Trail Hand

He nodded to me. “I think I understand.”

I smiled back. “Right, no sense tipping my offer to him before I’ve had a chance to make it stick. Wouldn’t be smart business, now would it?”

“No, of course not,” he answered, wiping his forehead with a white silk handkerchief. “Rest assured confidentiality is a trademark of our establishment.”

“Knew it would be, Mister Norwell, knew it would be,” I said, slamming the door behind me.

From the map Mr. Norwell had drawn, I could see why Davies was so interested in the McFarlen place. Brett Davies had bought or stolen all the adjacent lands around until they formed a horseshoe, with the McFarlen ranch smack in its center.

The problem, however, was that the McFarlens had settled on and around the only principle source of water locally. Furthermore, his ranch was situated so as to be the first place travelers from the north and west would pass on the way to town. Someday San Gabriel would grow to attract business from Los Angeles or even from San Francisco, and it wasn’t too difficult to imagine a railroad line being laid down. Should that ever happen, the McFarlens would be as wealthy as anyone could ever want. Unless, of course, Davies had his way.

I debated riding right out to the McFarlen Ranch to explain my situation and to enlist their help, but it occurred to me that Don Enrique might already have wired his brother-in-law about what had happened. If that were the case, McFarlen would probably blame me, too. I could be walking right into a noose.

Wired his brother …. That thought set me to reconsidering something else Pete Evans had said. When I had grilled Evans back in the Arizona Territory, he mentioned that Davies had gotten his information by wire. Logically the telegraph office would be the next place to check out.

For Davies to have known ahead of time a drive was even being planned, he would have to have read McFarlen’s wires from Don Enrique. Since telegraphs are supposed to be confidential, and if that were, in fact, how the rustlers learned our plan, then either someone in the Hernandez camp was sending other telegraphs directly to Davies in California, or he was somehow having private messages intercepted. The latter made more sense to me. More importantly, if true, it also made the local operator suspect.

Even though Pete Evans had made it clear that Davies was in cahoots with someone in San Rafael, it was unlikely any of Don Enrique’s vaqueros would know Brett Davies, a gringo from California. However, if Davies was clever or powerful enough to have telegraph messages intercepted, he easily could have sent someone ahead to San Rafael either to recruit a spy or personally to wire him back. Someone like this Luke Pierce, who apparently had led the rustlers who trailed us from the start.

That’s why I headed over to the telegraph office next. Judging by appearances, my suspicions probably weren’t too far off. The key-pad operator was a rather scrawny fellow with a nose like a ferret. He sported long, wide sideburns and had a nervous habit of constantly tugging his left earlobe. His vest was worn to a shine, and he favored a string tie worn over a stiff-collared white shirt. In general, he seemed a very uncomfortable sort.

I took out some cigarette paper and walked slowly up to his window where a sign read Luis B. Jacobs, Station Attendant. Acting once more as if I owned the place, I rolled a cigarette and struck a match on the sill. “Howdy,” I said. “You Jacobs?”

“That’s right,” he answered. “What can I do for you?”

“Davies sent me.”

“That so? Don’t believe I know you,” he said, glancing up at the mention of Davies’s name. I leaned over the sill and blew some smoke into the room.

“No reason you should,” I agreed, tossing away the match. “I’m new here.”

“So what do you want?” he asked abruptly.

“Look, bub, I’m just following orders. Davies said to check with you and see if you’ve got anything new for him.”

“He ain’t paid me for that last bit,” Jacobs replied angrily. “This ain’t as simple as it seems, you know. I take a lot of risks.”

That cinched it. I was on the right track.

“Look, all I know is what I was told to do. You got a problem, take it up with Pierce,” I said. I was just playing along, sort of shooting for effect, but I’d definitely struck a nerve. His whole expression changed as he slumped back in his chair. Pierce must really be a hard one to contend with, I thought grimly.

“All right, all right. Tell Mister Davies nothing’s come through here or gone out since that last message I gave him…the one from McFarlen.” Jacobs started sweating and tugged nervously at his ear.

“Nothing from those mejicanos?” I asked.

“Nah. She ain’t sent nothin’ for some time.”

That “she” caught me by surprise.

“She ain’t, huh? Say, by the way, now that you mentioned it, I’ve always wondered how you fellers figure out if it’s a guy or a gal talking, what with all that clicking?” I offered him some tobacco, which he refused.

“You mean if they don’t mention it outright?” he asked.

I just nodded.

“Well, since there ain’t many women operators around, after a while you can tell by the sender’s touch. Now, on the other hand, if a man’s sending a message for a woman you can sometimes pick up on the kind of phraseology women use. ’Course, that only comes with my kind of experience.” He was calming down some, regaining his composure. “Just between you and me,” he added, “Iought to get more respect for what Ido.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more.” I nodded. “Always thought this job was pretty complicated myself.”

“Darn’ tootin’ it is,” he said boastfully.

“And I’ll bet an expert like you could even tell if a message came from a wife talking to a husband, or say a girl talking to her uncle?”

“Sure as hell could. For example, I know those last few messages to Davies came from a woman, and that she was usin’ the same dispatch office as the earlier ones sent by that chili-dippin’ brother-in-law of McFarlen’s down south.”

Now I was really puzzled. Who could it be?

“Thought I heard Pierce mention something about a daughter or niece, or something,” I said.

“Not so’s I know,” he said, scratching his head. “But it could have been, though. See, I picked up what went on between the Mex and his greaselovin’ brother-in-law, McFarlen. The messages from the girl to Davies came later, but they didn’t have no name on them.”

“So how’d you know they came from the same place.”

“Easy. Same operator. Kinda like readin’ a signature.”

I’d been lucky enough so far, and didn’t want to spoil things, so I decided to cut it short.

“Mister Davies told me to tell you to sit tight and keep quiet. But, look, don’t talk to no one unless I tell you, and, in the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about your pay. But don’t expect too much,” I added. “Like I said, I’m new here.”

“All right, I’ll see ya later,” he replied. Jacobs turned back to the keys as another message came in and I left with more questions than before.

Chapter Twenty

For the next three days I camped out in the hills north of the 4 Box Ranch, watching the goings-on from hiding. Whenever riders left the ranch, I’d follow, but inevitably they’d simply ride the fence line, or head back into town for supplies. On two separate occasions I spotted Luke Pierce riding my Morgan and had to restrain myself from repaying his favors with a head shot.

Finally, on the fourth day, a couple of riders left early, seemingly going about their usual rounds. After about fifteen minutes, however, one of the men split away, taking a different trail from any previously used, north up into the hills.