Free Colorado Sam by Jim Woolard Page A

linked the two crimes, he doubted he could uncover it without a great deal of help. Like Heft, Nathan suspected the Buckmans were somehow involved in his uncle’s death, and given their long-standing hatred of Seth Tanner, that sounded likely. But it seemed a stretch to assume without the tiniest shred of evidence that the Buckman brothers could also arrange to have someone killed clean off in St. Louis. 
    Â Â  If by chance, though, they had, then he and his aunt were in more danger than even Heft Thomas believed. Nathan had to chuckle. Maybe before it was all said and done, he might be sorry the ferocious Sam didn’t sleep at the bottom of his bed instead of his aunt’s.  

Ten
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   The sheer beauty of the clear autumn night—brilliant stars, full moon, and purple shadows round about tinged with silver—went unnoticed by the two riders. Charlie Swain was too familiar with the country to take note of anything but the rutted road ahead of them. Nathan Tanner was totally preoccupied with his own posterior. 
    Nathan’s hams and thighs were raw and sore from long hours in the saddle wearing new, unwashed Levis. He was in such agony he rode standing in the stirrups, fearful that the tender areas might erupt into flame. Absent his worn canvas trousers, it was either boil the Levis, preferably more than once, or grow calluses on his backside from waist to knee.
    Â Â  “Alamosa ain’t but another three miles, Mr. Tanner,” Charlie Swain said, his tone almost too serious. If the former lawman was enjoying Nathan’s discomfort, he was doing his best not to show it.
    Â Â  Nathan didn’t reply. He eased the crotch of his Levis and wondered for the hundredth time why it was so critical he meet Alana Birdsong at Payne Merchandise as soon as possible. His day had changed direction when Mr. Ming bolted from the ranch house and hailed Heft Thomas upon their return to the home yard. Jumping from foot to foot, the excited servant had talked a blue streak, none of which could be understood. 
    Â Â  The foreman finally dismounted and seized Mr. Ming by the shoulders. “Cease that jabbering . . . Now, take your time, and tell me what the ruckus is about.”
    Mr. Ming swallowed and sucked wind. “Telephone ring. Mrs. Tanner talk. Go town on horse. She call back. She says Mr. Tanner come Payne store quick, quick.”
    Â Â  “Did she go alone?” Heft Thomas demanded. 
    Â Â  “No, big dog go, too,” Mr. Ming responded. 
    Â Â  The foreman looked at the ground, then at Nathan. “Whatever’s afoot doesn’t concern ranch business and I’m worn through. I’ll send Charlie Swain with you. He was a lawman once and handles a pistol better’n anybody on the crew. Grab something from Spud’s kitchen to gnaw on. I’ll see Ike Justice fetches you a fresh horse. It ain’t wise to keep the boss lady waiting.”
    Â Â  Nathan chewed his last strip of jerky as he and Charlie Swain gained the outskirts of Alamosa. They passed private dwellings and outhouses, coming ever closer to the business district. While there were no streetlights, interior lights shone in several windows ahead of them.  
    Â Â  Steel tracks crossed Hunt Street ahead of Charlie and Nathan. Beyond the railroad tracks loomed the Alamosa Station of the Denver and Rio Grande. Several men attired in everything from the finest to the cheapest of clothing milled beneath wall lamps extending the length of the passenger platform. They were awaiting the conductor’s call to board the train poised for departure.
    Â Â  “Got to be something mighty tempting to draw that big a crowd this time of night,” Nathan said.
    Â Â  “Silver, Mr. Tanner, silver,” Charlie Swain said. “The Creede strike is in full swing. Sparks, the ticket agent, bragged last month that 300 men pass through Alamosa every day, half of