Snake Eyes (9781101552469) (24 page)

“So, then, the three of them rode out after that, I reckon,” Brad said.

“Sure did. I sold them some bear claws and some elk jerky, and they moseyed on acrost the bridge and headed down toward Denver.”

“Thanks, mister,” Brad said. “You've been a big help.”

“I ought to charge hard coin for such good information,” the man said, “but this evenin' it's on the house.”

Brad touched a finger to the brim of his hat and turned Ginger.

“Lots of luck, stranger,” the man called after Brad. “I hope you got you a slicker 'cause it's goin' to rain like a cow pissin' on a flat rock down Denver way.”

Brad raised a hand and waved without looking back.

To the south and east, after he crossed the wooden bridge over the South Platte, he saw the lumbering leviathans of dark black thunder clouds. Below them, hanging like shrouds, were streaks of black that indicated it was already raining. And he would ride into it in a couple of hours. There was no wind, and the storm was stalled. He could not yet hear the thunder, but he saw silver streaks of lightning forking jagged latticework in the swollen hearts of the storm clouds.

He could barely read the tracks on the road, but just before dark, he noted the tracks of three horses heading south, and there was no wind to blow them away. He stopped after an hour, when he began to hear the rumble of thunder. He broke out his slicker and slipped it on, remounted, and patted Ginger softly on the neck.

“You'll wish you had blinders on before this is over,” he said to the horse. Ginger bobbed his head and responded to the gentle poke of Brad's spur in his left flank.

The road stretched out before Brad, empty, and disappeared in the darkness that crawled across the land like a giant shadow, engulfing the land in a sea of blackness.

Chester Loomis sagged in the saddle, red-eyed from lack of sleep, five days of beard stubble on his suntanned chin, his clothing soggy from sweat. Beside him rode Jim Wagner and Otto Schneck. They all wore yellow slickers as they headed toward the massive thunderstorm that was hurling down rain along the foothills, jabbing huge lances of lightning into the ground.

“The herd is strung out for a good twenty miles or so, Otto,” Chet said, his voice wavering up and down from the jogging of his equally weary horse, a saddle-sore sorrel cutting horse with clipped mane and tail. “We ought to be seein' some of 'em any minute now.”

“It's a good thing you got across the Platte first before the cows stampeded,” Wagner said.

“That's about the only thing Chet did right,” Schneck snarled. “How in hell did you manage to stampede three thousand head of cattle?”

“Them cows was spooked the whole way down here,” Loomis said. “Like they was just waitin' for that first crack of thunder.”

“You mean that's what got 'em to runnin'?” Wagner said.

“Yeah, some of them black clouds broke away, and it was like watchin' a big old monster rise up outen the mountains and come snarlin' down on top of us,” Loomis said. “Hell, it moved fast as the D and RG packin' freight cars on a downhill run. And then, there was that damned twister.”

“Twister?” Schneck rasped.

“Twister or big old dust devil, I don't know what,” Loomis said. “Whilst we was a-tryin' to turn the herd up front what had stampeded, a twister come a-boilin' up out of nowhere and played hob with the main body of the herd and there was cows bawlin' and runnin' like hell.”

“And, you couldn't stop 'em?” Wagner said, in disbelief.

“Like a damned river, they was,” Loomis said. “Thousands of cows a-bawlin', scared half to death, just runnin' like the devil was a-chasin 'em. They knocked down two of my outriders what was flankin' 'em and just kept on a-runnin' like their tails was on fire.”

“What did you do to try and stop the herd?” Schneck asked, his anger mounting to the boiling point.

“Hell, we tried stampedin' 'em back on theirselves. Shot our rifles at 'em, even killed one or two of the leaders. Nothin' could stop 'em or turn 'em. It was like every head had gone completely loco, crazy as whorehouse bedbugs.”

“Where in hell is the better part of my herd?” Schneck asked, his neck bulging like a bullfrog's.

“We got 'em stopped, finally, in them red rocks west of Denver about fifteen miles. But we got cattle scattered all through these damned foothills. I got men tryin' to round 'em up when they find a bunch. But hell, Otto, I'm shorthanded. It's goin' to take a week to find 'em all. Only we ain't goin' to.”

For a long time none of the men said anything. They rode along the foothills while lightning flashed in the black thunderheads, lighting up the hills and the flat like a photographer's phosphorus powder. They began to see the silhouettes of men on horseback driving small clumps of cattle, chasing strays and yelling at the tops of their lungs. The cattle they saw were still scared and hard to handle. The three men kept riding until they came to a larger group of cattle and two men trying to bed them down in a shallow ravine between two low hills.

“Ho, Jerry,” Loomis called to one of the men. “What you got?”

Jerry Finnerty rode up to Loomis and pulled a ready-made out of his pocket and struck a match.

“We got a hunnert head we're tryin' to box up and hold until Cal Jennings can get the main herd out of that red rock nightmare and head 'em back this way.”

“Any cattle still loose between here and the red rocks?” Loomis asked.

Finnerty shrugged and puffed on his cigarette. “Damned if I know,” he said. “We turned nigh a thousand head back into them red rocks and they was swallered up. We ain't got enough men to box 'em all in, even down there. Whitsett's got a bad leg. Smashed it against one of them big old rocks when a bunch of cows run at him.”

“You go on back there and get them cows bedded down, Jerry,” Loomis said. “We'll go on to the red rocks and see if we can't give Whitsett a hand.”

“That storm has already hit 'em all in there,” Finnerty said and tossed his burning cigarette to the ground. He looked even more haggard than Loomis, and it was plain to see that his temper bore a short fuse. “It's goin' to take a dozen men a week to find all them cows. Them red rocks are big and run ever' which away like they was tossed there deliberate.”

“Maybe we better help you, Jerry, while we're here,” Wagner said.

“We could use another hand or two, that's for damn sure,” Finnerty said.

“Boss?” Wagner said.

“You stay here and help Finnerty, and who else is here?” Schneck said.

“Dub Neiman,” Finnerty said. “He's plumb tuckered, like me, but he's a game old cowhand.”

Schneck snorted. Dub was at least sixty years old, crippled by rheumatism, and looked a hundred. He had kept him on because he was an old hand and knew cattle like he knew the wrinkles in his withered skin.

“Yeah, Jim,” Schneck said, finally. “You'd better help Dub and Jerry. Chet and I will ride on to those red rocks. I have to see them for myself, find out just what in hell we're up against.”

“All right, Otto,” Wagner said. “Jerry, let's see what we can do with these cows you got here.”

The two men rode off in the darkness and met up with Dub, who was zigzagging his cutting horse back and forth in front of several cows who stood there like frozen statues ready to bolt past him at the first opportunity.

Schneck and Loomis rode on past them and into the first curtain of rain.

Lightning bolts crashed all around them, and their horses jumped at every flash. They bent their heads down, unaware that less than a quarter mile to their rear, a lone rider was on their trail.

Brad tucked his binoculars back inside his slicker. He had watched as Wagner left with another man, leaving Schneck and his trail boss to ride on. He saw, in the dim light, the shreds of black clouds dripping down as the thunderheads loosed their water. Soon, he thought, the rain would hit the place where Wagner was going and another man was trying to hold dozens of cattle in check or drive them into that ravine.

Three against one, he thought, as he turned to ride close to the lone man on the cutting horse holding a dozen head in check as Wagner and the other rider rode to join him.

“I'll never get a better chance,” he said to himself.

He knew where Schneck was headed with his trail boss.

But Wagner had to pay for his part in the slaughter of the Basque women and children and the two men.

He closed the distance between him and Wagner.

He looked to where he had last seen Schneck and the trail boss. When the lightning struck again, the two were gone, vanished into the night and the rain. Thunder boomed, and the rain lashed down at him, pattering softly at first and then flooding from the sky in long, thick streams as if a trapdoor had opened in the belly of the clouds and released a deluge that would have scared the hell out of Noah himself.

Brad turned his horse and headed in the direction where Wagner and the other man had gone.

He loosened the thong around his neck but did not pull out his rattles. With the noise of the thunder he would probably not need them. But he touched the butt of his pistol and loosened it slightly in its holster.

He would give Wagner a chance to surrender, even though he had shown no mercy toward the Basques. If he did not throw down his pistol, then Brad would call him out.

It was not vengeance he sought, he told himself, but justice.

Justice for all those souls lying back there dead in Poudre Canyon.

Lightning flashed again, close. Brad saw the cows finally turn and dash into the ravine to join the others of their kind.

Wagner's form stood out like a man caught by light and, etched on Brad's retinas in some bizarre tintype, his face turned toward Brad for that one instant when hunter and prey sight each other for the first and last time.

Jim Wagner squinched his eyes against the rain. He saw the approaching rider but could not identify him. The man's yellow slicker stood out like a beacon in the rain.

“Who's that?” he said to Finnerty.

Finnerty turned his head and saw the rider through a glaze of rain. He shook his head.

“Damned if I know,” he said. “He's too far away. Maybe one of the boys comin' to help.”

“Maybe,” Wagner said.

“I got to go help Dub, Jim. You find out who it is, and we'll put him to work right quick.”

Wagner waited as Finnerty rode off to help Dub drive the balking cattle into the ravine.

Brad rode up to within fifteen feet of Wagner. He stopped his horse and Wagner urged his own horse closer by a few feet.

“You one of Loomis's hands?” Wagner asked.

“I just hired on,” Brad said.

“Well, come on, then. We got work to do,” Wagner replied.

“You bet we have work to do, Wagner.” Brad spread the flap of his slicker to one side so that he could draw his pistol. “You and I have some business to attend to.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Some unfinished business.”

“You ain't makin' no sense, pard.”

“Well, there are the dead horses,” Brad said. “And the women, two dead men, and several children.”

“What in the hell are you talkin' about, man?” Wagner exploded.

“I'm here to arrest you for murder, Wagner. I'm a private detective. I'm duly sworn as an officer of the court.”

“You go straight to hell, mister,” Wagner spat.

“Surrender right now, or I'll have to figure you're a fugitive fleeing from the law.”