Return to Blood Creek

by Frank Callan

  ‘Thank you, Mary. Leave the food . . . I’ll eat it cold.’

  ‘You should sleep now. You’ve been up and busy since six this mornin’ – but I’m not going to preach at you, ’cause I know you got your own frazzled brain runnin’ you loco.’

  Before she left to leave him to his thoughts, he almost spoke again about Ellen, but he decided to keep his thoughts to himself. They were dark thoughts. The notion of ten years passing since he lost his dear wife prompted something inside him to rekindle the hatred he had known some years back. Was it too late to find the man responsible? It might have been accidental, but surely the man who fired recklessly had to face the law – some kind of law? Or should he carry on working hard to forget everything that happened on that fateful day?

  I have a name, he thought, I have a name, and he can be traced. Maybe, he wondered, I might be able to sleep at nights. He had grown used to his lonesome life, talking to himself and keeping busy with the Informer. But if he didn’t act now, he never would, and he would never rest easy again. It was such a powerful feeling, this burning need for revenge, that it took his mind off the fact that he and the Informer were under threat. It was Kenny again – that name signifying destruction. Kenny wanted the paper, and the offer was too much for his partners to resist. The game was almost up, he thought, but at least he could spend his time looking for Cal Roney.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It had fallen to Jim Kenny to take charge of the everyday affairs of the ranch. Brothers Eddie and Jake did their bit at times, but it was Jim who saw to the ranch hands and made sure the fencing was done and the growing mass of cattle watched over. On the morning after the escape from the jail, the brothers were together at breakfast, and Eddie, the eldest, was dishing out orders as usual. They were all lithe and gaunt, faces always holding back any particular expression; they inherited their father’s animal quickness. He had been dangerous as a rattler and speedy as a spooked deer. The boys were middle height, muscled and eager, with no fat on their bodies and unrest on their faces.

  Eddie, in between chewing on biscuits and waiting for Jim to dish up the warmed-up stew, was in no mood to ease off on the locals. In fact he was more determined than ever to grab what was left of Long Corral, the law included.

  ‘Look boys, Stile is the rogue in the pack here – a wolf. We have to cut him out and then take the shirt-and-tie spouters. They’d run from their own shadows, boys!’ The brothers enjoyed a laugh at the expense of the more obviously upright members of the town.

  ‘See boys, them Heaths and Stile, they have one plain weakness. They have a moral sense. Right? Now you and me, we don’t have that sort of weight on us, and so in any situation, we’ll have one over them. Now morality is a fine thing in its place, if it suits an individual. But puttin’ morals in the heart of things, why that’s asking for a defeat. You’ve already lost the battle if you got moral scruples.’

  Jake said, ‘I’m still laughin’ at the jail, Eddie. What kind of lawman runs a jail like that? I mean a buck rabbit would be out of there in a wink. We were dug out while Stile went for a whiskey break.’

  ‘He does like a whiskey, that’s for sure, and that’s another weak spot. This is gonna be easy pickins, brothers dear!’ Eddie took some stew now from Jim, and all three tucked in like they were ravenous wolves at the kill.

  Jim, feeling left out as usual, had to have his say: ‘Look Eddie . . . it’s time you gave me something more to do. I mean, I’m the work-horse around here. You think of me with a spade or a hammer . . . not a gun! Give me some more to do!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jim . . . you only have to ask. Just tell me what you want to do!’

  ‘I know precisely what I’d enjoy . . . there’s the folks down at Blood Creek. Now we could use that place. We need it real bad, Eddie. I mean they got water and wood, to say nothing of the horses. That old-timer, he rounded up five of ’em. . . . He’s one of the best rustlers I ever seen. What do we do about them, Eddie?’

  ‘Now, you’re readin’ my mind, little brother. I been thinking we could take that place. Just take all three out and use that as a look-out. It’s a damned sight closer to the town than our good old Double T.’

  ‘Eddie, let me and the boys do that, eh? I can take Coop and maybe some more men, and we can pick ’em off any time you like.’ Jim wanted to impress his big brother and had always wanted to earn his respect.

  ‘What about Coop . . . can he be trusted? He has one leg only half moving and he likes the bottle too much.’

  ‘I’ll make sure Coop’s sober. He likes to rule the roost, mind. Tends to shout out orders as soon as he sees me. Well, I’m gonna turn that around. . .and I’ll find his stash of booze before we go.’

  ‘Let me go and take a look first,’ said Eddie, now throwing some coffee to the back of his throat. ‘I heard the young one there is handy with a gun. He done a robbery. Got some red blood and a cool head to do that. I’ll pay a call and then give you some orders.’

  Matt Calero had done what Lerade had asked him to do: he had put a letter on board the Long Corral stage addressed to Macky Heath at his hotel in Long Corral, mentioning that a Pinkerton man might be around town at some point soon, and could he keep in touch with him and report on what was happening? He didn’t want to interfere. He knew that Cal was a lone worker, a self-sufficient type who saw others working with him as a risk, a threat to success and security.

  Macky had enough to do without worrying about detectives who might in the end be a nuisance. But he replied to the note saying he would watch out for the man and act accordingly. The one thing the note did achieve, though, was to set Macky’s mind in a frame to worry about what might be going on. It could be good or bad, he thought. The sheriff of the town was nowhere around, and so what was going on that a detective had to be sent to the area? But he had the contact in Calero, and if there was any trouble he would send a rider to Laramie, for help.

  For Macky, it was a sign of his position and favour that the Pinkertons thought of him. It was part of what he and his brother Doc had been working for over the years. Nobody in authority, if there was any problem, ever thought of talking to Eddie Kenny. They came to the Heath brothers. Maybe one day, he thought, as he read the note and considered its importance, maybe one day, the town would be a real, safe, civilized settlement, free of the power-crazy land-grabbers and despots like the Kenny outfit. While there was a line of communication between the Heaths and the Pinkertons, there was hope for something more than just Ben Stile in the fight to preserve the law.

  He knew that he was under threat from Eddie Kenny. He knew that Kenny wanted the hotel. He and Doc were up against ruthless individuals and they were a long ride from help if they needed it. But at least someone out there knew his situation. It was a fight against time, he knew. Kenny would run out of patience. They had put him off time and time again, with meeting after meeting and lawyers’ letters passing back and forth. Kenny was itching for a solution, and everybody knew it.

  Macky had written his reply. Now, in between running the hotel and keeping the singers and musicians happy, he would keep checking on strangers to see if the law was around after all. The only hitch was that there were always strangers, and plenty of them. In fact, he wondered, how was a man to know a Pinkerton detective when he saw one? They surely didn’t have a uniform, and they didn’t advertise who they were and why they were there. It was a mysterious profession. He had always thought that it said such a lot about the frontier that the representatives of the law and justice had to move by stealth, in disguise, against the forces of anarchy.

  Maybe, he thought, a detective is actually the man who looks least like any kind of lawman; maybe he is the scruffiest wastrel that hangs around the cookhouse for scraps and rides a diseased, fly-bitten mule? Whatever he looked like, he was on his way, and a detective was better to have around the place than a tramp or a thief – the types most often blown in with the sagebrush.

  It was a bright morning in Long Corral and Be
n Stile was catching up on some reports, and expecting a call from Doc Heath and Octavius, who had promised to have some ideas on how to improve the jail. But his mind was still dwelling on the previous day’s brush with death, and the problem of the Kenny clan. His mind was telling him that he should go and see how the mysterious stranger was doing, but he needed his eggs and bread and was lingering over the food when the visitors came. The doc walked in first, glanced at the jail wall with the hole in it, and tutted. Behind him, Octavius Gibbs couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘Oh Ben, Ben . . . this will never do. You have to step up, man, and do the job right.’

  ‘Sonny, for God’s sake don’t write about this in your paper. Stop grinnin’ like a weasel in a hen house as well, you’re startin’ to aggravate me!’

  Gibbs sat down by the window, and Doc Heath moved into the open cell and inspected the hole in the floor. ‘Ben, how did they get tools? They had to have tools.’

  Though keeping quiet about it, the doc was nursing a suspicion that Ben Stile had let the Kenny boys get out. Maybe he turned a blind eye and then put on an act. But that wouldn’t have been something Ben Stile would do. He decided to test his friend.

  ‘Ben, I’ve known you an awful long time. You’ve always been a sound, reliable lawman. I know that every person in this little town would trust you to do a good job looking after them, but you have to admit, this looks a shade dubious. . . I mean, three rogues diggin’ out of a jailhouse! Come on. . . .’

  ‘You insinuatin’ I’ve sold out to Eddie Kenny? That I’m that weak?’

  ‘No, he’s not saying that, Ben,’ put in Gibbs. ‘He’s thinking how this story would look if it did get a page in my paper . . . or if word got around, which it won’t, I can assure you!’

  ‘Dammit, word has already got around. The folk in this town, they can’t tell skunks from house cats and they believe what they see, and think the worst of it. I mean, fact is, I had left the jail . . . just for a short time . . . and they had it all planned. They must have been digging in the nights over the last week or so.’

  ‘Look, forget it for now. Let’s just say we need a new jail. This old place is hopeless, Ben. I’ll get the citizens together and we’ll vote you some cash for this. Right?’ This was the doc, and he now held out his hand for Ben to shake it. ‘I wasn’t insinuating anything, Ben. You’re a good man. Truth is, we need to stand together agin the Kenny boys. We all know what they want – the whole town.’

  ‘Yeah, they already bought the two stores, the stables and the saloon up the far bend,’ Ben said. ‘Where is this all going to stop? I’ve met his type before. He ignores all rules. You know, he once said to me that the law we all bow down to ain’t his law. He said, my law is the only law, mister. That’s what he said, to my face.’

  ‘They want our place,’ the doc added. ‘Eddie Kenny has upped his offer this month. I’m fearin’ he’s likely to lose patience soon and just take the Heath, like he’s took everything else he has. I have to remind you, my friends, that his father taught him to grab and deal with the consequences later. But he’s worse than old Kenny. Eddie ignores all the consequences!’

  Eddie tapped the arms of his two brothers and then looked them in the eye, in turn, before putting a great beam of pleasure on his face and saying, ‘You know, boys, everybody between Cheyenne and the Platte is gonna know about the Kenny outfit, and how Pa would be so proud of what we done. Look at him up there . . .’

  They all turned to look at the portrait of their father, hanging in pride of place, several feet above eye level. ‘Now, get busy . . . I’m paying a call on Blood Creek!’ His brothers went, and Eddie stayed there, taking the time to talk to the picture, as he had done so often before.

  ‘Pa, I know you’re lookin’ down from Heaven and you’re thinkin’ you’re puttin’ your spirit here, among us. Well, you might not have rated me much when you was here, but I’m gonna make you proud of me now!’ He kissed a finger-end wet and then stretched up so he could dab the finger on his Pa’s cheek. ‘You didn’t notice me, Pa. You never said much, but my love for the Double T and you is gonna be proved. See? You was never proud of me in your life, but you will be pretty soon. . . .’

  Cal was nervous as he lay there, still being cared for by Emilia and Doc Heath. He was expecting to be recognized at any moment, and the only thing he could think of as soon as he was able to sit up was that he needed some place where he could be alone, and not be seen. When Doc Heath came late at night to check on his patient, Cal was still bound around the head, and the bruises on his face were still swollen. The Cal of ten years back was not there to be identified, but he soon would be, when the healing had worked out.

  He asked Emilia to find him a room somewhere. If he could be well enough to ride, he would high-tail it out and run to ground until he was well enough to work again. But would she co-operate? The doc agreed that rest and quiet were needed, and he didn’t stay long. But Emilia, sitting by his side again, was as worried as Cal about the situation.

  ‘Sooner or later somebody is going to remember who I am,’ Cal said, ‘What I need is a hole to crawl into, just for a few days. Can you help?’

  ‘Mr Roney, you’ve just come down from the burning of a fever. You need close attention.’

  Cal, when he looked at her, saw the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on. Life had given him no time for getting to know women, but this one was special. ‘Look, Miss Emilia, is there anywhere at all? Please help me. I’m not the monster you heard about.’

  She thought for a moment. Her forehead creased with worry, and he hated to do that to her. ‘Mr Roney, there is a room. . . it’s used by a landlady here who has rooms for travellers, some inside and one out the back. You could lie up there. I’ll come to you. But I have to tell you, I’m not happy about it.’

  He wanted to embrace her to show his appreciation, but when he moved up a little the pain was so bad he slumped down again. ‘When night falls tonight then, you’ll guide me there?’ he asked, and she nodded.

  ‘I’ll tell them that you left town.’ She said, ‘But I hate lying. Mr Roney, you’re bad for me. . . .’

  ‘Please stop the Mr Roney politeness, Ma’am . . . I’m Cal.’

  ‘You are Mr Roney . . . my patient. Yes, you saved my brother’s life, but you are also a reckless gunman, an adventurer. I’ll help you till you’re well enough to ride out, and then I never want to see you again. You know, Mr Roney, I’ve heard it said a thousand times, a patient starts to feel smitten with his nurse! Oh yes, that happens all the time. But don’t you go thinking like that, because it will not happen here!’

  Cal thought that would be very hard to take, but said nothing. He had almost fallen for the fantasy that this was his own woman, caring for him, fussing over him, listening to his talk and soothing his pain. He had seen it in the war, when the wounded were cared for by local women. It was a strong, deep bond, this nurse and patient business. But it was more than that: the more he had time to lie and think of her, the more he imagined being with her, spending most of his days with her – though he knew full well that this was as ridiculous as a boy’s imagining being a medieval knight or thinking that the tales in the picture-books were real.

  Still, in spite of all that reflecting on this, Emilia was a beautiful woman, and he loved spending time with her. Maybe it didn’t have to be a dream?

  At Blood Creek, Lizzie was doing the washing in the stream. It was a hot but clear day, and the birdsong was charming her as she worked. The water lapping at her feet was comforting, and she was humming a tune to occupy the time. Cy was out to shoot supper and Sedge was cleaning the house. She was thinking just how much she wanted to stay here, to put down roots. There had been too much running away, too much moving on, in her life with Cy. Wyoming was new country, just finding itself, and it was exciting to be here and to be part of it. She also had some thoughts about maybe writing for the Long Corral Informer, and had vowed to talk to Mr Gibbs about that. She had always been a re
ader, and now wanted to write for a paper, though she would write with a man’s name, most likely.

  The humming of one of her favourite old songs came to an end as she concentrated on rubbing soap into a stain on one of Cy’s shirts, and in that lull she sensed something or someone watching her. Without moving her head or looking across at where she heard the footfall in the dry undergrowth, she said, ‘Who’s there?’

  Eddie Kenny stepped out, a broad smile on his face, and he stood, arms akimbo, only ten feet from her. Lizzie pulled a knife from her belt and stood up, then crouched defensively, holding the knife point towards the stranger.

  ‘Who are you? Watching women like that. . . hiding in the scrub . . . that’s not what normal, law-abiding folk do. Who are you?’

  Eddie put his hands up in the air. ‘See, I’m not reaching for a gun. I mean no harm. I’m Eddie Kenny, I run the Double T. You most likely heard of me, Miss . . . and you’re a pretty piece, ain’t you?’

  She could see how tall and strong he was, so the knife stayed pointed at him. But then he took off his gunbelt and threw it well away from him, and sat down. ‘Sit down, Ma’am. . . I just want to talk a little. It’s a neighbourly call.’

  ‘Good neighbours don’t hide and spy on women, mister. I’m not putting the knife down.’ Lizzie kept her face fierce and unfriendly.

  ‘Now, I can’t prove who I am. You’ll have to take that as truth, and believe me. I mean you no harm, beautiful lady!’

  ‘Cut out the compliments, mister . . . I’m a married woman. I heard about these wandering tramps and their wicked ways . . . you’re most likely a wandering tramp . . . there could be a dozen more rogues out there, creeping towards us right now. I read about a poor woman attacked and assaulted in her own home, just a day’s ride east!’