Hell's Gate (Ben Blue Book 8) Read online

  “What happened to his papers and files?”

  “Burnt ‘em all up… He didn’t need ‘em anymore. They was just takin’ up my space.”

  “Were there any Federal warrants or papers among ‘em?”

  “Yeah… there was a bunch of ‘em…. Damned waste of paper… Can’t make heads nor toe out of ‘em… used ‘em to start the fire.”

  “Destroying government property…the desk, and burning government documents. Well that should get you at least twenty years in Leavenworth unless they find a reason to hang you first… Rufus… Rufus… I just don’t know what to think of you… You just get worse by the minute.” He stood straight and proud, I guess in his mind, he’d just been complimented.

  We left Corbel there to watch the prisoners, while the rest of us went to the second saloon to bring in the other two on the list. I didn’t have a contact in that saloon so I’d just go in and ask the bartender.

  “I’m looking for Bob Cutter and Rio Sanchez I told the bartender.”

  “Yer welcome to ‘em,” He said without looking up.” Cutter’s asleep on a table in the back room. And Rio just went up with fat Sally…. That’d be room 3 upstairs.

  I told Stevens and Coaker to go cover Cutter until we got back. “Take a bung starter with you.” Flynn advised in his new position of Sheriff.

  It only took a few seconds to climb the stairs and locate the room. I would have knocked, but from the noise coming from the room he’d never have heard it. So I kicked the door off its hinges. The image that greeted us was one I hope never to see again… It was one of those things that just can’t be unseen or wiped from a memory. The best way to describe it would be something like a coyote and a buffalo on a feather bed.

  There wasn’t much chance of getting either one’s attention short of causing a major injury. So I had Flynn pour the contents of a water pitcher on the lusty pair. That got them both up and sputtering. Rio made a grab for his big old .44, but the sight of my sawed off shotgun cannon got his attention.

  Fat Sally wasn’t put off by anything as puny as a twelve gauge shotgun, so she took her wrath out on poor Flynn. She grabbed a parasol and started swinging it at him. It was about that time, Flynn started cursing her in Gaelic, and Sanchez started cursing me in Spanish. A crowd had started gathering at the open door, so Flynn joined them and Sally start flailing away at everyone with her broken parasol.

  One foolhardy cowboy made an ill-advised grab at her, and she chased him down the stairs in her altogether. Meanwhile, Sanchez was getting on my nerves, so rather than shoot him, I eased the hammer down and raised the shotgun. He saw that as a chance and lunged. I met him coming in with a big right hand to the ear.

  You wouldn’t believe the shower of blood that can come from a split ear. He bounced off the wall and onto the bed. There wasn’t much fight left in him as he climbed into his pants. I have to hand it to him, as soon as he had his pants on, he reached for his gun belt. I growled at him, and he grinned and shrugged.

  I took the dagger from his boot before I let him put them on. When he was dressed, I marched him down the stairs dripping blood all the way. Coaker and Stevens had bound the sleeping Cutter before they rolled him off the table. He was every bit as mad as Sally had been a few minutes earlier. She had calmed down some and was entertaining several young fellas in a blanket someone had provided for her modesty.

  “Sorry about the ruckus, Ma’am, but we needed to capture that desperado.” I told her.

  “Don’t be,” she said, “It gave me a chance to show some of these puppies what they been missin’ all this time.” Everyone in the place was having a good time as we left.

  We spent a good long time grilling those boys that evening and into the night. We had three men in each of the two cells, and we’d take one at a time out in the corner and set them down on Rufus’s broken bunk and grill him in private. We got nowhere.

  About midnight we quit for the night. I had one of the boys bring my bedroll, and I played jailer for the evening. I expected trouble in the cells, since there were only two cots per cell. But I was sure they’d work it out, and they did. After several yelling matches and some punches thrown, Rufus Franklin and Rio Sanchez were curled up on their respective floor. I threw each man a thin pillow and a much thinner blanket.

  Bolting the front and back doors, I left a lamp burning, in case there were any problems that needed light…. There were none.

  Chapter 7

  Morning came around at its usual time, and it had its usual aches from sleeping on a hard surface. But this morning had another problem. I couldn’t get over how much the jail smelled like a cow camp on a trail drive. The truth be known, a couple hundred steers smelled a site better. The first thing I did on rising was to open the doors.

  Flynn came in shortly after I got the doors open. His first words were, “Holy Moother! Some poo-er soul has gone and died in here!”

  I went up to breakfast and sent Coaker down to keep Flynn company. Looking across the table at Corbel, I could tell he didn’t feel well. He’d been on the go since he was shot. He probably needed a lot more rest than he’d gotten. Spending time in the saddle can be relaxing when you’re just drifting along enjoying the scenery, but the way we’d been traveling, it was anything but.

  After breakfast, I pulled him aside and asked, “Are you feelin’ all right? You don’t look too good.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine. I just got a little bit of an achy head… probably ‘cause of Flynn’s snorin’.”

  “He can be an earful, but you had a pretty good knock to the skull. Why don’t you stay here today? There’s no need to go up to the Ladder 6 with us… you need rest.”

  We argued the point for a while, but I couldn’t make him rest anymore than I could make him eat his vegetables. He was a man, full grown, and he had to make his own choices.

  “It’s your decision,” I told him, “but I wish you’d change your mind.”

  He said he’d be ready to ride, when I was. So I left it at that and went to get breakfast for the prisoners, and charged it to San Juan County. I wasn’t ready for what I saw when I got back to the jail with sacks of food and a pot of coffee. The front door was open as it had been when I left, and there was no one in the office.

  Going to the cell block door I peeked through the bars, in case there was a problem… I wasn’t comfortable finding neither man in the office. I saw four prisoners standing in one cell in their long underwear. Flynn was facing them in the runway leading to the back door holding his gun on them. Only one man was in the other cell… There wasn’t any sign of the sixth prisoner.

  Then I heard cursing in two different voices and accents coming from outside the back door. It wasn’t but a few seconds until I saw O’Dowd stepping through the door. He was naked as a jaybird and dripping water. Under his right arm he carried a bundle that looked to be his underwear. Coaker was right behind him prodding him with the business end of my shotgun.

  Flynn shoved O’Dowd into the cell with the others and called out to Rio Sanchez in the almost empty cell, “Your turn, Poncho.” and opened the cell door. Sanchez was like a horse fighting the bit; he backed up and turned this way and that, all the time shaking his head from side to side.

  Mike grabbed a handful of filthy underwear and jerked him out of the cell. Turning him over to Coaker he said, “Make him leave them longies on… They need a scrubbin’ nigh as much as himself do.”

  “Aye, Squire, you missed all the fun. Soon as Coaker got here, we put ‘em to sluicin’ out the cells. That went so well, we rounded up a rain barrel and put em to bathin’. We figured the most troublesome one got to go last… That would be Sanchez… he never shuts up. That Mexican can talk more and make less sense than a whole convention of Chinamen.

  “I brought their breakfast and some coffee. They can eat as soon as Rio gets scrubbed up. Then we’ll take a ride up to the Ladder 6 and have a talk with Mister Grossman.”

  When we were saddling up I asked Flynn, “How
do you feel about leavin’ a guard on the prisoners, Sheriff?”

  “Well, your honor, I went through their belongins and if they stole that much money, they didn’t have anything to show for it… if they was to escape and head for the hills… I’d say good riddance.”

  “That’s pretty much the way I saw it… I didn’t see much thought power in the lot of ‘em. If any of them are involved, there’s someone pullin’ the strings.”

  “And besides that, boss, if they take off they’ll have to do it in their long johnnies. I left their clothes all soakin’ in that soapy water.”

  “Well let’s ride then.”

  It took us nearly an hour and a half to reach the Ladder 6, and from the looks of the gate, Grossman expected to be top dog, not only of San Juan County, but of the whole United States. It was possibly the most ornate and garish gate I’d ever seen. We followed the trail left by the three thousand head Buck and his crew had delivered several weeks ago. That many cattle chew a strip of land up pretty well.

  The ranch headquarters was at least a mile beyond that outrageous monstrosity of a gate. I was a little disappointed when I saw the house and the layout. It didn’t compare in the least to the gate.

  The house was modest but typical of many working ranches in this part of the country. But on a hill several hundred yards beyond the house, there was work being done in a much grander scale. It looked as if Grossman would be moving soon.

  Riding to about forty or fifty feet from the front door, we held up and I called out, “HELLO THE HOUSE. We sat where we had stopped. It was poor manners to get down unless you were invited to, unless of course, you were a friend. I called out again and waited. This was a bit of gamesmanship. Grossman would make me wait to show us how important he was.

  On the third call, a man came through the door and walked out on the porch. He stood looking as if expecting me to say something.

  “I heard you the first time.” Was all he said.

  “Figured so.” Was all I said.

  I saw a man step out on the porch behind him and move off to the left. Another man followed and moved off to the right behind Grossman. Two others came from the side of the house and lined up along the right end of the porch.

  “You Grossman?”

  “Who’s askin?”

  “Blue’s the name, and I’m here on US Marshal business.”

  “I’m Bull Grossman… say what’s on your mind?”

  Whoever started calling him Bull had him tagged about right. He was almost as tall as I was, but a bunch bigger and broader through the chest and shoulders. But that neck was like a bull. I figure he’d outweigh me by twenty five or thirty pounds.

  “Mister Grossman, I’m investigatin’ the murder of two men, and the robbery of the trail boss leaving Junction City right after you paid cash for their herd.”

  “So I paid cash… that’s not a crime. Just what are you accusing me of… you son of a bitch?”

  “Grossman, I’ve only been called that once, and the man who called me that was only a tick of the clock away from dying, when he took it back… But I was young and foolish back then. I’m a bit older and wiser now, so I’m just going to whip you like a rented mule on your own front porch… in front of your men.”

  I pulled my sawed off out of its little scabbard and handed it to Flynn saying, “Keep ‘em off my back.”

  “Twould be an honor, your Squireship.”

  Grossman was laughing, and the four men present were laughing. I just swung down, unbuckled my gun belt, and hung on the saddle horn. He was still laughing as I stepped up on the porch.

  “Boy, you’re a strappin’ lad, but I ain’t never been whipped. And I’ve fought bigger men than you.”

  “First time for everything, Bull. But when I get finished with you, they’ll be callin’ you Steer.”

  That took the smirk off his face, and it was replaced with something much more ferocious. Then a big left hand came from nowhere, and caught me flush on the jaw. I saw stars and a few of them were exploding. Staggering back, I was trying to get my feet back under me, but he wasn’t having any of that. He was right on me banging away. Most of it was wild swinging and wasn’t doing much harm. I was covering up and taking the blows, while my head was clearing.

  I was turning with his punches, minimizing their effect, and throwing a punch of my own when I had a target and opportunity. He had me backing up and giving ground. I got the notion he was just measuring me for the big one. So I gave him the target. And I was betting it would come from the left hand.

  He stepped in faking the right and followed it up with that powerful left. I slipped under it and came up with both hands together like a sledge hammer in the middle of the back. He crashed through one the roof supports and landed in the yard. Now it was my turn. To his credit, he didn’t stay down. He came up, like the bull he was named for, with his head down and charging.

  Stepping to my left I planted a right to his ribs. He felt it, and he felt it good. I heard him grunt when I hit him. We eyed each other for a few seconds and circled one another. I gave him another opportunity for his right hand. He landed it but it didn’t have anything on it. So I answered with left to his ribs and back out of reach. I was fighting a one armed man.

  His right arm was worthless. All he could do was hold it close to his side, but there was no quit in him. Each time he tried to use it, he would wince in pain and clamp it back to his side. His fight became a series of left jabs and hooks, which were relatively easy to block or avoid. Counter punching with my left, I was taking a toll on his head and face. My anger was gone, and all I wanted to do was stop.

  Dropping my fists I told him, “Give it up, Bull. You’re done. You’ve got busted ribs, and I don’t want to bust anything else… I’ll even call it a draw.”

  “Draw be damned! He shouted through smashed lips… I never fight for a tie.”

  With that, he unleashed that powerful left hand to my cheekbone and right eye. It had enough on it to send me crashing back against the front of the house. He had cut me good; I could feel the blood running down my face. I had taken two of his best shots, and I was still standing. My patience was wearing mighty thin. But there was no time to reason with him because he had cocked that left for another powerful blow.

  It was all I could do to block that left and turn into him with a left of my own to the wind. The air rushed out of him like a bellows as he started to fold over. That left his face unprotected, and I followed the left with a right to the jaw. His head snapped around and the rest of him followed its turn as he crashed to the porch floor.

  I stood there gasping for breath and wiping the blood from my swollen right eye as he rolled from his right side and lay flat on the porch with arms outstretched. A tall thin rangy man stepped up on the porch carrying a bucket of water and a handful of towels. He walked to where I was catching my breath and dipped one of the towels into the bucket. Then he handed it to me.

  “I’m Fess Painter… temporary foreman of the Ladder 6. Start dabbin’ that eye.”

  “Temporary?” I asked.

  “Yeah ‘cause if he hears what I’m about to say, I’ll be out of a job… But he’s been needin’ a good whoopin’ for a long time. He’s a lot of man, but he’s past forty and he needs to come to grips with that.”

  Painter turned away from me and dumped the whole bucket on Grossman’s face. Grossman started coughing and sputtering. He raised his left hand to his face and started groaning. His try at getting up was short lived due to the broken ribs sending him back to the floor. Between Painter and myself, we managed to get him up with a minimum of pain.

  I looked around and saw the rest of the crew had disappeared. Leaning against the front wall of the house Grossman looked at me and said, “You’ll do big fella.”

  Looking him straight in the eye I told him, “And you sure as hell ain’t no steer.”

  His attempt to laugh was cut short by a stab of pain.

  Chapter 8

  “You wa
nted to ask me some questions? Well let’s go inside and get some coffee, then you can ask whatever you want. I just hope I can get that coffee past this smashed up mouth.”

  “Is it all right if my men dismount?” I asked.

  “Sorry… where’s my manners… of course… Fess, take ‘em to the kitchen, and get ‘em some coffee.”

  When we were settled into the living room, and the Chinese cook had brought coffee, I told him point blank that I thought it was odd that he had asked Blaylock to wait an extra day. He looked down at his boots and shook his head.

  “Marshal, I’m something of an arrogant bastard… Sometimes I have to show folks what a big man I am. I never once dreamed he’d send the rest of his crew ahead. I figured he’d let ‘em have a night on the town… I’m mighty sorry about that. It may have been the wrong thing to do, but I broke no law.”

  “No… legally, you didn’t… that I know of… Can you or your foreman vouch for the whereabouts of your men that day?”

  “I ain’t got any idea what they were doin’ or where they were doin’ it… but I’ve had most of them workin’ for me for years… you’ll have to ask Fess about all that.”

  We talked for about a half an hour, and he answered every question with a straight answer and in some cases a bit of humility. I had the feeling, if he’d have beaten me to a pulp, he would have still been cooperative, if I’d put up a good fight. He respected nerve and power… I doubted he held respect for much of anything else.

  As we were leaving, I stopped Fess Painter and asked if he could account for all his men on the day of the robbery. He scratched his head and struggled with the answer.

  “Dad burn it… If it happened yesterday, maybe I could, but that’s been a couple of weeks ago. There was one day back that way when a couple of the boys kinda disappeared, but punchers will do that. You don’t even know about it unless somethin’ don’t get done.”

  Most of these fellers has been around forever, and they’ll all slip off and meet a gal or ketch a little sleep when they’re s’posed to be workin’.”