by Frank Callan
‘Don’t be so stubborn, lawman, you can’t win. Admit you’re more yeller than a gold bar, throw the gun down, and we’ll just blast the jail down to the dust.’
‘You talk too much, Jake Kenny.’
Both men fixed their stare on the other’s face, watching for the slightest move of a muscle or any shift of an eye. Then Ben Stile caught a dart of white: it was Kenny’s two arms going down for the grips of his guns, and Ben drew in the split second that he saw the movement. But there was another gunshot as well. A bullet ripped into one of Kenny’s pistols and the man froze in shock. Ben’s shots narrowly missed their man as Jake spun around, thinking in that instant that another bullet would hit him, from behind.
There was a ruckus behind, and as a crowd had gathered, everyone looked around to find the source of the shot that had stopped the fight. This only caused even more chaos and confusion. In fact the shot had come from an upstairs window of the general store next to the Heath, and the man who had pulled the trigger was Cal Roney, now dragging himself back to his hideaway along the back alley. Everyone had flocked to the edge of the buildings at ground level to see the fight, and nobody had noticed him arrive or walk away.
As to the gunfight, the crowd now invaded the street and the Kenny boys lost interest in the matter. Ben Stile went back into the jailhouse, and Emilia ran across the street, burst inside after him and hugged him.
That night, so late that most customers had left the Heath, Doc, Gibbs, Charlie and Macky asked Ben to join them. It was, as they were all aware, a meeting of war. Doc provided the drink and the others sat back to listen, as he soon launched into his theme. ‘Now Deputy Stile, first thing to say is, well done. Who the hell fired that shot, we don’t know, but you were facing the man. You showed the kind of courage that a sheriff has. We all think that, as we now have a vacancy, you should take the job, and we’ll have it confirmed by the marshal when we can get him out here.’
Ben looked cautious at first. It was a shock for him. He had doubts, and he expressed them: ‘Now, my friends, I can see that we’re the ones standing up to the Kenny lot, but it worries me how quiet the rest of the town are. Where are they now? Where were the men who might have helped me today? By the way, who did fire that shot? Do we have vigilantes now?’
‘If it was a vigilante, he was a hell of a good shot. . . we’re looking for a marksman of the highest quality, folks!’ the doc added.
‘You don’t want the job, then?’ Macky asked, ignoring any talk of vigilantes.
At this point Gibbs stood up and paced the room, looking down at his feet ruminatively, chewing something over, and his actions made all the others pay attention to him. It was a successful device for a lecturer, as he had his audience in his hands then, when he finally faced them all and spoke:
‘Gentlemen, please leave all this talk behind and let us focus on one thing: Eddie Kenny wants to run this town . . . every little corner of it. His father always wanted it, and never did manage it. Now the son is taking on the task. How do we fight this man? Well, we do it by the printed word and by brainwork, not by force of arms. That’s my opinion.’
‘Oh I see, so we walk up to the Double T and we ask him nicely, that your plan?’ Doc Heath said, his sarcasm laid on thick.
‘No. Give me some credit for having some brain left . . . Charlie and I have been busy, and we have something to show you . . . Charlie, show us the advance copy!’
Charlie had the Informer ready and he spread it on the table top. The others gathered around and Macky Heath read aloud the words of the leader article. The rest made sounds resembling hungry dogs and cats on the midnight roofs. Then Gibbs waited for a response. It was Ben Stile who, after his laughing died down, said, ‘Octavius Gibbs, you’ve got more heart than me . . . if this gets circulated, he’ll burn your office to the ground.’
‘No, he won’t,’ said Charlie, ‘He won’t because he owns it! As of yesterday.’
They all sat down, after flicking through the pages of the paper. Gibbs went on, ‘So gentlemen, what do you say? This will draw him out and. . . .’
‘I say that words alone won’t work,’ put in Ben Stile, ‘Eddie knows only one language – violence. But your paper will be a big help. What we do is draw him out. Yes, he’ll come to the office looking for your head, but my view is that only a showdown is likely to beat the man down. He will come to the office, but we’ll be waiting . . . if each of us here is armed, we’ll face him.’
Gibbs would have none of that. ‘Ben, do you know how many hands Kenny has up there? No? I’ll tell you. He has an army. He has sixty cowherds, two brothers and a few hired killers he’s brought in to pick off the toughest opposition. See, he owns the land out there . . . legally . . . and he knows that he has his lawyer, that Holden animal, who’ll bend the law for him – so slowly but surely he will own these streets here, and every building we have. Therefore, what is our only option? I’ll tell you. It’s to get Eddie behind bars, and for that we need the law – and far more than one sheriff. So start thinking, gentlemen, of how we can do this. How in hell’s name can we get a marshal out here who will face the man? Do we get a platoon of troopers?’
‘I suggest we go away and think, then meet again,’ Charlie said, and that met with agreement.
‘In the meantime, we’ll stir him up with this paper,’ Gibbs added. ‘Now, we have evidence of what he’s done. That’s why you had him behind bars, Ben. But we just don’t have the men to round up a small army and bring them all in – and even if we did, we have nowhere to hold ’em.’
‘And that’s why I can’t be your sheriff, boys,’ said Ben. ‘I need help, lots of it. Maybe an army if you got one hid someplace?’
Everyone mumbled their agreement, and the meeting broke up, with Ben still saying, to everyone in general, who on earth was the man who fired that shot?
In the yard shack, Emilia was dressing Cal’s wound again. She had spent an hour calling him a fool and he had been squirming in pain since he got back from his shooting. Now Emilia knew, and no one else. ‘Mr Roney, you did a fine thing, but also a stupid thing. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for saving . . . again. . . my dear brother. The truth is, I can’t see a bad man in you. I wish I could tell everybody who you really are and what you did today.’
‘That’s real kind, but as long as I’m here, you’re likely to be in trouble. Nobody must know what you’re doing . . . helping a man they all hate.’
She saw that he was comfortable, gave him soup and then more coffee, and gave him something from the doc that would help him sleep. Then she left. Cal thought about reaching out and taking her hand, and then, losing the words he thought he had ready to say to her, he dropped the notion and called himself a fool. He didn’t know what he was afraid of, yet something inside held him back.
Cal knew that he needed sleep, but his thoughts were tormenting him that night. In the early hours he woke up, and his mind was so confused that he wasn’t clear whether he was in the middle of a bad dream or just remembering – but in his thoughts he relived the day that Don Lerade had called him in to the Pinkerton office in Laramie and told him about the job out where the Platte bends south a little. It was a long way off, but Lerade knew that Cal was acquainted with that part of the territory. He saw the scene in his mind, clear as day.
‘I hear you know that Creek well, out past Long Corral?’
‘Sure do, Mister Lerade, I grew up around forty miles north.’
‘Well, we’re pretty sure that the robber is holed in around that place . . . Cy Felder. He’s a desperate man, and he was willing to take a life for a few hundred dollars. He’s likely to do it again. Word is he’s a bad character . . . willing to steal a coin from a corpse’s eyes. Can you bring him in, Cal?’
‘Sure. Give me some descriptions.’
‘Seems he’s close to a veteran named Gulley, survived the war and learned a heap o’ bad habits in the process.’
That had been imprinted in his mind, and Cal knew as
he came round at sun-up, that he should be out there looking for Felder and Gulley, not lying around in bed. The pain seemed to have eased. His appaloosa was in the stables next door, along with his saddle and leathers, and his guns were hung on the wall in front of him. ‘It’s time to bring in your man,’ he said to himself – but at that moment, in came Emilia, seeing that her patient was stirring, and already mad at him.
‘Mr Roney, stay right where you are. I got some pills here for you, and I need to change that dressing.’
He would bide his time, Cal thought, and he co-operated. He sat on the edge of the bed where there was more light, and Emilia started to take off the old bandage. ‘Say, Mr Roney, as you saved my brother’s life twice now, I ought to know more about you. Where are you from?’
‘Truth is Miss Stile, I was reared not too far from here.’
‘And your parents?’
She saw from his face that she had touched a nerve. A flash of pain crossed his face, and she could see in his eyes that there was something troubling him, deep down somewhere.
‘They were killed, Miss Stile. I was just ten.’
‘Killed? Who did it?’
‘I’d call ’em tramps. My family were settled, homesteaders trying to put down roots, but of course, back then there was not so much strength in numbers. Seemed like every day some kind of unwelcome stranger would come into the place. Some wanted a night in the barn, some wanted water and a hunk of bread. . . some preached the Lord at us. But there were rabblin’ wild tramps at times, bunches of drifters crawlin’ around like rats, after anything, any kind of mischief. One day they happened on our place. It’s not a story to repeat to a woman, Miss Stile.’
‘I’m stronger than I look, Mr Roney. It helps to unburden these things.’ She started wrapping the new bandage around the fresh pad she had brought in and pressed on the wound. It gave him time to think, and he went on, ‘I saw it, Miss Stile, I hid and saw what they did. There was one man . . . the leader I think . . . tall man with a real tanned face and a white hat with a feather in it. One of his legs was injured, I saw he couldn’t move it too well. Miss Stile, he put a knife in my father’s heart while Ma watched. Then she was taken . . . she was taken . . . into another room. I heard screams. I wanted to rush out. I covered my ears. I couldn’t take it . . . I ran out of a back door and didn’t stop till our home was out of sight.’
She had stopped working now and was looking into her patient’s eyes, seeing the deep hurt in there, pushed down in the dark self, the hidden self, of a brave man.
‘Life kicked you in the guts pretty early on, Mr Roney.’
‘You could call me Cal.’ He didn’t smile. She let the words pass and told him to lie back. She brought coffee and gave him tablets. ‘One more day’s rest and you can move around,’ she said.
The door opened and Meg looked in, ‘Miss Emilia, there’s Charlie looking for you.’
Cal had heard no mention of Charlie, and so he risked a personal question. ‘He your young man, then, Miss?’
‘He’d like to be. Well, he kinda is . . . we walked out. He has asked the question.’
‘Asked the question? Course, as you said, you have no time for men. I see.’
‘Mr Roney, you don’t see anything. Rest now. I’ll be back in a few hours.’
‘I should be in Blood Creek!’ he said, ‘Not rotting in here.’
She went out, chatting to Meg on the way, but her tone of voice didn’t seem too happy. Maybe, thought Cal, she was one of them women that just don’t need a man around.
His mind was busy, planning what was going to happen that day. He could see in his mind the way out, and so he first forced himself across the room, dressed and put on his gunbelt. His arm hurt when he moved it, as it had done the day before, when he pressed the stock of his rifle with it; but pain fades, he found, if you refuse to acknowledge it. Next was the effort of creeping out of the door, looking around like a rabbit sensing a wolf, and out into the yard. He ducked into the stables and squatted down behind some hay bales. It all seemed quiet, except for a smith shoeing a horse over in the far corner. Then there was his mare, Bella.
Cal crept across to her, whispered and patted her neck, then saw the saddle. He needed Bella to be silent as midnight in Sleepyville, and she seemed to sense his needs. Lifting the saddle was so painful he had to stifle a moan, even though it was a Texas saddle, but in a few minutes everything was fastened up and his work spurs, thankfully with no jingle, were slotted into the latigo, where he had secured them a few days back. The next thing was to walk out, real slow and steady, not even disturbing a shred of straw. Bella knew his every click and whisper, and soon they were riding south-west slow as a trot in a park on a quiet Sunday. Every stride gave him a sharp jab of pain in his arm and chest. But at least he was on the move.
After five minutes, there was the open road and the beautiful expanse of Wyoming before him. Soon he would hear the Platte, but first he took in the distant Medicine Bow Mountains, whose foothills had the streams where as a boy he would fish for trout and listen for the calls of the mountain lions. He was nearing the northern tip of Blood Creek, and he decided to rest a while, take a drink, and decide on how to approach the place. He had no idea how many men might be with Cy Felder, and as he was not exactly in full control of his power and strength, Cal was cautious in everything he did.
He decided to walk steadily towards the Creek, which was around five hundred yards ahead. He took his rifle, just to feel secure, and managed to scramble on to a high rock where he could see upstream. There in the distance he could make out a couple of shacks. It was a sight that brought back so much of the affection he felt for this country, going back to his years growing up. After his parents’ deaths, he was taken in by an aunt in Cheyenne, and as he looked towards the horizon, following the flow of the creek, he was reminded of that time. The memories of creeping back to the family home once the shooting and the screams had stopped, came to him now.
He had stealthily stepped back towards the house, walked along the back wall and peeped around to see who was there, and his eyes met the look of his aunt and her brother. She had screamed and whooped with delight that he was alive, as the people coming out to see the state of the place after the attack expected nothing but corpses. He had been held close to his aunt’s chest and then taken to her home, to the accompaniment of a constant stream of affectionate and comforting words.
Now here he was, close to that home, about to arrive at another homestead and arrest a bank robber. Please let him be alone, he thought. Though he expected to see Gulley. After the determined efforts to move, ride and be free of Long Corral, now exhaustion was setting in, and he felt a weakness overtake him. A voice inside him, a voice of caution, advised him to sleep out there, where he was, and move to the Blood Creek homestead early the next day, taking the inhabitants by surprise. He would have to scout though, to be sure that Cy Felder was there.
He waited for the late afternoon to turn towards dusk before he prepared to bed down. Bella was happy to rest under a cottonwood tree in some shade and chew on some grass, along with the feed he had loaded to the rear ties. There was a useful half-bow of rocks a little higher than his head, and in the heart of this he set his saddle down. But he had nothing to eat, and it was a long old night ahead, he knew that.
As the rays of the sun were just warming his boots, Cal heard voices. Someone was up and about real early. He slithered to the rock nearest the creek and pulled himself to the top where he could see the road from Long Corral. Surprised though, he saw two riders come over the rough track that met the road from the north – and like him, they stopped to take a look along the creek. Cal’s luck was in, as they moved a little closer to him, and he saw that there was a thin, youngish man and a shorter, stocky man. The smaller one was swigging from a bottle, while the younger one was acting like somebody stole his rudder. He wasn’t at all pleased with the man drinking and laughing.
‘Coop, I told you . . . throw away the whis
key . . . you’ve had enough!’
‘Now Jim, you know a little drink steadies the hands and fixes the mind on the job in hand. I always did better with some liquor in me. Stop bein’ such a cussed preacher-man. Who we gotta face? An old man and a coward runnin’ away from trouble!’
‘Coop, there could be ten of ’em up there!’
‘Now Jim Kenny, your brother said to trust the advice of an older and wiser man, right? Well, I’m ancient. I been workin’ for Kenny folk most of my life!’
‘I can’t see no wisdom anywhere . . . just an old drunk!’
Cal heard the name ‘Kenny’, and in a second he knew what the situation was. These two were chasing the same man he was. The whole world wanted Cy Felder, but he, Cal Roney, would get there first.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Emilia was with Charlie when Meg brought the news that Cal had gone. Charlie was concerned about his job, but more worried about his life, now that copies of the last Informer had been printed and had started circulation. It didn’t take long for word to get around, even if folk had not actually read a piece: they would hear about any kind of news and act on that rumour as quickly as they would step out the door.
Charlie had come to Emilia to let her know the situation, and that he was now unemployed and looking for work. They were on friendly terms, in her mind not unlike brother and sister, and he sensed that was the case, so he was burning to find a way to change things, and open up a chance to try a proposal again.
When Meg brought the news, Emilia saw that she had to go straight to her brother and come clean about what she had been doing. Now that Cal was gone, she could spread the news about him. But she knew that it would be unwelcome news, and so she took the chance to have support, and talked Charlie into backing her up. It was a struggle. When she first broached the subject, he responded as everybody responded to the name of Cal Roney.
