Stampede at Rattlesnake Pass (9 page)

Elly had woken during the night with a
painful jaw and a splitting headache, from when her head had hit
the bedroom floor and snuffed out her consciousness. For a moment
she could not understand why her head was hanging down with her
arms dangling on each side. Then she realized that she was in
motion, being jolted up and down. She was unable to move either her
hands or her feet and she realized that she had been slung over
Trixie’s saddle, and that her hands and feet were tied and a
linking loop was knotted under Trixie’s belly.

"Gah!" she exclaimed angrily. "Who the hell
did this?"

She was greeted by a chorus of laughter from
what she perceived to be three men riding alongside her.

"The girl can cuss," said one voice.

"Maybe we got ourselves a whore and not a
lady," sneered another.

"Sure isn’t going to matter which, anyhow,"
growled a third.

Elly felt a sharp pain on her bottom,
accompanied by the sound of a smack from the flat of the third
voice’s hand. Then the three men guffawed again.

"You will pay for that – all three of you!"
Elly hissed defiantly. "What do you want? Money?"

"Maybe a little more than money," returned
the third voice.

"You wouldn’t dare!" Elly snapped, although
she felt far less sure of herself than she sounded.

"We’ll see," said the first voice. "It will
be sun-up soon. Time for my two friends here to have a bit of a
rest and maybe feed you some breakfast. As for me – I will see you
after I attend to some business – in maybe a day or so."

The horses had all stopped and Elly heard
the men whispering to one another as the sun began to rise over the
cactus and red-boulder strewn dessert. She strained her ears to
hear what was being said.

"Take her to the cabin to the west of
Rattlesnake Pass," said the leader. "Wait a day then bring her
along and meet me. Just remember what I told you, and don’t let
anyone get near you. If they do – kill them!"

Raising her head as much as she was able,
Elly saw the leader spur his horse into what she recognized to be
Rattlesnake Pass.

"Come on then, lady," said the second voice.
"I don’t know about you, but I could sure eat some breakfast –
first!"

* * *

Jake mounted the steps of the Silver City
Classic Hotel three at a time and tapped on Elly’s door. He waited
for a few seconds, which he thought was respectful, and then
knocked again, louder this time. "Elly! Elly, I need to talk to
you," he called through the door.

He heard somebody grumble from a neighboring
room, but heard not a stir from Elly’s room. He tried the handle
and found it locked.

"What is the noise all about?" came a voice
from behind him, and he spun around, his hand hovering above the
handle of his Remington.

Joe Holland, the lame night-porter,
disheveled and bleary-eyed from half a bottle of rye whiskey
staggered back a pace with his hands above his head. "Don’t shoot,
mister. I’m just the night porter." Then he blinked and recognized
Jake from the evening before. "That isn’t your room, Mr. Scudder.
Your room is down the hall. That is the lady’s room." And as soon
as he said it a lascivious look flashed across his face.

Jake spied the hotel master key dangling
from his belt. "I know that, you darned fool!" he said,
impatiently. "I have a bad feeling – get that door open before I
break it in!"

"I can’t," Holland replied. "Every guest’s
room is private, so long as they have paid. It’s hotel policy."

Jake’s hand curled over the handle of the
Remington. "I just changed hotel policy. Now open that door.
Pronto!"

Joe Holland’s head bobbed up and down with
alacrity as he tremulously shoved the key in the lock and opened
the door with as much haste as he could muster.

"S-sorry, ma’am. I was made to –" he mumbled
as he stood at the door. "Why, it's empty!" he gasped. "She's gone,
Mr. Scudder."

"I can see that for myself," replied Jake,
irritably, entering the room and looking around. "All her things
are here." Then he spied a red patch on the floor and bent to
examine it. "Blood!"

His eyes came up and fixed accusingly on Joe
Holland. "How come you let a guest get kidnapped?"

"K-kidnapped? No way, Mr. Scudder. I was
down there all evening. Except for when I got that – "

Jake grabbed his shirt front and pulled him
close and thundered, "When you got – what?"

Joe Holland gulped. "The message! I got a
m-message to go over to the Busted Flush to see the sheriff."

"What did he want?" Jake asked in
exasperation.

"N-nothing, Mr. Scudder. He . . . he wasn’t
there, after all."

A look of worry crept over Jake’s brow. "Who
brought you this message?"

"An Apache kid. Seen him around a lot, but I
don’t know his name. He does all kinds of odd jobs for folk."

Jake shook his head. "I don’t suppose I can
get hold of this sheriff of yours?"

"At this time of the morning? Not a chance,
mister."

Without another word Jake left the hotel and
went straight to the livery stable. He had little difficulty in
rousing the hostler, a middle-aged fellow who had sworn the oath
against drinking.

"Where is Miss Horrocks’ cowpony?" Jake
asked, after informing him of his suspicions.

"A guy with a bandaged-up ear took it out
last night. He said he was taking her out to meet someone who knew
something about her lost herd. The whole town has been buzzing
about it. I thought it was all above board."

"I don’t suppose you know where they were
headed?"

The hostler shook his head.

Jake frowned and then asked the man to get
his stallion ready. His best guess was that whoever had taken Elly
wouldn’t be heading north. Some instinct told him that they would
be heading south, towards Rattlesnake Pass. Hurriedly he mounted
the stallion, then he tossed a dollar to the hostler. With luck he
reckoned that he would be able to pick up the trail outside town.
Elly’s cow pony, Trixie, had pretty distinctive horseshoes – he
hoped that he would find them.

* * *

Rosalind had washed and was applying make-up
at her dressing table when there came a soft tap on the door.
Despite herself she stiffened as images of the men who attacked her
and Scudder flashed before her mind’s eye.

"It’s okay, Rosalind, it is only me," came
Carmen de Menendez’s lilting voice.

Rosalind heaved a sigh of relief and then
crossed the room to let her employer in.

Concern was written all over Carmen de
Menedez’s face. "I just wanted to see that you were all right,
Rosalind. I saw that Jake Scudder fellow leave as if his tail were
on fire."

Rosalind laughed girlishly. "He was a
perfect gentleman, Miss Carmen. But he was worried about his lady
friend. That’s why he took off like that."

Then she realized that she had left the wad
of money – an excessive amount of money for one night – lying on
her bedside table. And she was sure that the saloon owner had seen
it too.

"A generous man," said Carmen de Menendez,
with a humorless smile, as if divining Rosalind’s thoughts.

"I . . . I – " began Rosalind.

"You what?" asked Carmen de Menendez,
reaching out and stroking Rosalind’s hair. "Tell me what, my
dear."

Suddenly, Rosalind felt pain as Carmen de
Menendez grabbed her hair and cruelly yanked her head backwards.
"Tell me, you little bitch!" she hissed. "Why did he give you so
much money? What did you tell him?"

"N-nothing, Miss Carmen. I swear. Nothing!"
Her eyes were wide with terror as she saw the reflection in the
dressing table mirror of her with her head pulled back and her
throat exposed, and Miss Carmen staring at her with a look of stark
animal fury.

"That is just as well," the saloon owner
said between grated teeth, as she tightened her grip on Rosalind’s
hair.

A scream threatened to erupt from Rosalind’s
lips as she saw Carmen de Menendez reach across the dressing table
and pick up her long scissors.

"No! No, Miss Carmen, please," she begged.
"Don’t cut my hair, please."

A smile that was almost reptilian marred the
beautiful saloon owner’s face, and she shook her head. "What made
you think I would touch your hair, my dear?"

Again the scream threatened to erupt from
Rosalind’s lips as she saw the flash of steel in the mirror. But a
moment later blood splattered the mirror, blotting out the image of
her pitifully silent, terrible death.

* * *

It was late morning by the time Jake Scudder
confirmed in his own mind that the trail he was following was
indeed leading towards Rattlesnake Pass. There were three horses
and Elly’s cow pony, and they were clearly following a back trail,
rather than the main way towards the Pintos.

"Those devils better not have harmed a hair
on her head," he mused to the back of the stallion’s head. Then he
cursed himself for being caught out by that drugged brandy. "Maybe
I should have waited and gotten that no-account sheriff and his
deputy to come, too. Three of these rustling hombres may be hard to
handle."

He urged the stallion onward towards the
pass, trying hard to pick the tracks of the kidnappers from the
churned up floor of the pass, which still bore the evidence of the
stampede of three days before.

Then behind him he heard the cadence of
rapidly approaching hooves and the whooping and shouting of a group
of men. The noise seemed typical of a group under the influence of
more than a little tonsil paint. Jake wheeled the stallion around
and waited for them to turn the last bend. He rested his hands on
the pommel of his Texas rig as he recognized two of the men – the
Silver City sheriff and his deputy. Both of them were swaying
slightly, as were another three riders, while another rode calmly
and impassively by their side. This man he also recognized – it was
the young Apache, Nantan.

"You look like a posse," Jake said, a few
moments later when they had all reined to a halt in front of him.
"I reckon somebody must have told you about the jaspers kidnapping
the girl."

Sheriff Slim Parfitt turned his head and
very deliberately spat at a boulder. "Kidnappers, you say?" He
looked at the others and laughed.

To Jake’s consternation the others, except
for the irritatingly impassive Nantan, whom he intended having
words with, all burst out laughing.

"Oh, we are an official posse, right
enough," said the sheriff. "But we ain’t after any kidnappers." He
nodded nonchalantly to the others. "No, sir. We are after a
murdering dog called Scudder!"

Jake was taken entirely by surprise. Before
he realized it, he was covered by five guns.

"Shuck your weapons or die in the saddle!"
barked the sheriff. And as Jake tossed his gun and his Winchester
to the ground the sheriff urged his horse close and suddenly lashed
out with his gun, catching Jake a raking blow across the face. "And
that’s just something for resisting arrest."

Jake shook his head and dabbed his broken
lip with the back of his hand. "What are you talking about? Arrest
for what?"

"For the murder of that little saloon girl
that I saw you with last night. An ugly mess you made of her with
her own scissors."

"Let’s string him up now, sheriff," said
Deputy Hank Bott.

"Or how about we shoot him here like a dog?"
suggested a barrel-chested man with a straggly moustache.

A tall, lanky man in an ill-fitting Stetson
produced a whiskey bottle from his saddlebag. He uncorked it, took
a swig, then handed it to his neighbor. "Or then again we could set
him loose and have some sport."

His neighbor, a man with dirty corn hair and
a patch over one eye, grunted. "Good idea! What say we give him ten
minutes start?"

Jake said nothing, realizing that anything
he did say would only inflame the situation and probably lead to
his death all the sooner. He needed to stay alive, and that meant
that he needed to stay quiet and think.

Sheriff Parfitt nodded and took the whiskey
bottle. "The idea has merit, Brooster. I reckon I could do with a
coffee, so we could give him as long as that. Then we either shoot
him or string him up, depending on whether or not we find a tree or
cactus handy."

"Haven’t you forgotten something, Sheriff?"
Jake asked as the lawman slaked his whiskey thirst. "I haven’t been
formally arrested, far less had a trial of any sort. And I assure
you that I haven’t killed anyone - especially not a woman."

Sheriff Parfitt’s hand tightened on his gun.
"You are a liar, Scudder. I saw that poor girl’s body. We are all
the trial you are gonna get, you murdering dog."

Nantan had moved between the sheriff and his
deputy. He tugged the sheriff’s sleeve then leaned over and
whispered in his ear. After a moment the sheriff roared with
laughter as he clapped the young Apache on the back. "Damn! Nantan,
you have more uses than a whole cathouse of women. You get going
and we’ll see to this feller."

As Nantan dismounted and then disappeared up
into the rocks the sheriff gestured with his gun for Jake to
dismount. Then he reached into his saddle bag and drew out a short
shovel, which he tossed at Jake’s feet.

"Pick it up, Scudder, and start walking. You
are going to have some digging to do."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Carmen de Menendez despised Sheriff Slim
Parfitt, just as she actually despised most men. Yet she knew that
he lusted after her and would damned well sell his soul if she so
much as hinted that he might one day share her bed. It was, of
course, an idea that repelled her, but as long as he was useful to
her she was willing to play the game and string him along.

The screaming show that she put on when she
‘found’ poor little Rosalind’s body was, she felt, a masterstroke.
Half of the wastrels in town witnessed it, and she massaged the
fool of a sheriff’s ego so much that he got deputy Hank Bott to
whip up three of the most immoral bar-dogs in town to form a
posse.