, thought she was in for some kind of ride. However, as she began to work on that big, hard cock it suddenly went off, splashing her face and chest copiously.

  And the same thing happened again, this time. She had barely began to stroke Devlin when he groaned and sprayed.

  Too bad such a big, lovely, hard cock exploded if a whore just looked at it.

  ELEVEN

  Clint followed the wagon tracks for several hours before they veered off again. Apparently they had not come from any of the three towns Sheriff Scott mentioned. Now the tracks were coming from the southeast, and Clint wasn’t sure what was ahead of him. He was now heading south, which was where Hondo was, but he was also heading east, which was taking him farther from that town.

  It was also taking him over much tougher terrain. The ground was baked so hard that it yielded no tracks. All he could do was keep traveling in that general direction and hope he’d happen upon the trail once again.

  He came upon a collection of small buildings that could barely be called a town, decided to stop and see what—if anything—they could tell him.

  There was a trading post that looked to be the only business that was open, with a couple of horses tied off in front of it.

  He looped Eclipse’s reins carelessly around the post and went inside. He could have let the reins hang loosely, secure in the knowledge that the Darley Arabian would never wander off, but that might tempt someone to try to walk away with the horse.

  When he entered, he saw that the place was not just a trading post, but had a bar and even offered haircuts and baths.

  “Welcome, stranger!” the man behind the bar greeted. He was a portly, middle-aged man with a completely bald head. “Lookin’ to purchase some supplies, or cut the dust with a drink? Or both?”

  “I think I’ll start with a drink, for now.”

  “Beer or whiskey?”

  Clint looked at the two men who were standing at the bar. One had a beer, and the other had whiskey.

  “What do you boys suggest?” he asked.

  The two men, who looked as if they’d been riding hard, both turned to look at him.

  “Beer’s warm,” one of them said.

  “Whiskey’s watered down,” the other said.

  “Hey, hey . . .” the proprietor said.

  “I’ll have the beer,” Clint said. “At least it’ll be wet.”

  “It ain’t all that bad,” the barman said, obviously hurt by the comments.

  A flat-looking beer was set in front of Clint. He took one sip and saw what the two men had meant.

  “A nickel,” the barman said.

  “Robbery,” one of the men said.

  Clint dropped a nickel on the bar and took another sip of the beer he knew he’d drink no more of.

  “I’m looking for some information,” he said to the barman.

  “Oh? What kind of information?”

  “I’m trying to find out if three families in three wagons may have gone by here in the past few days.”

  “Three wagons?” the barman repeated.

  “Loaded with belongings,” Clint said. “Six adults traveling with five children.”

  “What’d they do?” the beer drinker asked.

  Clint looked at the two men, who were staring at him with interest.

  “They didn’t do anything,” Clint said. “They had it done to them. They’re all dead.”

  “Dead?” the proprietor said, again offering no information, simply repeating.

  “Even the kids?” the whiskey drinker asked.

  “Yes,” Clint said, “even the kids.”

  “That ain’t right,” the beer drinker said.

  “No,” Clint said, “it’s not.”

  “You law?” the whiskey drinker asked.

  Clint decided to tell the truth. There didn’t seem to be any harm in it.

  “No, I’m not,” he said. “But I’m the one who found them on the trail. All dead, all with no marks on them.”

  “No marks?”

  Clint was getting tired of the bartender.

  “So what killed ’em?” the beer drinker asked.

  “Don’t know,” Clint said. “The doctors are checking that out now. I’m just trying to find out where they came from.”

  “And you ain’t wearin’ tin?” the whiskey drinker asked.

  “No,” Clint said. “This is just something I want to do. I want to find out what—or who—killed them.”

  He looked at the bartender. “Did they come through here
? I lost their tracks south of here, but it looks like they were coming from this direction.”

  “I ain’t seen ’em,” the barman said. “I’d remember three wagonloads of folks.”

  “How about you boys?” Clint asked. “Seen anything? Wagons? Maybe some sign?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “We ain’t seen nothin’,” the beer drinker said.

  “Wish we could help,” the whiskey drinker said.

  “Where’d you find ’em?” Beer Drinker asked.

  “Just outside of Hondo.”

  “Hondo,” Whiskey Drinker said. “That’s southwest of here, ain’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where are them folks now?” Whiskey asked.

  “We took them into Hondo for the doctor and undertaker to care for.”

  “And the wagons?” Beer asked.

  “Still out there.”

  The two men looked at each other, and Clint had a sudden suspicion they weren’t asking their questions simply out of curiosity.

  “The Hondo sheriff was going to take them in, though,” he added. “He’s probably done it by now. At least, he was going to take in all their valuables.”

  Again, the two men exchanged a look.

  “You sayin’ we was thinkin’ about stealin’ somethin’?” Beer Drinker asked.

  “I don’t think I said that.”

  “Sounds like that’s what you was thinkin’,” Whiskey Drinker said.

  “Look,” Clint said, “you can take it any way you want. I was just giving you the story.”

  Both men turned to face him, hard looks on their faces, well-used guns on their hips.

  TWELVE

  “Now take it easy, boys.”

  “You ain’t no law,” Beer said.

  “And you insulted us,” Whiskey said.

  Clint looked at the barman.

  “I dint hear nuthin’,” he said, raising his hands.

  “Look,” Clint said to the two men, “I’ve got to get moving. Just finish your drinks and calm down.”

  He turned and went out the door. He was reaching for Eclipse’s reins when he heard them come out onto the boardwalk behind him.

  “Not so fast!” one of them said.