Читать книгу TY HOLT-TEXAS RANGER - Aubrey Smith - Страница 3

Ty pulled a wide-brimmed Stetson lower on his forehead to protect his eyes from the blistering sun. It was hot enough to fry an egg on one of the flat limestone rocks scattered along the riverbank. Ahead, the Barrow place sat high on a chalk bluff overlooking the river, with a clear view in any direction. The front porch was small and faced the river. Ty decided that whoever had shot Shine had probably been across the river. If so, the shooter used a rifle, he thought as he rode into the cedar corral near the back of the house.

He tied Blaze as close to shade as he could find. No one came out of the house, so he told Dog to stay. Ty walked toward the back door. He’d left the horse saddled and his Winchester in the saddle scabbard. He was pretty sure he’d be riding on as soon as he found out which way the murderer had gone.

Ty was again haunted by thoughts of the rider in black. He wondered if he’d been so stupid as to let a killer ride right by him. “No way,” he mumbled, pushing open the wire-hinged yard gate. As he turned, a young man about twenty years old stepped through the cabin door, pointing a double-barreled shotgun straight at Ty’s head.

The boy was big, sullen, and pockmarked. He was also dead serious. “State your business, mister,” he said cocking both hammers on the scattergun for emphasis. Ty reached for his shirt pocket. He planned to show him his badge when the boy with the twelve-gauge pulled him up short. “Mister, if you move your hand another inch, I’ll take your head off.”

“He’s all right, Matthew,” a voice called from inside the cabin. “He’s the ranger from Utopia, come to help us.” The voice was Dade Peterson’s. Peterson pushed his way past Matthew. He gave Ty a toothy smile as he stepped out into the heat. “What took you so long?”

“How’d you get here so quick would be the better question,” Ty said as he shook Dade’s hand. “And where’s your horses?”

“Hid ’em in some shade down by the river in case the assassin came back. This here’s my brother’s boy, Matthew.”

Matthew nodded and walked to where Dade and Ty were talking. He shook Ty’s hand as if he were shucking corn. The young man had a grip that could crush rocks.

“I needed a posse. Sorry as he is, he’s the only one I could get, so I deputized him. Everyone’s trying to get hay in before it rains. I think Matthew would rather take a chance on gettin’ shot than spend another day on a hay wagon.” Dade took a plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket. After he took a bite he told Ty, “Let’s walk down by the spring. I got something to show you. Matthew, you wait here. Best keep your eyes peeled.”

Down a steep path, maybe fifty yards from the house, was the spring. Dade didn’t say a word as they walked. Ty fell in behind. Halfway down the cliff, he heard the spring bubbling out of a hole in the limestone. That spring’s probably one reason Shine had such good moonshine, he thought. Though he wasn’t given much to drink, Ty did occasionally take a sip and knew good whiskey from poor stillings.

At the end of the trail, Ty could see where the spring gushed from a crack into a small man-made pool. Another fifty feet downstream was Shine’s still. A well-traveled pathway led into a clump of sumac that partially hid a natural cave in the side of the bluff. A copper pot sat on a flat rock inside the shallow cave, but the still was not what caught Ty’s attention. Just inside the cave, three Comanche braves were sprawled on a rock. All three were dead, shot in the head.

“You kill them?”

“Not me.” Dade shrugged his shoulders. Looking around, he said, “Let’s move over in them trees. I’ll tell you all I know.”

Ty stopped and dipped water from the spring with his hand. The water was cold and sweet. When Ty reached for a second handful, Dade nudged him with the toe of his boot.

“I wouldn’t stand out here in the open too long unless you want a bullet in your head like them Indians and Shine.”

Ty didn’t hesitate. He’d learned years ago that when someone told you to look out, you’d better duck. He opened his hands. The water splashed to the ground before they quickly headed for a thick pecan motte upstream from the spring.

Once inside the protection of the trees, Dade seemed to settle down a bit. “Tarnation, Ty, to tell you the truth, I don’t have any idea what’s going on. When I found those Indian tracks out by old lady Connell’s, I assumed it was Mexican vaqueros heading back to Mexico.”

Ty broke a dead branch from one of the trees as he pondered the situation.

“When was this?”

“Yesterday morning. Mrs. Connell sent her oldest grandkid to fetch me. He told me, ‘Granny’s got Indians in her garden,’” Dade answered. “We fell in on their tracks like ducks on a June bug until about noon. We lost them ’bout Mill Creek. Matthew’s got a good eye and thought he saw something upstream, so we rode that way. Sure enough, there was the first dead Indian you just now seen.”

Now Ty had to wait for Dade to take his second chaw. He could easily see that Dade was a little frazzled. The man looked as though he had been chewed up, spit out, and stepped on by an angry longhorn. After Dade rewrapped his plug, he continued.

“I have to tell you, it shook me up a mite. Tarnation, a Comanche brave shot dead center between the eyes. You know as well as I do there ain’t been no Indian raids ‘round here in a spell.”

Ty nodded in agreement. He was anxious for Dade to get on with the story, and he was more than a little worried by the fact he found himself hiding in a pecan motte to talk.

Finally, Dade continued. “Me and Matthew checked ‘round until we found where the shot came from. We could see by their tracks that the other two Comanch’ were in a hard run due north.”

Ty interrupted, “Where’d the shot come from?” He was getting a little impatient with Dade, even though he could tell Dade wasn’t just making a story out of it. Dade was shook up, and that alone bothered Ty, since he knew Dade was double backboned and not afraid of the devil himself.

“Off that ridge over there. I swear to God, Ty, the shot was over five hundred yards. One man, horseback and he drilled the redskin, one shot between the eyes, with a buffalo gun.”

“It’s hard to believe that anyone could make a shot like that on horseback. Five hundred yards? You sure?”

“Sure’s a cat’s got climbing gears. I stepped it off myself, a hundred and seventy-two steps, not one less.”

“What about the other two?” Ty asked.

“We found the first dead Indian’s horse grazing about half a mile from where he fell. Matthew and I wrapped him in that there blanket and put him belly down over his horse. Then we started in on those other two. I started to head back to Medina for more help, but I knew it’d be dark before we could get there, so we came on. Not more than a half-mile this way, we found the second one shot in the back of the head. The shot was dead center, just like the first.”

“He shot from the ridge same as the first one?”

“At first, we couldn’t be sure where the second shot had come from. Then we found where the rifleman’s tracks came off the hill. You could tell by the depth and stride he had his horse in a hard run.”

“He must ride a fast horse to have caught up with them.”

“Real fast,” Dade agreed. “Those two braves kicked their ponies into a gallop when the first one was shot. We never saw the shooter’s tracks until he came off the hill and fell in behind them. He no more than hit level ground before he dropped the second one.”

“Are you saying he shot the second Indian in the head while both riders were horseback and in a run?” Ty asked, shaking his head.

“Well I ain’t lying about it,” Dade said, pulling his long neck down into his scrawny shoulders.

Ty was sure Dade was not lying. “That ain’t all,” Dade continued. “We found the third one less than fifty feet farther north. How in God’s name could anyone shoot, then reload on horseback, and get off a second shot that quick?”

“Practice, I reckon.”

“We only found three shell casings, and all three shots poked a hole in the same spot … well, different heads, but in the same place, dead center.”

“How far from here did you find the last two Indians?” Ty asked, trying to put everything in perspective.

“Maybe two miles, maybe less. Me and Matthew camped about a half-mile downriver last night. We kept a cold camp in case the rifleman was still around.”

Ty thought about the man he’d seen in black.

“About an hour after dark, we heard a shot.”

“The shot that killed Shine?” Ty asked.

“You know how it is along the river. You can never be completely sure which way a sound is coming from.”

“That’s for sure.”

“I’ve never been here before, but I knew the Barrows lived somewhere around here. I’d heard about Shine’s still. I reckon everybody in the county has bought whiskey from him but me. Don’t hold to drinking, so I never had no need to be up here before last night.”

Ty nodded and decided not to mention that he’d been here last Christmas to buy a jug. Dade walked to his mule. He pulled a fired shell case from his saddlebags and handed it to Ty.

“We found this straight across the river,” he said, slinging his head sideways toward a low hill directly across from the Barrows’ front porch. “Matches the other three we found.”

“Forty-four-forty, probably from a Winchester ’73,” Ty said. He took the spent cartridge, rolled it around in his fingers and smelled it. He glanced at the hill and then back to where he estimated the house’s location. “That’s no more than seventy-five yards.”

“An easy shot for someone who can pluck turkeys off a roost half a mile away.”

“Ah, come on, Dade. So the man can shoot. That don’t make him a ghost rider or anything like that,” Ty scoffed.

“I reckon he kilt four people yesterday,” Dade replied. “That makes him pretty scary to me.”

Ty had to admit to himself that Dade had a point. He didn’t answer, but simply handed the cartridge back to Dade who returned it to his bag. They both jumped a little when they heard a twig break on the hill behind them.

“Mr. Holt.” It was Matthew. “There’s a man up at the cabin that said he rode hard to get you back to Utopia, quick.”

“Who is it, Matthew?” Ty asked.

“He didn’t give no name, but Mrs. Barrow knew him. He said there’s been a murder in Utopia.”

Ty half expected it to be the man in black, but it wasn’t. Paul Tant was leaning against one of the four posts that held the roof over the front porch of the Barrows’ cabin. Around Utopia, Tant was known as a bitter old man who claimed to have ridden with Quantrill’s guerrillas during the War of Secession. His red chin-whiskers were never trimmed and he had a milky right eye that he maintained was caused by a Union musket ball. Sorry clung to Tant like bitter gall. Ty didn’t like Tant even a little bit. He’d heard that last year Tant had cut a dog’s throat just to watch him bleed to death. From that day on, Ty had held no respect for the man.

“What are you doing here, Tant?” Ty asked.

“You need to get your bushy tail back to town where you belong. You ain’t got no business asslin’ around up here in Bandera County fifteen miles from where we pay you to be.”

Tant’s head was propped against a cedar post that gave no resistance when Ty short-jabbed him on the nose and broke it. Blood gushed down Tant’s face as he slumped to the floor, holding his head with both hands.

“You had no call to hit me like that, Holt,” Tant mumbled, his blood dripping in little puddles between his legs.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Ty said, rubbing his fist. “And that ain’t nothing compared to what you’ll get the next time you talk to me like that.” Ty turned to Mrs. Barrow, who was standing in the doorway, and took off his hat. “Mrs. Barrow, ma’am, I’m sorry about Shine, and I apologize for this.”

Mrs. Barrow nodded her head. Her oldest daughter, Mary Jane, was standing behind her. Mary Jane’s eyes were big and green, clear green like high mountain stream water. As soon as her mother turned to go back into the house, Mary Jane stepped to the side, allowing Mrs. Barrow to pass. Mary Jane stayed to watch what was going to happen next.

Mary Jane was past twenty and not married. She was the prettiest girl Ty had ever seen. Although he was practically engaged to Sarah Thompson, he couldn’t help but cast a sideways glance at her when he thought no one was looking. Her long blond hair was the color of summer corn. She was tall, almost as tall as he. Her face was beyond practical or theoretical improvement, with a dimple in each cheek and a hint of humor in her eyes that made Ty blush. When she suddenly smiled at him, Ty had to force himself to look away. His heart pounded like a cattle stampede. He felt himself blushing like a schoolboy. Simply the sight of her in the doorway made Ty weak in his knees. When a gentle breeze from the river blew a strand of hair across her face, Ty could smell the scent from her rosewater. He felt intoxicated and was embarrassed, this being the day after her pa had been murdered and all. Ty made a mental promise to catch the man who’d killed Shine, Bandera County or no Bandera County.

“Now, Tant, what’s so important that you had to ride here in this heat to make a fool of yourself?” Ty asked, leaning over to help Tant from the floor.

“You oughtn’t to have hit me, Holt. I was funnin’ with you,” Tant whined. “I rode all this way to tell you that Banker Thornberry has done gone and got himself shot. Shot between the eyes coming out the back door of Crazy Shirley’s house.”

“Crazy Shirley’s?” Ty said in astonishment. “What was he doing over there?”

“What the heck you think he was doing? You sure ain’t much of a detective, are you?” Tant said, ducking his head and covering his bloody nose when he saw the flash of anger in Ty’s eyes. “Don’t hit me no more,” Tant whimpered, “I didn’t mean nothing.”

“Tell me the whole story,” Ty said, and handed Tant his bandana to wipe the blood from his face. “What happened?”