Miller's Ride Read online

  The crossfire in the street was nearly over. Barley Mose lay dead, his body grotesquely hung across a bullet-shattered water-butt.

  One of the Hooper citizens was still taking pot-shots at imaginary shadows when Chad saw the High Smoke riders fan out. They came at a gallop, yelling and firing. Porton was still standing, urging his buggy forward.

  ‘He’s crazy … thinks he’s Genghis Khan,’ Chad yelled. He, Duck and Galt were crouching low, with gunfire again blasting around them. Chad tried to lay some fire on Porton, but the incoming hail of lead was too overpowering.

  The three men clasped their arms about their heads. They were bent double under the low boardwalk as the bullets broke up the cover around them and their remaining supporters scuttled into the lanes.

  Duck Fewes’s shotgun jerked from his hand as a bullet from the Colt of Tom Feather’s brother ploughed into his arm. Chad and Galt stared haranguing each other fearful of what to do or where to go.

  ‘It ain’t my goddam’ fault,’ Chad snarled, ‘I didn’t want to come here in the first place.’

  ‘Yeah, well none o’ this would o’ happened if you hadn’t,’ Galt snarled back.

  The townsman who’d stood resolutely firing suddenly coughed. He dropped his old repeater rifle, took his bloodied fingers away from his mouth before sinking slowly to the ground.

  Then, as soon as it had started, it was over. Within moments the High Smoke men were gone. The buggy had hurtled by, carrying Porton to safety. Once again, too far for an effective shot… .

  Chad raised his head, rubbed the dust and sweat from his eyes. ‘An’ I’m goin’ as soon as it’s over,’ he continued in the same battle-mad tone.

  ‘Won’t be soon enough,’ Galt yelled back. ‘Meantime, we’ve got to move. We’re vulture-meat if we stay here.’

  Duck was wrapping his bloodied arm in a neck-cloth. He looked beyond Chad’s shoulder. ‘Too late,’ he said.

  In the darkness along the street he made out the shapes of Porton’s men. They were reforming and Pithy Wilkes was waving them on for another run. Deke Feather had already kicked hard.

  ‘Hope someone up there’s got use for a one-armed ’smith.’ Duck spat his wish, winced as he awkwardly gripped the shotgun.

  Down the main steet men were riding hard again. They were hell-bent on reprisal, but this time Brig Porton wasn’t part of Deke Feather’s wild charge.

  Chad and his two compatriots steadied themselves for the blast of the guns. A bullet smashed into a wooden support beside Galt, another spat into the dust, inches from Chad’s face. Then they heard the curious sound of sharp, metallic snaps and dull clicks, the shouts of confusion as Porton’s men vainly fired off their weapons.

  ‘Jesus, I forgot,’ yelled Galt, ‘they got hold o’ the duff ammo.’

  Chad was trying to see what was going on. ‘Must have,’ he managed with thankful surprise.

  Deke Feather was now within fifty feet and Chad could see the riders closing in around him. They were frantic, in disarray. He twisted towards Galt and Duck. ‘They ain’t Porton’s men … not the Flatheads neither. You know who the hell they are, Duck?’

  ‘No. Never seen ’em before. But where the hell’s Porton?’

  ‘Sleepin’ off our bullet supper, maybe,’ Galt answered.

  Chad shook his head, slowly. He thought different.

  Feather and his men were backing off, straining to pull their mounts around. They were angrily firing their guns around them, into the ground, into the air.

  Chad rolled over on to his back. He took some deep breaths, considered their next move.

  Galt crawled to Duck, had a look at his friend’s injured arm, the tight bandanna. ‘Never knew a man with an arm bigger’n his neck,’ he said with a smile.

  Then a single rifle shot rang out from the opposite end of the street. Chad turned, looked towards Welsh Peter’s. He saw two horsemen rein in, stand motionless in the middle of the street. Light from an open doorway of the saloon sparkled on the metal badges pinned to the trail coats of the two riders.

  ‘They got here,’ Chad yelled. ‘Just as I’d started to worry about all the coffins gettin’ used up.’

  ‘Stay down, goddammit. Keep low against the boardwalk,’ grated Duck, as they crawled out in to the street.

  The lawmen from Alamosa cooly levelled their Winchesters. They’d seen the three men who approached them from the shadows.

  ‘Marshal? I’m Chad Miller. I’m workin’ for the Bridges out o’ the Big Windy ranch,’ Chad revealed as they drew close.

  ‘Yeah, I sort o’ guessed. I’m Roman Downs; this here’s deputy Budge Newton.’

  Downs directed himself at Chad as Galt and Duck stepped up. ‘We heard the shootin’ from more’n a mile out. Where’s Frost … Marlow Frost?’

  ‘He got shot. Gives his message some credibility, don’t it, Mr Downs?’ Chad remarked curtly.

  The lawman stared hard at Galt, at Duck’s wounded arm. ‘You ain’t got word the war’s over?’ he drawled.

  Chad pushed his Colt back into his holster. ‘No one’s told Porton. He’s the one been carryin’ it on since Appomattox. But maybe it is over now, for most of ’em.’ He nodded in the direction of Waddy’s Halt. ‘Other than a body o’ men down there that still ain’t cuttin’ up too friendly.’

  Downs nodded. ‘Walk behind us, an’ I mean behind us. This man Brig Porton … he with ’em?’

  ‘No, don’t appear to be. My guess is he’s finally got himself shot up bad.’

  The lawmen rode slowly down the main street. When two of the townsmen stepped out to join them Downs twisted around in the saddle. ‘Not that you appear to need ’em – or us for that matter – but how many men you got?’ he asked.

  ‘This is them, Marshal,’ Chad replied. ‘But we ain’t in too much trouble, ’cause we believe Porton’s ammunition has just run out.’

  Galt cackled. Downs and Newton shook their heads, exchanged a puzzled look.

  From up ahead, a rifleshot flashed in the dark. Newton’s horse shied and Galt’s battered hat flew from his head. Chad swore, kneeled quickly in the dust and drew the big Patterson.

  ‘What the hell was that, if they got no bullets?’ Downs remarked. ‘A party-cracker?’

  More cautious, more alert for another gunshot, any suspicious movement, the group of men continued.

  But nothing happened. Deke Feather had seen the approaching lawmen and turned his men. As a beaten group they retreated, kicked into the night for refuge on the open range.

  By Waddy’s Halt, where a few distressed citizens now collected, Marshal Downs pulled up. Making his presence felt, he sat in silence to survey the crowd. Then he spoke with the rap of disdain.

  ‘If there’s any o’ you want law an’ order in this hellhole, stay an’ talk to me. The rest o’ you brave, god-fearin’ folk get to your beds. There’ll be no more entertainment this night.’ Downs took off his hat, ran his hand through his hair. His smile was baleful. ‘We rode a long way to get this trouble finally sorted out, an’ I’m irritated an’ dead beat ’cause of it. So if there’s anyone loiterin’ in the street, one minute from now, I’ll give orders for ’em to be hung at first light.’

  Newton leaned down towards Chad. ‘Marshal was tellin’ me it’s progress,’ he said quietly and Chad grinned.

  No one stayed the full minute. The fear of Brig Porton still weighing heavy, they’d wait for the morning before deciding on a change of allegiance. For all they knew, Porton could be wounded and dangerous. He might, even now, be preparing to dispose of the two lawmen from Alamosa, and any who’d been seen to give them backing.

  Only the opportunistic undertaker remained. He was calculating planks and where to salvage them.

  ‘Me an’ Budge’ll ride the town for a while,’ Downs said. ‘Keep the lid on. I guess you’ll be ridin’ out to Big Windy.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Chad replied, tiredly. ‘The town docs out there. He should take a look at Duck’s arm. It’s a shame
Ashley Bridge’ll never know what’s happened here tonight,’ he added.

  The marshal eyed Chad keenly. ‘Do you know for certain that he don’t?’ he asked. Then he and his deputy respectfully touched their Stetsons and moved away quietly.

  ‘What about Porton?’ Galt asked.

  ‘That’s a job for the marshal now,’ Duck suggested.

  ‘I reckon that’s somethin’ else we can’t be certain about,’ Chad said thoughtfully.

  20

  PAYBACK

  Brig Porton pitched wildly on the seat of his buggy. Every rut and lump sent a dagger of pain across his chest. He forded the creek two miles from town, then struck out for High Smoke.

  He’d caught a bullet in the leg, but hardly noticed it. He’d been more seriously hurt during the failed attack on Big Windy. For a long time he’d held himelf together, but it was a chest wound and serious.

  He looked at the small hole in his frock-coat, saw the blood oozing through the grey material. The bullet was in deep, and he could only think of getting to his ranch. He’d take what cash he’d brought to the ranch and try and make a run for it. His attempt at controlling the whole of the San Luis Valley, his commercial foray up to the Arkansas River had failed. But it wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken a beating. He’d start over, go East maybe, look to see how his malcontent wife was making out.

  He was within sight of High Smoke and his strength was failing when he saw the riders closing down on him from the east. He eased off the reins and reached painfully to his shoulder holster, touched the Colt .45.

  Deke Feather’s men slackened their pace for a moment, then veered off north. Feather rode on alone. He swerved his horse in tight to Porton’s buggy and grabbed the traces. He was in a rage, his voice cracked with violent emotion.

  ‘What the hell you playin’ at, Porton? I found my brother in the street with his chest full o’ lead, an’ you’re out rollin’ dust?’

  ‘Win some, lose some,’ Porton responded, with a grim lack of feeling.

  ‘Win some?’ Feather yelled back. ‘What were we supposed to win, with that ammunition?’

  ‘What you talkin’ about?’ Porton was trying to beat the pain. ‘What’s wrong with the ammunition you had?’

  ‘You’re dumber than you look, Porton. All them shells were blank. We ain’t got an all-singin’ round between us.’

  Porton was forcing himself to stay upright in his seat. ‘Those guns o’ yours … they were workin’ … workin’ well enough,’ he stuttered.

  ‘That’s what we brought in with us. It was your goddam bullets that didn’t work. How you goin’ to pay me back, Porton?’

  Porton didn’t respond. The pain was coursing through his body in sickening waves. He ground his teeth, fought down the desire to groan out loud. He had to hide his hurt from Deke Feather a while longer.

  First light rolled slowly from the east. It sparkled in the beaded sweat across Porton’s forehead.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Feather said, staring. ‘You been struck with somethin’?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Porton croaked. ‘Wait … wait until your boys get back.’

  ‘My boys ain’t comin’ back. They’re ridin’ for home. How they supposed to fight … fart at each other?’ Feather swung his horses flank against Porton’s buggy. ‘You reckon that marshal’s just waitin’ for you … playin’ mumble-peg with his deputy? No, he’ll be here, Porton.’

  Porton ground out a weak response. ‘We’ll talk in the mornin’. The law’s got enough to do sortin’ out Hooper. We won’t see ’em out here for a week.’

  Together, the two men moved off. They reached the yard of High Smoke, rode past the burned and deserted outbuildings. They were almost at the ranch house when Porton crumpled sideways. With his senses ebbing, it was a last, supreme effort that keep him from falling to the ground.

  Feather realized then that Porton was carrying more than an illness. With the bullet wound, he saw his chance.

  Egger slouched from the bunkhouse, reached for the traces of Porton’s buggy. Feather handed him the reins of his own horse and followed Porton up the steps at the front of the main house.

  Porton grasped the big handle, lurched against the heavy door. He stumbled to his library, grabbed at the whiskey and fell into his chair. His face was grey and greasy, creased with pain, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary.

  He pulled a glass across his desk, clinked it loud as he splashed in the whiskey. He offered the drink to Feather, poured another to overflowing.

  Feather took a step back. ‘Don’t look like you’ll be needin’ no sawbones. An’ I can’t help you,’ he said, without feeling or expression.

  Porton grimaced as he swallowed the whiskey. His lips barely moved as he spoke. ‘Can’t … won’t … same thing,’ he garbled.

  The room was shifting, spinning darkly. Porton squeezed the whiskey glass as a spasm of pain gripped him. He dragged himself to his feet, turned away from Feather and leaned against the desk. He put down the glass, started fumbling in his coat pocket. ‘I’ll pay you what we agreed … then you can go,’ he said, almost inaudibly, dragging up a bunch of keys.

  Porton’s senses were failing, but he registered the meaningful silence that suddenly filled the room. ‘What the hell am I talkin’ about?’ he muttered and smiled to himself. Then he dropped the keys, put his hand inside his coat and pulled the Colt .45.

  But when he turned Deke Feather had got to be very close. His features were marked by a malign smile, and his eyes drilled into Porton. The early daylight flashed on the long, saw-toothed blade of the knife he held tightly.

  ‘Beware the wrath o’ brothers,’ he seethed. ‘This’ll be for Tom.’

  Porton didn’t feel the blade of Feather’s knife as it plunged under his arm, deep into the pit of his stomach. The noise and the recoil as he fired his Colt was agony enough. But he saw Feather’s face, the wrench of muscle beneath the beard, as his .45 bullet crashed into the man’s ribcage.

  Porton dropped the Colt, stretched a hand for Feather’s throat as they both fell. Porton was dead before his body crumpled onto the floor. Feather still had his hand on his knife, was trying to pull it from the man’s body, when he saw the keys to Porton’s safe lying on the floor. He ground his teeth and bit by bit moved an arm.

  A while later, when the dawn light changed to wrap him in blackness, he decided the effort was too much. ‘I would o’ liked somethin’ for me,’ he groused, swore at Porton, and died.

  Ten minutes later Egger was fretful and nervous as he pushed open the door to Porton’s library. He flicked the tip of his plaited quirt across the bodies of Porton and Deke Feather, then saw the keys. He knew it was time to take advantage and within a few edgy minutes he’d opened Porton’s safe. There was cash, an engraved, silver belt-buckle and a stack of ribbon-tied documents which were of no interest to him. He fingered the buckle for a moment, then stuffed his trail coat with five fat rolls of greenbacks.

  ‘Don’t come out o’ the night, eh boss?’ he hissed dismissively as he walked away.

  Yellow Egger led his horse from behind the bunkhouse. The Big Windy ranch and Hooper were to the south and there were mountains to the east and west. He considered his options for staying alive and turned north, kicked hard at the tall grey.

  21

  SHORT STAY

  It was three days later when Chad Miller rode to High Smoke. He was accompanied by Marshal Downs, Duck Fewes and a small group from Hooper. Downs and Newton had gained the interest, then support, from some of the town’s citizens. But it had been a demanding time. Most of the businessmen had grown used to the idea of not working within a trade circle. In Hooper, Brig Porton had been the only one they’d co-operated with, been answerable to.

  But Porton’s charade of legal committees had been broken up. Provisional law and order was installed, and Duck Fewes accepted a brevet appointment of sheriff. Roman Downs didn’t have much choice, but he was confident that at least Fewes was a good man. For a f
ew more days, the big ’smith would be learning his duties with the help of Deputy Newton.

  When the riders came within sight of High Smoke they reined in. Half a mile ahead they saw the scattered cattle, but the ranch house and surrounding area appeared to be deserted.

  ‘You reckon Porton’s there?’ Downs said to Chad.

  ‘Don’t know for sure. What’s goin’ to happen if he is? He ain’t the sort to run away, that’s for sure.’

  Downs held his hand against the brilliant sky, thought for a few seconds. ‘Then let’s assume he hasn’t,’ he said.

  Downs and Chad rode ahead of the others. From a distance they saw the front door was open wide, rode straight to the front steps.

  Downs’ horse recoiled at the rotten air that seeped from the ranch house. Chad’s bay balked, and as he turned its head away he looked up. The vultures were sweeping slowly in great circles above them, and he spat with sickness and disgust. Downs swore, held his hand across his face. ‘Someone’s here,’ he said.

  The two men dismounted. Trying not to swallow or breathe, Chad walked both horses away from the house. Duck Fewes was just coming out of the bunkhouse with one of the men from Hooper.

  ‘Take ’em, Duck,’ he said, handing over the reins. ‘An’ don’t come back for a spell. Where we’re goin’ ain’t a fit place.’

  As Chad followed Downs into the house, the smell was overwhelming. When they entered the library, a thick cloud of flies billowed around them, the noise like a mill full of bucksaws. Chad wrapped his bandanna around his nose and mouth, gasped, shivered as the sweat broke across his shoulders.

  Downs was standing over the bodies of Brig Porton and Deke Feather. He saw the open safe, the scattered documents that remained. Interested, he looked through them, retained one or two.

  Chad watched for a moment longer, then, blinking constantly, backed off to the front door. He jumped from the front landing, ripping at his bandanna, wandered away from the house. Gulping fresh air, he gripped the rail of a corral to wait for Downs. Duck saw him but, holding the horses, decided to keep his distance.