Assignment, page 9
“Nah, I’d better go see if Web Freeman’s at his house, let him know about Simkins.”
Wes frowned. “Freeman?”
“He’s the marshal. Half the time he’s still here in the office this late. Anyway, I wouldn’t want Pete to talk his way out of here before the captain can come see him. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
Wes nodded. “All right. Say first light at the livery stable? We might get lucky.”
“Sure. So about 5:30.” Ringley held the door open as Wes stepped through, then stepped through himself and closed it. As Wes angled across the street, Ringley headed down the boardwalk in the opposite direction.
*
The saloon was lively. The piano player was playing a tune, and several tables were occupied with gauchos or cowboys. Several men were standing at the bar. A group of four seemed to be together at the far end, then another group of three near the center. Pinchot was standing alone near the near end.
As he heard the batwings clack against each other, he looked around and grinned. “Wes! Over here.” He turned around and looked along the bar. “Bartender?”
The bartender looked up from about halfway along the bar, slung a bar towel over his right shoulder and started in that direction. He arrived just as Wes got there. “Get something for you, sir?”
“A bottle of the good stuff, please, and a couple of glasses.” He grabbed Pinchot’s empty glass and slid it toward the bartender. “We’ll trade you this one.”
The bartender caught the glass and grinned. “Yes sir.” He turned away.
Pinchot looked at Wes. “So?”
“So what?”
“Did you find anything?” Pinchot leaned slightly forward and quieted his voice. “Were there women in the stock cars?”
“Apparently there were, but somebody offloaded them maybe a half-hour before we got there.”
“Damn!”
“Yep.”
The bartender came up with a bottle and two glasses and set them on the bar.
Wes paid him. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you, sir.” He turned away.
Wes grabbed the bottle by the neck in one hand and a glass in the other. “Let’s go sit somewhere and I’ll tell you all about it.”
As Pinchot picked up the other glass and followed him, he said, “You will?”
Wes glanced back at him. “Sure. You’re my partner down here ain’t you?”
“Yes sir!”
Wes led him to a table that was as far away from everyone else as possible, then put down the bottle and glass and pulled out a chair.
Pinchot sat down too, and he immediately leaned forward.
As Wes poured their glasses full, he said quietly, “Rule number one: the second your head starts to feel fuzzy, stop drinkin’. No tellin’ what might come through the door next.”
“Right. That’s what I always do.”
“So when you and Simkins were drinkin’ the other night—”
Pinchot held up one hand. “I had three, maybe four the whole evening. So what I told you, it panned out?”
Wes nodded and took a sip of his whiskey. “It panned out. And Simkins was involved up to his neck. He’s over in the jail right now.”
“Really?”
Again, Wes nodded. He told Pinchot the whole story from Simkins not drawing his revolver when he looked into the first car right up to the Mexican man calling to him from the train station and what happened after that.
Pinchot whistled. “I guess now and then one just turns out bad.”
Wes said, “Sandoval was probably payin’ him a lot of money to let ‘em know when the law wasn’t around. Way it sounded, he was maybe even openin’ the cars for ‘em himself from time to time.”
Pinchot looked at the table and shook his head. “I just don’t understand how he could do that.” He looked up, a frown on his face. “I mean, can you imagine openin’ the door of a stock car and seein’ all those women scared half out of their mind? And then they see a Ranger badge and maybe think it’s all right, that they’re saved. And then he turns ‘em back over to the comancheros.”
Wes downed his drink. As he refilled his glass and Pinchot’s, he said, “Well, I agree with you. But listen, it could happen to almost anybody. Simkins was probably a good Ranger for a while. And he probably ain’t the first Ranger who looked the other way for money, and I doubt he’ll be the last. Just be sure you ain’t one of ‘em. Always remember that upright is not a matter of degree. In every second, you either are or you ain’t.” He tapped the cork into the neck of the bottle with his left palm, then took a sip of his drink.
Pinchot nodded and hefted his glass. “Yes sir. I’ll remember that. Upright is not a matter of degree. That sets it out pretty plain.” He sipped.
“Just remember that every decision you make is always up to you. Nobody else.”
“So what’s gonna happen to Simkins?”
“Well, that’ll be up to the captain I guess. But he ain’t a Ranger no more. Jason—Corporal Ringley—already took his badge from him.”
Pinchot frowned. “Up to the captain? Not a judge?”
“Nah, now think about it. He didn’t commit any crime that anybody can prove. I mean, we only have a dead Mexican’s word that he helped Sandoval. And me and Ringley can talk ‘til we’re blue in the face, but that’s what you call ‘hearsay’ or somethin’. If any of the women actually saw him, that might be different, but they’re all south of the border by now.”
He leaned back and wagged one hand. “Anyway, we only put him in jail for safekeeping, so the captain can talk with him. I imagine Simkins’ll ride out sometime tomorrow, and that’ll be the end of that.”
Pinchot sat back. “Damn.”
Wes sipped his drink again. “Yep. Just don’t forget what I told you about bein’ upright.”
“I won’t. I won’t forget.”
Wes downed the rest of his second drink, then set his glass on the table and pushed his chair back. “I’m gonna go up and get some sleep. I paid for the bottle, so bring it up when you come to the room.”
“Yes sir. You sure you don’t want one more?”
“Nah. Ringley and I are gonna ride out at first light, see if we can cut a trail and figure out where they took those women.”
“Can I come?”
“Not this time. But I’m countin’ on you to let the others know where we went. We’ll probably only be gone a couple-three hours. We’ll start out behind the train station.”
“Yes sir.” Pinchot hefted his glass again. “Well, have a good sleep.”
“See you sometime in the mornin’.” And Wes turned and left the saloon.
Chapter 19
On his way to the marshal’s house, Corporal Ringley remembered the Mexican man they’d left behind the train station. Okay, so he’d make one more stop. It was on his way anyway.
On the next corner, he stepped up on the porch of Simon Parley’s house and knocked on the door.
The man seemed to appear out of nowhere and opened the door himself. Tall at 6’2” or 6’3”, he was lean as a split rail and dark, with a pinched face and discolored crescents under his eyes. Despite his being in his 60s, his hair was still jet black. As he peered through the screen, his brow furrowed. “Yes?”
Ringley couldn’t remember whether the man had a wife. Even this late at night, Mr. Parley was still dressed head to toe in black, but at least he wasn’t wearing the black top hat he fancied.
“Uh, sir, Mr. Parley, me and one’a my men left a Mexican man dead down behind the train station about an hour ago. No special arrangements, I guess. He was a bandito, maybe a comanchero. Took a shot at us and then got in the way of a bullet.”
“Hmm. I thought I heard gunfire from that end of town. Behind the station, you say?”
“Yes sir. He’s just off the southwest corner and just around back. I figured it wouldn’t be good to leave him there. If another train comes in and there are passengers—”
He let the sentence die.
“Yes, yes. I see what you mean. So a pauper’s grave is all right?”
“Yes sir. Just send the bill to Captain Garcia. He’ll see that the state of Texas reimburses you.”
“I’ll do that.”
Ringley was expecting him to do something, but the man only stood there, the doorknob in his hand, as if waiting for Ringley to say something else. “Well, I guess that’s it.” Ringley paused. “So you’ll move him tonight?”
“Yes, young man, we’ll move him tonight.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The wife and I are just finishing our supper.”
“Oh! Oh, sorry to interrupt. Like I said, I just wanted to let you know.”
The undertaker smiled, his thin lips pressed into a tight line. “And so you have.”
“Yes sir. Well, thank you. And I guess I’ll see you around.”
Mr. Parley approximated a smile again and his eyes twinkled. “Yes, well, sooner or later.” Then he closed the door.
Ringley’s legs were trembling slightly as he turned and stepped off the porch. The guy was creepy at best.
He went on down the street, found the marshal’s house, and knocked on the door.
Mrs. Freeman opened the door and smiled. She was like a breath of fresh air, especially after Simon Parley. She was in her mid-40s, short at just over five feet and plump. She was wearing a white dress covered in tiny blue and pink flowers. Her dark-brown hair was streaked with grey, and her eyes seemed to have a life of their own. “Late night, Corporal?”
Ringley whipped his hat off his head. “Yes ma’am, a little. Is Marshal Freeman around?”
She pushed the screen door open. “Well, come in and I’ll go find him for you. We just finished supper.”
“Oh, ma’am, I’ll wait here if that’s all right. It won’t take but a minute.”
She smiled again and nodded, then turned away. She left the door standing open.
A moment later, Web Freeman approached and pushed the screen door open. He was still dressed in his standard brown boots, jeans, a white shirt and a brown vest with his star prominently displayed on the left breast. He was bald with a white fringe all around. He smiled. “Jason, why don’t you come in?”
Ringley raised one hand. “Oh, no sir, that’s all right. Sorry to bother you at home. I just wanted to let you know you have kind of a prisoner in your cells tonight.”
Freeman frowned. “Kind of a prisoner?”
“Yes sir. Turns out ex-Ranger Simkins ain’t really one of us. I put him in a cell for safekeeping until the captain can talk to him. Probably in the morning.”
“Simkins? I don’t know the name.”
“He was a Ranger on loan to our company, up from Laredo.”
“What’d he do?”
Ringley gave him the abbreviated version.
“So basically just a skunk, huh?”
“Yes sir, as it turns out.”
“Well, I’ll hold onto him until the captain shows up.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ringley put his hat on, then nodded. “Oh, and Ranger Crowley put Simkins’ revolver in the top side drawer on your desk. I hope you have a restful evenin’ now.”
“Thanks, Jason, we’ll do that.”
As he stepped off the porch, Ringley thought he might return to the hotel and join Wes and Pinchot for a drink, but then he remembered he and Wes were going to ride out first thing to see if they could cut the trail of the comancheros.
He walked farther up the street, then turned a corner and found the captain’s house.
By the time he filled-in the captain, presented him with Simkins’ badge, and walked back to the hotel he was tired.
He glanced through the door of the saloon. Neither Wes nor Pinchot were anywhere to be seen, so he headed up the stairs to his room.
Later that night, for the first time since childhood, he had a nightmare. He and a troop of Rangers, all on loan from other companies, had just crossed the Rio Grande in search of Sandoval.
Shots exploded from the brush on both sides.
When he pulled his Colt and wheeled his horse around looking for the shooters, he noticed all the other Rangers had pulled their weapons too. But they were pointing them at him. Just as they all fired, he sat up, drenched in sweat and his breath coming in gasps.
*
Wes had just saddled Charley and was about to lead him out of the stall when Jason Ringley walked into the livery stable. Ringley grinned. “You should’a hollered. I thought maybe I’d beat you down here.”
“Ah, first light’s first light. I knew you’d be along soon enough.” He paused. “I guess we’ll start behind the station?”
“Yeah. Just give me a minute to get saddled up. If we cut a trail we’ll see where it takes us. I don’t want to ride into Mexico this morning though.” He held up one hand as if he expected Wes to argue. “No matter what, all right?”
“Sure,” Wes said. Then he frowned. “Hey, you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just a little on edge I guess.”
*
The body of the Mexican man was gone when they rode past the station, and there were wagon tracks nearby. Mr. Parley was apparently good for his word. A slight shudder trembled through Ringley as he thought of the man.
They found the trail about a half-hour later. The tracks had been brushed clean only within a quarter-mile or so of the train station.
Wes got down and studied the impressions, sometimes walking alongside the tracks and sometimes crouching. Finally he looked up at Ringley. “I figure maybe a dozen women, all barefoot. A few of them are either children or very small. ‘Course if they weren’t of age, the comancheros wouldn’t have taken ‘em at all.” He glanced at the trail again. “And two men movin’ ‘em, both in boots, one to either side of the trail.”
Ringley shook his head. “Sorry bastards.” He paused. “Mount up. Maybe they were delayed later down the trail.”
But the procession wasn’t delayed. An hour or so later, roughly five miles west-southwest, the trail led to a gentle slope down to the Rio Grande. The impressions of bare feet and boots were deep in the damp soil, and they were just as deep some thirty yards away where they exited on the south bank. There, they disappeared into two deep wagon ruts that led away to the south. On both sides of the wagon ruts, the soil was chewed up by what was probably the horses of the men who would accompany the wagon, probably as an armed escort.
Wes looked at Ringley. “I’m willin’ if you are.”
Ringley looked across the river for a long moment. He seemed to actually being considering it. But finally he shook his head. Without meeting Wes’ gaze, he said, “No. No, they’ve had what, nine, ten hours to travel? They’re miles away by now. No way could we catch ‘em.” He turned his horse. “Let’s head back and let the others know what’s goin’ on.”
Chapter 20
About the time Wes and Corporal Ringley were looking south from the north bank of the Rio Grande, Captain Garcia opened the door of the marshal’s office.
Heat and a pop-pop-popping sound radiated from the potbellied stove to his left. On top of it was a percolator with a glass knob at the top. Coffee was jumping in the knob. The heady smell of coffee was strong.
Web Freeman was seated at his desk, his hat on a peg on the wall behind him, his bald head evident as he studied a stack of flyers that had come in the day before.
The captain grinned. “Want some coffee? I think it’s ready.”
The marshal jerked his head up and frowned, then smiled and pushed his chair back. As he stood, he said, “Oh. Morning, Captain. Jason Ringley said you’d probably be by this morning.” He picked up his empty coffee cup from the desk and started across the room.
The captain nodded. “You have an ex-Ranger in the back, name of Simkins?”
“That’s what Ringley told me last night, but to be honest I don’t know.” He picked up the coffee pot and poured his cup full, then set the pot down again. It continued to perk. “I meant to look in on him, but I started the coffee.” He hefted the cup. “And then I spotted those flyers and forgot. You want a cup?”
“Nah, but thanks. I just came from breakfast.” He gestured toward the cells. “I guess I’ll go talk to him.”
Freeman nodded. “Well, good luck.” He turned and headed toward his desk, then stopped and looked back. “Oh, you want the keys?”
“Not yet. If he’s criminally culpable I’ll charge him and then ask you to hold him for Judge Ryan.”
Freeman nodded, then sipped his coffee gingerly and sat down again. He put the cup on the desk and bent to the flyers as the captain disappeared into the back.
*
Simkins was sitting up on his cot and leaning back against the wall, his knees drawn up and his boots on the cot. When the captain came into view, he swung his legs off the bed and stood. “Captain! Am I glad to see you! You gotta get me outta here. I can explain everything.”
The stench of body odor and urine were palpable, the latter probably from the bucket in the corner of the cell. The captain reached into his right vest pocket, pinched Simkins badge between his first and second finger, and pulled it out. He held up his right hand, the badge between his thumb and forefinger. “Maybe you can start by explaining why I have your badge.”
Simkins stared as his own right hand went to his left breast and felt for his badge. “I—They must’a taken it off me, Cap. That Crowley, I think he hit me with his gun.” He turned his head slightly as he reached up and touched the still-prominent welt above his left ear. “Hurts like hell. And I guess while I was out, they took my badge. But how’d you get it?”
“Corporal Ringley came by my house last night. He told me the whole story.” The captain scowled. “What the hell were you thinking, to help the comancheros move women south of the border? Jesus, Simkins, I trusted you!”
“I’m sorry, Cap.” He held up one hand. “I mean, I’m sorry that’s what you think. But it wasn’t like it seemed.”
“What wasn’t like it seemed? Are you telling me you did draw your revolver when you men checked those train cars?”
