Most Mormons I’ve known were law-abiding folks, although there’s a bad apple in every basket.
“But look at it like this: there’s thousands of square miles of rough, wild country in southeastern Utah and neighboring parts of Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico.
“This outfit seems to be operating all over the west, so why not Utah? My guess is he doesn’t want trouble on his own doorstep.” He tapped the clippings. “Look here, a robbery in Montana and a day later, in Texas.
That means, if we’re figuring this right, that he has more than one bunch of men. My guess would be five or six, and to control that number of men and keep them disciplined their boss man has got to be both tough and smart. So far we haven’t tied this outfit to a single killing, nor has anybody caught one of them.” Chantry studied the man at the table. He had heard all the stories, as had everyone. Tyrel Sackett was known to be one of the most dangerous gunfighters in the west, a quiet young man who had come out from Tennessee, never hunting trouble, yet never backing away from it, either. Chantry had met Tyrel before when investigating the murder of his brother, Joe, but Sackett made him uncomfortable. He did not want such men, no matter how law-abiding, in his town. They had a way of attracting trouble. He himself had never had the reputation of being a good man with a gun, yet deep inside him he was confident he could handle the best of them. He had not wanted to be a peace officer, yet when he needed money the job had been there, and he had accepted it.
Keeping the peace in a small western town was not that hard. Most of the cowboys who came into town and went on a drunk were men he had worked with. Some had worked for him, and some had worked trail drives and roundups beside him, so they were prepared to listen to him when he suggested they sleep it off.
He had been successful so far, but he made no claims to being a good officer. He was, well . .
. he was competent. Up to a point, anyway. This job Sackett was talking about was out of his depth.
He said as much. Sackett gave him one of his rare smiles. “You’re better than you think.” He tapped the papers on the table. “You saw these and smelled something wrong. You’ve got an instinct for the job, Bord, whether you think so or not.” He tapped the papers again. “You know what we’ve got here? Something nobody would or will believe.
Holdups are by local gangs, cowboys who need drinking money, something like that. By the very nature of them folks are going to say such men can’t be organized.
My guess is that in the last four years this outfit has pulled over a hundred holdups and robberies, gettin’ away with every one. “Somebody has to come in and scout the layout, somebody has to plan the getaway, somebody has to be sure there are fresh horses where they’ll be needed.” “I don’t know.” Chantry shook his head.
“Somewhere, somehow, something’s got to give.” Sackett took out a billfold and extracted a news clipping. “They’ve had their troubles.
Look at this.” SUSPECT ARRESTED AT CARSON A man who gave his name as Dan Cable was arrested last night at Jennings’ Livery. He had in his possession sacks containing $12,500 in freshly minted gold coin. He stated that he was en route to buy cattle. Three days ago the bank at Rapid City was robbed of $35,000 in freshly minted gold coins. Cable is being held for investigation.
“So?” “The next morning his cell was empty. He was gone, the gold was gone, his horse was gone.
Nobody knows how it was managed.” “They moved fast,” Chantry said thoughtfully.
“They must have had somebody close by.” “There was no jailer at Carson. Small jail. The same key opens both the cell door and the outer door. Left alone like that he might have managed it himself.” “The gold?” “Left in the desk drawer at the jail. The door was locked and it seemed safe. They’d had no trouble at Carson and the bank was closed, so the marshal just locked it up and left it.
“Carson’s quiet now, so the two saloons close at midnight. After that the streets are empty. Cable just unlocked his door somehow, broke into the desk, then unlocked the outer door and went around to the livery stable, saddled his horse, and rode out.” “I’ll be damned.” They talked until after midnight, carefully sifting the little they knew and going over the wanted posters, the news clippings, and a few letters from other peace officers and bankers.
“Maybe,” Chantry said at last, “we’d better try to think ahead. If we could pick out several likely places we might beat them to it and be waiting.” “I thought of that. The trouble is there’s so many possibilities. Of course, they’ll be wanting a big strike.” “No stage holdups,” Cantry suggested, “because when they carry big shipments they have a shotgun guard. Most of them will fight, so somebody is going to be killed. his Tyrel reached for the coffeepot and filled his cup.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said about tryin’ to beat them to it.” He paused. “How about right here?
How about your town?” Chantry shook his head. “T’he trouble with that is nobody here has any big money. Nobody-was He stopped, then sat up slowly. “Yeah,” he muttered, “maybe. Just maybe. his Chantry looked up at Sackett, at the table. “You heard about that deal?” “Heard about it?
Everybody has been talking about it. Old man Merlin bought cows from ever’body around and paid them in scrip. Merlin had several gunmen riding with him, and nobody dared argue the point, so he drove off half the cattle in the county.
“About a year ago, I think it was, young Johnny Merlin told everybody he was coming back to redeem that scrip, a hundred thousand dollars worth, and he’d pay off in gold. His old man may have been a highbinder, but young Johnny was going to do the right thing.
“Next month Johnny will be in town, and he’ll have a hundred thousand in gold here to pay off:” “Bait for a trap,” Chantry said. He glanced up. “Seven thousand dollars of that is coming to me,” he said. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it.” “All right,” Tyrel said quietly, “it’s you and me, then. That outfit seems to have good information, so don’t tell anybody who might repeat it. Just you and me. You’ve a good deputy, but don’t tell him until the day. I’ll bring a man along, too, and we’ll be waiting.” “I hope they try it,” Chantry said grimly.
“They will, Bord. I’m bettin on it. You still got some o’ their horses in that pasture?” “I have.” “They’ll come, Bord. This time they will get a surprise.” In the massive stone house at the head of Toadstool Canyon, Ben Curry leaned his great weight back in his chair and stared broodingly at the valley below. The door stood open, and the day was a pleasant one, yet Ben Curry was not feeling pleasant.
His big face was as blunt and unlined as the rock from which the house was built, but the shock of hair above that leonine face had turned gray. No nonsense about it, he was growing old. Even such a spring as this did not bring the old fire to his veins again, and it had been long since he had himself ridden on one of the jobs he planned so shrewdly. It was time to quit.
Yet, for a man who all his life had made quick and correct decisions, he was uncertain now. For six years he had ruled supreme in this corner of the mountains and desert. For twenty years he had been an outlaw, and for fifteen of those twenty years he had commanded a bunch of outlaws that had grown until it was almost an empire in itself.
Six years ago he had moved to this remote country and created the stronghold from which he operated.
Across the southern limit was the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, barring all approach from that direction. To the east, north, and west was wilderness, much of it virtually impassable unless one knew the trails.
Only at Lee’s Ferry was there a known crossing, but further along was the little-known Crossing of the Fathers. Both places were watched, day and night.
There was one other crossing, of an entirely different sort, that one known only to Ben himself. It was his ace in the hole. One law of the gang was never transgressed. There was to be no lawless activity in the Mormon country to the north. Mormons and Indians were left strictly alone and were, if not friends, at least not enemies. Both groups kept what they knew to themselves, as well as what they suspected. A few ranchers lived on the fringes, and they traded at stores run by the outlaws. They could buy supplies there closer to home and at cheaper prices than elsewhere. The trading posts were listening posts as well. Strangers in the area were immediately noticed-usually they stopped by the stores, and their presence was reported to Ben Curry.