Snake Eyes (9781101552469) (11 page)

Did the man know he was being followed? Some men could sense beyond their natural senses and know if there was a bear or a cougar stalking his track. Sorenson might be such a man. Brad knew that he was himself, especially when he was keyed up in a strange place where he did not know the country or the lay of the land. He was also attuned to danger when he even suspected that someone or something might be following him.

Perhaps Sorenson, the woodsman, was such a man.

Brad turned Ginger to the right and gently nudged him in the flanks with his spurs. The horse turned, and Brad let him pick his way over hard rocky ground, reining him over to avoid brushing against the bushes or trees. The pace was such that in a race with a snail, Ginger would have lost.

Ginger's forelegs stiffened as the ground grew steeper. The horse and its rider descended at a more rapid rate through scrub brush and washouts littered with pebbles and sand.

He halted the horse again to listen. The valley floor was only a few yards away. He should have seen Sorenson if he had continued to drop down to the flat. There was no sign of the man.

Sorenson had turned then.

Right or left?

Brad looked off to the right and then to the left. There wasn't a sign of either a horse or a man. The breeze made a soft sound in the windblown trees and whispers in the brush around him. The air seemed to scream of emptiness and silence as if he were hearing a woman sob softly in a faraway room on a bleak Sunday afternoon.

There was just nothing to see or hear.

Perhaps, he thought, he should return to the trail and track Sorenson once again.

But where could the man have gone?

Up or down? Right or left?

Or straight down into a hidden arroyo.

Certainly not straight up into thin air.

Brad almost laughed at his own wild thoughts. But he was trying to decide how Sorenson could have eluded him so easily.

He studied the valley and turned his head to look back up at the wide slope that descended from the ridge. There were few places to hide, even if Sorenson was a small man and even if he'd been riding a pony instead of a horse.

There were tents in the slope, but these were small fissures where melted snow and heavy rains had plowed furrows into the earth. None of them was deep enough to swallow a big man on a big horse.

He rode on and downward, puzzled as he had seldom been before.

Then he heard a noise and saw a horse, Sorenson's horse, rise up from an elk wallow and shake the dust from its hide and saddle.

Sorenson stood up, covered with dust, and waved at Brad.

“Glad it's you, Storm,” Sorenson said.

“How did you do that?” Brad asked, a look of bewilderment on his face.

Sorenson walked toward him, leading his sorrel. He patted dust from his shirt and trousers, but there was a patina of fine silt still on his face.

“I trained Monty here to lie down,” Sorenson said. “He can do other tricks as well.”

“You sure as hell fooled me.”

Brad climbed out of the saddle, and the two men stood face-to-face less than a yard apart.

“Wasn't sure who it was. I thought maybe Snake might have sent a man to follow me, maybe put me down.”

“Oh, is, ah, Snake, on the outs with you, Thor?”

“He probably is. I'm not one of his cowpokes, and I think he might want me to do some illegal gun work. I let him know that I was only interested in scouting for him. He wasn't too happy with me.”

“But you're still working for him, right?”

“I am, but Snake is up to something. He's got something in his craw. He left real early this morning to talk with his foreman, Wagner. He relies on Wagner for advice, and Wagner's as cold inside as they come. His pa was a snake oil salesman and Jim, that's his given name, ran off and joined up with Quantrill's Raiders. So that boy has been to Kansas and left a lot of spilled blood in at least two states.”

“What about Snake? Do you know what he's planning to do?”

“I know he's going to need this valley right here in a few days, and he thinks the sheepers are going to want it, too. He aims to drive them plumb out of the mountains. And, with Snake, that means gunplay and dead sheepherders.”

“What about you? Are you going to keep working for Schneck?”

“I wish you wouldn't pussyfoot around about such a serious subject, Brad,” Sorenson cracked.

“Well?”

“To give you a straight answer, no. If you look at what's behind my cantle, that's my bedroll. All I got in this particular corner of the world. I maybe got half a month's pay comin', but I don't aim to go back and ask for it.”

“How much does Schneck pay you, Thor?”

“Thirty a month and found.”

“How would you like to work for me?”

“What is it that you do, Mr. Storm? I know you're not up here hunting elk, and so does Schneck, by the way. He thinks you're a hired gunslinger working for Garaboxosa's sheepherders. I'm wondering if that's true.”

“Some of it is,” Brad said.

“You're a gunslinger?”

Brad shook his head.

“I'm a cattle rancher, like I said. But that's only part of it. Right now I'm a private detective. I work for the Denver Detective Agency, because I'm indebted to them for my herd of cattle. This is going to be my last job.”

Sorenson whistled, long and low.

“I never would have figured you to be no Pinkerton,” he said.

Brad laughed. Ginger snorted. Monty shook his head and rattled his mane against his neck.

“Not Pinkerton. Head of the agency is a man named Pendergast.”

“You want me to work for you, you say. Doin' what?”

“Keep on working for Schneck. Just tell me what he's up to over the next few days. I'll meet you every day about dusk to hear your report.”

“Where?”

“I can ride to the rim above the cow camp.”

Sorenson shook his head. “We might be spotted there. How about if I meet you at the first blaze above your camp? Know where it is?”

“I do.”

“Nobody from Schneck's bunch will go back there right away.”

“That's a good place, then. Are you finished up here?”

“I'll tell Schneck this valley's open for now, but he better hurry.”

“I'll see you tonight, then?”

“Tomorrow night. I might know something by then.”

“All right.”

“This might be real tricky, Brad. How much salary are you offering me?”

“Fifty dollars,” Brad said.

“Fifty dollars a month?”

“Fifty dollars a week. I hope this job doesn't last a month. I'll give you fifty bucks tomorrow evening when I see you.”

Sorenson let out another whistle.

“One more thing, Thor. I can't ride to Schneck's camp to see you, but you can come into the sheep camp if anything urgent comes up. I'll fix it with Garaboxosa and the others.”

“You got yourself a deal, Brad,” Sorenson said.

He rubbed his hands and clapped them together to rid his palms of dirt.

Brad extended his hand, and the two men shook over their agreement.

“Be careful, Thor,” Brad said.

“You, too. I think Snake is going to send one of his men to kill you. Maybe pretty soon.”

“I'll watch my back trail,” Brad said.

Both men climbed atop their mounts and parted company. Sorenson rode back up the way he had come, and Brad angled off toward the sheep camp, the dead reckoning location firm in his mind.

Now, he thought, he had a spy in Schneck's camp.

He also knew something else.

He had a price on his head.

Jorge Verdugo was surprised that Otto Schneck would even notice him, no less talk to him. Yet, there he was, a hand on Jorge's arm, leading him out of the horse stable and into the nearby timber. Jorge had been finishing up one of the stalls on what had started out as a pole barn with a sloping roof, a back wall of logs and logged-in sides rising to a height of six feet. It was a large building, and another worker was in the process of framing in a tack room at the rear with crude, whipsawed lumber of various sizes.

“The stable's looking good, Jorge,” Schneck said when the two men were alone. “You're a good worker.”

“Thank you, Mr. Schneck,” Jorge said in his faintly accented English.

“Call me Otto, Jorge. How would you like to make some extra money?”

“Sure. You want me to bring you more horses or mules?”

Jorge had left Mexico with a string of stolen horses that he had rebranded with a running iron and driven up to Cheyenne, a long and tortuous trip, with three friends who had to fight Indians, white brigands, and mountain passes. He had sold his horses to Schneck, who had promptly hired him as a wrangler, along with his three friends. Jorge was grateful to Schneck not only for buying the stolen horses but also for giving him and his friends work on the cattle ranch.

“Know anything about sheep?” Schneck asked.

“What?”

“Sheep. Ever wrangle any sheep?”

Verdugo laughed, then quickly recovered.

“Sheep? No, I never wrangled no sheep, Mr. Schneck.”

“Just like cows, only smaller.”

“They make the funny noises. And they smell.”

Schneck laughed.

“Well, no matter, Jorge. I want you to join up with those sheepherders in the lower valley and pretend that you're a sheepherder. Just for a day or two. I'll give you an extra twenty dollars if you'll do that for me.”

“I don't know, Mr., ah, Otto. I don't know nothing about sheep, and I don't like sheep. They stink.”

“Just for a day or two, Jorge. I want you to tell me how many of the sheepmen are married and how many have children. Do you think you could do that and not let on that you work for me?”

“I don't know. You want me to be the spy? For you?”

“That's a good way to put it, Jorge. Now, do you have an old straw hat?”

“Yes,” Jorge said.

“You take one of them mules and ride around that valley and come in from the south, like you come from LaPorte or Fort Collins. You tell them you're looking for work and you'll work cheap. You can work with their horses and mules or learn how to herd sheep. That couldn't be too hard. You keep your eyes open and you count heads. I want to know how many women and kids they got there and where they sleep.”

“How do I tell you when I know all this?” Verdugo asked.

“That shouldn't take you more than a day or two. If they don't hire you on, you find some excuse to stay there and eat their grub. You tell them you have a family and they're starving. Cry, if you have to. Gain their sympathy. Then, when you know what I need to know, you sneak back up here and tell me all that you see.
Comprende?
”

“Leave as quick as you can. I will expect to see you in two or three days.”

“I will take the old mule, Rodrigo,” Jorge said. “I will wear the straw hat and look poor.”

Schneck grinned.

“You got the idea,” he said.

The two walked back to the stable. Schneck climbed back on his horse and rode off to survey the other hands tending to the cattle.

That afternoon, Jorge Verdugo was riding in a wide circle on an old mule. He came up to the sheep camp from the south and begged Mike Garaboxosa for a job. Mike looked him over and hired him on the spot.

Later that same day, the herd of sheep came down from the north. There were over one thousand head, and their bleating filled the valley as the herders with their border collies separated them into groups. They were led by Felix Oriola, a tough, bronzed man in his early fifties, who had been born and raised in the Pyrenees. He was a bearded mountain man who spoke little but carried a heavy staff that was a badge of his office. He waved it when giving orders, and he wielded it on the backs of men who did not obey him promptly or who mistreated “his” sheep. He had no sense of humor but possessed a fine singing voice, and he knew all the Spanish and Basque songs from the old country. He also played the guitar, and at night, when he played and sang, his men saw a softer, more sentimental side to him, as tears rolled down his cheeks when he sang the sad songs of his people. That side vanished at daybreak when the sheep were rolling over the countryside like a wooly tide and he whistled orders to the dogs and yelled at the men.