The Whispering Bandit, Page 3

Water squished inside his boots with every step he took along the trail. Even though he had been on the trail for over a half an hour and the sun was streaming hotter as it neared the apex of its noonday position, his trousers were still dark with wetness halfway to his knees from trudging through the stream’s waters looking for his weapons. The water had been crystal clear so it wasn’t hard to spot them lying on the pebbled bottom of the creek, but he did have to wade around a bit, for the two items had landed somewhat farther away from each other.

  The strange, hip hopping three-legged gait of the black stallion behind him rattled the small stones in the gravel bed of the trail. The animal held its right foreleg off the ground; its hoof hanging limp. Occasionally, he would let it down momentarily, only to quickly lift it back up as pain shot through his wound and the bruised pad at the inside center of his hoof.

  It had been fairly slow going as Caleb held the reins and led the injured animal behind him. Since the horse was no good to him, he could have just left him behind, but that was not Caleb Gant’s way.

  As he rounded a bend in the trail, Caleb halted as he saw the approaching riders. There must have been at least a half dozen riders for the dust cloud billowing about them and drifting behind in their wake almost engulfed them in invisibility They were coming fast.

  Caleb waited, standing stock still, readying himself for trouble. He loosened the holster strap that had been slipped over the hammer of his pistol, holding it in place. He slid the weapon half out and let it drop back into the leather, making sure that it would slide out easily. He did wonder, however, just how functional the shooter would be. He wasn’t sure just how much his weapons had dried out after being in the water and he had not taken time to clean or oil them. He kept his right hand poised just above the pistol handle anyway, as he awaited the approaching riders.

  They didn’t seem to be slowing down as they came nearer and Caleb braced himself to stand his ground if their intent was to run him down.

  The riders were almost on top of him when they drew rein, bringing their mounts up sharply and sliding to a halt; loose gravel and stone kicking up around the horses’ hooves as they swung wide and fanned out, surrounding Gant in a semicircle.

  Gant’s fingers curled around his gun butt, momentarily, but thought better of it and let it go as he spotted the tin star on the vest of the man in the center of the group, who appeared to be in charge. There were eight men altogether and they all had guns out and aimed at him. There were only two others wearing deputy badges and the rest didn’t appear to be gunmen, at all. Most were dressed like townsmen and business men. The others wore range clothing. Obviously these men were just volunteer members of the posse.

  Still holding the black’s reins, Caleb slowly raised his arms, shoulder level; hands empty and reaching skyward. “Guess I should just walk around like this all the time,” Caleb quipped, but it had no effect on the men around him.

  “That’s him, Gib,” A young man in range clothing from the back of the posse said as he guided his horse forward to halt just to the left of the sheriff. “I’d recognize that black anywhere.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the other posse men.

  The sheriff was a fit man in his early thirties; clean shaven except for the red sideburns that matched his dark red hair, beneath his fairly new gray Stetson. He looked Caleb over closely, taking his stock.

  “I dunno, Dirk,” the sheriff mused. “Looks a little too tall.”

  “It’s gotta be him,” the young man protested. He appeared to be in his early twenties and had an air of insolence about him. “Can’t always tell someone’s height in the saddle.”

  “When you two are through talking about me, mind telling me what this is all about?” Caleb said calmly, hiding a hint of annoyance.

  “Who are you, Mister?” The sheriff demanded. He flourished his pistol a bit for emphasis.

  “Name’s Gant and this is the second time this morning that I’ve had guns poked in my face and I’m getting just a little bit ticked off. Now if you’ll just tell me what this is all about. And I’d appreciate it, if you’d turn those guns away.”

  “You’re right, Dirk,” the sheriff said, ignoring Caleb’s complaints “That’s the horse, all right.”

  “It’s not mine,” Caleb retorted.

  “Where’d you steal it?” The kid goaded.

  “Didn’t steal it, sonny,” Gant answered. “Some crazy galoot in a black outfit held me up and swapped horses with me. Left me stuck with this useless nag.”

  “Says you,” Dirk scoffed.

  The sheriff eyed the lame horse. He thought about it for a moment. “Maybe we ought to listen to the man, Dirk.”

  “Don’t you think we should get his gun?” Dirk whined.

  “You’re right. Get it.”

  Dirk jumped down from the saddle, hurried to Gant’s side and plucked the pistol from his holster and stepped away.

  “Probably doesn’t work anyhow, “Gant said. “That character in the crazy black costume threw both my pistol and rifle into the creek back a ways.”

  “It is a bit waterlogged,” Dirk admitted, examining the pistol. The hammer mechanism seemed a bit stiff and the cartridge cylinder didn’t spin freely.

  “Alright, mister,” the sheriff said. “What’s your story?”

  “Like I told you. I stopped for water at the stream back a ways and this jasper jumped me and took my horse.”

  “And this person was all dressed in black?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You didn’t recognize him?”

  “No. The face was covered with a black hood, fitted like a mask”

  “What about the voice?”

  “Hard to tell. It was just a whisper.”

  The sheriff nodded and said to Dirk, “Give the man back his gun.”

  “But Gib, how do we know this man isn’t in with The Whispering Bandit?”

  “Whispering Bandit?” Caleb chuckled. “That’s what you’re calling this guy? Sounds kind of dramatic doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe so, but that’s all we got to go on,” the sheriff said. He put his pistol away in its holster as soon as Caleb’s was back in its pouch.

  Then to his men, he said, “Alright men, stand down, but stay alert.”

  To Caleb he said, “I’m Gib Randall. I’m the sheriff out of Gila Bend. This bandit we call “Whispering” has held up the stage twice in the last month and robbed the express office in Gila Bend last night. We’ve been trailing him. Headed this way by all signs.”

  “Last I saw of him,” Caleb said. “He was heading back along the trail toward the switchback with my horse.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Like I said, all in black……”

  “No. No, No,” Randall interrupted. “I mean your horse.”

  “Oh. yeah. He’s a right fine horse, alright. Copper dun. Dark mane and tail. Blazed face, Three white stocking legs. Right foreleg excepted. Carries a slash K brand from a Montana outfit.”

  “That where you stole it?” Dirk said mockingly.

  ‘How about I give you a road map, sonny. Maybe you can steal one too,” Caleb said acidly.

  “Dirk!” Randall ordered. “Get back on your horse!”

  Dirk shrugged and climbed back aboard his horse.

  “You all heard what the stranger said?” Randall half turned in his saddle and addressed his companions. There was a murmur of acquiescence among them.

  Turning back to Caleb, Randall said, “The trail behind us leads to Gila Bend about six miles back. When you get there put the black up at Mose Brillick’s livery. If we haven’t caught up with the bandit before we get back, I’ll want to keep an eye on this horse. Maybe the bandit might want to come back for him or maybe we can use him to lead us to his owner. I’ll check in with you when we get back.”

  “I wasn’t planning on staying long in Gila Bend,” Caleb protested. “I’m just passing through.”

  “You’ll be there wh
en I get back,” Randall said flatly.

  Caleb pursed his lips in displeasure, then said, “You said it’s six miles to Gila Bend.” He glanced over the band of riders in the posse. “You gonna spare one of your men to give me a lift into town?”

  “No can do,” Randall said. “I may need every man I got.”

  Caleb glanced at the hot sun above and then back to the sheriff. “All heart,” he mused.

  Randall ignored the comment. “All right men,” he ordered. “Let’s get going!”

  “Just a minute, sheriff,” Caleb held up a palm. “You might want to know. My horse is carrying a chipped right rear shoe on the outside edge of the arc. Might make the trail easier to follow.”

  “Thanks,” Randall answered. He lifted the reins and rode around Gant. The others peeled off and followed after, leaving Caleb standing there alone in a cloud of receding dust. He raised his voice and shouted after the leaving posse. “Bring my horse back!”

  Church bells were pealing as Caleb Gant walked into the main street of Gila Bend. At first, the sound was barely audible and was drifting in from a distance, but as Caleb progressed down the street, the bell sounded more clearly.

  Gila Bend was a growing community and several more streets had been added since Caleb passed through here many years ago. New buildings had sprung up and the town appeared to be prosperous. But, there were few people on the street. It was almost empty and most of the businesses seemed to be closed for the day. Strange for a Saturday when business was usually brisk.

  He noticed, however, that the blacksmith shop was still open. Hammer pounding on steel, rang out it a steady beat as the burly, black bearded man forging a fire continued applying his craft on an anvil.

  A little farther on down the street was the livery. A sign on the board wall next to the front double doors, that now stood wide open, proclaimed, “Livery Stable, Moses Brillick, proprietor.”

  The livery was a large two story building with an attached corral that extended across most of the distance to the blacksmith shop and ran toward the rear of both buildings. There were several horses milling about behind the rails.

  “Anybody here!” Caleb called out as he entered the barn, leading the injured horse through the open doors. He waited for an answer.

  The smell of straw and hay was heavy in the air, mixed with the smell of horses. There was a coolness inside and the bright light of the sun outside was hidden in shadow.

  He had just decided the place was also closed when a voice croaked from the back of the building. “Be right there.”

  A moment later a thin, wizened, old man appeared from out of the shadow. He was slight in stature with narrow sloping shoulders. His battered and raggedy slouch hat was pushed back on his balding head. His thin face was wrinkled and loose. A scraggly beard of gray stubble fell across a pointy chin covered with an unkempt goatee of sorts. His dirty gray shirt hung out of the front of his trousers over his almost nonexistent belly. Suspenders hung loose attached to baggy wool pants that drooped over worn high top boots.

  “What can I do for you, mister?” He asked as he approached, eyeing the black horse. He came to a sudden halt with a surprised expression on his face.

  “That’s not your horse!” A young voice sounded from behind the old man. “Where’d you get him?”

  A Mexican boy, somewhere between twelve and maybe fourteen ran to the black and patted his gleaming neck. Upon seeing the horse was injured, the boy stooped to examine the wound. He spoke quietly to the horse and he seemed to respond to the youngster.

  “How do know that, son?” Caleb asked, keeping his voice low and calm.

  The Mexican boy just glared at him; still squatting near the floor.

  “Don’t mind Pablo,” the old man said. “He knows his horses.”

  “His horse?”

  “Nah. I didn’t mean this was his horse. I just meant he knows horseflesh when he sees it. He’s seen this one before. Hell, I have too and most ever one around here has too. Belongs to that Whispering Bandit fella that’s been raising holy Caine around here for the past month.”

  “How do you know this isn’t my horse then? How do you know I’m not this so called Whispering gent?”

  “Hell, you’re too tall, for one thing,” the old man said. “For another, if you was the bandit, you wouldn’t just come waltzing in here like this where ever’ one would know who you were.”

  “Well for once,” Caleb chuckled, “I’m glad I am tall. Usually, I’m cursing it when I bang my head against door jambs and trying to fit inside a stagecoach.”

  “What’s it look like, boy?” The old man asked of Pablo, who was still examining the black’s leg.

  “Looks worse than it is, Senor Mose,” the boy said. “Some cleaning and liniment should fix him up if he stays off it for a while.”

  “I told you, the boy knows horses,” Old Mose said proudly. “As good a hand as any grown man.”

  “Boy,” Caleb said to the youngster. “Take a look at his hoof pad. It’s bruised.”

  “My name’s not ‘boy’. It’s Pablo”, his voice thick with disdain. He stood, took the black’s reins and led him toward the back of the livery.

  “Didn’t mean to offend him,” Caleb said.

  “Pay him no mind. Sometimes, the boy appears to have a chip on his shoulder. He’s had to grow up way too soon. Pay him no mind. He’s a good boy.”

  Then he added, “Where’d you say you got this horse?”

  Caleb noted that he only asked about the horse and not about himself. It was usually unadvisable to inquire about a man, unless the information was forthcoming.

  Caleb introduced himself first, knowing that was Mose Brillick’s first concern, and then continued to tell him about the events earlier in the day.

  “Sheriff Randall asked me to bring the horse to you and stick around until he got back. I’m hoping he brings my horse back.”

  “Just passin’ through?” Mose inquired as just small talk.

  “That’s right,” Caleb said. “Thought I’d look up someone while I was here, though. You might know of him. His name is Dave Bishop.”

  “Yeah, Yeah. Nice fella. Most ever one around here likes him. Big business man. Owns a lot of this town. You a friend of his?”

  “Rode with him once or twice in the old days. Can you tell me where to find him?”

  The old man smiled broadly. “Right now, I’d say he’s in the middle of gettin’ hisself hitched, down the street a ways.”

  The church bells. That’s why they were ringing today. “You mean he’s getting married?”

  “Yep. To Bart Allen’s daughter. Mighty big feather in Dave’s hat, marryin’ the daughter of the biggest man around here. Ladder A is the biggest spread around and there’s timber and mining operations in the north section. Bart Allen’s a wealthy man alright. He owns just about ever’ thing around here. What few things he don’t own, Dave Bishop does. Now they’re gonna be one big happy family. I understand Dave’ll be movin’ in out to the ranch. Guess he’ll be partners, now.”

  Caleb’s brow furrowed in thought and his eyes darkened. “Moving right up in the world,” he mused.

  Old Mose chuckled with a grin. “You got that right, mister.”

  ****

  Chapter Four