The Bolas Page 8

  ‘Not with a town sheriff as witness.’ Latch heeled his horse into a canter. ‘The way I see it, the only chance we’ve got is go to town, then come back again along the White Mesa road.’

  ‘After you’ve had that dust cutter,’ Will prodded.

  ‘Yep. I gave my horse the last water.’ Latch paused. ‘Besides, I’m out o’ that chaw baccy.’

  ‘You’ve never used it.’

  ‘From now on I’m goin’ to. Reckon I’ve been driven to it.’

  When they reached the edge of town, they rode to the bridge, drew into the deep shadow of a cotton-wood as two horsemen crossed the creek. They continued, took a side street until they levelled with Preston Mower’s mercantile, rode on to the Bello Hotel.

  Four horses were hitched outside the hotel saloon, and as Will and Latch dismounted and tied in their own mounts, the smack of horse sweat and scorched hair was unmistakable. Bolas riders had made town before them.

  Latch stood and listened for a few moments. He caught Will’s quizzical glance, who shrugged. ‘Go on then,’ he said, ‘We haven’t rode here for nothing.’

  They blinked as they stepped into the bright lamplight of the bar. Latch moved to the left, Will to the right of the door. Two Bolas riders stood close to the bar, one nearer the door, one in the far corner, among the poker tables. The barkeep shuddered, cursed under his breath as Latch moved towards him. He glanced at his under-the-counter shotgun, the cellar door to shield him from firearms trouble.

  ‘Two beers,’ Latch snapped a coin on the bar, grinned at his seedy, battered reflection in the back-bar mirror. ‘We’ve worked up a wet appetite.’

  Will had already noted, recognized one or two of the Bolas men. He was hoping maybe they were thinking as he was. That they weren’t too aware of the recent confrontation in the canyon.

  Copper John pushed his empty glass away, removed an elbow from the soggy bar top. His right hand hung at his side, the tips of his fingers fidgeting close to a Colt’s revolver. His nose twitched and he winked at Mal Deavis. ‘You always know when there’s a Bluestem waddy around. Only time they see a bath’s if they fall in the goddamn dippin’ chute,’ he said abusively.

  Latch swallowed, stared at Copper John over the rim of the glass. ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ he replied disarmingly, placing his beer down carefully in front of him. He shifted his glance from one man to the other, a slow, chilly smile stirring beneath his whiskery moustache. ‘You heifer brands fresh from a town social?’ he asked.

  ‘If you Bluestems are takin’ on trouble. . . .’ Copper John started, taking a further step away from the bar. ‘I’ll oblige you,’ the man added, his wariness including Will.

  ‘You ain’t paid for breakages.’ the barkeep’s anxious shout cut through the miasma of smoke, booze fumes and sweat. ‘Fight outside.’

  ‘We’ll do it here,’ Latch rasped. ‘Losers pay for the damage. Ain’t no mouthy cow chaser separatin’ me from my beer.’

  In the sudden charged silence, they all heard the horse pounding up the quiet street, the breaking of the hitch rail, the thud of something falling. Will backed up to the swing doors, elbowed one of them open. In the darkness, he saw Ben Shoeville’s mount lying on its side, the saddle and mane bloody and shiny in the pool of yellow lamplight. There was no sign of a rider.

  Will drew his Colt and stepped out on to the veranda, a small crowd following to the street behind him.

  ‘There he is,’ a man gasped. ‘He’s down . . . hurt.’

  It was Ben Shoeville, crawling from the street, hatless and covered with a crust of blood. As he reached out for the boardwalk he grunted and fell forward, twisted, sitting in the hard-packed dirt with his shoulders against the raised timbers.

  Will was the first to reach him. ‘Who did this?’ he asked, holstering his gun, kneeling close.

  ‘I don’t know.’ The words were slow and painful as Shoeville stared up at Will. ‘Never do. It’s the way of ’em. They got Foote. Used a rifle . . . a Winchester.’

  The small crowd moved aside as Preston Mower pushed through. ‘What’s he said?’ The big trader’s face was twisted with anger. ‘Yesterday, it was him who swore to gun the sheriff.’

  ‘Well, today it looks like it’s someone else,’ Latch snarled back from the boardwalk.

  Copper John and Deavis were now looking on, sullenly. They stood either side of Mower, close, as if some deed or thought was passing between them.

  ‘I reckon Mr Mower here’s suddenly got himself another job . . . the sheriff’s duties.’ Deavis grinned. ‘He’s not the best liked, but there’s no law I know of says you have to be that. He’s certainly well known enough among the White Mesa community.’ He gave the trader a deadpan look. ‘You’ve just been elected. Start your duty.’

  Mower’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll deputize you two until we can have an election. So get Shoeville to the jailhouse. An’ tell the doc.’

  ‘You’ll take him to the surgery, you scum.’ Will’s right hand moved to his Colt, but he held steady when the two doubtful incumbents thumbed back the hammers of their own handguns.

  ‘There’ll be a trial. If you’ve somethin’ to say, say it then.’ Mower strode off towards the jail, left his two deputies to organize disquiet on the street.

  Chapter 12

  Threatened by Mal Deavis’s gun, the glimmer of success for Bolas, Will stood quite still, carefully looked over the hushed knot of citizens. Whatever opinion they held, they were expediently reserving any show of support.

  ‘Shoeville’s not a killer. Most of you should know that,’ he stated forcefully.

  Copper John glanced from Will to Latch. He walked around Deavis and stood looking down at Shoeville’s horse. Drawing the rifle from the saddle scabbard he levered the action, picked up the empty shell case that fell at his feet. ‘Well, this has been fired,’ he said.

  ‘Hell, what do you expect of a man when someone takes a cowardly shot at his back? Turn over to have his belly tickled?’ There was real scorn in Will’s reply.

  Deavis shot back his own response. ‘We’ll take care o’ that. You just heard, there’s a bunch of us aim to do Foote’s job for him.’

  ‘I heard there’s two of you,’ Will corrected. ‘Do it legal, for Chris’sakes.’ Will looked around the group of men. ‘An’ make sure Shoeville gets that doc. If he dies, he won’t be alone.’

  Will untied his snorty mount from the broken hitch rail and walked it down the street.

  ‘You goin’ to leave him there?’ Latch wanted to know. ‘What’s come over you, Will?’

  ‘Nothing. Ben’s hurt bad, but what more can we do? They’ll get him to a doc. Miss Broad can tend to him after that. She’s conveniently placed, don’t forget.’

  His features setting hard, Will walked on, back past the mercantile. Almost kicking the dirt in frustration, his entire being was fighting a desire to turn around and cut loose on the Bolas crew.

  Alerted by the commotion in the main street, Mollie Broad was standing at the picket gate of Marge Highgate’s house. She saw them coming and ran forward.

  ‘Where’s Ben?’ she called out. ‘Has something happened? Has Ogden got to him?’

  ‘Yeah, he had a damn good try. Him and Foote got themselves bushwhacked,’ Will answered, reaching out to grip Mollie by the wrist. ‘Mower’s getting Ben to the doc’s. He’s wounded bad and needs some surgery. After that, you can see he’s taken care of.’

  Mollie looked up. With tears in her eyes she nodded. ‘Yes, of course . . . all I can.’ She blinked hard, her jaw set with rising bitterness. ‘You said Mower. What’s it got to do with him?’

  ‘He’s the new sheriff. Acting sheriff. Most out there seemed to agree he was the man for the job. He’s not my choice.’

  ‘Nor mine,’ Mollie agreed. ‘Not even in desperation.’

  The house door banged to, and Marge Highgate advanced on the group. ‘What’s going on out here? Who’s this?’ she asked.

  When Mollie had explained, made i
ntroductions, Will continued quietly. ‘I’m sure you’re safe enough here, and Ogden’s not going to try anything with witnesses. We would have brought Ben with us, but he’s too hurt for that. Besides, we’ve got some riding to do.’

  Mollie considered the predicament for a moment. She looked at Marge then back to Will. ‘What about Henri?’

  ‘We’re going back for him now,’ he said, watching with curiosity as Marge hurried off, away from the house.

  ‘Yeah. Well, we cut your beef loose. Now they’re spread half way across Hog Flats. Ogden’s going to play hell rounding ’em up. He might even have to hire some punchers, instead of gunslingers.’

  Will pulled his horse forwards, hesitated. ‘Like I said . . . Latch and me’s got things to do before morning comes.’

  ‘Call it off, Will.’ Mollie’s voice was suddenly lower, more apprehensive. ‘Just stop now. God knows, I never counted on a range war, or anything like it.’

  ‘Pah,’ Latch rasped. ‘Don’t bring Him into it. Ogden started this, an’ we’ll finish it. I say we get goin’.’

  ‘After Bluestem,’ Will spoke hurriedly. ‘Ogden sent those canyon guards to patrol the Cholla. They’ll kill Henri if they find him.’

  ‘There’s a line cabin . . . corner of Bluestem and Far Creek. You’ll find it easy enough. Take him there. I’ll keep in touch somehow.’

  Minutes later, Marge reappeared out of the darkness. She stood listening to Mollie’s directions, looked disdainfully at Will and Latch. ‘You figure to shove against Bolas? Reckon you’ll need more than what you got so far, fellers,’ she said. ‘And you’ll get this girl killed.’

  Will climbed into his saddle, held his horse on a tight rein ‘No, we won’t,’ he replied briskly. ‘I want the man who shot Foote. And I want him before the new sheriff considers taking Ben to Whiterod. Ma’am,’ he added with a tip of his hat.

  Henri stared around the hayloft, caught a glimpse of starlight through the boards of the warped roof. For a while he tried to bring back what had happened to him, but he couldn’t recall much more than Bruno Ogden’s distant voice and a hammer blow to the back of his head. He twisted on his side and the pain made him gasp. Then he smelled sour mescal, felt the dressed wound around his neck.

  A gnashing, munching sound from below filled the barn and he held his breath for a moment. He recognized the noise of a feeding horse, crawled to the edge of the loft and stared down at his rimrock mare. But then an outbreak of guttural laughter came from the house and he struggled back to the side wall, raised himself to peer through the window. The house veranda was lit by wall sconces, and in the outer reach of the glow he could see four saddled horses. The ranch-house door slammed and a man came out on to the veranda, leaned on a rail and listened.

  Henri muttered a curse and felt around in the hay. Lifting his shotgun, he broke it open, saw the glint of two 12-gauge cartridges. Then he slumped down with his head against the wall and waited.

  A slight breeze drifted through the barn, bringing with it the aroma of frying meat. Despite the distress of his suffering, Henri was weak with hunger, and he longed painfully for a drink. The men inside the house were talking loudly, but he heard a horse come into the yard. He peered around the frame of the window, his fingers flexing tight around the shotgun when Ogden’s face showed yellow in the lamplight.

  ‘Deavis come back yet?’ the man called out from the foot of the steps.

  The ranchhouse door opened and a Bolas rider stepped out. ‘He went into town with Copper John, boss.’

  ‘So get those horses under cover.’ Ogden’s manner was abrupt. ‘Run them into the barn.’

  Henri got to his feet, his back pressed against the wall as he fought down the waves of sickness. He heard the sound of boots on gravel outside the barn door. Then the horses came in and the dry dust wafted up into the roof space.

  ‘Boose – Joe Boose.’ Ogden’s voice came from close by, outside now. ‘Keep an eye open for Chalk. And there’s probably two of them. They’ll show up here, unless Deavis gets in first.’

  ‘Hell, I was just goin’ to eat,’ the man named Boose protested. ‘There’s food inside. I can smell it.’

  ‘If there is, I’ll get some sent out. Remember what I said.’

  When Ogden had gone, Boose came into the barn. He scratched a vesta and the flare was blindingly bright after the darkness.

  Henri gently laid the shotgun aside. He flexed the muscles of his right hand, but made no move towards the big old pistol that hung at his side. He licked his parched lips, the light went out, and again Henri waited patiently; he didn’t have to wait long before another Bolas man walked into the barn.

  ‘Is that my chuck? What is it?’ Boose asked disagreeably.

  ‘Hump rib, with sweet onions an’ taters. Then there’s apple pie an’ cream with a glass o’ cold branch water. What the hell do you think it is?’ the man gruffed. ‘It’s fried beef an’ beans.’

  ‘Do you know how long I’m supposed to stay here?’ Boose continued.

  ‘An hour maybe. Someone will let you know,’ the man answered, and hurried back to the house.

  In his right hand, Henri gripped his .44 Army Colt. An hour, the man had said, and first light wasn’t far off. He slid the weapon into his holster and buttoned down the flap. He crawled back across the puncheon flooring, stopped and cursed silently at realizing dusty shards of hay were falling through the wide gaps in the boards.

  Boose paused in his eating, stood up with his hand on the butt of his Colt. A horse sneezed and kicked out a front leg. The Bolas gunman grunted and sat down again.

  But Henri was ready, positioned for the moment he needed. He stepped off the holding beam and went straight down, his feet spread to make contact with either side of Boose’s neck. He felt his fall ending with the snap of collar bones, then a stab of pain rising from his own feet, up his body to his head. Joe Boose had made no sound. He lay crumpled with his plate of food, his upper body cracked and broken.

  Henri’s legs buckled and he toppled forwards, down on his knees then on all fours. He crawled away from the man’s body and staggered to his feet. In the cloying darkness he was stunned and disorientated, drew in long breaths, again gasping at the hurt. He moved towards the horses, feeling his way in the dark. His hands reached out for a saddle, the sheath of a carbine, to one side for the reins.

  He led the horse in a half-circle, straight out of the barn. Beyond the range of the home yard he pulled himself up into the saddle, gritted his teeth against a rising wave of sickness.

  ‘You might as well run. I’m not going to notice,’ he muttered to the horse, and cursed a metis epithet as the animal responded down into and along the dried-up Cholla Creek. He let his head fall forwards, was quietly sick on to the horse’s damp neck. Suddenly everything gave way and he felt himself toppling sideways. As he fell, he carried a fleeting thought about mountain cats writhing and twisting in mid-air to land on their feet. He didn’t have time to grin, only to see the dark hazy shapes of two riders close by, watching him. He tried to say something, to ask what was going on, but nothing came.

  ‘Looks like he’s been in more wars . . . got nothin’ left.’ Latchford Loke’s’s voice cut through the foggy mist and Henri smiled weakly.

  ‘Ease along there,’ a harder voice warned. ‘You’re staying right where you are for the moment.’

  ‘There’s four . . . five, back at Bluestem,’ Henri mumbled in return.

  ‘Yeah, we guessed as much.’ Will and Latch pushed the half-conscious man back into the saddle, held him until Latch hitched his wrists to the saddlehorn. Then the three of them rode steadily into the hills, towards the soft pink light that stretched between the distant San Andreas Mountains and Condor Pass.

  Chapter 13

  Leaving Bluestem, Bruno Ogden rode into town to seek out Mal Deavis. He was having trouble accepting the way Will Chalk and Latchford Loke had, to all intents and purposes, stolen the herd. They had stampeded the beef under the gun barrels of
six Bolas men on fighting wages. He had a grudging admiration for Will Chalk. A couple like him on my payroll, and I wouldn’t be a goddamn rustler to get where I’m going . . . that’s for sure, ran through his mind. But that thought was tempered by the fact that Mollie Broad had outsmarted him.

  While he was in White Mesa he would look for Turner Foote as well as Deavis. Foote had been sheriff for three years, two of which he had been in the pay of the Bruno Ogden Land and Stock Company. So Ogden kept thinking of what he would be saying. He wanted to know why the sheriff had apparently turned – into cowardice, because the lawman had to be talked out of quitting.

  He entered the town from the main trail, leaving his sorrel at the jail’s hitch-rack. He opened the office door and stood a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. Foote wasn’t there, but in his chair sat Preston Mower.

  ‘Good morning.’ Ogden tossed his hat onto a chair beside the sheriff’s desk. ‘Obviously the sheriff’s not around,’ he said.

  ‘No. He’s in a back room of the Bello.’ There was a strange look to the trader’s flabby features. ‘We’ll plant him later today,’ he added coldly.

  Ogden lifted his hat from the chair and sat down. ‘What the hell happened?’ he asked in bafflement.

  ‘Not entirely sure. He was comin’ from your place, last night.’ Mower’s voice held an undercurrent of fear, just discernible in his expression. ‘They must have had an argument. Shoeville gunned him.’

  Ogden was silent, thoughtful for a long moment. ‘What else?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, Foote was sheriff . . . usually gave him the edge. He got bullets into Shoeville . . . managed to finish off his horse, too. We got him here . . . in the jailhouse.’

  ‘How about Deavis and Copper John? Are they around here?’

  ‘Over at the saloon, last I saw. They’re standin’ ready in case Shoeville tries to break out.’

  The storekeeper looked hard at Ogden. ‘An’ afore you ask, I got the job of lawman until somethin’ turns up.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound as if Shoeville’s going far with two of Foote’s bullets in him.’ Ogden sneered derisively and got to his feet, leaned intimidatingly close to Mower. ‘There’s about as much lard there as there is on your store prices, Mower. You’re lying through your teeth.’