by Frank Callan
‘No more talking, Coop. Think you’re faster than me? Wanna chance it?’
Coop’s hand darted down at once, each hand snatching the revolvers by grip and trigger. But he wasn’t quick enough: Cal had his Remingtons out in the hot air in less time than it took a lizard to shake its tail, and two bullets lodged in Coop, one through an eye and the other into his heart, which had been beating so fast for the previous minutes that he thought it would burst out through his ribs.
Wichita Cooper died fast. Cal stood over him and said to himself, ‘Pa, one shot for you, and Ma, the second for you . . . justice!’
There was a line of men and women behind Cal now, all pointing their weapons at Jake Kenny, whose men were slowly gathering behind him, guns drawn ready. Before anyone could speak, a voice rang out from the stables, and then Octavius Gibbs stepped out, holding his rifle forward, the barrel pointing at Cal. He walked briskly towards him, and when he was close enough for all to hear, he said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I see that a vendetta has been paid. I, too, came out here to settle a score. I came out to send you, Cal Roney, to the world of shades, but now . . . well. . . .’ He threw the rifle down on to the earth. ‘I think it’s time all this stopped.’
Jake Kenny looked around, wondering what to do and what to say. He wasn’t used to making decisions, and now Coop was gone, everything seemed to be pointless. Killing had gone on and on, and for what? He told his men to put away their guns and sat down on the edge of the porch.
‘Sometimes a man has to quit, and this is one of them times!’
But nobody saw Jim Kenny. He had finally stirred, and walked unsteadily towards the sound of the shots, picking up a rifle from a dead man as he went. He came close just as matters were being explained, and there was more talking and reasoning than fighting.
It was Cal’s turn to give them one last surprise. He turned around and looked at Cy and Lizzie, now holding hands. He took a pocket-book from his vest and said, ‘This here says that Cal Roney is employed by the Pinkerton Detective Agency. . . .’
Cy Felder drew his gun and backed away, nervous.
‘Yes, I’m a detective, and I came here looking for Cy Felder. Cy, put the gun away. I never saw you. When I reached Blood Creek, you were long gone!’ Cy ran to him and shook his hand.
Cal hadn’t finished. He now went to Gibbs. He said, ‘If we’re talking justice, mister, I thank you. I need to tell you that every day since that awful accident, I’ve thought about your good wife. I’ve had nightmares about that day. If you’re leaving that debt unpaid then I salute you, as you’re a gentleman and a Christian. Will you shake my hand?’
Gibbs did just that.
‘Well, if there’s any more making up and fancy speeches, I’m heading back to home.’ Ben said.
‘Unfortunately, you don’t have one!’ This was Jake, who realized that nobody there knew about the wrecking of the jailhouse. ‘It was blowed up real efficiently by my big brother . . . awful sorry, Stile. Casualty of war, I guess. You’ll have a new one. A war that I declare over!’
There was an uneasy quiet for a while, but then out from the shade came Jim Kenny. He had been keeping away from all the noise, as his wound was throbbing and giving him constant pain. Now he was just plain mad at the whole world, and wanted to kick anything within range and destroy anyone who attracted his hatred. As he came out, stamping and steaming, his brother met him and explained why there was no more shooting – but Jim pushed him away and lifted his rifle at Cal.
Jim Kenny looked around, seeing the body of Coop, and then some other dead men from the Double T. ‘We lost then, brother?’
‘No . . . nobody lost and nobody won, Jim.’
‘Sure . . . because this man is still alive. Sorry, but I still believe in a vendetta . . . it’s good for the soul. This man shot me, could have killed me! Time for him to pay.’ He raised his barrel. Cal was about to dive for the man’s feet, to close down the angle of range for the shot – but before Jim could fire, there was a crack, and a spot of blood appeared on his throat. He fell like a sapling, hitting the ground hard and fast.
Heads turned as a rider cantered in and slipped down from his horse. He looked at Cal Roney, and Cal looked back. For a long second or two they showed no emotion on their faces, and then Matt Calero said, ‘That’s a debt paid, brother!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There was something different in the air around Long Corral a few days after the fight at Blood Creek. It was a town that, young as it was, had known the extremes of violence, and that had worn down the sensibilities of its inhabitants. There was a palpable desire for peace, a hunger for a ceasefire, a truce at the least. There were dead and there were wounded, and as always happens in a war, the wounds left with the living were not always on the body. Grief played its part in making that different, most welcome, feeling around the streets. The general opinion was that they were fortunate just to lose one building, and the jokers commented on the fact that there was no place to lock up criminals. But on the whole it was weariness that led to the new, liberating feeling in the town.
Talk around the stores and bars put this down to Eddie Kenny, who was still in bed at Doc Heath’s little back-room surgery, where Emilia was caring for him. In the hour after breakfast on the day after the shootings, Eddie had welcomed his brother Jake to the room, and they were talking about what had happened, when Ben Stile arrived. He walked right in and pulled out his pistol.
‘Eddie Kenny, Jake Kenny, I’m arresting you for murder. Eddie, you will stay here under surveillance until you’re well enough to move, and then I’ll be escortin’ you to Laramie.’ Then he added with a sneer, and not without a touch of humour: ‘They have a jail there!’
Eddie had a lot to get off his chest, but neither he nor Jake tried to argue with the law.
‘Ben, I know it won’t do no good, but I think some mistakes were made over the last week, and bein’ so close to my own demise, well, it sure changed an attitude, I guess. I regret the death of Macky and my boys from the Double T of course. . . and the old-timer. Things got out of hand. It was all supposed to work out real smooth.’
‘Real smooth with myself and my friends either dead as last year, or workin’ for your sick enterprise!’ Ben said, trying to hold back the anger he felt. ‘Fact is, Kenny, although you’re sittin’ there leaking blood, I don’t believe there’s an ounce of remorse in your bones. Now, I’m puttin’ away my gun, as I know you were both disarmed, but I have to tell you that I’m not alone now, in my work. . .Come in you two!’ He called out, and in came Cal and Matt.
Jake responded with a sigh and a groan. ‘Oh hell, you two! Damned Pinkertons, brother . . . the two I told you about.’
Cal looked across to the corner, where Emilia was standing back, keeping out of it. ‘Yes, here we are . . . and Emilia, I see you did well with your new patient! Emilia here saved my life for sure, Mr Kenny . . . you’re in good hands.’
‘Yes, unfortunately she’s engaged to marry that poor printer . . . no hope for us Kenny boys!’ Eddie said, with a forced laugh.
Cal had been thinking about her all night, after everyone had pulled out of Blood Creek, except Cy and Lizzie, who were there at that moment, probably giving Sedge a proper burial and a prayer, he thought to himself.
‘Well, my brother’s goin’ nowhere. Doctor’s orders. He was no more than a hair’s breadth from leaving this room in a box,’ Jake said.
A while later, when the different feeling around the town meant that good things would happen – such as Gibbs and Charlie running the newspaper again, and the Heath Hotel staying with the Heath name – Cal and Matt rested up in the room outside Kenny’s sick-room and they chewed the fat over their future, with a bottle of brandy offered to them from Doc Heath’s medicine supplies.
‘For me, Cal,’ Matt explained, ‘I’m in a mood to work on my own. The Pinkerton way is a mite too busy with orders . . . like the army agin. That Lerade, he’s a hard taskmaster, and he worries like an old woman!’
&nb
sp; ‘You don’t mean bounty-hunting, surely?’ Cal asked, lazily.
‘If it earns, then yes. I’ll always have the itch to keep movin’, and I got things to forget. The past never leaves off plaguing a man, Cal. Mind, I’ve had more than my fill of gunfire just now. If I was a mite younger I could ride shotgun on a stage.’
‘No. You’re like me, Matt Calero. . . restless. You can’t resist lookin’ out there at that horizon, can you?’
‘You neither, Cal Roney. What are you fixin’ to do now?’
Cal took a swig of the brandy and wiped his mouth. He had felt the confusion of a hundred different thoughts and feelings running around his head ever since Matt had shot dead Jim Kenny, and the future was closing down again, when Emilia was spoken for. For a few days at least, he had enjoyed the dream of being that strange thing, a husband, looking after that other, stranger thing, a wife. Now it was all gone, that settling down feeling. The frontier offer its endless opportunities to him yet again.
‘Matt, you know, I think I’ll ride on north after we get these murderin’ swine locked up in Laramie.’
‘North? Indian country?’
‘Maybe. But you know, the Sioux and their kin have done some sensible decidin’ in life . . . homes you can move around with, and beef on the next plain.’
‘Maybe you could use a partner?’ Matt asked, though Cal could not gauge whether he was serious or not. He pondered for a moment, looked down at the table, and then said, ‘You know, my friend, you’re the closest thing to a brother I ever had, and two guns are better than one if a man’s in a tight spot. But. . . .’
‘But you’re too mule-headed to play along with another, and you’re riding alone, right?’
‘Right. Thick in the head, ain’t I?’
‘Sometimes the lone steer gets more chow!’ Matt said, and the humour of it filled his head so much he had to belly-laugh, and the humour spread. ‘Anyway, I suffer from the same thickness up here . . . no sense at all. . . .’ He tapped his skull playfully.
‘Well, you don’t owe me nothin’, and you know, I have no memory of anything that happened once, or might have happened, or probably didn’t happen, in a certain battle.’ Cal was looking up at the ceiling as he said this, as if it was all going to be anonymous.
They enjoyed a laugh, but later that day, when both Kenny brothers were locked into the sick-room and Ben Stile sat on guard, the Pinkerton men were assigned to watch the road. Neither Ben nor anybody else in Long Corral trusted the Double T cowhands. They could come riding in at any time and bust out their bosses by force.
‘If they come ridin’ hard, you take the first man . . . and I’ll side-winder myself along this walkway and cover you, brother . . .’ Matt said, looking for a response.
‘Brother . . . I like that. I might ride alone, but you’re a brother more than kin.’ Cal was aware that what had once been something that gave his friend a sense of shame was now rubbed out forever, like a hard lesson on the board at school, when teacher called home-time.
Cal had another long silence to stand: another long wait, with a job to do, and his mind had hours and hours to churn around what might happen in the coming time. Somehow, he thought – and you could call it fate if you wanted to – he was meant to ride alone, with that little shiver of healthy fear of the unknown ahead, and the mistakes of the past well behind.
