“You
lynched the wrong man, Huck!” Stenson stood behind his desk, rigidly straight
and eyes glaring. He was a sandy-haired man, with squinting blue eyes. There
was something of the soldier about his bearing. He wore his suit like a
uniform, a means to identify his status in regards to any he might have to deal
with.
“Quit
your bellyaching, Stenson,” Huck growled. He was a leathery man, dressed in the
garb of a cowhand. A badge pinned to his jacket indicated his position as a
deputy sheriff in Tonto County, Arizona Territory. “If you didn’t have the grit
to see the business through, you hadn’t oughta got into it.” Placidly, Huck cut
himself a chaw of tobacco and wedged it in his mouth. “I took my posse to the
dude’s cabin, found him with those rustler friends of his from the CU ranch,
and strung ‘em all up. That’s four men off the Stock Association’s list.”
“For
God’s sake, Huck! It’s one thing to lynch some rustling cowboys, but that dude
you strung up has people back east who are going to want answers. That
cock-and-bull story of yours about how you just wanted to talk to the man and
then three dozen masked riders overpowered your posse and lynched the men has
to be one of the stupidest fictions outside of a damn Ned Buntline dime novel!”
Stenson pounded on his desk. A paper bearing the CU ranch’s brand fell to the
floor.
Huck
shrugged “So what. The Stock Association owns the law in this territory. And
don’t lecture me about rustling. If every rustler in the territory dropped
dead, wouldn’t be a stockman alive in Tonto County. That includes you, Stenson.
You registered the Teacup brand a month after the CU moved in.” Huck scooped
the paper from the floor. With a few strokes of a pen he transformed the CU
into a teacup.
“That
ain’t the same!” Stenson bristled. “Those CU bastards meant to loot me off the
range. I had to steal just to get my own back. I am talking about unprovoked
rustling!” Stenson ran his fingers through his hair. “I wrote a letter to the
dude’s father, George Endicott Senior. He’s some investor back east. Has
investments in mining. I tried to hint that George Junior had it coming, in a
polite and sorrowful way.
“Anyway,
the father hasn’t replied, but I got a telegram from the dude’s brother, John
Endicott. He’s coming in on the noon stage from Phoenix. He’ll be here to
collect the dude’s things. I need to convince him not to make a fuss about his
brother getting lynched. You just sit there and don’t say a thing until I tell
you to. The story is George Endicott Junior was a cow thief and friend of cow
thieves, it’s sad to relate but too late to do anything about it. Then it’s a
manly shoulder for brother John to cry on and then he can pull freight for
wherever.”
Stenson
and Huck had only a brief wait before John Endicott arrived, travelling grip in
hand. Endicott was a sturdily built man, with dark, curly hair, and a broad
face where cold, gray eyes peered over a thick mustache. After greetings and
expressions of sorrow, Endicott explained his errand. “I came as soon as I
could. I’m an engineer in one of the mines my father has a part ownership in,
and rather than subject my father to the rigors of cross-country travel, I came
down from the mining country in Montana.” He spoke with a marked Yankee accent.
“I
understand,” Stenson said. “Perhaps it were better for you to hear this than
your father.” Stenson began pulling out bills of sale, brand registries, and
livestock reports relating to George Endicott Jr.’s ranch. With artful
exaggeration, deliberate misrepresentation, and considerable suppression of
truth, Stenson began to impeach Endicott as a willing buyer of stolen cattle
and an ally of range bandits. John Endicott sat silent through it all, saying
nothing until Stenson finished
“I
see,” he said at last. “What of the cattle bearing his brand?”
Stenson
only shrugged. “They are scattered. You could hire no honest man to round up
stock with such a dubious title.”
John
Endicott nodded. “And my brother’s land?”
Stenson
winced. “He didn’t actually own it. He had filed a claim, which has lapsed with
his death. As it happens… I mean…”
“I
filed on it,” Huck said, his voice unnaturally loud. “I own the adjoining
claim. Your brother’s land is mine now.” Huck’s eyes bored into Endicott, cold
as a rattlesnake’s. “I must say you don’t favor your brother George much in
looks. You had best differ from him in
this too. I
reckon you need better sense than he did.” Huck shifted in his seat, exposing the
revolver at his hip.
Endicott
sighed deeply. “Of course. There is no more to be said. I have made
arrangements for George’s body to be shipped east.” He reached for his grip and
paused, eyes on Huck. Gingerly, Endicott opened his grip and produced a wooden
case. “I suspected much about my brother’s dealings. He was indiscreet and
unwilling to listen to advice.” Very gently he set the case on Stenson’s desk.
“This case contains a sum of money to distribute to the victims of my brother’s
avarice. It is perhaps inadequate, but the best I can do to repay those he
stole from.”
Stenson
reached for a tablet with receipts, but Endicott waved his hand. “No, that is
unnecessary. You are a respected stockman, Mr. Stenson, and you are an officer
of the law, Deputy Huck. I will leave the key with you and you can count the
money and make appropriate arrangements.” Endicott rose to leave.
“I’ll
see you at the stage tomorrow,” Stenson said. “Again please accept my deepest
sympathy at your dreadful loss.”
“Actually
I’m leaving tonight,” Endicott replied. “I’ve hired a horse. I’d like to survey
the ground. Perhaps I’ll be back to stake a mining claim some day.” He placed a
key on the case.
“A
capital idea!” Stenson beamed. “Arizona means progress. A man like you is
welcome any time.”
Endicott
shook hands with Stenson and Huck and departed, grip in hand. “Come back any
time,” Huck said when Endicott was gone. “I’ll be happy to plant a slug in your
belly, you damn greenhorn.”
“Money,
eh?” Stenson said. “Don’t think you’re gonna take it all, Huck.”
“Damned
if I ain’t getting my share you ol’ cow-thief,” Huck replied. He looked down as
Stenson unlocked the case. Huck had just a moment to glimpse the contents of
the case. It was not money, but dynamite, packed tightly in sawdust and
two-penny nails. As the spring hit the blasting cap, Huck had a fleeting
thought that perhaps he had indeed lynched the wrong man. Then Huck and Stenson
were blown to atoms.
Despite
a diligent search, John Endicott was not located, though a man answering his
description was seen boarding a train in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Even stranger to
report, it came to light that George Endicott Jr. had no brother John, nor any
other brother. George Endicott Sr. had but one son, he who bore his name and
came to a sorry end on a cottonwood limb. George Endicott Sr. vehemently denied
any connection to the imposter, and further inquiries proved fruitless.
However,
a certain foreman at a mine in Montana whose work principally consisted of
blasting rock with dynamite, a man with dark curly hair, a thick mustache, and
a broad face, retired suddenly and moved back home to Vermont. He had won the
lottery, he said. He was seen no more in the mining country, nor ever again in
Arizona.
(I think Dave Hardy is one of the best young writers in the business. If you enjoyed this story of his, check out more of his work below.)