Читать книгу Sidewinders - William W. Johnstone - Страница 10

In the grim silence that followed Abigail’s words, Bo said, “The last real war we were mixed up in was the one between the Blue and the Gray…and that one’s been over for fifteen years.”

“O’course,” Scratch added, “we’ve gotten tangled up in a range war or two since then.”

Abigail smiled, but there was no real humor in the expression. “What I’m talking about is more along the order of a range war. There’s a man here in Red Butte who’d like to see the Sutherland Stagecoach Line out of business, and I think he’d go to just about any lengths to make sure that happens.”

“I doubt if it’s going to make any difference—” Bo began.

“Yeah, we’ve already said we’re gonna work for you, and we don’t go back on our word,” said Scratch.

“But you’d better tell us what you’re talking about,” Bo concluded, even as he nodded in agreement with what Scratch said.

“All right. There’s a man named Jared Rutledge who has a freight line that runs between Red Butte, Chino Valley, and Cottonwood. He established it not long before Will and the boys and I moved here to start the stage line. As it turns out, Mr. Rutledge planned to begin running stagecoaches in addition to his freight wagons, but our arrival ruined that for him.”

Bo nodded and said, “I can see where there wouldn’t be enough business in these parts to support two stage lines.”

“Sometimes, it seems like there’s not enough to support one,” Abigail went on with a faint smile. “But that didn’t stop Mr. Rutledge from buying a coach and trying to compete with us anyway. In fact, he tried to buy us out after we got the mail contract from the government. That brings in more money for us than the passengers we carry.”

“Rutledge probably wanted it, too,” Scratch said.

“That’s right. My husband Will was still alive then, and he turned down Mr. Rutledge’s offer, of course. That just made Mr. Rutledge more angry with us. He swore that his stagecoach would be running long after we were out of business.” She paused. “He made it sound like a threat.”

Neither Bo nor Scratch said anything for a moment as they mulled over what Abigail had told them. Then Bo said, “Gil mentioned that his father took sick and passed on. Was there anything suspicious about what happened to your husband, ma’am?”

“You mean, did Jared Rutledge poison him somehow?” Abigail shook her head. “I trust Dr. Chambers, and he said Will died from the same fever that took the lives of several other people here in Red Butte about the same time. The doctor was worried that it might develop into a full-blown epidemic, but then the sickness seemed to pass. It does that way sometimes, Dr. Chambers said.”

Bo nodded. “That it does.”

“Anyway, I don’t believe that Jared Rutledge would ever resort to something like poison. I wouldn’t put it past him to shoot someone he considers an enemy, but he’s too full of bluster to act in such an underhanded manner.”

“So why do you say he’s wagin’ war against you?” Scratch asked.

“We’ve had some incidents of sabotage. There was a fire in the barn that could have gotten out of hand and burned it to the ground if Ponderosa hadn’t happened to discover it in time. Both of our coaches were parked in the barn at the time. They would have been destroyed, too. I was suspicious about that right away and went to the marshal.”

“Let me guess,” Bo said. “Rutledge claimed he didn’t have anything to do with the fire and had an alibi for the time it was set.”

“Of course. Without any proof, there was nothing Marshal Harding could do.”

“Anything else?” Scratch asked.

“Some other minor incidents, harnesses cut and things like that. Enough to cause delays and annoyances, but nothing that would put us out of business.” Abigail’s lips tightened. “Then Rance Judson and his crew of killers showed up. That’s what’s going to cause the stage line to fail, if things keep up like they’re going now.”

“Wait a minute,” Bo said. “Are you saying that there’s some connection between Rutledge and Judson?”

“I think it’s possible.”

Scratch rubbed at his jaw in thought. “Your boy told us Judson’s bunch has been raisin’…heck around here for six months or so. It was longer ago than that that your husband passed away?”

“Will died a little more than a year ago.”

Bo knew what Scratch was thinking—Abigail Sutherland was no longer officially in mourning. But there were more important things to discuss at the moment, so he said, “Have Judson and his gang held up Rutledge’s stagecoach?”

“They’ve stopped it a couple of times.” Abigail made a dismissive motion with her hand. “But that doesn’t mean anything. That could be just a cover-up to make sure that suspicion doesn’t fall on Mr. Rutledge. The outlaws didn’t get much in any of those robberies.”

“But the same thing would have been true today if they’d succeeded in stopping your coach,” Bo pointed out.

“Yes, that’s true. But they would have gotten the mail pouch, and that’s important.”

Bo nodded. “Because if you lose it often enough, the government will cancel its contract with you and award it to Rutledge’s line.”

“Exactly. Without that contract, this business can’t survive. We’d have to give up…and Mr. Rutledge would win, just as he swore he would.”

“Sounds to me like somebody ought to go pay this Rutledge fella a visit and read him the riot act,” Scratch declared.

An expression of concern appeared on Abigail’s face. “No, that’s not what I want,” she said quickly. “Mr. Rutledge has half a dozen men working for him, and they’re all dangerous. I suspect some of them are gunfighters. It’s bad enough that I’m asking the two of you to risk your lives by working for me. I don’t want you confronting those killers in their lair.”

“Sounds to me like what you really need around here is a better lawman,” Bo commented.

“Tom Harding does the best job he can. He keeps the peace here in town, and that’s the only jurisdiction he has. The county sheriff and his deputies never get over this way, or at least so seldom it might as well be never. The sheriff took a posse into the badlands once to look for Judson’s hideout, but never found it.”

Bo put his hands on his knees and said, “Well, ma’am, you’ve told us a lot, but none of it changes anything. You asked us for help, and we agreed to give it to you. We’ll stick by our word.”

“Darned right we will,” Scratch said.

“Thank you both. I’ll pay you what I can—”

Scratch waved a hand. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll work for room and board until you get the stage line back on its feet. Ain’t that right, Bo?”

“That’ll be fine,” he said with a nod.

Abigail looked a little flustered. “You’re sure—”

“Yes, ma’am,” Scratch broke in. “Certain sure.”

“Well…all right. Ponderosa bunks in the barn…”

“That’s good enough for us,” Scratch said. He pretended not to hear the faint sigh that came from Bo.

Boot heels sounded on the porch outside, and Gil Sutherland came into the office. “Ponderosa and I finally got Culley woke up and sent him packing,” he reported.

“Is Dave back yet?”

Gil grimaced. “No, and I can still hear the yells coming from down at the doc’s house. I figure Angus is still getting cactus needles plucked out. Dave will probably stay with him until Doc Chambers is finished, and then they’ll go off to Sharkey’s so Angus can numb the pain with a couple of bottles of whiskey.”

The disapproval was evident in Gil’s face and voice. Bo said, “Sharkey’s is one of the local saloons, I reckon?”

“My little brother’s home away from home.”

“Gil!” his mother scolded. “There’s no reason to talk like that.”

“Why not?” he asked as he turned toward her. “It’s true, isn’t it? Dave spends more time down there guzzling who-hit-John than he does here working. If he’d pitch in more, maybe you and I wouldn’t be running ourselves ragged.”

“I’ve done something about that,” Abigail said. She nodded toward Bo and Scratch. “I’ve hired Mr. Creel and Mr. Morton.”

Gil’s eyes widened in surprise. “Hired them? With what? We don’t have any money!”

“We still have some,” Abigail insisted. “Anyway, they’ve agreed to work for room and board right now, until things improve.”

That explanation didn’t make Gil any happier. He shook his head and said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Sure, they helped Ponderosa and me this afternoon, but we don’t really know these men. Why, they could be outlaws just like Judson and his gang!”

“You said ‘could be,’” Scratch drawled, “so I don’t reckon we’ll take offense, son…this time.”

“For the record,” Bo added, “we’re not outlaws. You can go down to the marshal’s office and check the reward dodgers he has on file if you want to. You won’t find us.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, just because there are no wanted posters on you.”

“Gil, I don’t know why you’re being so rude,” Abigail said. “Even if they weren’t going to be working with us, Mr. Creel and Mr. Morton are our guests. We owe them a little courtesy to go along with our thanks for helping you and Ponderosa.”

“But Creel shot Dave’s hat off his head!” Gil protested. “Lord knows, I’ve felt like doing that and worse to him myself, but—”

“You’ve said enough,” Abigail cut in. “The arrangements have already been made. You should be grateful that you won’t have to work quite as hard.”

Gil didn’t look grateful. He was still fuming, in fact, although he held his tongue.

Bo stood up, and Scratch did likewise. Abigail turned to them and said, “Supper will be in about an hour, gentlemen. The dining room is right through that door.”

“We’ll be back,” Bo promised. “That’ll give us time to take a look around town and get familiar with the settlement.”

“Have a drink, you mean,” Gil said, ignoring the angry glance his mother sent his way. “If you run into my brother at Sharkey’s, maybe you can bring him back with you.”

Bo and Scratch didn’t say anything to that. Hats in hands, they nodded to Abigail. Bo said, “Ma’am,” and Scratch said, “We’re obliged to you for your hospitality, Miz Sutherland. See you later.”

They left the office, and as they paused on the porch to put their hats on, they heard Gil through the door as he complained to his mother about her hiring a couple of saddle tramps.

Scratch grinned and tapped the brim of his Stetson. “Boy’s got us pegged pretty good, don’t he?”

“He’d likely be even more upset if he knew that you’re planning on romancing his mother,” Bo said as they went down the steps to the ground.

“You heard what Miz Abigail said. It’s been over a year since her husband passed on, rest his soul. She ain’t in mournin’ anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s looking for another husband,” Bo said. He snorted. “As if you were in the market for a wife anyway!”

“It’s true I never been the marryin’ kind,” Scratch admitted as they started along the street. “I might change, though, for a fine-lookin’ woman like that. And one with her own business, to boot! I tell you, Bo, it’d be just a pure-dee shame for a gal like Abigail Sutherland to waste away, pinin’ for the touch of a man.”

“I think she’s probably got more important things to worry about, like that younger son of hers. He’s liable to get himself killed one of these days, hanging around with varmints like Angus and Culley. Not to mention the trouble with Rutledge wanting to run her out of business, and those owlhoots lurking out there the other side of Hell Creek, waiting to hold up another stagecoach.”

Scratch laughed. “Yeah, I reckon we’ve waltzed right into a heap o’ trouble again. Outlaws on one side, Rutledge’s hired guns on the other…You know what we need?”

“Some sense pounded into our heads?”

“No, what we need is for those two young fellas we ran into over in Colorado to come ridin’ into town so they could give us a hand.”

“You mean Bodine and Two Wolves?” Bo shook his head. “I don’t think that’s likely to happen. Those two are probably off somewhere getting into some devilment of their own.”

“Yeah, they kinda reminded me o’ somebody—you an’ me about thirty years ago.”

There was some truth to that, although Bo and Scratch had never developed the same sort of reputation as gunfighters and troubleshooters as Matt Bodine and Sam Two Wolves had. All four of them shared the same restless nature, though, and the tendency to have trouble follow them around.

“We’ll have to handle this chore ourselves,” Bo went on as they neared a good-sized building marked by its batwing doors and the tinny music coming from inside it as a saloon. In the fading light of dusk, a sign hanging from the awning over the boardwalk identified it as Sharkey’s, the place Gil Sutherland had mentioned.

“What say we take a look?” Scratch suggested. “I could use a beer.”

Dave and Angus and Culley might be in there; probably were, if what Gil had said was correct. That could lead to another confrontation and even more trouble.

But there was a fine line between being prudent and running away from a fight, and Bo didn’t intend to cross that line. He nodded and said, “I’m a mite thirsty myself.”