The Bolas Read online

  ‘You realize if that’s where Redbone ran into a hideaway gun, it’s where we will?’ Latch said.

  ‘Not if we can’t be seen. We’ll wait until the sun moves on.’ Will slowly moved his mare away from the skyline, listened intently to the sounds of silence. He was already hot and dry, and had an impulsive notion to drench himself in fresh creek water. He peered into the broken country, made out the rutted wagon road that ribboned up into the pass.

  ‘What’s that white stuff up on the peaks?’ Latch asked as he rode alongside his partner.

  ‘Snow.’

  ‘So how come the creek’s dry?’

  Will looked east again at Condor Pass. The tall pikes were now bathed in a pinky golden glow, tangles of scrub pine blanketing the slopes below the snowline. He started to curse softly, his heart starting to thump at the gist of Latch’s remark, at what he’d just started to consider himself. ‘Must have taken another route . . . gone somewhere else,’ he answered distractedly. ‘We don’t have to cross over. Let’s head up there from this side.’

  They put their horses along the foothills heading north, then turned about, swung south to the east side of the pass. An hour later they saw the grassland and the boundary marker.

  At the weather-scarred board, Latch leaned sideways from his saddle. ‘Far Creek,’ he read aloud.

  Deep among the snarls of jack pine and scrub oak, Will grunted a thoughtful response. He tried to remember every detail of the trail. Ben Shoeville had told of Far Creek selling out to Bolas. That meant they were now a long ways into rival land.

  At the head of the graze lay a deserted line shack. Its planked door hung half open off strap hinges, the rear wall buckling where the wind caught at the sod roof. A mile beyond lay the end of the blind canyon, enfolding walls too steep and perilous to be scaled by man or beast. Will knew it was unwise to go any further, but he had to find out what it was that Redbone had seen, that had got him killed by a Bolas gunman.

  ‘We’ll ride for the rim,’ Will said at last, mindful of the timber that screened them. They held in to cover for an hour, then dropped downslope, cutting west across Condor Pass to tawny grassland. It was here they saw their first cattle, a short mix of Far Creek and Bolas steers.

  Latch cast a glance over the livestock. ‘That’s one way to put together a herd,’ he observed. ‘Dogies split from their mamas at calfin’ time, an’ the Bolas tally goes up.’

  ‘And not one Bluestem maverick.’ Will looked back over the trail, at the distant snowline. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Do you suppose they’ve drifted up there?’

  Latch had another stirring of uncertainty. ‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘Maybe they went lookin’ for the goddamn creekwater. I think we could be steppin’ into a big, flat loop.’

  ‘So we’ll pick up the headwaters of the Cholla,’ Will decided. ‘Bolas doesn’t own the sierras.’

  They spent fifteen minutes looking for signs before finding the tracks they wanted. A man had been on stake-out at the end of a rising line of rock chimneys. They saw the ashes of the fire, marks where horses had been on short picket. The trail turned south and they followed at a faster pace.

  By late afternoon, the sentinel rock towers of Condor Pass loomed before them. Will took point and they dropped down into the canyon, a steep-sided valley almost a quarter mile wide. There was grama and buffalo grass, cottonwoods and willow, which circled waterholes. It was a place the drought hadn’t touched, a rincon concealed and sheltered by towering peaks.

  Four loose horses were grazing, but Will saw no sign of man until he came to a point where he could better look down on the camp. A man was lying on his back, an arm crooked around a Winchester rifle. His head was propped on a mossy boulder, his hat pulled down to cover his face. Just as well . . . he’d be looking me straight in the eye, otherwise, Will thought wryly. He held up his hand to indicate quiet, signed for Latch to remain while he went on down to talk.

  Will made no secret of his arrival, let his horse clip its hoofs on their approach. Eventually the guard heard him and scrabbled to his feet, the barrel of his Winchester raised as Will picked his way across the canyon floor.

  ‘How’do there,’ the man said, a degree of uncertainty blighting his peace.

  ‘How’do, to you,’ Will replied. He edged his mare over to the pool, dismounted and knelt down to drink.

  ‘What you doin’ here?’ the man continued.

  ‘Taking advantage of your hospitality, first. Looking for the boys, second.’ Will attempted to sound natural.

  ‘They’ve gone on to the boom . . . left here some hours ago.’ The guard lowered his rifle, rested the barrel against his leg. ‘Don’t recall seein’ you around here. You new?’

  ‘Hah, I been called a few things in my time, but bein’ new’s not one of ’em!’ Will smiled, creating an agreeable look for the man. He looked thoughtfully at the coffee pot, the greasy skillet. ‘You got anything that fits this? Hell, I could eat a rolled poncho.’

  ‘Or a fat Bluestem cow, eh?’

  ‘Yeah. However they fall.’ Will eyed the guard less openly, saw the gleam of amusement in the man’s eyes.

  ‘There’s a few hundred head up there. Go help yourself,’ the man said, waving a hand towards the upper canyon.

  ‘They’re all Bluestem, are they?’

  ‘How long have you been with us?’ the man questioned by way of an answer, a shadow of indecision now clouding his face. ‘I don’t rightly recollect seein’ you around.’

  Will forced himself to keep calm. He took a half-eaten corn dodger from his traps and dipped it in the old skillet grease. He took a reluctant bite, cursed inwardly when he heard the sound of Latchford Loke’s horse.

  He spat, raised his head as the guard swung around with his rifle. ‘Hey,’ he cautioned, ‘we got another new hand. He’s been covering my back.’

  ‘You didn’t say you’d brought someone with you,’ the guard said, getting ever more wary.

  ‘There’s a lot of things I haven’t said yet, mister. Should I have told you?’ Will responded quickly.

  The guard shrugged his shoulders. ‘It could stop him from gettin’ his head filled with rifle bullets.’

  ‘The only hostile’s we’re likely to run into up here’s black bear.’ Will looked up as Latch came into view. ‘Let’s eat some of your chow,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll have to catch up with the others before they get to the dam. Mr Ogden wants it done quick,’ he chanced.

  They ate in near silence, the guard sorting them out with slices of fried salt pork and hot coffee.

  Twenty minutes later, Will hauled himself to his feet. ‘What’s the quickest route to this goddamn barrier?’ he asked. ‘I know it’s our fault we’ve lost time, but I don’t want to have to pay for it.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s just some things’re more important than others.’ The man stood up, pointed to a discernible trail through thickets of jack pine and scrub oak. ‘Once across all that, you’ll find a dry wash. Just follow it south,’ he added, slowly, as though sensing there was something wrong.

  Calmly, Will and Latch caught their horses and rode off slowly through the brakes. All the grazeland was now a holding of the Bolas company, and they were more alert and careful. After filling their water bottles they worked their way back down to the dry wash, rode the shaded side until they heard the roil of a cataract. Will reined in, listening, trying to visualize what lay ahead.

  Latch smiled, was making the Indian sign for having sniffed fire-smoke on the wind. Then they picked up the foreground sound of approaching horses along the wash. The pair swung into the tangled willow, and watched silently as three horsemen rode by, back in the direction of the guard camp.

  ‘Hell, we could be runnin’ into more’n we came from,’ Latch said, bumping his mare close alongside Will. ‘You reckon this might be a time for help?’

  ‘When we find out what they’ve done to the water. I want to see for myself.’

  ‘Personally I ain’t too bothered
,’ Latch responded sullenly.

  Without bothering to reply, Will headed his horse on along the wash towards the sound of cascading water. Less than a mile up creek they rode into the camp site. A picket line was still strung between two trees, a stretched canvas sheet between two more, but men and horses were gone. Will edged his way unhurriedly towards the column of white water, the shining halos of spray. He cursed expressively when he saw the giant cluster of branches and logs, the buttress of earth which formed the structure of the dam beneath it.

  ‘Does that answer your question about what happened to the water?’ Will looked up at Latch and shook his head. ‘This is the Cholla. The beginning and the end of it.’

  Latch stood in his stirrups to get a better look. ‘Wouldn’t have taken ’em long,’ he said. ‘It’s annihilation for Bluestem . . . those who ain’t bottom o’ the south slopes. It’s a murderous an’ cruel intent for them who’s that way inclined.’

  ‘They are,’ Will breathed, letting the consequences sink in. In a swift wind-back he could see what had happened. With the flow of the Cholla feeding Bluestem’s home creek, most country beyond the pass was now reverting to a barren, hostile wasteland.

  Will turned away quickly when two riders emerged from the creekside willow. It was too late for him and Latch to find cover and there was no way back. Besides, the lower camp guard would have passed on the news that two strangers were at the dam.

  ‘Sit easy,’ Will said under his breath. With a hand raised in greeting he knee’d his horse towards the two men. ‘That’s some tired old sentry work,’ he called out. ‘We could’ve been anyone.’

  The two men were those of commanchero appearance who had ridden on to Bluestem property to warn off Mollie Broad and Ben Shoeville. Pito screwed his face into a frown as he tried to place Will and Latch. ‘We can still shoot you,’ he returned. ‘Boss said nothin’ about any new men, did he. . . ?’

  The second man, who was named Copper John, grunted, dropped his hand to his belted pistol. ‘No. I’d have remembered. Who the hell are you gringos?’

  Nobody moved, and before anyone spoke further, an agitated clamour of voices rose from the wash. Two more guards appeared and Will realized they were trapped.

  ‘They’re Bluestem. Rope ’em in,’ one of the men shouted.

  ‘Hey Latch, you remember that jump? Pickett’s charge!’ Will asked.

  ‘Sure do, cap’n!’ Latch answered immediately. ‘Right now’s as good a time as any to try again.’

  Together the pair yelled, drew their Colts, jabbed with their spurs and drove their horses forward. They crashed in and out of the wash, through the startled Bolas men.

  The two commancheros fought their startled mounts, swung them around, but by the time they were under control Will and Latch were into the trees.

  Copper John drew his carbine, slammed the short barrel into the guard’s shoulders as he rode by. ‘Get to Ogden. Tell him riders have been up here,’ he rasped.

  A rifle bullet tore between trees, spitting bark shards as Will lay flat along his horse’s neck. ‘Latch,’ he shouted, ‘if we get separated, give Bluestem a good look before you go riding in.’

  Soon they were away from the timber brakes, but bullets still buzzed the air around them. They rode for the rising ground and for an instant were more exposed to fire. Then the creek was below them and they charged on, kicked and heeled their mounts into the drop, the stretch of ice-cold water.

  They were scrambling for cover on the other side when they heard Copper John calling out.

  ‘Ride,’ the Bolas commanchero yelled. ‘You’ll be dead meat if you don’t get ’em!’

  ‘You heard him, Latch,’ Will retaliated. ‘Drive to your knees if you have to. Just get away.’ He cursed, and halted for a moment to lean down and drag on his cinch. He was wet, and his boots were filled with water. He knew he’d raise a blister or two before they made the comparative security of Hog Flats.

  They were three miles across the slopes of Condor Pass when they saw the horsemen emerge from the timber. There were six of them now in pursuit, and Will and Latch settled down to a steady gallop across open country. They swung north, then west, staying carefully to their advantage. The horses had been revived by the fresh water and with reasonable luck Will knew they should be at least one mile ahead by the time they reached the Bluestem boundary.

  Chapter 5

  The town’s pariah dogs were sniffing and scuttling along the main street towards the ox-wagon camp – a ripe area that always produced life-sustaining scraps. A drunk crawled from between the props of a cabin, attempted to stand and kick a particularly probing tyke, fell over and silently retched. White Mesa was coming to life, but from the Todo Mercantile, Preston Mower wasn’t noticing too much happening. He laid his razor aside and dressed quickly, and took a drink from the water jar on a table in a corner of the room that caught any light breeze.

  He left the store, walked down the boardwalk towards the Bello Hotel. He paused a moment at the hitch-rail, looked at the brands on the two horses tied there, but nothing made an impression. He pushed through the batwings and made his way up to the bar, waited for the bartender who was with a group of men who were finishing off an all-night session at their table.

  Leaning casually on the bar, he watched two men who looked like punchers. They were both sound asleep, sitting in the far corner. They had local news-sheets over their faces, beneath which they snorted with an easy rhythm.

  ‘Those two are either real tired or real safe,’ he suggested to the barkeep.

  ‘I’d say real drunk,’ the man replied. ‘An’ I’d be the one to know.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess. Is Foote up yet?’

  ‘Ain’t seen him. Go on up. You know where he is.’ The barkeep returned to the game, pausing to shake his head as he watched Mower walk up the stairs. Moments later a door slammed above them and the players called for a last round of drinks.

  Once inside Turner Foote’s room, Mower stood with his back against the door. He looked on with a degree of loathing when the sheriff rolled over and blinked, stared at him with watery eyes.

  ‘What time is it?’ Foote asked.

  ‘Between midnight an’ noon. Is that near enough for you?’ Mower regarded Foote sourly. ‘I went out to see Ogden last night.’

  ‘Tell me later.’ Foote turned away and Mower took a step forward. With an angry pull he heaved a single bedcover from the bed.

  ‘I’ll tell you now, goddamnit. Get up.’ Mower went to the window and sat down on the sill, waiting for Foote to rub the sleep from his eyes. The sheriff stood beside his bed, in his unflapped long-johns, looking for all the world like a plucked turkey.

  ‘Did you know Ogden bought out Far Creek yesterday?’ Mower demanded.

  Foote didn’t answer, sluiced his face briefly at the washstand, and dried himself on a tattered towel.

  ‘Yeah, ’course you did,’ Mower said dourly. ‘You’ve more’n likely been celebratin’ for the goddamn Bolas.’ The merchant’s voice rose as Foote turned to look at him. ‘Well, perhaps you should start to mourn the event.’

  ‘What the hell are you talkin’ about, Mower?’

  ‘Ogden told me he bought the oufit with his own money.’

  Foote didn’t react the way Mower expected. He went to the mirror and had a good look at his tongue. ‘Nagh, he can’t do that. He’s got no authority,’ he said, apparently unperturbed.

  ‘That’s ’cause we didn’t think he’d need any. Now he’s on to the Bluestem spread, doin’ the same thing.’

  ‘We’ll take our share, whichever way he thinks he’s cut it,’ Foote suggested patiently. He pulled on his clothes, adjusted his badge of office and lifted his gun belt from the bed head. ‘Bruno Ogden ain’t Bolas. It only looks an’ sounds like it.’

  ‘You’re some smart piece o’ work, Foote, you know that,’ Mower said. ‘Go find Marge an’ bring her to the store, lickety-split.’ The man gave him a look of derision, then without another word
, he pulled open the door, hurried down the stairs and left the hotel.

  The heat waves rolled down the main street, but for Preston Mower the morning was cooling fast as he bolted raisin biscuits and beans in a grub house opposite his mercantile. From where he sat at the end of the counter he watched Turner Foote walk from the main street towards where Marge Highgate lived. He gave him ten minutes, then returned to the store, entering by a side door that he didn’t fully close.

  He sat in his darkened office until he heard their voices, then stepped out to meet them. ‘Come in, both o’ you,’ he said. ‘Take chairs, this’ll likely take a while.’

  ‘That’s what the sheriff’s just told me.’ Marge Highgate was pale, her greying hair drawn into a tight bun, lifting the corners of her eyes. Waiting for Mower to explain, she slapped irritatedly at Foote’s hand as it touched her shoulder.

  For the shortest time, Mower wondered if there was anything between the two. ‘Ogden’s settin’ out to get Bluestem. Did the good sheriff tell you that?’ he murmured.

  ‘You’re a fool, Mower,’ Marge replied coolly. ‘Now, are you going to tell us what Ogden said, or do I have to ride to Bolas to find out?’

  The trader eyed the lady, chewed his bottom lip for a moment. ‘Ogden bought Far Creek with his own money,’ he started intently. ‘He’s no intention of throwin’ it in with his Bolas pool. Kind o’ weaken the bloodline.’

  Marge let her eyes close, as though in thought. She took a deep breath, waiting for Mower to continue.

  ‘He knows if we can rope in Bluestem, he’ll be the big augur. Not one coffee bean will roll through Hog Flats without his say so. If dollars won’t swing it, he’ll use the power of a gun.’

  Now Marge looked directly into Mower’s eyes. She read the submissive intent, but controlled her disdain. ‘I saw Mollie Broad in town yesterday. What did she want?’ she asked. ‘I’m guessing she didn’t come to sell.’