The Bolas Page 6
‘Swallow hard and grab your traps, Sheriff,’ Shoeville said, taking a few steps forward. ‘We’ve got some ridin’ ahead of us.’
‘Ridin’ to where?’ Foote asked hoarsely.
‘Ogden attacked Bluestem ranch last night. They left a dead man behind. That’s a sheriff’s business.’
For many seconds, Foote stood silently thinking. He started to say something, but produced nothing, the impact of Shoeville’s mission sinking in. ‘I warned you an’ that new Chalk feller what would happen if. . . .’
Shoeville interrupted with another step forward, no attempt to hide his anger. ‘Just grab a hat. I’ll get you ready myself if I have to.’
‘I’m the sheriff, not one o’ your saddlers, goddamnit,’ Foote replied, crabbing along the rear wall of his office.
Shoeville yanked a range hat off the hook and threw it at the lawman. ‘There’s no witness, so I’ll treat you any way I want, you son-of-a-bitch. Put that on. I’m not havin’ the entrails o’ your head burn up.’
Foote’s slack face loosened even more with fear. He stared at the door, shuddered when Shoeville opened it and gestured towards the street.
‘I’m not goin’ anywhere just yet. Not if it ain’t in my territory.’ Foote avoided Shoeville, turned more towards the Bello Hotel than the livery. ‘I won’t be forgettin this,’ he rasped as Shoeville’s tough fingers clamped around his forearm, twisting him around.
He stumbled back towards the livery, his nerves jumpy, his breathing short and panicky.
‘You’re not supposed to,’ Shoeville told him.
The sheriff had become silent now. He led a big chestnut mare from its stall, lifted a blanket and saddle from the hooks on the wall and threw them across the back of the horse. He worked with piqued resolution, tightening cinches and jerking at straps. A bit longer, he thought. Just a bit longer, and then to hell with the Broads. Then he reflected on Shoeville’s story. After what happened last night, will Ogden cut loose when a Bluestem rider shows up . . . even if he is accompanied by the town sheriff? He glanced across the seat of the saddle, saw that Shoeville had a wary eye on him and decided on an action to take.
Leading the horse out to the hot, dry street, Foote walked slowly to his office. He was gone for less than five minutes before re-appearing with a rifle and a box of shells. Once the gun was sheathed and the shells pocketed, he swung heavily into the saddle. He lifted the reins and glanced at the waiting Shoeville. ‘Got more authority than a badge,’ he replied to the unspoken question. ‘An’ this man who was killed? How’d it happen?’
‘He was in Mollie Broad’s parlour, an’ not by invitation.’
‘Did anyone get a name?’
‘Pito . . . that’s all.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘I’m sure he’s dead. Let’s get goin’.’
A crushing weakness ate at the sheriff’s vitals as he knee’d his horse towards the creek bridge. He shivered, although sweat was already trickling freely between his shoulder blades. Everything about Shoeville’s implacable demeanour was trouble. There was no solace in knowing that Bruno Ogden would be looking for an appropriate amount of damage.
Chapter 9
A dry, dusty wind blew off the Flats. Between the blusters, the small smudge that was the Bluestem ranch range appeared to float in the coloured air that clouded the pass the two men had to ride through.
‘We can ride at sundown.’ Turner Foote half turned to look at Shoeville, read the grim resentment in the man’s face and swore angrily. ‘Hell, why not?’
‘Just keep your mouth shut,’ Shoeville muttered. He’d been thinking of the rifle in Foote’s saddle scabbard, wondered if the lawman carried a hide-out gun on him somewhere.
‘I just want to know.’ Foote hauled up his horse. ‘If we’d sent word to Ogden, he’d have rode into town. There’d be no need o’ this, goddamnit.’
Shoeville gave the swiftest of thoughts to the man’s gripe, almost considerate. ‘There’s a plaque hangin’ inside your office door says somethin’ about justice an’ your own doorstep. You forgot that, Sheriff? An’ you’re bein’ paid.’
Foote didn’t answer. He was too engaged with thoughts about Ogden, what the man would do, or get done, when they rode through the pass. For the umpteenth time he considered his options, even thought about the irony of carrying guns.
Gradually, the two riders worked their way towards the mountains, suffering weariness from the heat and gruelling trail.
‘For Chris’sake’s, Shoeville,’ Foote began after a long period of silence. ‘You know that if we carry through with this, there’s a lot o’ people gettin’ hurt. Why should you side with a barleycorn outfit like Bluestem? Hog Flats is ruined for cattle, and it’ll take more’n a couple of cloudbursts to soften the land. Why pick on Bruno Ogden for a fight?’
Having harboured similar thoughts, even uncertainties, for some time, Shoeville considered the man’s words. ‘I’ll make it simple,’ he said. ‘He’s a harmful bully an’ needs to be put down.’
‘An’ you’ll come out of it with ten years of breakin’ rocks on the Tularosa Turnpike.’
‘Not with you as a respectable witness, I won’t.’ Shoeville leaned from the saddle and smacked the haunch of Foote’s big mare. ‘Get goin’, star-toter.’
The sheriff was still riven with nerves as they rode through the pass. The day’s early alcohol was rising from his gut, but didn’t account for the sickness he felt on seeing movement high up in the canyon walls. By now, Ogden’s guards would have sent word back to the ranch house. Foote prayed there’d be no shooting before he’d had time to speak his part.
Standing under the broad overhang of his portico, Bruno Ogden leaned against a white painted upright as he watched Shoeville and Foote enter the home yard. His face was taut, but his eyes bright and sharp.
‘Come on in, Sheriff,’ he called out. ‘You’ve been a long time in getting here.’
Foote lifted a weary leg over the cantle and swung to the ground, sat stiffly down on the steps. ‘Goddamnit, these ain’t the conditions for a man to be out ridin’.’
‘Sorry, I don’t remember extending an invite.’ Ogden’s tone was disdainful, hardening as it settled on Shoeville. ‘And you’re a ways from home, cowpoke.’
Shoeville looked around him. He knew that anyone who’d got themselves into Ogden’s position wouldn’t be taking any chances. He noted the low-lying ranch house, the green grass and arching willows, the glint of lowering sunshine on the windows. Off to the west, up-canyon, he saw rising curls of dust. They were most likely extra guards setting out to seal off Bolas.
‘Don’t worry about me. I’m just taggin’ along with the law,’ Shoeville said. He read the hostility in Ogden’s manner, considered that if acknowledging White Mesa and Territorial law, disrespect and antagonism were mutual.
‘So what is it you rode out to tell me, Sheriff?’ Ogden asked.
‘It’s about a fair size herd o’ Bluestem beef up in the hills.’
Ogden stepped down off the porch, kneeled close to Foote. ‘There’s a few who say I’m foolish over some things. But never about cattle. You ought to know that, Turner.’ He looked again at Shoeville, this time more doubtfully. ‘And that’s why you’re here.’
Shoeville was alert to the Bolas gunmen who were out in the shade of the trees. ‘I don’t think you’re any kind of fool, Ogden. I think you’re dishonest at best . . . wouldn’t like to consider your worst,’ he replied. If no one was going to mention the gun fight at Bluestem, he wasn’t either. After all, Bolas had come off worse in that encounter . . . why continue the whys and wherefores? ‘When you suckered Far Creek into a sale, you didn’t consider the scrub beef . . . Bluestem mavericks roaming the higher ground. Or did you?’
Ogden smiled. Aping a play pistol, he pointed two fingers at Shoeville’s stomach. He thought about the ramrod’s words, then looked up, his features set hard again. ‘There’s been no tally yet. When there is one, I’ll le
t you know the mix.’
‘Why not invite us in to help?’ Shoeville suggested. ‘It makes sense more and it’s more neighbourly.’
‘I don’t do neighbourly. Hadn’t you noticed?’ Ogden snapped, triggering his forefinger.
‘Hell, Bruno.’ Foote’s voice was chafed with uncertainty. ‘Are you aimin’ to move herds through the pass?’
‘Not all of them, no. I’ve got a gather in a box canyon. I’m bringing them south of Condor Pass before they starve on Bluestem’s dirt.’
‘I’ve three riders I can throw into the cow hunt,’ Shoeville felt a way in, a draw of anticipation. ‘It’ll make less work for you if we tally in the canyon.’
‘Three riders, you say? I’ll not have any strangers riding herd on stock that’s belonging to me.’
‘They won’t be. I can guarantee it,’ Shoeville said easily, almost laughing at the irony. ‘They’re trustworthy but hard, not soft waddies like most of us. Besides, from what I’ve seen so far, not all your riders are exactly kin.’
Ogden’s face turned blank in spite of his tight smile. He stood up, glanced around the home ground as if confirming his security, looked at Foote, saw the discomfiture fleetingly play across the lawman’s face.
‘This is Bolas, Shoeville,’ he said. ‘An outfit that’s worked hard to get what it wants. Right now, it’s looking down on a stack of land and lodgings it means to own.’
‘And you’re powerful enough to get it?’
‘Well, that’s what we’re going to find out.’ Ogden’s voice was flat, straightforward. ‘I’m not setting to rile every cowman in Hog Flats. I think you’re probably a good man, but that’s not a quality we use in business, is it?’
‘I wouldn’t say it was an exclusive. Go on.’
‘The desert and drought has cut Bluestem back to nothing. Too few cows, too few hands, too little money. Lump it all together and what have you got? A busted hand, I’d say.’ Ogden stared at Foote, bringing him into the conversation. ‘There’s an Act states, such property goes back to commissioners. Eh, Sheriff?’
The lawman nodded uncertainly. ‘Ain’t my specialty, but yeah, it’s somethin’ like that. If no one takes over.’
Shoeville was grinding his jaw with helpless irritation, but before he could say anything, Mal Deavis appeared from a side annexe of the ranch house. The gunman held his hands loosely at his sides, looked enquiringly towards Ogden. But the Bolas chief was watching anger cloud the Bluestem ramrod’s face.
‘You’re down to legal tomfoolery, Ogden,’ Shoeville said, watching Deavis as he spoke. He was weighing his chances, same time keeping his right hand well away from his own Colt. He lifted his left hand pointedly at the sheriff. ‘I brought you here to explain how Bluestem stands. Tell him.’
‘I’m a town sheriff, not a state legislator,’ Foote retorted.
‘Tell him he doesn’t own the water rights across Hog Flats. That’s got to be town sheriff stuff, goddamnit.’
‘I know nothin’ about water or its rights. Wherever it is,’ Foote blazed, getting to his feet.
‘You know that no one alters the course of a river or creek, unless you’re a goddamn broody beaver,’ Shoeville answered back. ‘That water’s here for all, including the Cholla. And right now, that’s bone dry.’
‘Are you telling us something we don’t know?’ Ogden asked.
‘No. You know all right. You built a dam to run water down this side of Condor Pass.’
‘A dam?’ Ogden sounded incredulous. ‘You’ve seen this?’
‘Will Chalk has. He’s not a man for imaginings or exaggeration.’
Ogden’s eyes narrowed. ‘I remember telling you to keep your men off Bolas,’ he said. ‘Now I’ll tell you again, Shoeville. Stay off my range. Tell Chalk – anyone – that if I catch ’em this side of the Bluestem markers, I’ll shoot them dead as trespassers, land scalpers, squatters, whatever. And with the law’s blessing.’
‘Huh, you mean backshot by one of your hired gunmen? Like they did for Lew Redbone?’ Shoeville accused. ‘Answer for the dam,’ he persisted angrily. ‘Look around at the greenness. How the hell can Bolas run herds and feed them when the rest of the valley’s dying? How the hell does water manage to flow your way and not ours? Are you in touch with someone up above, perhaps an agreement with the law? You want to explain, Ogden?’ Shoeville’s contempt broke over the sheriff, who stood uneasy and ineffective.
‘Hey. Did you get me to ride up here to get trapped . . . implicated in your goddamn scrap?’ Foote blustered.
‘Yeah, sort of,’ Shoeville said, as though he wasn’t sure any longer.
Ogden disregarded Foote. ‘How about them beavers you mentioned?’ he said through the slightest of smirks.
‘They’re smart, but they stop short at rolling rocks around,’ Shoeville replied. ‘Don’t try and finagle me, boss man. And tell that carrion Deavis to crawl back into his daytime hole. If he makes any move for that gun of his while we’re standing here, I’m getting at least one bullet into you. There’s no significant law to worry about.’
‘I’ll look into this dam business.’ Ogden turned away from Shoeville, stared thoughtfully at Foote as he spoke. ‘You’d better head back to town,’ he said. ‘Apologize to that lonesome jug of corn.’
‘At least you know where you are with a drink,’ Foote murmured. ‘I had no choice . . . don’t rightly know what I’m supposed to do. You’d better come up with somethin’ soon.’
Ogden walked up the ranch-house steps, stopped to think in the shade under the broad porch. If Will Chalk was taken care of, it would dispose of the only witness against him . . . the only eye witness. If done properly, Bluestem would be his. With the dam then taken apart, water would find its way back down Cholla Creek. Five minutes later he watched Foote and Shoeville heading towards the distant canyon, then he called to Deavis.
‘Get some men together,’ he said, still looking towards the two riders. ‘I want the Chalk feller moved on . . . or down. And the other one. Whatever his name is.’
‘OK, Boss. What about them?’ Twixt a grimace and a grin, Deavis showed his darkly stained teeth, jerked his head towards Shoeville and Foote.
‘Leave them be. But send a man into town to warn Mower.’
Chapter 10
At mid-afternoon Preston Mower was restless and impatient. He walked down to the corrals and looked over the horses, hoped it wouldn’t be long before Ogden sent a crew to collect them.
‘You’re feeding these broncs too much,’ he said to the wrangler. ‘You’re stuffin’ them at my expense. Leave out the oats.’ He looked around at the town, decided to walk across to the Bello Hotel. Two cowhands from Far Creek appeared to be asleep on the porch, and he rapped one of them on the foot.
‘How’d you boys like to make a few dollars?’ he asked. ‘It’s more fun inside than out here.’
In unison, two faces appeared from beneath range hats. ‘Doing what?’ one of them asked.
‘Running broomtails to Bolas.’
‘We like it out here,’ the second man replied, and the hats went back to covering their faces.
‘I’ll make it worthwhile.’
‘This is worthwhile. Go an’ tend your store, you tight-fisted son-of-a-bitch,’ the man concluded.
It was hot on the street and Mower turned irritably into the Bello Hotel. He drifted into a poker game, lost ten dollars in short order, and tramped back to Todo Mercantile. By first dark he had worked off his nervousness on a freighter captain who had wanted credit and a youngster who had asked for a dip in the lemon sugar can. Now, from across the street, he eyed the quiet sheriff’s office and jailhouse.
Ten minutes later he leaned back in Turner Foote’s chair and surveyed the office. The sheriff’s gun belts hanging from a peg caught his eye. He thought back to the incident when Bluestem’s ramrod had obligated Foote on to the big mare and out of town. He recalled Foote and the rifle, wondered why a Colt revolver had been left behind under lock and key.
Mower almost broke into a run in his haste to get away, almost ignoring his sales helper and the customers. He usually carried a hideaway revolver, but spared the idea when he considered Shoeville’s competence with mechanics and the like. He took a new rifle from the rack and with an unsteady hand thumbed shells into the chamber. He returned to his office and left by the rear door, and hurried to the livery.
The rising trail was long, dusty and hot. Leading his horse, Mower walked most of it. When they came to the crest the trader paused to quarter the land. Under the hunter’s moon he could see for nearly a mile. Behind him was White Mesa, while ahead and below were dry washes of the creeks.
He nestled himself among a string of flat rocks to ponder the problem of Turner Foote. It wouldn’t be a ticket to Whiterod, where cheap and available liquor would loosen his tongue, and not out to Bolas where he would be more than an inconvenience. Mower decided it was best the sheriff was right out of the picture. Maybe going the same way as Elmer Broad . . . maybe from this very spot.
Placing the rifle alongside him, Mower felt his decision was crucial, and curiously justified.
Ben Shoeville didn’t look back as he rode with Turner Foote through the canyon into open country. He was thinking things through – like Preston Mower, taking stock. He’d had qualms all along about bringing the law into it. His gut instinct was to shoot Ogden and take his chance on a getaway into and through Condor Pass. That was an odds-on advantage, the cold shoulder to Foote’s futile law.
Nursing their own vinegary silences, the pair jogged on, the Flats around them featureless and colourless in the failing light. Shoeville looked about him like a man concerned at the order of the land, the diverted watercourse prevailing above all else. ‘Hey – if word was to reach Tyler’s Post, I’d wager the army would make a gallup,’ he said.