The Bolas Read online

  ‘Shoeville an’ new feller are in White Mesa. The Frenchman an’ viejo are with the girl at the ranch,’ he said.

  For the moment Ogden ignored Pito, pulling his horse around to glare impatiently at Deavis. ‘I hope you told the crew to move that beef. If those two sons-of-bitches from Bluestem decide to ride the box canyon again, I want it empty . . . the beef pushed through the canyon.’

  ‘That’s what we’ve been up here for,’ Deavis replied, abrupt and hard-nosed.

  ‘And now I’m going to talk to the Broad girl.’ Ogden put his fine sorrel to the slope and fiddle-footed down to the dry wash. The others were lined out behind him, but a mile further on they closed up.

  ‘They say the Frenchman’s defensive . . . unpredictable,’ Deavis exclaimed. ‘He could blow someone’s head off.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Be a tough shot for someone who’s not a natural gunsman.’ Ogden pulled a large white bandana up over his nose, settled himself for the ride. In the clear desert air and in the failing light, distance was a deceptive thing to measure. From the rising peaks of Condor Pass it hadn’t looked far, but it was first dark when they rode on to the back pasture of Bluestem’s home ground. They rode around the small graveyard with its homespun markers. The names were wind and sand-scoured now, but one was clearer than the others. Ogden leaned forward, squinted at the carved letters. ELMER BROAD. NOW RESTING PEACEFUL.

  Ogden sat straight in the saddle, peered into the shadows ahead. ‘Stay out of sight and wait for me,’ he said and rode on alone.

  ‘We got company,’ Latchford Loke reached for the rifle that was propped against the wall. He looked around, sweeping the fall-off into the creek, searching for other riders. He heard a horse whicker, and he levered up a shell, and called out.

  ‘You’re on Bluestem property. State your business.’

  ‘Name’s Ogden. Bruno Ogden of the Bolas. I’m here to talk with Mollie Broad.’

  Latch released the hammer of the rifle. ‘We’ll see if she wants to talk with you. Stay where you are.’

  ‘I’ll talk,’ Mollie said as she came out of the house.

  Ogden heeled his sorrel forward. ‘Tell your man to point his rifle somewhere’s else,’ he murmured.

  Holding a double-barrelled shotgun, Henri walked from the bunkhouse. Latch waited until he had taken position at the near corner of the house.

  Mollie looked at both men, nodded and they slowly lowered their guns. ‘I’m assuming you haven’t come to kill me, Mr Ogden,’ she called out. ‘But if I were you, I’d keep my hands empty and clear in the open.’

  Ogden gave a tight smile and held up the palms of both hands, knee’d his horse closer to the veranda. ‘This is a friendly visit, ma’am. The last time I looked, I wasn’t armed,’ he said, curling his fingers around the saddlehorn. ‘And it’s been a long time since I said that to anyone.’

  Mollie almost returned the smile. ‘It’s a long way back to your business, and the day’s starting to wane. So just say what’s on your mind.’ Mollie’s eyes glittered fiercely in the fading light. Within a deep fold of her calico dress, her right hand clutched the bone handle of a small-bore pistol.

  ‘I heard you’re hiring gunhands, Miss Broad.’ Ogden kept his irritation in check, his glance ignoring Latch and Henri. ‘Two of them crossed the boundary and shot up one of my line camps.’

  ‘It’s a tad early for bedtime stories, Ogden. And if your sources were reliable, you’d know I haven’t a plugged nickel to hire gunhands with. Fact is, you’re holding Bluestem stock on your range and we’re coming after it.’ With that, Mollie did return a stiff smile.

  Ogden shrugged. ‘If you believe that, why not send over a rider or two tomorrow and check it out?’ he said, noticing Latch who walked quickly across the porch and into the house.

  Henri looked across his shoulder when the heavy door squeaked on its hinges. Nervy and uncertain of what was happening, he lifted his shotgun and fired with Ogden nearly in his sights. Next moment, the crash of another gun blasted out from close behind him. He felt a great pulse of air, a hammer blow to the back of his head and he shot forward, down to the warm, choking dust.

  On impulse, Mollie brought up her own Colt and fired. The way she’d been taught, happened, and she pulled the trigger again, then again. Ogden cursed, jerked sideways, kicking his sorrel into the yard. ‘Treacherous wild bunch,’ his voice cracked out.

  Latch backed away from the door as the explosions reverberated and flashed against the darkening ranch house. He stopped, took a step forward as Mollie ran into the front parlour. ‘Get in here,’ he yelled. He grabbed her by the arm, pulled her flat against the back wall.

  A breeze blew in and a chair scraped across the floorboards. Latch saw the steely, glinting line of a rifle barrel as a figure came through an open doorway into the room. He stood very still and quiet, waited until the intruder was almost in front of him and Mollie. Then he elbowed himself away from the wall.

  ‘Henri wouldn’t come in the back way,’ he grated, and lit the room with the flashes and firing of his carbine. He swung violently, nearly blinded, as a bullet smashed his shoulder, flung him back against Mollie and the wall. Desperately, single-handed, he fired once again. This time he saw the intruder’s face, but momentarily, as the bullet hit the man between coal-black eyes. Then he cursed again, louder, as he realized there were two men, not one.

  He heard, rather than saw the other man running for the back door. Now Mollie was turning to fire. She fired three more times, then the hammer fell on an empty case. It was a shadowy figure she was firing at. The man staggered sideways, falling heavily against the door frame of the back door before disappearing into the outside gloom. The sounds echoed through the house, rooms filling with acrid cordite. With their hearts pounding, Latch and Mollie stood and watched. Shocked and silent, they listened to the thumping of hoofs on hard-packed dirt as a rider galloped across and away from the home yard.

  ‘Light one o’ your lamps,’ Latch said. Moments later he was holding himself against the wall, staring down at the body that was bathed in the yellow glow.

  ‘They must’ve been after you, ma’am. To come into the house like that,’ he said in a voice devoid of emotion.

  ‘Who is he?’ Mollie asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I’d probably recognize him if he’d got a face. It’s me I’m worried about.’

  Mollie put the lamp down and helped Latch to the couch. ‘Sit here. Henri’s been hit too.’

  Latch was dazed. His shoulder hurt bad and the fingers of his left arm were numbing up. When Mollie returned a few minutes later, she was deeply anxious. ‘I can’t move Henri,’ she said sadly. ‘He’s too heavy.’ She looked closely at Latch’s wound, gritted her teeth and felt the back of his shoulder. ‘The bullet’s gone clean through. It’s the flesh . . . the muscle that hurts. At least I won’t have to attempt any surgery,’ she added with a wan smile. ‘I’ll go and heat some water, something to clean up with.’

  ‘Can you load my rifle afore you do that?’ Latch asked. When Mollie had gone, he got to his feet and walked to the front door of the parlour. If he’s that bad, moving him might kill him, he thought, looking across to where Henri was lying. Tend to the living, I say. He turned his back to the home yard, took another look at the dead man on the floor of the parlour. ‘Reckon more got away than stayed,’ he called out to Mollie. Then he cursed, faltered to the couch when his senses whirled.

  A distinct drumming of hoofs came out of the night as Will and Shoeville rode to the tethering rail of the Bluestem ranchhouse. Returning from town, the two men had heard the piercing crack of gunfire, now they smelled the remaining wisps of low-lying gunsmoke. Will took the veranda steps two at a time, kicked at the spent cartridge cases.

  ‘Where the hell are they?’ he rasped.

  ‘Henri’s over here. Could be hurt bad,’ Shoeville exclaimed breathlessly from the yard.

  Just inside the front door to the parlour, Will quartered the room with his
Colt. ‘Who the. . . ?’ he started, seeing the body on the floor.

  ‘I’m here, Will,’ Latch said. ‘Bullet wound ain’t so bad, but I’ll live . . . don’t feel so chirpy though.’

  ‘Was this Ogden? Where’s Mollie?’

  ‘We had a visit from him. He brought two of his gunnies.’

  ‘Yeah. That one’s a comanchero. Name o’ Pito . . . I think. Looks like Ogden’s decided to make an open fight of it. He must be desperate. Where’s Mollie?’

  ‘I’m here, Will,’ Mollie gasped as she came into the room carrying a bowl of hot water. ‘Thank God you’re back . . . you and Ben. You can help me get Henri in here. Latch needs some cleaning and sewing.’

  A half hour later, owing to shock and mescal, Henri was in a deep sleep on the couch. His was a bad graze wound, now cleansed and wadded with willow poultice, tied with strips of clean towel.

  ‘And that leaves you, Mollie,’ Will started. ‘Ogden’s not ended the affair, not by a long chalk. I reckon you should go into White Mesa. At least until this is over.’

  Mollie stared back, her eyes glittering with righteous anger. ‘This is my home. You think I’m letting a virtual stranger bid me to leave it?’

  ‘It’s common sense,’ Latch said bluntly. ‘I sure wouldn’t stay here given a choice. Not for the next few days, anyhow.’

  There was an uneasy silence. ‘I wouldn’t want to see you hurt, or worse. It’s unnecessary,’ Shoeville said, sounding like he was thinking aloud. ‘If you feel so strong for Bluestem, why’d you want to put your life in danger?’

  ‘And where would I go, Ben?’ Mollie flushed gently as she considered the sense and feeling in Shoeville’s voice, read the unspoken message in his eyes. ‘The Bello Hotel?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Shoeville leaned forward, almost conspiratorial. ‘It’s pretty clear we’re all ready to finish what Ogden started. But if any one of us gets caught considerin’ your wellbein’ or whereabouts, that’s it. It don’t take long to get shot. Put clear . . . you’ll be in the way.’

  ‘Thank you, Ben. That is very clear.’ Mollie stepped between Will and Latch, went out on to the veranda. Summer lightning flashed restlessly over the mountains. Thunder followed, muttering around the rimrocked foothills, and a hunter’s moon silvered Hog Flats.

  Shoeville came out and stood beside Mollie. ‘No reason why you can’t turn in,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll figure what to do in the mornin’.’

  ‘Tell me what you’ve decided, you mean,’ Mollie replied. ‘I could stay with Marge Highgate,’ she added, turning towards the front door. ‘After all, we’ve a lot in common.’

  ‘We’ve all got some o’ that,’ Shoeville said obliquely, letting her brush closely past him.

  Chapter 8

  The following morning, Mollie drove her pie buggy to town. Ben Shoeville sat beside her, his horse strung out from the tailboard. They rattled across the rough-hewn bridge which spanned the creek, took the left fork.

  ‘No matter what happens . . . what you hear, stay close to town,’ Shoeville advised without taking his eyes off the trail.

  ‘I will. But it’s not going to be easy at Marge Highgate’s place with all of you dodging Bolas . . . heaven knows what else out at Bluestem.’ Clear concern was in every word of Mollie’s voice.

  ‘Well, we’re not for the skedaddle. An’ Ogden looks like he’s wantin’ to make it real personal.’

  ‘So what are we going to do, Ben?’ Mollie asked more fervently. ‘The man’s got himself a crew on fighting wages . . . more, I’ll wager. Why not let the sheriff step in and handle it?’

  ‘The sheriff? Turner Foote?’ There was open contempt in Shoeville’s voice. Mollie turned towards him, saw the darkness in his eyes.

  ‘We’ll make things so tough for Ogden’s goddamn Land an’ Stock Company, they’ll be prayin’ for another Apache uprisin’.’ Shoeville leaned forward and jerked at the brake lever as they drew alongside the Highgate picket fence. He swung to the ground, ducked under the horse’s head to the wagon’s offside. Taking a fraction longer than necessary, he took Mollie’s hand, assisted her to the ground as Marge Highgate came out on to her stoop.

  ‘Hello Mollie. You come to visit?’ The woman’s voice sounded friendly.

  ‘I’ve been evicted . . . run out of my own home by my own people,’ Mollie replied calmly.

  ‘I’m sure regretful of that, ma’am . . . the suddenness of it all,’ Shoeville said, lifting a bulky travelling bag from the wagon. ‘I’ll take the rig on to the livery.’

  ‘Is there something I’m missing, Ben?’ Mollie asked thoughtfully. ‘I know this is a lot more than a burr under your saddle, but you’ve got . . . unmanageable.’

  Shoeville regarded Mollie for a moment. ‘I owe Ogden for Lew Redbone, for last night, for Henri, for what he’s doin’ to you. It’s a debt needs payin’ back,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘I said for you to see Sheriff Foote before you leave town, Ben. Look on it as a work order. You understand?’

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ Shoeville accepted. He climbed back on the seat, shook out the reins and drove off slowly.

  ‘Let’s get you out of this heat, Mollie. Come on inside,’ Marge Highgate said with a quick glance at the withdrawing pie buggy. ‘You’re very welcome. I get lonesome,’ she added, picking up the valise.

  ‘Yes, I do too. I didn’t realize how much.’ Mollie was weary as she followed the older woman into the house.

  ‘You can have the room along here. I’ll show you.’ Marge smiled.

  The room was small, clean and comfortably furnished, cool after the hot winds of the Flats. Mollie stared blankly around her, then unpacked and hurried out into the kitchen.

  ‘Now what is all this about, Mollie? Tell me.’ As she spoke, Marge pointed to a tray on top of the oven. ‘Four pies. Two meat, two fruit. I’m not sure why I made so much . . . must have known there was company,’ she added with a smile.

  ‘Sounds like you mean more than me.’ Mollie didn’t sound particularly interested. ‘I’m sorry about this, Marge. Out of the blue . . . you know.’

  ‘Nonsense. We don’t live in a world of appointments, Mollie. Besides, we’re almost kin aren’t we? Good heavens, sometimes it seems like only yesterday your pa came to town.’ Beneath Marge’s geniality, she was recalling, pushing away an old bitter thought. And he married someone else while I sat waiting . . . and hoping. ‘Still, that’s enough of that. It’s more comfortable in the parlour, and you can tell me what it is that’s troubling you so.’

  For ten minutes Mollie related her story, the recent events out at Bluestem. ‘It’s obvious there’s going to be more trouble . . . final, bad trouble.’ Mollie was near to choking with emotion.

  ‘I’ve listened to every word you’ve said, Mollie. But I do have to get to the store,’ Marge replied. ‘It’s where I wanted to go as you arrived. I won’t be long. It is quite important.’

  Mollie attempted a smile. ‘With those comforting pies out there, the temptation’s too great. Baking hasn’t been top of my chores lately. Why not let me go? The walk’s what I need right now, even in the heat.’

  ‘No, no.’ Madge lifted a sombrero from the hook behind the door. ‘You’ve had enough for one day. Besides, it’s another opportunity to bother Preston Mower.’

  Mollie didn’t have time to say that, if that was the case, their combined force would be first-rate, even pleasing.

  For a moment, Marge halted at the front door. ‘You can put the coffee on the hot-plate, Mollie,’ she called before hurrying off to the main street.

  Along the narrow boardwalk, Marge took advantage of meagre overhead shade. She approached Todo Mercantile, and went in at the front as Mower came out of the back office. The trader cursed silently and held the door open, stood with his back against it. Mollie glared around her, puffed her cheeks and bent back the front brim of her hat.

  ‘Ben Shoeville’s taking Foote out to Bolas,’ she said.

  ‘An’ how’d you know that?’ Mower
scowled.

  ‘Mollie Broad told me not more than a quarter hour ago. There was trouble out at her place last night and two of her men got hurt. But it cost Ogden. One of his venomous comancheros was killed and another badly wounded.’

  ‘She rode into town to tell you?’ Mower demanded impatiently.

  ‘No. Ben Shoeville brought her to me for safe keeping.’ Marge pulled the brim of her hat back down. ‘Get word to Ogden. Tell him it looks like open stakes now. If you like, point out the ace is up my sleeve.’

  A pang of doubt beset Mower and he frowned. ‘You sure she doesn’t suspect anything? You?’

  ‘Huh, like sleeping with the enemy?’ Marge moved towards the door. ‘She suspects nothing. Look out for Shoeville when he leaves. And don’t forget the message for Ogden.’

  As Marge left the store, a wicked smile crooked Mower’s face as he went to sit in his resting-watching chair. Not long after, Ben Shoeville walked from the livery with his horse. Mower saw the Bluestem ramrod tie up outside the sheriff’s office, and he settled down to wait.

  The sheriff’s office was a big, sparely furnished room. Against the far wall, Turner Foote sat at his desk with his feet up, contemplating his next measure of whiskey.

  ‘Get yourself settled furthest from the front door, and just keep quiet,’ a venerable town mayor had advised him. ‘They barge in, all bluster and up in arms, but get discouraged by the time they reach you and your desk.’ It was a strategy Foote had seen work on more than one occasion.

  Now, he didn’t look up at Ben Shoeville’s entrance, and the Bluestem man waited a moment silently watching him. When the lawman still didn’t respond, Shoeville re-opened the door, fiercely kicked it shut with his heel.

  It jolted Foote, made him push himself from his chair. He stood with suspicion and fear crimping his face.