The Long Hitch Read online

  First Skyhorse Edition 2017 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency

  Copyright © 2011 by Michael Zimmer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Tom Lau

  Cover photo: iStock.com

  ISBN: 978-1-63220-725-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-769-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Betty Lou, who would have made a fine muleskinner in her own right.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  The dog looked half starved and possibly rabid as it padded around the outside corner of the deserted Central Pacific depot. Thinking at first that it was a wolf, Arlen Fleck slammed back into the shadowy alcove where he’d been nervously lurking for the last hour. The yelp came from Arlen, not the dog, but the dog jumped too, its lips peeling back in a snarl, hackles rising. Slipping a hand inside his green plaid jacket, Arlen wrapped his fingers around the grips of a rusty Manhattan revolver tucked into the waistband of his trousers. With his shoulders pressed solidly against the V-ed plank walls of the depot, he knew flight would be impossible if the dog decided to attack. His only recourse would be the revolver. He only wished that he’d taken time before the sun went down to check the caps on the Manhattan’s chambers. The gun was old, its nipples misshapen from wear and abuse, and its percussion caps had a tendency to fall off if they weren’t seated properly.

  “Nice dog,” Arlen mumbled. He figured Nick Kelso would have his scalp if he drew attention to himself by shooting a dog, but the husky mongrel scared him. Truth was, just about everything he was up to tonight was making his blood run cold, and he’d been ruing his involvement with the flint-eyed killer— Kelso—when the dog showed up.

  It hadn’t been more than a few hours ago that Arlen had drawn a sleeve across his sweaty brow and thought longingly of cold beers, shady parks, and going home. He had no stake in this affair save for the $50 Nick had promised him, and that was starting to seem like poor compensation for what was about to happen. A man was going to die tonight, and, in his own small way. Arlen was going to help kill him. That should’ve been worth a lot more than $50.

  If Arlen had been hot that afternoon, he was damned near freezing now. His nose was dripping steadily and his toes ached inside his cheap, thin-soled shoes. The icy wind that blew in off the vast Western desert was pungent with the odors of grease-wood and alkali, tinged with the briny scent of the Great Salt Lake, which lay to the south like a slumbering giant.

  It was that largeness, that empty desolation of land and water and sky that surrounded him, threatened to swallow him, that Arlen blamed for the sense of foreboding clung to him like a bad smell. He was a city boy at heart, more at home within the cobblestoned cañons of a thriving metropolis than he was out here. Fate had brought him West. Well, fate and a $100 bounty for his head that still circulated through the back alleys and gambling dens of the Eastern seaboard.

  Ironically his future wasn’t going to be any brighter out here if he failed to do his part tonight. One man was already going to die. He doubted if Kelso would have much compunction about killing another.

  And now, as if his life weren’t complicated enough, this yellow-fanged menace had stepped into his life. Arlen was afraid to pull his pistol for fear of setting off the tick-infested beast. Besides, if he did haul it out and it wasn’t capped, and the hulking creature did attack.…

  Arlen shivered, maybe from the chilling breeze, maybe not. With as much authority as he could muster, he ordered the dog: “Git!”

  A growl rumbled low in the canine’s chest; saliva hung in glistening threads from its exposed teeth. Arlen glanced across the street at the International Saloon, but the crowd of revelers that had swarmed its boardwalk earlier had gone inside at sundown. He was alone, save for the dog.

  “Damn’ cur,” Arlen muttered, returning his eyes to the unblinking stare of this newest nemesis. Nick’s instructions had been blunt but clear. Arlen was to wait here for a hard-headed wagon boss named Mason Campbell to tire of his carousing and head for home. When Campbell exited the International and started down the street toward the boarding house where he kept a room, Arlen was going to walk out into the open and, in the light of a quarter moon and whatever lamp shine drifted his way from the saloon, take off his hat and slap it hard against his leg, as if beating dust from the porkpie’s cheap felt.

  That was the signal Nick waited for. When he saw it, he would abandon his post in the second-story corner room of the Promontory Hotel and hurry down the back stairs to intercept Campbell on the boardwalk. After that, Arlen wanted no part of whatever happened. The trouble was, right now he wasn’t going anywhere. Not with this drooling monster standing in front of him.

  Arlen’s eyes suddenly widened. Across the street, Mason Campbell was standing on the boardwalk in front of the International, the batwing doors behind him swinging in ever decreasing arcs. Campbell glanced casually up and down the street, then turned in the direction of the boarding house. His stride was even, his carriage erect, and Arlen felt a moment’s admiration for the man’s ability to handle liquor. He’d been inside the International earlier and watched Campbell down three straight whiskeys in a row, before settling in on a poker game with a fourth drink in hand, an uncorked bottle at his elbow. That much booze would’ve put Arlen in a blind stagger.

  Arlen felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Keeping his eyes on the stiff-necked mongrel, he attempted a sideways escape that the dog’s lowering head brought to a sharp halt. Across the street, Campbell had already passed o
ut of the lamplight from the International’s big front windows. Arlen knew he had to do something quickly. The dog might bite. Nick Kelso surely would if Campbell escaped his ambush.

  Sliding his right foot forward a couple of tentative inches brought a deep, intimidating rumble from the dog’s chest. Arlen’s pulse loped madly, but his fear of Nick was proving to be greater than his fear of the dog, and he grimly edged forward another experimental step. Surprising him, the dog gave up an equal amount of the Central Pacific’s deck. Risking a third miniature stride, Arlen’s hopes began to rise. The dog backed off several paces, its head lowering more in a skulk than a threat. A sickly grin toyed with the muscles of Arlen’s cheeks, then quickly disappeared when he realized Campbell was no longer in sight. Panicking, Arlen whipped off his hat and swung it in the dog’s face. The brute snapped at the ratty porkpie but jumped back enough for Arlen to dodge past. He raced into the street, too desperate to consider the possibility of a rear attack.

  Skidding to a halt in the middle of the broad thoroughfare, Arlen heaved a loud sigh. Campbell had paused near the mouth of the alley beside the International. Arlen started to lift his hat to signal Nick, then stopped with his arm half raised when a tall, lean stranger emerged from the alley. Glancing at the hotel’s corner window, where he knew Nick was watching, Arlen contemplated his next move. Nick’s plan depended on timing, and with Campbell stopped, Arlen was afraid to send the gunman scurrying down the back stairs too soon. Yet lingering on the street too long only invited unwanted attention.

  Campbell had stiffened at the stranger’s approach, but now he seemed to relax. He reached inside a pocket, and a moment later a match flared in his cupped hands. The stranger leaned forward and the match ebbed down to almost nothing as the stranger drew on a stubby cigarette. Then both men straightened and Campbell tossed the spent match into the street. For a moment, Arlen wasn’t sure where the muffled report of a gunshot came from. Then Campbell stumbled backward, the front of his coat flaming yellow from a muzzle flash at close range. The stranger ducked into the alley as if he’d never existed even as Campbell crumbled to the ground.

  Arlen stood numbly in the middle of the street with his hat half raised until it occurred to him to get the hell out of there. Get away before someone came outside to investigate, or before the law showed up. Or worse, before Nick Kelso learned that his plan had been ruined by a stranger’s unexpected appearance and he started looking around for someone to blame.…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Corinne, Utah Territory

  1874

  Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. It didn’t seem like much. Buck McCready thought as he lifted his eyes from the cold, damp walls of the grave to stare across the alkali flats to the south. The sum of a man like Mason Campbell ought to have amounted to more than ashes and dust and a small granite marker, not yet ordered. More than six feet of poor soil waiting to be stomped down on top of a plain pine casket, too, although Buck knew Mase had never wanted anything more than what he had—his job, the respect of the men he worked with, a reputation few would ever equal. Mase would’ve been satisfied with the hastily arranged funeral, but Buck wasn’t.

  He was aware of the others watching him, waiting. The minister, a pudgy, dough-cheeked man dressed in black, stood at the head of the grave. He carried a leather-bound Bible clasped in both arms but had recited the service from memory, occasionally inserting little tidbits of information from Mase’s past that he must have culled from others, Mase never having been the kind to seek out the company of men of the cloth.

  To Buck, the minister’s words had seemed coldly insipid—an easy $5 in the pocket rather than any genuine concern for a man’s soul—although Buck knew that would have humored Mase, too. Far more comforting had been the presence of Dulce Kavanaugh, standing firmly at his side. The clean scent of her soap and the gentle touch of her hair, lifted on the gusting breeze, had been a needed reassurance to Buck that he still had a place in this world. That he still belonged.

  At Dulce’s other shoulder stood her father, who was also Buck’s employer, Jock Kavanaugh. Jock had been fidgeting quietly throughout the service, and Buck figured he was hurting badly. Jock’s hip had been crushed last fall when a wagon jack collapsed, pinning him between a heavy freight wagon and the wall of his repair shop. He could remain on his feet for only so long before the pain became unbearable.

  “Mister McCready,” the minister said quietly.

  “Buck.” Dulce gave his hand a squeeze.

  Reluctantly he pulled his gaze away from the distant horizon. Staring at the plain pine casket, he noticed for the first time the amber bead of sap that oozed like a single tear from the corner of a small knot in the coffin’s side. The minister was watching him expectantly. So were the fifty or so other men and women who had accompanied the funeral procession from Corinne to pay their final respects. Dulce slipped her fingers from his and Buck stooped to pick up a handful of dirt that he crumbled over the foot of the coffin, careful to avoid the neatly coiled bullwhip that lay centered on top of the flat lid. Then he walked swiftly away, only peripherally aware of Dulce hurrying to catch up.

  Away from the crowd, Buck unbuttoned his suit coat and loosened his tie. The air that had felt so smothering beside the grave seemed fresher here, easier to draw into his lungs. Stopping beside Jock’s polished black carriage, he reached for Dulce’s elbow to help her inside, but she pulled back with a puzzled expression, and, when Jock limped up, Buck lowered his hand.

  “Buck, I’d like for you to ride back to Corinne with Dulce and me,” Jock said quietly.

  “I’d like that, too,” Dulce quickly added.

  Buck hesitated. He’d intended to ride back with the crew in the company mud wagon, but supposed that was no longer an option. “Sure, if there’s room,” he said.

  “There’ll be room,” Jock replied brusquely. He glanced at the dispersing crowd, where a pair of middle-aged men in dark suits and black, narrow-brimmed Homburgs were trying to break away, and motioned for them to hurry.

  Buck eyed the two men as they made their graveside farewells. The shorter of the pair was Hank Miller, Jock’s yard master. Hank was in charge of the day-to-day operations that kept Kavanaugh Freight, known in the mountains as the Box K—its trademark being a bright green K butted up hard against a square of the same color—running efficiently.

  The second man, taller, slimmer, bespectacled, was Walt Jepson, the Box K’s chief accountant. Although their presence at Mase’s funeral wasn’t unexpected, Buck detected something more in their guarded expressions as they approached the carriage. A Box K caravan had been scheduled to pull out in two days for the gold fields of Montana. Mase was to be its captain, Buck its ramrod, and Jock would expect that train to leave on schedule, whether hell froze over or heaven burned.

  “Buck,” Dulce murmured, stretching her leg for the carriage’s iron step. He quickly took her arm and helped her in. Leaning close as she arranged her skirts around her ankles, she whispered: “You’ll still come to supper tonight, won’t you?”

  He delayed only briefly. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  Dulce smiled and touched his hand, then settled back against the gleaming leather upholstery.

  Arriving together, Hank and Walt shook Buck’s hand, Jepson adding: “I’m sure sorry, Buck. I know you and Mase were close.”

  “He was a good friend,” Buck acknowledged calmly, but he seethed inside at the inadequateness of his words. Yet how much could a man say? Could he remind Walt that Mase had risked his neck to rescue a frightened ten-year-old from the Sioux, then fed and clothed and taught that boy everything he knew, treated him like a son when he had no reason to, when it would have been easier to send him East to an orphanage? Was that the response he was supposed to give, without choking up or sounding like an idiot?

  “Buck.,” Jock said gently.

  He looked up, swallowing hard.

  “Ready?”

  “Sure,” Buck croaked., climbing in
after Hank and Walt and seating himself next to Dulce. Jock hauled himself into the driver’s seat and shook out the lines to his team of matching sorrels. Although Buck didn’t look back, he knew the boys would be watching., wondering what was going to happen next. No doubt a lot of townspeople were asking themselves the same question. With Mason Campbell dead, what would Buck McCready do now? He didn’t have much of an answer for them, but he did have a vow, made two nights before at the head of a littered alley beside the International Saloon.

  I’m going to find your killer, Mase. I’m going to find him and bring him to justice. Either that or bury the son-of-a-bitch.

  Buck expected Jock to take them past his home first, to drop off Dulce. Instead, he skirted their Cove Street residence by several blocks to reach the Box K’s office on Montana Street.

  It was late morning in late April, and with the mountain passes to the north just coming open, traffic was congested along Corinne’s two main arteries, Front and Montana Streets. Bull trains and jerkline outfits clogged the broad thoroughfares, and pack strings of up to a hundred head of horses or mules wound sinuously through the stalled vehicles, bound for the more remote regions where roads had yet to be built. Smaller farm and delivery wagons, buckboards, and men on horseback competed for what space remained.

  Jock avoided the traffic by looping expertly through the town’s back streets and alleys, swinging onto Montana less than half a block from the Kavanaugh Freight office. He stopped on the street out front, rather than driving around back as he normally did. Buck helped Dulce to the ground while Hank and Walt exited on the far side, then the little troop mounted the steps to the boardwalk to wait for Jock.

  Standing slightly apart from the others, Buck caught a glimpse of his reflection in the freight-office window. It always gave him a start to see himself among others, to realize how he stacked up, as Mase used to say. He was taller by several inches than either Walt or Hank, slimmer through the waist but broader in the chest and shoulders; years of hard work in freight yards across the West had done that. He was wearing a new suit of blue serge: for the funeral, with a red tie and a new, mediurn-brimmed hat. He’d kept his dark brown hair long enough to cover his collar in back, the way he figured a man of the mountains and plains was meant to wear it, but had slicked it down with tonic water that morning. His face was lean and tan, his eyes gray. He was twenty-four, but feeling quite a bit older today.