“Try to settle him down, will you Mose?” Gib Randall said, panic rising in his voice. He was in front of the livery trying to gain control of The Whispering Bandit’s big black stallion. Two deputies stood back away from him on either side.
The big black stallion had reared on his hind legs pulling at the reins in the sheriff’s hands. Randall leaned back and ducked his head down and away from the fighting animal’s forelegs that pawed and flashed at empty air above the lawman’s head. Gib jumped back and the reins slid from his hands, just as Mose Brillick stepped in and grabbed them.
The big horse almost pulled the old hostler off his feet as Mose yanked hard on the reins and yelled “Whoa!! Steady big boy!” Randall scooted out of the way.
“Pablo!” Mose called, while still pulling hard to settle the black. The horse was obviously tiring some, but Mose knew he couldn’t contain him.
The boy came running out of the barn and Mose handed him the reins. “You settle him, boy. You got the way.”
The boy stepped in carefully and quietly, coaxing the black with a soft soothing voice. Within a minute, the boy had worked his magic and the big stallion settled. The boy sidled up to him and stroked him gently. The horse neighed softly and nuzzled the boy’s hand for the cube of sugar Pablo offered.
Caleb Gant stood on the board sidewalk in front of the Castle Hotel watching the scene play out in from of Mose Brillick’s Livery. He wondered what the local sheriff had in mind, concerning the black horse, though he had a pretty good idea.
The morning sun had just risen over the eastern horizon. The sky was turning from pale blue to clear blue without any trace of encroaching clouds. Early chill was almost a memory now, with the hint of another scorching hot day
Caleb had been up early and eaten a hearty breakfast at the hotel. Just in case his day turned out like yesterday’s when he had gone most of the day without food. He had surprised himself this morning that he was still hungry after the sumptuous meal he had enjoyed at The Chessman the night before at Michael Avery’s hospitality. The evening had been spent enjoyably. Avery was the perfect host and Callie Parker was charming throughout.
When Caleb asked about Pete Stover’s absence, the answer was as one of Caleb’s guesses; that business on Sunday night did not warrant his presence. Caleb indicated that he had decided to stay in Gila Bend for a while. That way he could renew acquaintance with Dave Bishop when he returned to town. He mentioned that he was in the market for a job. He indicated, he would be interested in Stover’s job, if it ever became vacant. It was a fishing expedition to see Avery’s reaction. If Stover had been one of his attackers and had in fact, been wounded. He wondered if Avery knew about it or had any involvement. If he did, just how did that all fit in?
He got no reaction from Avery. At least he couldn’t tell. Avery didn’t seem concerned that Gant was staying around and he assured Caleb that he would keep him in mind, if the need ever arose, which he was certain wouldn’t happen. He even reminded Caleb about Bart Allen’s offer for a job at his ranch.
He had thanked Avery and said he just might ride out to the Ladder A and talk it over with the big rancher. He left the Chessman and led his horse off to the livery to bed down for the night. He was surprised to find that The Whispering Bandit’s big black stallion was still there. That meant that the bandit had had a different black horse that afternoon. Well, there were lots of black horses around, Caleb mused. One could have been gotten almost anywhere. Caleb decided he would keep this knowledge to himself. He then, had retired to the hotel and gotten a good bath followed by a good long sleep
Now as he watched the action at the livery, Caleb smiled to himself and decided to cut himself in on the sheriff’s plan which he suspected. He remembered Randall, yesterday, requesting Mose Brillick to feed the big stallion sparingly.
Today Caleb was prepared for almost anything. Once again he was wearing trail clothes and his Stetson hat, that he had missed the prior day. His gun belt was securely buckled around his lithe waist and he held his rifle, barrel pointing downward toward the ground, in his left hand. He stepped off the boardwalk and strode into the livery stable front yard.
The black was somewhat settled now. Pablo, the young Mexican boy certainly had a way with horses.
“What’s up with the bandit’s horse, Sheriff?” Caleb said has he stepped past the two deputies. He hardly looked at them, but he knew they had been with the posse, the other day.
“I thought you’d’ve been gone by now,” Randall said turning to face Caleb. His face was grim and his tone held more than irritation and his statement was more of a recrimination than idle observation.
“Figured, I might stay around awhile.” Caleb smiled.
“You sure that’s wise Mister Gant.” he emphasized the ‘mister’. It wasn’t complimentary. “You could get pulled in for vagrancy, you know. No visible means of support.”
“Oh, I think I have enough in my poke to provide for myself for a while. Might even get a job.” He looked over at the black stallion and gave him a sweeping once over with his eyes. “Might even take a run at collecting the bounty on your Whispering Bandit.” Without waiting for a response, he added. “Looks like the bandit’s horse is feeling a mite better.” There was a mocking twinkle in his eye.
Randall got the insinuation. He knew full well that Gant suspected his plan. “Well then maybe you ought to go out on his trail instead of hanging around here sticking your nose into my business.”
“I just thought,” Caleb said wryly. “That I might trail along with you and your deputies. You are setting that horse free in hopes of him heading for his home, aren’t you?”
“If you must know. Yes. But it’ll do you no good to trail along with us. If we catch up with the bandit, it’s our grab. There’ll be no reward for you, even if you assist”
“That’s all right,” Caleb grinned. It’s a nice morning for a ride.”
The black stallion felt his freedom; tossing his dark head high; mane flying in the breeze as he galloped across the open rolling plains.
The sheriff and his deputies, along with Caleb Gant had led the horse out to where The Whispering Bandit had met up with Gant two days before and swapped horses.
It was important to deprive the big stallion of food and drink as much as possible, so they were careful not to let the big horse get near the creek where Caleb had stopped for water on Saturday. They turned the stallion loose, giving him a swift swat on the rump with a coiled lariat.
The black neighed shrilly, tossed his mane, turned and galloped off up the trail toward the switchback.
They let him run, giving him his head and letting him get distance ahead. He was just turning to the left where the switchback twisted and rose above the lower ground, when the riders took off after him. They pushed their mounts up the incline swiftly but refrained from moving too quickly or making too much noise. At the same time, they couldn’t let the big horse get too far ahead or out of sight for too long either.
As the trail spilled out into a flat stretch on the ridge above, the trailers pushed their mounts up the rest of the incline; shod hoofs digging into dry hard soil and kicking up tufts of scrub grass and dust. The horses gained their footing and balance as the four men brought them to a halt on the level plane of the ridge.
The black stallion was already half way down the slope, leading to the valley below. It spread out; green with gramma grass, wide and flat , rolling on into the boundless distance with the tips of the Mogollons just faded shadows far off beyond the horizon. The ever increasing hot sun of mid-morning glinted off the magnificent black’s lather beaded coat.
He kicked up his heels as he gained the bottom of the incline and slid out into the plain below. The dissipating morning dew was still slick on the foliage and glinted with sunlight.
He swung his big dark head aside and saw his trailers starting down the slope behind him. He once again tossed his head haughtily, dug in his hind hoofs and pushed himself off into a gallop; heading northeast
ward.
Randall, Gant, and the deputies hastened their mounts a little faster down the incline; careful to keep the horses from slipping on the wet grass. They gained the foot of the slope and sent their mounts into a faster pace. The big black was already far away, becoming just a smaller splotch of black in the distance.
They rode for about a half hour behind the travelling horse, keeping him barely in sight most of the time and occasionally losing sight for a few minutes, but they managed to keep on the trail. The sun was rising higher in the clear sky. Sweat was dripping down the necks and backs of the riders now. Their horses were hot and tired. Their flanks were beginning to fleck with foam.
The black knew they were back there and took no time to stop and graze. He ran on effortlessly, compared to the mounts of his followers This was exactly what Gib Randall had wanted, except he wished his own horses had as much stamina as the black. It was important that the bandit’s horse got home for feed. If he were to satisfy himself along the way, he might not continue on to where home was. And where home was, hopefully The Whispering Bandit would be there too.
After a while, the black began to veer off somewhat further east. The landscape began to turn rougher and hillier with large boulders strewn about in a sporadic, haphazard pattern. Trees here and there began to dot the countryside and occasional stands of brush and undergrowth appeared. But, for the most part the landscape still remained green with foot high grass that moved slightly in the hot near noon breeze.. Occasionally the black would disappear from sight as he ducked over a hillock, only to reappear as the land rose upward.
Time and time again, the posse mounted a rise or ridge and kept the black horse in sight. They had lost him a for a few minutes as he crested a high ridge and disappeared over the edge. The riders urged their mounts upward as fast as they could, but the animals were losing stamina and the climb was a bit challenging for them.
As Gil Randall and the other made it to the top of the ridge, they could see the black stallion entering into a draw that stretched out for perhaps a hundred yards, more like a pass than a draw. It was lined on both sides by high rock walls that jutted toward the sky like a man-made fortress. Once again the black was lost from view.
The riders held their mounts steady on the top of the ridge, letting the animals blow a bit and recoup some of their strength, as they watched and waited for the black to emerge from the draw.
At first, it seemed as if the black was never going to come out of the draw. The riders looked from one another anxiously, as if wondering if they were losing their quarry here.
Then with unspoken sighs, the riders felt the rush of relief as the black stallion emerged from behind the rock walls. The animal was kicking up his heels as he once again came into view, as if feeling freedom for the first time.
He spun on his shod hoofs and turned sharply right running with seeming renewed speed and purpose as he headed due north.
Caleb noted something about the black. He grinned wryly. This was something else he would keep to himself.
The posse gigged their mounts forward along the top of the ridge and circling around the rock encased draw and keeping the black in sight from high ground until the land fell away to lower ground. The countryside once again spread out, lush with grass that carpeted wide open range. Occasionally, beef cattle could be seen here and there, and as the posse progressed, they were seeing more and more beef along the way.
The black stayed far ahead, but didn’t seem to travel quite as fast. Occasionally, he would stop to crop grass and his pace became more of a trot or an idle walk and the posse found it easier to keep the animal in sight across the flatness of the open range.
“This is Ladder A land we’re on now,” Gib Randall said to Caleb Gant. Gant was riding close to him on the left. The other two deputies were trailing behind, comfortable with their own company and not wanting to engage with the interloper.
“You think we’re going to find this Whispering Bandit at Bart Allen’s place?” Caleb asked casually as if discounting any involvement on the part of the big rancher.
“I don’t know,” Gib said. “I don’t think Allen would be part of it. After all, he’s been the biggest loser to the bandit. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have a traitor in his midst, though. He hires a lot of cowhands. He couldn’t possibly know them all.”
They rode on following the black. More and more cattle could be seen in larger bunches. Cowhands were busy cutting out strays and lone doagies. Here and there were camp fires and cowhands gathered around branding the foundlings. Occasionally a cow hand would look up and see the approaching posse, but for the most part they ignored them and continued their work.
Eventually, the big black up ahead forked away and onto a well -traveled trail that wound and twisted for a half mile or so, before the sight of the Ladder A ranch house and outbuildings came into view.
The house itself was a rambling one story building of adobe, reminiscent of Spanish influence from the old days. It was well kept up with shrubs and flowers abounding. There was a yard of green grass and across the way was a large barn and attached corral surrounded by a large barnyard. A mowing machine and a hay rake were parked next to a smaller building that was obviously used as a tack, a granary and forge for shoeing horses. Further away was a one-story clapboard building that was probably the bunkhouse and cook’s quarters.
The black stallion tossed his head haughtily, neighing with delight and kicking up dust around his hocks as he pranced across the barnyard, toward the corral.
The posse came storming in behind him. The clatter of horses’ hooves drew attention and cowhands appeared from here and there. The front door of the hacienda opened and Bart Allen came hurrying outside. His shirt tail hung out over his jeans and his sleeves were partially rolled up. His eyes were dark and he stared at the incoming riders with wonder and annoyance.
A thin, wizened, old Mexican man wearing a peasant’s sombrero, worn jacket and leggings came running out of the forge after the loose black. He quickly, settled the horse down, opened the corral gate and ushered him inside. The black went directly to the grain bins along one side of the corral and began to eat eagerly.
“What’s going on, Sheriff?” Bart Allen asked, raising his voice to almost a shout as the riders slid their mounts to a halt in front of him; the cloud of dust beginning to settle.
“That your horse?” Randall asked bluntly, pointing toward the corral. The Mexican was just closing the gate now.
“Yes, That’s my horse,” Allen said gruffly stepping down off the porch to stand in front of the riders. He glanced warily over the deputies and his gaze settled on Caleb Gant. “What’s this all about?”
Behind him, Hall Beecham and Muley Jones came out of the front door. Beecham took a steady stance; hands hooked in his gun belt near his guns. His eyes were cold and menacing. They settled on Caleb.
“That’s the horse, The Whispering Bandit has been riding,” Randall said. “We followed him here. Any of your men been riding him?”
“You think one of my men is the bandit?”
“I didn’t say that, but you can see for yourself. That’s your horse that just came in.”
Allen scoffed and absently kicked a tuft of dirt aside with the toe of his boot. “Can’t believe one of my crew is the bandit. They all know if I catch them disloyal to me, it’ll be their hide. Besides that big black has been right here all the time. I haven’t missed him none.”
“You should have missed him the last three days. We’ve had him at Mose Brillick’s, nursing a bruised leg, that long.”
“You’re crazy. That horse was here just yesterday morning. I saw him myself, just before we left for church.”
Caleb’s eyes lifted and he gazed over Allen’s broad shoulder and saw Virginia Allen step outside next to Beecham. She whispered something to him and when she glanced briefly Caleb’s way, she caught him looking at her. She quickly turned away, putting her back to him. She whispered something more to t
he hired gunmen. They glanced up toward Caleb and then lowering his head to Virginia, Beecham nodded and said something. She whirled and hurried back inside the hacienda. Beecham glanced at Muley and hiked his gunbelt.
“Juan!” Bart Allen called, half turning away from his company.
The old Mexican, on his way back to the tack and forge, stopped, turned and looked back at his boss. “Come here!” Allen demanded. The old man shuffled forward.
“Si, Senor Allen,” he said meekly as he came near.
“Juan, has that black been missing for three days?”
“I have not noticed, Senor. I don’t think so. But I am not here all the time, you know.”
The big rancher thought about it for a minute. “You sure that’s the same horse?” He asked of Randall.
“Yes, we followed him out here from town.”
“You said he’d been hurt?”
“That’s right. We waited for him to heal up.”
“Three days? He healed up that fast?”
“Not completely, but enough to let him go on his own.”
Allen thought about it some more. “Juan,” he said. “Go check the black out. See how badly he was hurt.”
The old man shuffled away as quickly as his spindly old legs could carry him. A few minutes later, he returned.
“The caballo is fine, Senor Allen. I see no bruises or scrapes.”
Allen turned sternly to Randall. “See, Sheriff,” he said with annoyance and a hint of anger. “You got the wrong horse.”
“Impossible!” Randall oathed. “We followed him out here. We had him in sight all the time.”
Caleb had a glint of amusement in his eye. He had noticed that when the black was out of sight back in the draw, he had emerged without any lather flecks on his coat. It had been dry, clean and shiny in the sunlight. The horses had been switched there. The Whispering Bandit must have known about Randall’s plan of following the black and knowing that the horse would pass by there on its way home, he must have waited and made the switch then. Caleb had had his reasons for not letting on to Randall and his deputies what his suspicions had been.
“Well, if you had the bandit’s horse, it must have been switched someplace.”
Randall looked quizzically at Caleb. Anger was building up in his eyes. Caleb shrugged his shoulders. “Beats me how it could have been done.”
“I guess I’ve been duped,” Randall said, turning back to Bart Allen. “Sorry to have bothered you.” He heaved a deep defeated sigh.
“Instead of riding around the countryside foolishly,” Allen said with annoyance. “You should be out making sure this afternoon stage gets here safely. There’s money being shipped into the bank from Alamogordo. I still need cash to meet my payroll, you know. In case you’ve forgotten, The Whispering Bandit cleaned the bank out the other day. If I was you, I’d get out there and see that this shipment gets through.” Allen’s comments were bordering on anger.
“You’re right, Mister Allen,” Gib answered sheepishly.
“Guess we ought to be getting back to town, then,” he said lifting his reins and starting to turn his mount. “Don’t want to take a chance on The Whispering Bandit getting to it again.”
Caleb sidled his horse aside making room for the lawman to turn. The dun stamped uneasy.
“I’ll stay here awhile,” Caleb said. “I want to talk to Mister Allen about a job.”
“I thought you wanted to be in on the capture of The Whispering Bandit.”
“Like you said,” Caleb grinned wryly. “There’s no reward for me if I’m with you. If you muck it up, I’ll get my chance later.”
“Muck it up? You..you…” Anger and exasperation. He set his jaw. “Suit yourself,” the sheriff growled and urged his horse away. His two deputies followed close behind him.
“Mister Allen,” Caleb said, bringing his horse back broadside. “You said something about a job, the other night.”
“That’s right, I did. I didn’t think you were interested.”
Caleb glanced over the big man’s shoulder. Hal Beecham still had that dangerous look on his face. Muley Jones looked perturbed.
“I’m thinking on it,” he said flatly, eyeing Beecham and Jones back. “Just wanted you to know that.” He raised his hand in a goodbye wave, twisted the dun around and rode out of the ranch yard.
Up ahead he could see the retreating dust cloud left by the posse. They were far enough away now. He urged his horse into a gallop. He had not wanted to ride back to town with the posse. Time was wasting and the day was growing short.
****
Chapter Eleven