by Caleb Rand
‘You will, Duck. You surely will,’ Pruitt said.
‘If’n this Chad Miller get’s the information, what good will it do us?’ Fewes wanted to know.
‘Knowin’. Knowin’ what Porton’s payin’ ’em for gives us an edge. There’s some of us …’
Pruitt stopped talking as he saw the tightened faces of Fewes and Sherman, at the shuffle of movement behind him. When he turned Biler Runcton stepped forward into a pool of light. He was holding a Colt, and his mouth was bent into an ugly grin.
‘Evenin’, Galt, Duck, and you there, Dexter,’ he greeted. ‘Mind if I join the social club?’
‘You can if you shove away the hog-leg,’ Fewes said. ‘Make up for the two-step.’
‘Just put your hands on the table. Keep your filthy maws shut, else you’ll get ’em cracked open,’ Runcton said tiredly. ‘You, Sherman, get over here.’
The three men slapped their hands in front of them. Pruitt saw a glint when a few grains of gunpowder skimmed across the table top.
Runcton holstered his gun. He took a step towards Sherman, leered as the old man backed off.
‘Kit Liligh wandered up here earlier,’ he said. ‘He saw what you were up to. Says you was emptyin’ out a whole stack o’ shells. Reckons Fewes here was pluggin’ ’em real tight … but empty.’
Runcton pushed Sherman up against the wall of the workshop. ‘Now why would you be doin’ such a darned thing? That’s what I’m askin’ myself, old man.’
Sherman shook himself free of Runcton. ‘It’s the goddamed powder. It happens sometimes, gets bumped around … stratifies in the barrels. It’s the overland carriage, unless you ain’t noticed. Charcoal makes its way to the top, that’s what most o’ those shells have got in ’em. Causes too many misfires, an’ I’ve reordered.’
‘So what was you doin’ then?’
‘I remixed some o’ the powder. I was goin’ to try out a few rounds. Duck was makin’ ’em up.’
Runcton glanced at Fewes, back at Sherman. He raised his chin, screwed up his eyes in suspicion. ‘I think you’re lyin’,’ he accused. ‘There’s somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ me.’
Sherman didn’t respond. He’d done his story, said his piece. Now it was up to Runcton.
Runcton took a small step backwards. ‘I was goin’ to purchase that stock, Galt. Buy it all from you.’ Porton’s foreman nearly smiled at his own truth-stretching. ‘High Smoke carries a lot of ordnance, but we recently had some trouble. So recent in fact, I’m thinkin’ you must have a grab on it.’
Fewes watched as Runcton’s palm brushed against his handgun. He couldn’t believe Runcton would shoot Galt. It would more likely be a pistol-whipping, but he wasn’t going to take the chance for his old friend.
As Runcton’s fingers closed around the butt of his Colt, the ’smith folded his massive arms across his chest. His right hand flexed, gripped the shoe-spike he carried in his wide, leather work-belt.
When Runcton lifted his gun, Fewes’s right arm moved swiftly, hurled the eight inches of gleaming steel at Runcton’s back.
Sherman gasped as his eyes met the sudden, pained shock on Runcton’s face. Fewes was already round the table, within two strides of Runcton. The High Smoke foreman was dragging at his gun, but before he pulled it Fewes’s muscular right hand had encircled his wrist. With the fingers of his left hand gripping the end of the spike that protruded from low in Runcton’s back, Fewes lowered the man to the ground.
Sherman stared down at Runcton. ‘What happened?’ he spluttered. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘Duck hit him with a spike, that’s what,’ Pruitt said. He pulled his crutch from the table, hopped across to Sherman and spat on to the dust-thickened floor. ‘But he ain’t dead,’ he added, looking down at Runcton’s twitching body.
‘He ain’t livin’ much either,’ Fewes said, coldly.
‘I guess he would o’ shot me,’ Sherman seemed curiously unsure.
‘Guessin’ was the long game. You think we should all o’ waited, you old goat?’ Dexter Pruitt stormed.
Galt Sherman made a short, appreciative sort of noise as he walked to the door of his workshop. He poked his head out and peered up the street. No one came near and he bolted the door, returned to his friends.
‘We got to get him moved from here,’ he said. ‘If Runcton’s got anyone followin’ up, they’ll kill us all.’
‘Yeah, they just might,’ said Fewes calmly. ‘We’ll take him out to one o’ them deserted cabins. It’ll be a good while before anyone finds him there.’ He turned to Sherman. ‘You recovered, Galt?’
‘I will be,’ Sherman sniffed. ‘When the time comes I don’t need it, I’ll order me one o’ them new single-action Colts,’ he said, tugging at his pants belt.
Pruitt and Fewes dragged Runcton through the back entrance of the workshop, across the yard. As they pushed the body up into Sherman’s small rumble wagon, Pruitt briefly caught the death-set on Runcton’s face, which was ashen, still contorted with surprise and made Pruitt feel slightly queasy. But accepting that Galt could have been about to die, he had no doubts.
‘We’ll ride from here, Dexter, we don’t want to hang around,’ Fewes said, after leading the wagon-horse quietly down the alley to the creek. ‘That snoopin’ Kit Liligh could be out walkin’ with the rats.’
When they’d disposed of Runcton and returned to the workshop it was well after midnight.
‘Hey Galt. You ready for takin’ a walk?’ Pruitt asked.
‘Yeah,’ Sherman answered. ‘Let’s just go on as if nothin’ ever happened. I’ll dig me out a gun … some shells that don’t go poof.’
The three men shared a nervous laugh and Sherman produced a bottle. ‘Reckon we’ve earned a measure for the road!’ he suggested.
Twenty minutes later Galt Sherman locked the rear door of his workshop. With Fewes and Pruitt he made his way along the back-alleys, parallel to the main street. When they drew near to Waddy’s Halt Sherman paused. ‘If any o’ them Smoke snakes ask about Runcton, we ain’t seen him. Am I right on that?’ he asked of his allies.
Fewes nodded. ‘Don’t worry, Galt. No cowboy I ever heard of’s goin’ to worry about their boss bein’ overdue.’
But Fewes was wrong. They’d hardly set foot in the main street when High Smoke’s top hand moved from the shadows. He came from the side-path by the hotel.
‘Hey, Sherman,’ he shouted. ‘You seen Biler Runcton? He’s supposed to be makin’ his way up to your place.’
Sherman stopped dead, cursed under his breath. ‘Runcton? Nope, ain’t seen him. What would he want at this time o’ night?’ he asked.
‘Dunno. But it was you he wanted. Maybe you ought to get back. Biler ain’t much on waitin’ an’ we’re movin’ out shortly.’
‘My shop’s locked up,’ Sherman replied, crossing towards the hotel entrance. ‘If he still wants me, he can come look here.’
With Fewes and Pruitt close behind, Sherman calmly walked up the broad steps and entered the bar of the hotel. A few cowhands, in from the ranches to the south and west, were keeping bawdy company with the ladies. Other than that the one big room was almost empty.
Marvie Setter was slouched in a chair at a corner table. He was alone, looked as though he’d plied his way through nearly a bottle of whiskey. Sunk in a flushed face, his eyes focused unsteadily on the big painting of the naked lady. Then he saw Sherman. He swayed in his chair, picked up his glass and beckoned him over.
‘Hope this town don’t get attacked by renegades, Galt,’ he slurred. ‘Couldn’t put up much of a fight. ’Cept Biler, that is.’
‘You got a drownin’ brain, Marvie?’ Sherman was momentarily lost. ‘What the hell you talkin’ about?’ he asked.
‘There’s no ammunition left in town. Ol’ Biler just bought it all up? That’s what he said he was goin’ to do.’
Sherman understood. ‘Well, I heard he was lookin’ for me earlier on, but I ain’t seen him yet,’ he said. ‘Wish I’d kno
wn about it though, Marvie … could o’ made a heap on a deal like that.’
As he spoke Sherman remembered Kit Liligh, wondered whether he’d passed on what he’d seen to anyone other than Biler Runcton.
He turned to Fewes and Pruitt. ‘You know anythin’ about this, boys?’
Both men shook their heads. ‘No, an’ I thought we were comin’ in here for a drink,’ Pruitt said, thumping the end of his crutch against the bar impatiently.
‘We are,’ Sherman said, while looking enquiringly at Setter. ‘What’s goin’ on, Marvie?’ he asked.
Setter made an effort of blinking, shook his head. He looked blearily around him, sucked a little more of his whiskey. ‘A couple o’ buckos rode up to High Smoke sometime this mornin’ … or was it yesterday mornin’? Anyways, they flamed the place. But what’s sort of interestin’ is, Brig Porton’s been experimentin’ with some new gunpowder. His ammunition shed blew clean over the Cristos. Took a whole load o’ Winchesters with it, too. So right this moment, Porton’s got himself a pack o’ wolves without teeth.’
‘No beans in the wheel. A real dry fire,’ Sherman observed. ‘Who were these men … these buckos?’
Setter grinned. ‘Got to be them who shot up Porton’s riders. I’ll tell you somethin’ else, Galt – the bar-dog at Welsh Peter’s holds ’em to be deputy marshals.’
Sherman shook his head. ‘No, Marvie. Marshals don’t go actin’ that way. Not even deputies.’
Setter grinned, made an drunken grab for his bottle. ‘They used to in Dodge City. I was there once, when …’ Setter halted for a moment, let the memory hang. ‘Well, what d’you reckon, Dexter?’ he continued. ‘You were standin’ outside o’ here when that shootin’ happened. You must’ve seen somethin’.’
‘It was full dark, didn’t see a thing,’ Pruitt lied, wisely. He licked his lips. The whiskey appeal was eating him up.
Setter staggered to his feet, attempted to hang an arm around Sherman’s neck. ‘That’s not all, hear this, Galt,’ he garbled into the side of the man’s face. ‘Ol’ Runcton got orders to take the doc out to High Smoke. But Quinn was seen ridin’ out to the Bridge spread with them same two fellers.’ Setter swayed closer. ‘Only Brig Porton’s put a curfew on the doc’s out o’ town activities,’ he went on. ‘Now they both gone missin’. Makes you wonder what’s goin’ on around here, don’t it, Galt?’
Sherman lowered his head, pushed Setter back into his chair. He bent down, spoke quietly. ‘Well, now here’s somethin’ for you to hear, Marvie. The army at Fort Morgan’s got wind of civil disturbances. They’re sendin’ out a platoon to lay the dust, an’ they got a US marshal taggin’ along. Just could be, Marvie, that Mr Porton’s got a passel o’ grief headed his way.’
Setter’s mouth opened and he slapped his hand on to the wet table. ‘Spent as a beer-fly,’ he said.
‘Not if you go blabbin’, Marvie.’ Sherman gave Setter a meaningful nod, a friendly smack on the shoulder. Then he walked back to Fewes and Pruitt, who were now sitting at the opposite end of the room.
But the whiskey had already leached into Marvie Setter. The man’s tongue was well on its way to losing controlled movement. Before first light most of Hooper would be speculating on Galt Sherman’s imaginary army and the US marshal.
Turning some thoughts around, Sherman sat down with his friends. Neither Runcton or Kit Liligh would have known why he and Fewes had been tampering with the ammunition. He guessed that Runcton had decided to handle the matter himself. But if Runcton or Liligh had talked about it, Brig Porton would be bound to connect him with the burning of High Smoke. Then he’d be tied in with Marlow Frost and the stranger, Chad Miller. Not entirely confident of his prospects, he mentioned it to Fewes and Pruitt. Both men seemed to be in some sort of amused agreement.
‘Yep,’ Fewes said. ‘Reckon your doors won’t be swingin’ for much longer, Galt. Now’s the time to get your debts paid up.’
Sherman puffed his cheeks and got to his feet. ‘There’ll be a ruckus from the Smokers when Runcton don’t turn up. An’ if Liligh’s been talkin’ …’
Pruitt smiled and shook his head. ‘Naagh,’ he cut in. ‘If he’d told anyone we’d all of us be floatin’ in the creek by now.’
Ten minutes later the three men were standing in the shadows at the side of Welsh Peter’s. Fewes saw Kit Liligh weaving his way along the middle of the street.
‘Goddammit, ain’t anyone in this town ever sober?’ he muttered.
‘It’s most likely the usual route home for him … it’s called muscle memory,’ Pruitt said. ‘If he gets there, at least we’re safe for a few more hours.’
‘We could take the uncertainty out of it,’ Fewes said quietly. ‘Tuck him up alongside Runcton.’
Deep in a side-pocket Sherman gripped the butt of the pistol he was carrying. ‘Let’s let him be,’ he said. ‘He won’t remember a thing when he wakes.’
‘Look up. Here comes one o’ them High Smoke Indios,’ Pruitt warned.
The man rode with the laid-back ease of an Indian rider. He flicked a spent cheroot into the dust as he eased to a halt.
‘I’m lookin’ for Biler Runcton.’ He addressed Sherman.
‘Well you ain’t the only one. But why bother me with it?’ Sherman retorted.
‘You’re the one he was lookin’ for, an’ his horse is still in town.’
‘Perhaps he got himself too full o’ firewater. Crawled over to Doc Quinn’s – that’s our medicine man,’ Pruitt suggested insolently.
‘That’s not so funny. The doctor’s gone missin’ too.’ The Montana Flathead thought for a few seconds, then he grinned long and treacherously before turning his horse back down the street.
‘You still got that old smoke-pole?’ Fewes asked Pruitt.
‘Yeah, keep it in the footwell of the coach … powder an’ shot, too,’ Pruitt replied.
‘Well, let’s go collect. Kit Liligh might’ve kept his mouth shut, an’ them Smokers might have nothin’ more’n spit. But for what’s left o’ this night I’m goin’ to bed with more’n bugs for company.’
‘An’ it was me that promised to get Marlow Frost’s message over to Alamosa, so I got to stay alive,’ Sherman said.
‘An’ maybe I’ll get to drive Pitchin’ Betsy in the mornin’,’ Pruitt added.
11
OPPOSITION
Leading the pack mule, Chad Miller and Marlow Frost descended the little-used hill trail towards Big Windy.
‘This Jack Meel feller. He’s out there somewhere, just watchin’ us, is he?’ Chad asked.
‘Well, he’d know, we wouldn’t,’ Frost returned.
Chad thought about it, continued to scan the land for a tell-tale sign. When they neared the ranch house yard a voice cut through the darkness. It was Hork Basen, who’d climbed down from the grain-gate.
‘Hold up there, friend,’ he threatened.
‘It’s me, Hork. I’m with Chad Miller,’ Frost answered him.
Basen emerged from the night. ‘About time,’ he said, dipping his rifle. ‘We were gettin’ real worried … some of us. You run into trouble?’
‘No, we didn’t.’ Frost grinned as he dismounted. ‘That was reserved for the Smokers. An’ right now, I reckon a good bullet’s rarer than a virtuous woman in Hooper. How’s Mr Bridge doin’?’
‘Gettin’ worse. Sun comes up … goes down. That’s about all that’s happenin’ out here.’
In underwear and boots Jawbone appeared from the bunkhouse. He waited for Chad to carefully remove his saddle traps, then he led the men’s horses towards the stable.
Frost untied the ammunition from the pack-mule, then helped carry the cases into the bunkhouse.
Perdi was walking across the yard. In the thin moonlight Chad saw the crease of worry across her forehead.
‘We thought of sending Joe after you,’ she said, failing in the attempt at lightness.
Once again, Chad felt the odd sensation of her presence. ‘I’m sure he would o’ been up f
or it,’ he replied, not certain how to react in the cheerless circumstances. ‘Your pa’s no better then?’ he asked.
‘No. The doc’s done all he can … I know that. He’s dying, and there’s nothing we can do.’
‘Yeah,’ Chad muttered. ‘An’ I’m sorry, Perdi. I know’d it all along, really.’
Perdi knew what Chad was thinking as they walked back towards the ranch house. They stood under the lamp on the front porch and Chad told her most of what had happened during the previous twelve hours. Perdi listened, her lively imagination moving through the events, picturing the action.
Looking pale and sober, Doc Quinn was inside, sitting at the table. He unbent from his chair, looked at Chad compliantly.
Marlow Frost was now standing in the doorway, behind Chad and Perdi. ‘I was askin’ about Mr Bridge,’ he said.
‘Thank you Marlow,’ Perdi said, and gave a small smile.
‘He’s peaceful. There’s no pain, I took care o’ that. Not much more I could do … make him comfortable. It’s in someone else’s hands now, I’m afraid.’ The doc sat down again, looked from Chad to Frost. ‘I’m guessing you’ve been to Hooper. Anybody asking for me?’
‘Not outright they didn’t. Might o’ made mention of it in passin’ … that you weren’t around,’ Frost said.
‘Some o’ the Smoke hands rode in. A man named Runcton looked to be ridin’ point. You know him?’ Chad asked the doc.
Quinn nodded. ‘I know of him. For his sins, his station in life is Brig Porton’s foreman. Do you know what they wanted in town?’
Frost guessed that the doctor was still thinking of himself, and avoided the answer. ‘We got told by an old friend that there might be enough people around willin’ to stand up against Porton. All they want’s someone to lead ’em … get ’em fired up.’
‘Duck Fewes, Galt Sherman, Marvie Setter, that’ll no doubt be three of them,’ Quinn suggested quietly.
‘Don’t rightly know about Setter. Reckon he’s only capable o’ standin’ up to a bar rail. But yeah, the other two’s there,’ Frost confirmed.
