Return to Blood Creek

by Frank Callan

  Return to Blood Creek

  In Long Corral, Wyoming, the Kenny brothers dig themselves out of the town jail, but Deputy Sheriff Ben Stile runs after them as they turn and shoot. At that moment Cal Roney, Pinkerton detective, is riding into town and takes a bullet meant for Stile. He goes down, wounded in the shoulder, and is nursed back to health by Emilia Stile and Doc Dan Heath, who are standing firm against the Kenny brothers, who want to own everything in sight. But in his fever, Cal speaks his real name: one that strikes hatred into the hearts of everyone in Long Corral. Only Emilia hears the name, and she tells nobody. But can his secret be kept?

  When he recovers, Cal vows to help Doc Heath in his struggle to keep the town free of the Kenny gang. But Cal’s secret past catches up with him, leading to a final showdown at Blood Creek.

  By the same author

  Feud at Broken Man

  Return to Blood Creek

  Frank Callan

  ROBERT HALE

  © Frank Callan 2018

  First published in Great Britain 2018

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2718-1

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Frank Callan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was a summer’s day with enough heat to trouble a lizard, and Cal Roney screwed up his face to squint into the distance. He was hoping to see the first buildings in Long Corral, because he had taken enough pain from Wyoming already that day since bedding down in the open the previous night and then starting out early. The appaloosa was tired out as well, and it was high time there was some chow in front of them both, with a long, cold drink in the deal.

  He was tall, carrying a little extra round the midriff since the cow-herding days stopped, but he was fit and strong enough. He still kept the same bandanna he had worn when working the Shawnee Trail, along with the plainsman and his favourite weapon, the Remington Army .44. He was swarthy, well tanned after the years on the drives; he was crowding fifty but still fired with a passion for the range and for doing something useful. There had been too much time wasted when he was a youngster, always in scrapes and always having to use his fists. He thought about his appearance now he was heading that way. Luckily his face was full of hair, and he could pull the hat down low – and he would need to do that in the next few hours.

  Since he left Laramie, his memory kept going back to the meeting with the agent, Don Lerade. It had been a slightly nervous affair, as rumour was circulating that the Pinkertons were cutting back on work in the frontier. But he had been called to the office and he stood there, hat in hand, on best behaviour. Lerade had looked over the file the Agency kept on all the men working with them. He was a swarthy, tanned man who looked as though he had been born in the plains and had lived among the native tribes. Or maybe, Cal had thought, he had some Mexican in him. He looked every inch the general, with the kind of stature and straight back that went with command. He perused the file and then looked up, ‘So, Roney, you know this territory pretty well?’

  He had confirmed that, and listened while Lerade described the assignment. ‘Young man, no hesitation in using a gun . . . bring him in.’

  Lerade kept his thoughts to himself, but in truth he was doubtful. This was Roney’s second assignment, and the first had not worked out too well, though he was a fast learner. The Pinkertons were very particular about their recruits, and they did like army men, but they had to be the right kind of army men. They knew that often the best, toughest soldiers are not necessarily the most suitable detectives. A man handy with his fists was fine, and accuracy firing a gun was also fine, but the intelligence of a hunter, combined with the sixth sense of a scout were ideal.

  Cal had never really liked Lerade. He was too fussy and proud. But a commander was a commander and you did the job. In the little preparatory session before the trip, Lerade had gone through the details better than any sergeant-major. ‘You are a Pinkerton detective, and that means anonymity here. You are no longer Calhoun Roney . . . no, you are William Boldwood, a businessman on his way west. If ever you have to explain yourself, talk about mining and excavations. Let’s say you invented a new sluice for sifting the rock and dirt of its gold or silver . . . you see the point? I’m saying that you need to lie convincingly. This is a primary Pinkerton skill, Cal. You understand?’

  He had understood. In fact, it was like acting a part – amateur dramatics – like his ma had done a few times, way back when he was small enough to ride a big hound. Yes, he would need to lie.

  He had started, alone, wondering why it had been so much of a trial, facing Lerade. After all, he had worked for the Agency for a little while. Fact was, Cal never trusted the men who sat behind desks. He was a man who liked to be riding, chasing the next weather. But this time he was, in part, chasing his own past.

  He trudged on, thinking that he must be close to the town now, and the horizon kept deluding him. But that was what a long ride was all about: shutting off the desire to think and to plan. The secret was to endure the trials of a long ride by settling the mind into its own little dream. Reality could wait. It was a turning-point for him, this assignment at Blood Creek. He had come to see that crossroads are not only on the maps: they tend to crop up as you ride through life, too. He was coming to one now, he thought, as the great immensity of the frontier stretched ahead. The trail up or across the frontier was like nothing else, like no other journey; it could offer joy and delight in equal measure with pain and suffering. Yet it always had the scent of the unknown adventure. He had learned to smell that scent, as sharp as the stink of some hunted creature in the open, scared for its life.

  Then there it was: Long Corral. He had tried his hardest when he met the Pinkerton boss in Laramie to avoid this job, but there was nobody else, and the target had been sighted, as they put it, settled in Blood Creek with a woman and a fat man with a crocked leg from the war. Result being that, as he told himself again now he was close, he would have to ride through the town, and in fact he would have to rest there before going on. There was nowhere else, and both he and the horse would drop dead unless they took some easy time pretty soon.

  Working in Cheyenne and around Laramie had been fine for years: far enough away from a number of places where he wasn’t welcome, and that reputation had all been down to his antics before the Pinkertons signed him up. Trouble stuck to him like a burr: his pa had said that, and it had been the only thing the old man ever got right. There was no explanation, but sheer bad luck: Cal Roney attracted trouble like a carcass brought the vultures.

  Trouble, he thought, is something that comes in disguise as a rule. It always came to Cal Roney in the form of its opposite – it could be a cultured gentleman in a smart suit, who turned out to be a hired killer; or it could come as a perfumed lady, running a gambling saloon on the river, and she was just as deadly as the hired killer.

  Trouble had crossed his path where
ver he went: he had gone to war to fight the South, and then he had strayed to Texas and joined the drives north, where trouble wore the appearance of the Comanches. Then he had run into trouble again in every saloon and beer shop between the Pecos and the Platte. No paperwork told this story: it was written in the scars on his hard, weather-beaten body.

  But it was a good ten years since he had been in that tight corner in this God-forsaken stretch of the territory. Maybe most of the men who would remember him were dead and gone and feeding the weeds. It was the kind of tight corner that a man dreaded. The kind that takes away an innocent person, a passer-by; it was the kind of tight corner that blackened a man’s reputation, and, worst of all, it told a story about him that was a deep, painful lie. And a lie, spread around the settlements strung along borders and fingers of the trails, had a habit of turning into a truth and a hard fact in folks’ minds.

  Maybe those minds had forgotten, though, as time had eaten away at memories. Still, a twinge of apprehension ran through him as the horse slowed and they trotted towards the place he needed – the Heath Hotel, as it used to be called.

  As Cal was closing in on town, a man was scrabbling out of a hole, tugging at another man’s arm, a man down in the chasm beneath Long Corral jail. ‘Come on Jakey, shift it will ya? The horses are over the way there and we need to be out of this stinking dive of a town!’

  ‘I ain’t as slippery and quick as you, big brother . . . I got my bad leg, you recall?’

  ‘Hell with the bad leg . . . we get snapped up here, we get our necks stretched. You savvy? Now shift!’

  The timing was perfect. The deputy on watch always went for his food at a regular time, and there was a gap of ten minutes for the brothers to get out of there.

  The men breaking out had been well prepared for the escape, as men from their kin had worked on the planks outside at dead of night, and from inside, a swift and determined series of blows soon loosened the wood and made a square foot of fresh air. Then outside, a few feet of ditch had been made. Through most of the county, jails had been made real cheap, as every citizen knew, and the way out was usually by brute force against wood. The Kenny clan were skilled at this kind of business.

  The younger man finally made it, after digging out the last roots and chunks of cement, and then sprinted for the road. But their escape had been noticed now, and a group of men from the saloon had been rousted by the Deputy Sheriff, Ben Stile, who now stood in the middle of the dirt road and yelled out ‘Right, Jake Kenny, stop right there and raise your hands.’ He had not seen big brother Eddie, who now stopped running and turned to face the lawman. He screamed, ‘That’s the last time you give the Kenny boys an order!’ He drew his pistol and prodded his right arm forward. But as his finger squeezed the trigger, the deputy was hit by the flying body of Cal, who had ridden up behind and thrown himself at the man, to push him wide of the bullet’s trajectory. But as Cal was reaching out and kicking himself into the air, the bullet rapped into his shoulder and he felt a stab of agonizing pain before he hit the dust and then rolled towards the front of a sidewalk, his head slamming into the hard planks.

  The Kenny brothers met no further obstacles. They ran to the livery where their youngest brother Jim was waiting with the horses. The crowd of citizens parted for them and women shrieked with fear. Someone shouted ‘Stop them!’ but there was no soul bold enough in Long Corral to take on all three Kenny boys.

  Folk rushed to help their deputy to his feet. He was unharmed apart from a bruise or two, but his saviour was out cold.

  ‘He saved your life, Ben . . . knocked flat out when he hit that post!’ This was Macky Heath, the man whose hotel Cal had been making for. ‘Someone fetch the doc!’

  Cal was soon lying on a couch in a back room of the Heath Hotel, and Doc Heath was there, making ready to take the slug out of the arm. He bandaged Cal’s head and covered a wound on one cheek with a thick pad to cushion the wound. ‘He’s a brave man . . . anybody know him?’ said Emilia Stile, the deputy’s sister, who was acting as nurse for the doc. Cal was now coming round and trying to speak. He was sweating and trying to lift his arms to push himself up. The doc told two men to hold him down.

  ‘Now son, I’m gonna take this slug out. . . there’ll be some hurtin’ but you should live to see another day. Right?’

  ‘Where’s my horse . . . where’s Bella . . . where’s my mare?’

  ‘We got your hoss in good hands, now hold tight and think of somethin’ far away,’ said the doc. ‘Somebody might bring whiskey!’ he added, with more force. Emilia whispered in Cal’s ear that he would be OK, but she was mopping up blood as she spoke. In went the pliers and there was a tight-lipped groan from Cal, who then passed out as the bullet was lifted free from its entanglement in a knot of muscle.

  ‘Missed the artery by the breadth of a pin!’ Doc Heath said, leaving him in Emilia’s good hands. Deputy Stile had been overseeing the proceedings, and now, with Cal out cold, he asked if anybody knew the man. There was no reply. Later Cal would realize how glad he was that his face was mostly covered with the bandages and with long, dirt-caked hair. Stile, who might have remembered him, saw too little face to recognize.

  ‘Well, he saved my skin, and I’d like to know who the hell he is, and where he came from. I’ve never been one for praying and for spending time in that church up the road, but maybe I believe in guardian angels now. That slug was meant for me.’ Ben Stile was a square, solid man of forty. He had seen some of the worst of the war and had come out of it with a burning desire to see some open space and have plenty of room around him for raising a family. Sheriff Capp was away in Cheyenne and the town was in his hands, but he had the Kenny brothers to cope with, and they had very nearly rubbed him out. Stile hung around as the other townsfolk finally moved away, and he sat by Emilia and the patient, hoping the man would come round. She put a fresh bandage on his face, as blood had soiled the first.

  ‘He’s got the look of a veteran . . . maybe a good few years on me, I reckon. See that old wound there, girl? We found a pocket book on him . . . name’s William Boldwood.’

  Emilia looked over her patient’s bare chest and settled her gaze on Cal’s neck. ‘He’s been cut by something . . . maybe a sword. Reckon he’s a soldier?’ Ben Stile nodded. They studied a man who had seen some violence, and his body had plenty more wounds under his pants and boots. ‘I don’t care who he is . . . I owe him my life and he’s gonna get due recompense, Emilia my dear. Under the bandages and wounds, and all that damned hair, I can’t see the man rightly at all!’ He went back to his office, telling his sister to let him know as soon as the man came round and could speak.

  That happened about an hour later. He tried to move, but then groaned in pain. Emilia held his hand and padded his face with cool water. The fear now was that he would become feverish. He wasn’t able to utter anything that made any sense, and that continued for hours. By dusk he slept a little, and Emilia made herself some coffee. The doc came to check on their patient, and with an anxiety that was obvious he felt the pulse and then listened to Cal’s breathing. The doc frowned. ‘Emilia . . . you staying with him? Good, then call for me if you’re worried at all.’

  Darkness fell. The young woman sat by her patient, watching his every movement and listening to his breathing, noting any change in the noises he was making. She had nursed plenty of folk before that day, being twenty-nine and devoted to her brother and his family, while having none of her own. She was, as everyone in Long Corral tended to say, surely a half-sister to Ben Stile, or maybe a throw-back, as he was the epitome of a Norwegian, a Viking: fair-haired and angular, and folk said he could have passed for an old sea-dog.

  Emilia was different in every way. She was what folk thought of when they figured a person was Italian, and she was indeed a dark beauty, a woman who had refused the hands of three local men, preferring time with books and learning to any version of courting and wooing. Truth is, some called her Miss Doc as she studied the anatomy books and t
ended to cut up dead critters to learn about their bones and such.

  Emilia passed the time with a mix of prayer and the administration of little comforts, as the night wore on. She dropped off to sleep at one time, and when she woke, she poured more coffee. Then, as dawn was no more than a pinhole of light flickering on the curtains, her patient woke and said, ‘Howdy Miss. . .where am I?’

  ‘You’re in good hands.’

  ‘My chest hurts like hell, and my shoulder has spasms shootin’ through it.’

  ‘You took a bullet . . . saving my brother’s life. I’m Emilia Stile . . . pleased to meet you, William!’ She held out a hand and smiled at him.

  Without taking a second to use his brain and agree with the word William, he said, ‘No. . . . No . . . I’m Cal Roney . . . pleased to meet you!’

  The words put a shiver of apprehension into her. She pulled away and her body stiffened. Cal read her movements and when she repeated his name, he had an inkling that something was badly wrong.

  ‘You’re Cal Roney? That what you said?’

  ‘Yes . . . that’s my name.’

  ‘You’re not William Boldwood?’

  As she spoke the words, Cal knew exactly what his mistake had been.

  She tried to hide her shock then. But Cal guessed. The beard and the hair might have hidden the secret if he had kept his mouth shut, but now he had blurted out his real name without thinking.

  ‘Cal Roney . . . I’ve heard that name, and not in a good way, mister! My brother told me about Cal Roney . . . he was responsible for a woman’s death. Are you that Cal Roney?’

  Cal felt the shock of the words he was hearing, and all his shame, despair and confusion rushed back into him, deep down where his bad feelings had been gnawing at him for more than ten years. Something inside him made him grab at the woman’s wrist and say, desperately, ‘Miss, miss, please don’t tell anyone. I swear on the holy book, I did not cause that woman’s death. I swear it!’