The Bolas Page 7

  ‘Why? Why’d they do that?’ Foote replied, drawing back.

  ‘To quell a civil uprising . . . the start of a range war. Do you think Bluestem’s goin’ to sit back and watch a land grab without lifting a gun? Me included?’

  Foote shook his head. ‘If you ask me, it’s more to do with those two rollin’ stones you hired. I’ll turn over some ol’ dodgers, see if I can find anythin’.’

  ‘Don’t get dust up your nose,’ Shoeville offered derisively. He gripped the saddlehorn in anger, the knuckles of his hands gleaming in the dusk. ‘If you’re wanting a killer, take a good look at Bolas. Your friend Ogden’s got a whole gangload of them on his payroll.’

  Foote looked nonplussed towards Shoeville. ‘There’s not one hell of a lot I can do now,’ he said, the thought almost amusing him.

  ‘Yeah. If I didn’t know better I’d think there was a satisfied smile messing with your face, Sheriff.’ Shoeville leaned forward for effect. ‘I’ll be riding to Whiterod. That’s where the Bruno Ogden Land and Stock Company’s registered. Ogden is only one of the principals, or has us believe. So I want to find out who the others might be. With the help of the land agent, commissioner and marshal’s office, if needs be, I’ll get this goddamn business sorted.’

  ‘And Mollie Broad knows about this?’

  ‘Not yet, she doesn’t. But I’ve had it on my mind for a while,’ Shoeville said. ‘Maybe Will Chalk was right in saying to give the law a try.’ He heard, rather than saw, Foote’s sharp turn towards him. ‘That surprise you, does it? I wonder if it was you he meant to get included in all that, Sheriff? Then he don’t know you like we all do.’

  ‘It’s more’n a hornet’s nest you’re pokin’ at.’ Foote was now more fearful. ‘Why not give Ogden a chance? I reckon he’s got the message if he’s up to no good. Maybe he’ll think better of it all by mornin’,’ he suggested anxiously.

  ‘An’ maybe one day we’ll be calling you Mr President,’ Shoeville scowled his contempt for Foote. ‘Ogden’s men are already looking for Chalk and Latchford, and they won’t be wanting town gossip.’ He swung his horse in close to Foote’s mare. ‘But right now it’s home for me, and that’s Bluestem,’ he said. ‘I reckon you can find your way from here . . . straight to the Bello Hotel’s bar.’

  The sheriff put his horse to the steep cut-bank, clopped dully across the bed of the dry wash. As the big chestnut mare climbed the opposite bank, faltering with weariness, a figure detached itself from the ground shadows. The silvery moonlight gleamed on the rifle barrel of the man who’d been waiting, and Turner Foote reached for his own weapon.

  ‘Sheriff,’ the voice called out.

  Foote groaned. ‘What the hell, Mower,’ he gasped nervously. ‘I saw the glint o’ your rifle . . . could’ve plugged you. What the hell you doin’ out here?’

  ‘Waitin’ for you.’

  Foote heeled his horse forwards, tight reined as the animal tried to evade Mower. ‘Must be important . . . to leave dollars behind.’

  Mower wanted to retort with something about getting separated from a jug of drunk water but he ignored the mockery. He took in the sheriff’s nervousness and grinned coldly. ‘Where’s Shoeville gone?’

  ‘Bluestem. Then he’s goin’ to Whiterod . . . nearest US marshal.’ Foote swung wearily to the ground, stamped some numbness from his legs. ‘Goddamn him. An’ I’m too long in the game for these hours in the saddle.’

  Set in pasty features, Mower’s eyes narrowed. He smacked the barrel of his rifle against his leg. ‘Who the hell gave him that idea?’ he said accusingly.

  ‘You don’t think it was me, do you?’ Foote rasped. ‘You think I want the administration o’ the whole Territory comin’ to town? What’s goin’ to happen when they discover who precisely owns the Bolas company . . . the responsible parties?’

  Implications quickly touched the trader. ‘Is that what he’s after?’

  ‘It’s what he said.’

  ‘Then he’ll have to be stopped. Does Ogden know?’

  ‘No. An’ listenin’ to you, it’s hardly likely is it?’

  ‘It’s got to be someone we can trust.’ Mower looked intently at Foote. ‘Someone who knows how to disappear afterwards. It’s more your line o’ business, goddamnit. Who can you think of?’

  ‘No one,’ Foote barked. ‘The bit about trust makes it impossible. This is Hog Valley. Besides, we can’t kill off everyone from Bluestem. I want no more part of it,’ he added.

  ‘We have to stick together,’ Mower charged. ‘The four of us.’

  ‘Three.’ Foote gathered up the reins and climbed awkwardly into the saddle, missed the twist of anger in Mower’s face. ‘This ain’t my work anymore. I’m pullin’ out,’ he said.

  Mower didn’t say any more, just watched Foote ride away. He waited until he saw the sheriff silhouetted against the darkening skyline, then he lifted his rifle, slowly, deliberately eased back the hammer.

  ‘An’ I’m pullin’ this,’ he called out, more to himself than Foote. He sighted the target, and without hesitation squeezed the trigger.

  The hard, flat crack of the rifle shot split the vast silence. Then there was a visceral, dull thud as the bullet struck Foote in the middle of his back. The impact drove him forwards, lifeless, head first down from his saddle. The mare ran, broke into a frightened gallop until Mower’s second shot brought her to her knees.

  Mower’s glance searched the ever-increasing darkness, but the dying horse’s last strides had carried it just beyond any clear vision. Levering up more shells, he shot another four times, fast, covering the ground where he thought the horse had finally fallen. ‘Certainty’s better than hopin’. I’m a goddamn storekeeper,’ he muttered.

  Ben Shoeville recognized the sound of a Winchester and pulled his horse into a slow walk. He dropped further down to the dried-up bed, hugged the rocky bankside shadows that screened him from sight. He counted the shots and accepted his thoughts of the rifle, sat quietly cursing, his mind racing with curiosity.

  A slight sense of missing out on something stirred him then, and he climbed back up the bank in the direction of White Mesa. He saw two formless shapes up ahead, ground-hitched his horse and walked cautiously forward. He kneeled and rolled Turner Foote on to his side, his curses returning at the sight of where the sheriff had been backshot. Bruno Ogden was a man who could make this sort of killing – murder a lawman who had to have his mouth kept shut.

  He stood up, silent, unmoving. There was a sound, a horse nickered close by. ‘Whoever you are, I’m probably on your side,’ he called out, lying in an attempt to gain an advantage.

  In the continued silence, he decided not to push. He walked back to his mare, climbed into the saddle and loped towards the crossing. Almost immediately there was a flash of light and a shot from up ahead. The mare snorted and stumbled and he threw himself sideways. The gun fired a second time and pain hammered through him, numbing his reactions for a moment after he landed.

  He drew his revolver and fired into the gloom, towards where he thought the gunshot had come from. There was an immediate return of fire that tore past his shoulder, hit a hard place behind him and ricocheted. He scrambled to his feet and lurched towards his horse, bent low and biting his lip to counter the pain. The mare skittered to one side, but he reached out and grabbed the reins, dragged himself to within reach of the saddle.

  The next shot felt as though he’d been whacked hard by a shovel. It knocked the breath from his body and he fell hard against the mare. This is how you did for Lewis Redbone as well as Foote, were his thoughts as he slipped to the ground, still gripping his Colt.

  In pain and anguish, he heard someone riding away. ‘Don’t go, you son-of-a-bitch,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Come an’ see if I’m dead yet.’

  Again, he dragged himself to his horse. But the animal was frightened, spooked, and it crow-hopped at the smell of his blood. Then the deep dark enveloped him, his thoughts and hurt fading quickly as he sank to the ground.
<
br />   Chapter 11

  Lightning slashed the sky far beyond Condor Pass. Dark stormclouds were piling up over the San Andreas mountains. On the Bluestem side of the range the air was hot and humid, hardly any movement or sound.

  Latchford Loke was waiting, sitting out of sight in a thicket of greasewood. He slapped irritatedly at the pestering flies, dabbed at beads of sweat across his forehead. He heard nothing, yet knew that the danger was growing. Twice in the past hour a flurry of rising quail let him know that men were somewhere out there. Like him they were waiting, so he continued to sit in edgy silence.

  He waited another thirty minutes. Suddenly he leaned with his ear close to the ground, heard the measured tread of a carefully ridden horse.

  Clamping on his battered range hat, Latch scurried to his waiting mount. In the saddle, he awkwardly hauled his carbine from under his left leg, and placed it across his lap. He sat and watched the dark shape become more visible, and his nervousness eased.

  ‘Yeah, they’re there all right, Latch.’ Will Chalk’s voice was cool and unhurried. ‘More’n you could shake a stick at.’ The man squinted at his partner, his mouth forming a near cheerful grin.

  With excitement now replacing the dull ache of his shoulder wound, Latch was stirred. ‘Hells clangin’ bangin’ bells, Will. What are we waitin’ for?’

  ‘To stop the both of us getting shot dead, that’s what.’ Will was calculating, as he thought back. ‘There’s a pair on point, maybe three. One or two to drive the beef out. That means anything we figure on doing, must be done before Bolas has a chance to gather up.’

  ‘So let’s go get ’em. It’s our beef . . . sort of.’

  ‘You’ve been sitting in the sun too long,’ Will said as he slid from the saddle. He hunkered down, stared off across the flats. ‘There’s near a thousand head. That’s a peck o’ trouble . . . more if you consider the opposition.’

  Under a dash of lightning, the shape of the country momentarily came clear and sharp. Will saw the canyon that marked the hideout of the beef. It had been late afternoon when they had seen Shoeville and Foote heading that way. By now, Shoeville should have been on the way out. But Bruno Ogden was no fool, and if he told the sheriff to haul ass, the lawman would have done. Ben Shoeville would be left alone and Foote wouldn’t lift a finger of help, let alone show a badge.

  ‘Hell, I’d kick my own dog if I had one,’ Latch mumbled in frustration as he walked towards Will. He stood for a few moments glowering, issuing threats and imprecations. Then he lowered his chin, stared thoughtfully at the shapes of greasewood that close dotted the range. He took a step aside, bent down, snapped off a twig and a leaf, smelled at the oily sap and grinned. ‘You reckon there’s a way into the Bolas graze from here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes and no. It’s wired,’ Will said. ‘Three strands of good ol’ bobwire . . . shoulder high.’

  ‘Then they’ve got to cut it to let the beef through.’ Latch reached out, his gnarled fingers flicked across Will’s arm. ‘If it’s trouble we’re stayin’ for in this godforsaken place, we’ve hit gold, Will. I’m tired an’ dry, an’ I ain’t got the humour to stand here wastin’ more wind, so let’s make our play.’ Latch put the greasewood twig between his teeth. ‘You can suck on this for your afflictions,’ he explained. ‘Ain’t no wives’ tale, neither.’

  Suddenly, as if from a long vent in the earth itself, a thick dust cloud rolled out from the canyon. Lowing and bawling filled the air, and a thousand head of beef ran into the wide dry reaches of Bluestem.

  ‘Speak o’ the Devil.’ Latch pointed, stared across the valley as the lightning flashed and shattered again. ‘Did you see it?’ he rasped. ‘Looks like Hell’s decided to move itself.’

  Will was back on his feet, climbing into the saddle. He pulled his carbine from the scabbard, levered up a shell and lifted the reins. ‘Their guards’ll hear nothing above this clamour. Let’s cut the valley.’

  Side by side they raced down the rim, cutting across the empty flats, their horses impulsively swerving at the last moment to avoid rocks and stands of cholla. To the south, the Condor Pass was close, and Will estimated if they could make the rising peaks, they would be safe. But temporarily.

  Under the silvery mantle of moonlight, Latch glanced at his partner’s stern face, decided on a risky move in the hope of diverting a Bolas attack.

  ‘We’ll split up,’ he said, breathlessly, dragging his horse to a stop. ‘I’ll watch out on this side. You do the same from the other side o’ the herd.’

  Will shook his head slowly. ‘We’ll do it together,’ he decided.

  Latch reciprocated with the head shake. ‘One man can move in and out better’n two. You know that, Will. When the beef shows, we’ll stir ’em up.’

  ‘It ain’t right,’ Will continued.

  Latch smiled. ‘There’s nothin’ much about all this that is. An’ we don’t want to add wastin’ time,’ he countered kindly.

  The deep earthy rumble was getting closer. Latch’s horse had its head up, its ears pricked, snorting anxiously. Another colossal ribbon of lightning from south to east made the whole thing stark and clear. A low weaving cloud of noise, steers with lowered heads and raking horns tearing through the sea of cholla and greasewood.

  ‘OK,’ Will conceded. ‘But if anything happens to you tonight . . . anything more than it has already, I’ll ride into Bolas and gun down Ogden myself . . . no questions.’

  ‘That’s touchin’, Will. It figures on my wish list.’

  Latch waited until Will had crossed the mouth of the canyon before taking up his position. Then, with an earnest grin across his face he calmly began to snap branches of greasewood. The wood was brittle and dry and it only took minutes to create a balled heap of boughs. He lashed up the greasewood bundle, paid out his reata and fastened it to the cantle of his saddle. Then he stood for more waiting.

  Under the ghostly blanket of moonlight, Latch saw the canyon floor filled with patchy goosefoot, broken thickets of mesquite. He nodded favourably. The herd was approaching, the ground was in a deeper tremble and the pall of dust was rising.

  The Bluestem stock was pouring down the north side of the arroyo. The heavily armed Bolas riders were slapping quirts, waving lariats as they urged the beef into wild flight towards the canyon.

  Latch waited until he was certain there could be no turning back or veering off course. He mounted his horse and struck a vesta, held it until the flame caught at the greasewood, with a shout of success moved forward. The blazing mesh of wood was dragged through the dry brush, flames rearing and spreading behind him. It was a wall of fire for turning the herd back on to Bluestem soil, not Bruno Ogden’s Bolas.

  Confused yells penetrated the darkness. Riders waving catch ropes grouped on the north side of the herd, two of them with wire-cutters dashed towards the fence.

  Will Chalk’s rifle crashed out from the rimrock and one man fell, another went down as his horse stumbled and fell beneath him. The cattle were now spilling down into the canyon, pushed on by the relentless, troubled herd behind them. The belt of flames was leaping higher, rolling towards the inevitable.

  The Bolas men had their blood up. Oaths and what sounded like battlecries cut through the thundering hoofs, bullets zipped and whined everywhere. Backlit by the low flames, Latch raced on across the canyon mouth, igniting the dry weeds and brush. Sparrows and bushtits were scattered from their nightly roosts, desert critters scuttled for alternative cover and safety.

  Left alone after being herded into the canyon, the herd would have gone straight on, disappeared, scattered into Condor Pass. Now, unable to face the wall of glaring heat and flames, the cattle were running to the north. Bawling and bellowing, the herd leaders pressed and harried the mob away, scorched, frightened animals anxious for any shelter in the night.

  Latch rode on, swerving his horse through the darkness until he was high on the opposite slope. He flipped the end of the reata from his saddlehorn, yelled a greeting as Will arrived
silhouetted against the reddening glow.

  Latch took off his hat, swiped at the ash powder around his shoulders and legs. ‘I’ve been breathin’ this goddamn stuff,’ he remarked. ‘Let’s get the hell out o’ here. I feel like a lump o’ jerky.’

  Hours had passed since the horses had watered. Latch lifted his waterbag off the saddle, poured water into his hat and wet the mare’s lips and mouth. ‘Sorry, we ain’t finished yet,’ he growled. He swabbed the horse’s nostrils, waited until it sucked the hat dry. ‘There’s a few more miles to go.’

  ‘Where’d you reckon you’ll be going then, Latch? Do you hear that?’ Will nodded out to the valley where a handful of riders were at a headlong gallop in the direction of the Bluestem ranch. ‘They’re not out for any promenade,’ he said, drily.

  The two men waited silently as the others rode on, squinting against the darkness as the noise of the Bolas riders faded across the swags and hog wallows.

  ‘No, it’s us they’re after,’ Latch agreed. ‘But their mounts won’t make it much further. Their hearts’ll bust afore they catch anythin’.’

  ‘We could be on our knees ourselves before morning’s out,’ Will said.

  ‘I’m hopin’ for a cold beer in town.’ Latch spat something from the corner of his mouth. ‘The Big Bella, wasn’t it?’ he asked and spat again noisily.

  ‘Near enough,’ Will replied. ‘Tell me about Henri.’

  ‘He’s in the barn with a rifle for a nurse.’ Latch dropped his reins, rubbed the palm of his hand around his wrinkled face. ‘There’s half o’ that ol’ Frenchman just itchin’ for a Bolas scalp.’

  ‘We didn’t see Ben Shoeville ride away from Bolas.’ Will reminded Latch. ‘Do you reckon Ogden will cut him down?’