Chapter 19

Even with Wagon Road Avenue being busier than usual, Cowboy was able to track the running man’s boot prints north to First Street and west up that block to Courthouse Avenue as he had run in the dirt at the edge of the boardwalks rather than on them. Then, on an educated guess, Cowboy turned south on Courthouse Avenue and found the boot tracks along the front of a vacant lot midway up the block, the tracks showing the man had been walking at that point. By the time Cowboy reached Jackson Street again, the morning’s foot, horse and wagon traffic had obscured all but two imprints, where the man, still walking, stepped out to cross Jackson and, not surprisingly, continued in the direction of the Jackson County Courthouse. He could find no more tracks, but he’d know the soles and heels of those boots, should he have the opportunity to trace them again.

Backtracking, Cowboy could find only one shopkeeper, from among the merchants who were open along the man’s route, who’d noticed the man at all. Jan Viddick, at his leather goods and saddle shop, could only describe a probably white, maybe Mexican man running past his shop, dark hair and dark clothes, no hat, and no waistcoat. Viddick had had but a rear-quarter view of his face, which allowed no useful detail, other than that the man did have a right ear.

Back at the store, Cowboy saw that most of the gawkers had gone on their various ways. Several of the neighboring merchants were on site, sweeping up broken glass and splintered wood from the boardwalk in front of Baylor’s and their own nearby businesses. Inside Baylor’s store, Eve Palmer, from the dress shop on the next block, and Mary Margaret Palmer, her sister-in-law, one of Francine Kuiper’s daughters, were sweeping up debris and replacing goods on shelves and display tables. Jacob Baylor, still looking groggy, sat in a rocking chair near the back, a cloth bandage covering the top of his head, while Christina tended to him.

On the floor, just inside the door, Ernst Bauer, more of a veterinarian, but the only medical help in town, was spreading a salve on Malik’s bruised, battered, and burnt face, upper chest, and shoulders. His shirt had been burned and blasted away. An older teenage girl, Ernst’s daughter, Frieda, was assisting him.

Malik was breathing shallow and fast, still unconscious and laid out exactly as the blast had left him. He was flat on his back, with his feet about a yard inside the door, his arms outstretched to his sides. As best Cowboy could tell, the blast had gone off midair, just outside the drip edge of the boardwalk’s shed roof.

Niles Palmer, head teller at the bank, and the dress-shop proprietor’s husband, had been picking through the keys on his ring, locating the bank’s front door key, when Malik’s quickened pace crossing the street drew his attention. It was then he noticed the dark-clad man running away north, up the street, almost to the corner. He watched as Malik rushed into Baylor’s store and had just started to head over there when he was stunned by the blast, only a dozen yards away. His impression was that the explosion had occurred just outside the eve of the boardwalk roof. He, too, was now in Baylor’s store, talking loudly, as his hearing had not yet returned fully. His responses to questions were his best guesses as to what he was being asked. It was Palmer who told Cowboy about the running man.

Bank Chairman Robert Smith looked in the fractured doorway and said, “My heavens! Whatever happened? Was this the noise we heard? Goodness! Is that Mister Malik? Is he ... is he...?”

Cowboy said, “He’s knocked unconscious by the blast, Mister Smith. Not sure how bad, yet.”

Cowboy elaborated, “Nobody saw it direct. Best we can tell, a man snuck up behind Mister Baylor and hit him on the head, left him unconscious on the floor. That man likely dropped some dynamite in here. Shadow, uh, Emil, saw that man runnin’ off and he hurried to the store, found the dynamite, and maybe just threw it out front when it went off.”

“Who would do such a terrible—Niles Palmer, is that you?”

“He can’t hear you, Mister Smith. He was too near the blast. Maybe he’ll get better in a while.”

“How is Jacob?”

“Sitting in a rocker toward the back. Up, but still logy and hurtin’.”

“Anyone else hurt? Christina?”

“She was at Molly’s, helpin’ out with breakfast. Seems nobody else was close enough to be hurt, ‘cept for a couple glass cuts.”

“What did the sheriff say?”

“Uh, Mister Smith, I hear Miss Christina asking for you. Why not come through over this way. I’ll go back with you.”

Cowboy led him around the outer edge of the sales floor and paused when they reached the back corner.

“Hold on a second, Mister Smith. She wasn’t asking for you, I just wanted to talk to you in private.”

“What is it, Mister Tsosie?”

“Well, sir, you asked about the sheriff and, fact is, we’re positive that the sheriff is behind this.”

“What?” Jacob asked in a loud voice.

“Sir, we need to speak quietly.”

“I’m sorry, I just find that impossible to believe.”

“Why, sir?”

“Why? Why what?”

“Why do you find it impossible to believe?”

“Because things aren’t done that way.”

“You’ve never heard or read about corrupt government officials, Mister Smith?”

“Well ... yes of course, but this is Waypoi— Ah, Mister Tsosie, this begins to remind me of a conversation I had with Mister Malik very recently. A very disturbing conversation. I also heard about the three new deputies who were accosting citizens and who suddenly disappeared. Have you any knowledge of what happened to them?”

“As a confidential matter between you and me, sir?”

“Yes, you may expect as much from me from now on.”

“Locked in a boxcar headed south, with food, water, a toilet bucket, whiskey, and a double eagle in each man’s pocket. Boots and empty guns to be returned at the southern exchange terminal at Junction City, along with no-refund tickets to El Paso. Their badges, along with an almost true explanation, delivered to Mister Williams at the jail.”

“Mister Tsosie, you’re not even from Waypoint. Why are you here?”

“For one, I did live here, or at least out at the Malik ranch, when I was growing up, so I am from here, sort ‘a. But mostly because Shadow is my friend.”

“Shadow?”

“It’s what my family calls Emil. ‘Cause he can move so quiet and unnoticed when he’s stalkin’ somethin’. And the reason he’s laid out up there right now, is because he’s been stalkin’ somethin’. They can’t catch him at it, so they’ve started takin’ it out on his friends. That’s what happened to Jorje Garcia, and now to Mister Baylor—almost. ‘Cept for Shadow getting’ in their way, again.

“What can I do?”

“Well, what would you do if you didn’t know any of the things I told you or maybe whatever it was that Shadow told you?”

“I suppose ... I’d speak to some of the merchants and two or three of us would talk to the sheriff, ask him what this was all about.”

“And if he told you it was kids playin’ with matches or some such story?”

“If I were to ignore what I know from you and Emil, I mean Mister Malik, I suppose I’d accept a reasonable explanation, even if I knew it was balderdash.”

“I know Shadow must have included you as a friend, to use his Christian name.”

“Will he recover from this, though?”

Cowboy cast a worried look toward the front of the store. “The fact that he remains unconscious concerns me. He may also have hearing problems when he does wake up.”

“Achtung—ah, Hello, Cowboy!” came an accented call from the front of the store.

“Mister Bauer wants me. Go visit Jacob for a minute. Then you might return to the bank and not be seen much in our company.”

“Thank you. Please keep me apprised of Emil’s condition.”

“Cowboy! Sind Sie hier (Are you here)?”

“Coming, Mister Bauer.” Then, quieter, “I will, Mister Smith.”

At the front of the store, Malik had regained consciousness. Bauer said, “He yust voke up, only kann (able to) uh, vhisper. wie sagt (how to say), er kann nicht hören (he can not hear) ... ah, he tells he has not sight or hearink. Seine Augenlider (His eyelids),” Bauer pointed to his own eyelids, “sind vesengt (are singed), ah,” he had a whispered conversation with his daughter, “ah, eyelids are singed, but ah, his eyes do not ah, have, ah, hurt, ah, keine (no) injured. Maybe, ah, Druck, (pressure) ah, Druck, Druck, ah, push, ah, pressure von der (from the) explosion oder (or) ah, he is hitting head,” he indicated a swelling on Malik’s temple. His daughter whispered in his ear. “Oh, yah, prob’ly the ribs being broken. He, ah, fallen against zomzing, doorframe, ah, barrel, Ich weiß es nicht (I do not know) vwy he kann nicht (can not) zee.”

Cowboy had knelt down and taken Malik’s hand during Bauer’s report. He’d turned their hands into a grip that had been the secret sign of the children’s pirate crew they once led at play on Lake Manuela. Malik tightened his grip and gave the secret countersign, then pulled on Cowboy’s arm and began whispering. Cowboy leaned close enough that his ear briefly touched Malik’s lips, so he’d know he was listening.

Malik rasped, “Chest hurts. Can’t see or hear. Protect family. Get us all to the ranch. Jacob too. And Wisser. He’s next. Watch Smith, he’s liable...”

Cowboy started a series of rapid squeezes.

“You’ve talked to Smith?”

Single squeeze

“Can he manage?”

Single squeeze, but slow and gentle.

“He’s naive and too smart for his own good. Remind him to protect his women.”

Single squeeze.

“Is Jacob recovering?”

Slow squeeze.

“Anybody else hurt?”

Cowboy thought of Niles Palmer, then decided it wasn’t worth trying to explain.

Two slow squeezes.

“Someone hurt, but not too bad?”

Squeeze.

“Who?”

Cowboy hesitated; his grip on Malik’s hand loosened.

“I’m joking. Can Jacob travel?”

Squeeze

“Reckon the store’ll need some boardin’ up?”

Squeeze

“Get ‘em organized. Set Christina to it. Go talk to Jacob, then come back and talk to me.”

Squeeze.

Cowboy saw Thomas Palmer, Niles’ brother, with another railroad man pulling sheets of used plyboard from the back of a freight wagon. Local carpenters Ivan Kozlov and his son, Dmitry, were taking the sheets and placing them against the storefront in preparation to nailing them in place. Cowboy made his way to the back of the store. He found that Olin Wisser was there, having come in the back way. He crouched down next to Christina, who was kneeling at her father’s feet.

Cowboy made eye contact with Jacob, then said, “Christina, perhaps you could offer some water or coffee to the men working to cover the front of the store. Emil is awake, but can’t hear or see. Broken ribs, too. He’s whispering only. If you hold his hand, squeeze once for yes, twice for no. Oh, and be ready for his idea of humor.”

Jacob said, “See to our neighbors who are helping us, Christina. I’ll be alright with these two here. Tell our friends how much we are grateful to them.”

“If you’re sure, Papa.”

“I’ll be fine.”

She kissed Jacob on the cheek and left.

“Emil wants us out at the ranch. Both of you, too.”

“What you talkin’ ‘bout, Cowboy?” Wisser demanded.

“There’s a lot goin’ on you don’t know about. Things Shadow and I can’t talk about. We knew they were comin’ for you, Mister Baylor, but we thought we had it fixed. We know you’re next on their list, Mister Wisser.”

“Why the hell me?”

“‘Cause you’re Shadow’s friend.”

“I can see to myself” Wisser insisted.

Cowboy said to him, “You know those rifles we were lookin’ at in your catalog the other day?”

“So?”

Cowboy looked back over his shoulder, then said, “We saw two rifles just like those a few days before. One of ‘em had put that bullet into Jorje Garcia’s belly, probably from a half mile away or more. We found those rifles with the men who were paid to use ‘em on the Maliks and their friends. They were camped out on the north side of Shepherds Creek, close to the Malik ranch.” Cowboy made deliberate eye contact with Wisser. “We buried those rifles with ‘em.”

“The hell you say!”

“We know about two other groups sent to hurt folks. One you’ll never see again, the others got shipped to El Paso. Now, this morning, we know they’ve brought in more.”

“Who brought in more?” Wisser demanded.

“That’s a story you’ll have to hear from Shadow, out at the ranch, Mister Wisser.”

“I ain’t leavin’ my shop.”

“Then you’ll be dead, very soon.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Do you know anybody, outside a’ maybe his pa, better able to take care of himself than Shadow? Yourself, maybe?”

“Pro’bly not.”

“But there Shadow lays, stove in, fried up, blind and deaf. ‘Cause some snake snuck up behind Mister Baylor and whacked him hard, then left some dynamite behind. Or Jorje Garcia, who was shot from hiding by a sniper. Jorje was no city slicker. Knew his way ‘round people, animals, and the wildest country. Guns, too. But there’s no defense against a shooter who lies in wait a half mile off in any direction.”

“But my shop?”

“What’s your shop worth?”

“What’cha mean?”

“I mean, if you were to sell your shop, how much would be a fair price?”

“Why would I sell my shop?”

“Let’s say a giant tiger escapes from a passing circus, runs into your shop, and bites your hands off. You can’t work at smithin’. Some guy wanders in, says he’s a smith, wants to buy you out. What’s it worth?”

“Awright, awright. Maybe three, four thousand.”

“I’ll give you five thousand for it, today.”

“The hell you say. Where you get that kind a’ money?”

“Down the street. My account at the bank.”

“How’d you get—”

Baylor chimed in. “Olin, quit bein’ a stubborn mule. You stay in town, you’re dead. Out at the ranch, we can take ‘em on as a group, come back to smithin’ when we get things settled. I’m goin. You can stay and die alone, you pig-headed cuss.”

Cowboy said, “Maybe come in once or twice a week to open, with me or some others to keep things safe, ‘til this is settled.”

“Might work. But not Christina,” Baylor replied.

“No, wouldn’t reckon.”

Wisser said, “You say you knew this was comin’?”

“No more from me, Mister Wisser. The rest is on Shadow, out at the ranch.

“One more thing you might think about, as I’m sure Shadow has. As long as you’re in town, other innocent people could get hurt when they come to kill you. What would a fire in your place do if it got away to other buildings? Or a shooter that misses you and hits someone else?”

“Same thing out at the ranch,” Wisser retorted.

“Some. But the ranch is our ground. We control it much better than in here. And Shadow an’ I have been over every inch of it for the past twenty-five years.”

“Awright, awright. Let me go pack some stuff I don’ want a’ leave behind. Put more of the powder in the ground vault. It’ll be well hid. Lemme know when you’re ready to leave.”

The Malik ranch compound was about twenty-five miles, by crow flight, east-northeast of Waypoint and almost a thousand feet lower in elevation. By the trail, it was better than twenty-seven miles distant. Except for a range of hills along the ranch’s western extent, the intervening gradient was generally flat, with the occasional arroyo or wash draining into the Rio Isabella. Two of those were deep enough to warrant bridges for the passage of wheeled vehicles.

Valerian Malik and his partners had built those bridges. They were subject to wash-out every ten years or so, when especially heavy or extended downpours would occur over the uplands. The bridges were simple log pier-supported structures and relatively easy to replace. The greater loss was the decks, which required considerable sawn and fitted lumber. Over the decades, one bridge had been replaced twice, the other, three times.

Closer to the ranch were the Leander Hills, a chain of moderate-to-high grassy and wooded prominences. As the trail passed through the hills, it went through several grade changes. These tended to be gradual, however, and were not usually a problem, except for the heaviest loads or in bad weather.

By western standards of the time, the trail itself was very good. Broad enough for a heavy freight wagon or three riders abreast, it was generally well drained and reasonably level, with few deviation from its true course. There were numerous cuts and fills that contributed to the easy grades and course changes, again the work of Malik crews. Even so, the surface tended to be rutted and pocked with rocks, potholes, drainage channels and other interruptions to a surface that had never been improved with gravel or paving. It was, essentially, a wide, well-kept, dirt trail, passable by wagons or coaches.