by Caleb Rand
‘Huh. I hope their strength is equal to their nerve. Even so, Brig Porton’s a man who’ll use unequalled might to get what he wants,’ Quinn said, with an obvious grasp of the predicament.
Frost looked quickly at Chad. ‘Well, he might not be usin’ gunpowder to get it, that’s for sure.’ Without humour, Chad and Marlow laughed at the mutual joke.
Chad placed his Colt on the table and sat down. He looked at Perdi and Frost, then hard at Doc Quinn. ‘The way I see things, without any regular law, you’re all goin’ to have to fight. If you do, an’ do it soon, you can beat Porton. It won’t be like sittin’ on a whirligig, an’ it’ll take everyone, Doc.’
Quinn nodded in understanding. ‘Perhaps it’s one way for some of us to recover our dignity.’ He looked openly at Chad. ‘Perhaps I don’t have to be so scrupulous in my dispensation.’
Chad raised an eyebrow towards Frost. ‘At least you got choices … preferences, Doc,’ he said. ‘Anyways, all this fightin’ talk’s given me a big yearnin’.’ He lifted his saddlebag on to the table. ‘If it ain’t tended to soon, I’ll be eatin’ this.’
‘There’s something ready. I was just waiting for . . ‘Perdi started to say.
But Chad was making the pretence of not listening. He was staring at the empty table-top, drumming his fingers. ‘You don’t have to serve it hot, Miss Bridge. Just pile it so high,’ he said, and winked, raised the palm of his hand a foot or more.
Chad and Frost ate eggs, ham and grits. When they’d finished, they went back to the bunkhouse. Frost agreed to take the middle watch, and Chad the one following. Chad pulled off his boots and let himself fall backwards on to the cot. There were no words of camaraderie, or of a good hand being dealt – just a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
The night passed without any trouble. During his lone watch Chad had brooded on the situation. It would take at least three days for Galt Sherman to get Frost’s note to Alamosa. Even if the marshal was available there wasn’t much time. Chad knew that it would be during the next two or three days that they’d establish Big Windy’s fate.
12
TELLING OF TALES
In the early hours of the morning Porton’s men had taken Biler Runcton’s horse to the livery stable. They’d pushed Galt Sherman around a bit, but it was clear they didn’t suspect the truth and they failed to locate their foreman. The stableman remembered the clear warning he’d received from Chad Miller and believed it, had kept his mouth shut. Fewes and Dexter Pruitt had remained close. Pruitt had his finger on the trigger of the shotgun, and Fewes gripped his trusty shoeing-spike. Both the old fellers would have gone for a fight, but the scrap was shortlived and nothing that Sherman couldn’t still handle.
The disgruntled High Smoke men rode from town. With the moon casting its silvery shimmer on the swift running water, they followed the creek out of town, for a mile or so. It was just as the riders turned away towards their ranch, that the top hand, Pithy Wilkes held them up. He reined in sharply, pointed down at the muddied, pocked bank.
‘There’s been some sort o’ rumpus here,’ he said, looking across the creek into the darkness. ‘Normally, ain’t nothin’ but scavengers on this land. I’ll go take a look … wait up.’
Wilkes trotted his horse through the water, up the low, far bank. He drew his Colt, as he approached the burned-out settler’s cabin.
In less than a minute he was calling out to his men. ‘We found Biler. He won’t be feelin’ the cold no more. One o’ you get back to town for a buggy, tie his horse on back.’
As the men gathered round Wilkes rolled over Runcton’s body. He found the stab wound low in the back. ‘That was some big goddam bird pecked him,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Wonder where it happened? Didn’t have to be out here,’ one of the other men speculated.
None of them was inclined to dismount. Swayed by Wilkes’s remark and their imaginations, each man speculated on Runcton’s death. One man voiced what they’d all been thinking.
‘Remember what the white flesh tell Egger? They tell him of somethin’ in the night.’
‘You shut that thunderbird-magic junk, right now,’ Wilkes yelled.
‘The soldiers that are ridin’ in with a marshal? You think that come from Marvie Setter’s magic junk-bag?’ the man continued.
‘If you ain’t got the stomach, ride on. Take the night trail, get chased by the goddam spirits,’ Wilkes snapped.
The man employed as a High Smoke cowboy touched the butt of his pistol. ‘You shouldn’t talk to me … none of us, that way, Mr Wilkes. Us heathens get real jumpy … kill things that scare us.’
‘OK, ease up,’ Wilkes said. ‘I guess we’re all a little on edge … the killin’s an’ all.’
The men looked down at Runcton’s body. They saw the rigid, contorted face, didn’t like any of it. When the buggy arrived, they were reluctant to help. Single-handed, Wilkes had to heft Runcton on to the seat. He tied his mount alongside Runcton’s, and the shaky, unsettled group turned in the direction of High Smoke.
Brig Porton was standing on the veranda of his ranch house. He was pacing, agitated and unsettled. He was losing control. There was a move against him, and whoever it was had very quickly gained the upper hand. He knew who was responsible, but the worry was, they weren’t alone, couldn’t be. No single ranch in the San Luis Valley could be that foolhardy.
He watched the buggy turn into the yard, walked out to meet it. Wilkes and the men remained silent as he stared at the slumped body of his foreman. Porton’s whole body shivered.
‘Take him up to the bench … under the lamp,’ he said quietly. Since Porton’s wife had decided to take a sojourn East – to snuffle at the gates of a higher society – Biler Runcton had been his lieutenant, often confidant. A man who, although of basic instincts, was useful, whom he’d got dependent on.
Wilkes had laid Runcton on his side. Awkwardly, Porton hunkered down, rocked a little on his heels. He looked at the patch of dried blood.
‘Ain’t like Biler to get knifed from behind,’ he murmered.
‘No boss, I don’t think so … not knifed.’ Wilkes pointed at the black, crusted hole. ‘Look here, through the shirt. It was some kind o’ spike.’
Porton got to his feet, turned away. ‘Get him to the bunkhouse. Cover him up. Pithy, you come inside,’ he growled.
Wilkes nodded at two of the cowboys, followed Porton into the ranch house. In the library, Porton set up glasses, handed over a large whiskey. ‘What happened in town?’ he wanted to know.
Wilkes took a quick sip. ‘We had a drink with Biler. He talked to Marvie Setter, then said he was goin’ to see Galt Sherman. That was the last we saw of him.’
‘What did Sherman have to say? You spoke to him?’
‘Yeah, I spoke to him, but he hadn’t seen Biler. He was with Pruitt an’ that big ’smith.’
‘How do you know he hadn’t seen him?’
‘He said he hadn’t. Why’d he lie?’
‘Because someone’s skewered Biler an’ he’d know about it, that’s why?’
‘I never knew at the time. But Sherman’s an old man, so’s most of his friends.’
‘Yeah, he might be gettin’ on in years, but guts, never, ever, tempers with age. An’ who else in Hooper’s got the fibre to front one o’ my men.’
‘Marlow Frost … the stranger?’ Wilkes tendered. ‘That’s what some o’ the boys are thinkin’ as well. Setter told us about the army that’s headin’ this way,’ he added, gripping his glass tightly.
Porton kept a straight face, was recalling the message from Jesse Muncie. ‘Setter’s got addled egg for brains. What’s he doin’ with such a story?’ he asked as calmly as he could.
‘He’d kept it for the tellin’ … seemed to know somethin’.’
Porton hadn’t touched his own whiskey. He stared at the glass. ‘Well, thanks for what you’ve done, Pithy … for what you’re goin’ to do.’
As Porton drained his glass, Wilkes met his n
ew status with a brief nod.
‘We’ll sweep Big Windy,’ Porton said. ‘Make sure the men are informed … whatever ammunition they’ve got … get ’em ready.’
‘Yes boss.’
Porton poured himself another drink. He sat by the open window, listened to the silence that had descended on his ranch. His pulse raced, his thoughts dark and threatening. He should have stepped on Big Windy weeks ago. It could be some time now before he could convince the Border River Land Commissioners of his actual holdings in the valley.
Dawn was streaking the sky before Porton eventually pulled off his boots. He lay back in his chair, dreamed of a burned-out, broken land.
Four hours later Porton was riding to Hooper. He was using the buggy that Runcton had been brought in on, was dressed impressive in a dark frock-coat and a Stetson with a silver band.
As he neared the outskirts of the town he saw one of his stores wagons headed his way. He drew away from the trail and reined in, waiting. Slowly, the wagon creaked past with the ranch hand dozing on the driving-seat.
When they were a little way ahead Porton shouted: ‘You got a care to what’s happenin’ out here?’ His voice almost toppled the driver as he edged his buggy alongside.
‘Sorry, chief,’ the man answered, swiftly chastened. ‘Sun’s gettin’ to me.’
‘You sleep in paid time, an’ it’ll be more’n goddam sun that gets to you,’ Porton snapped back at him. He stretched across to the bottom of the wagon to lift the edge of a small tarpaulin. ‘This all the ammunition you got from Hooper? From Sherman an’ Setter?’ he asked.
The ranch hand’s voice was uncertain and faltering. He told Porton that Marvie Setter’s entire stock had been stolen, and that Galt Sherman only kept a small supply in his workshop.
Porton was angry, but his man wasn’t about to suffer. He knew his workforce appreciated the cost of lying to him.
‘OK,’ he said, morosely, ‘get straight back to the ranch.’
Porton rode on. He flicked the reins, touched the modern, double-action Colt he carried in a shoulder-holster. The trouble was mounting, but as yet no one had bested him and got away with it for long. But he sensed his vulnerability, gritted his teeth.
As he rode into the north end of town his horse skittered, the buggy wheels jarring in the rutted dirt of the street. He looked down at a crone who was sitting on some boardwalk steps. She was forking peach from a can and as he passed she looked up and sneered, dabbed the back of a crêpe-skinned hand at her chin-dribble.
Porton rode the length of town. He looked straight ahead as he passed the long-forsaken sheriff’s office, the run-down stores, Waddy’s Halt. When he got to Welsh Peter’s saloon, he climbed tiredly from the buggy, tied the horse to the hitching-rail.
Jesse Muncie was feet-up in a corner opposite the bar. His eyes were closed but he wasn’t asleep. He swung his legs to the floor when Porton rapped his heels with the toe of his boot.
‘What the…! Oh, it’s you, Mr Porton. I didn’t expect you so soon … took me by surprise,’ Muncie said, slightly flustered.
Porton looked at Muncie’s bruised face. ‘Yeah, an’ so did someone else,’ he said, with bite. ‘Get Barley Mose and Munk. Be here with ’em in an hour.’
‘Sure thing, boss.’
‘Them two surveyors upstairs?’ Porton asked.
‘Ain’t seen ’em come down.’
‘An’ the driver?’
‘The barky ol’ gimp with a lot o’ maw on him? Yeah, he’s around.’
Muncie watched Porton cautiously. He could see the rancher had lots on his mind, and none of it too kindly.
‘What’s happened to Biler Runcton, boss?’ he asked after a few silent moments.
‘He’s dead,’ Porton said bluntly. ‘Looked like he got fixed with some sort o’ wirin’ post. You go find Munk and Mose, but stay dummy about it. I’m goin’ up to Waddy’s.’
When Porton had left the hotel Muncie raised himself in his chair so he could see through a window. He saw Porton hitch his buggy further along the street, edged out of sight as Porton walked into the hardware store. He was shaken at the unexpected news of Runcton’s death, considered the forewarning of Marvie Setter.
Setter was filling nail bags behind the counter of his store. When the overbearing rancher entered he looked up as the bell pinged.
‘Mr Porton,’ he acknowledged. ‘Real sorry ’bout them shells. You heard I got cleaned out? Whoever it was took the lot. Weren’t much though … five or six boxes,’ he added a bit too self-defensively.
Porton lifted a hacksaw from its box. ‘Yeah, I heard. When was this … exactly?’ he asked, smiling coldly.
‘Must o’ been while I was takin’ a drink. We were in Waddy’s, discussin’ the deal. Biler had already seen I ain’t overstocked in here.’ Setter waved his hand vaguely across the store.
Porton nodded, his voice had a threatening edge. ‘What’s this tale you been tellin’ o’ the army?’
Setter knew enough to bend the truth about his own drunkenness. ‘Weren’t me doin’ the tellin’. It was Galt Sherman … was him told me,’ he said. ‘Maybe he’d been too long on the prairie dew. He was with Duck Fewes an’ the other ol’ tanker who’s drivin’ the coach.’
‘Dexter Pruitt,’ Porton muttered.
Setter toyed with the bag of nails, seemed uncertain of what to say next. ‘Galt also told me the doc had gone out to Big Windy. I laughed, told him Quinn knew better’n that.’ Setter then took a deep breath. ‘You want to know what he said to that?’ he added with a small smile.
Porton ran the edge of his thumb lightly along the hacksaw blade. ‘Yeah, what?’
‘He said, maybe the doc knew about the army an’ the marshal. Maybe he decided to take a chance … ride to the winnin’ side.’ The last part wasn’t from Doc Quinn. Setter took the opportunity for his own partisan support.
But Porton knew it, and a chill smile fleetingly crossed his face. His final words lingered as he strode from the store. ‘Then I’ll go ask Sherman to explain.’
From Welsh Peter’s saloon, Jesse Muncie was still furtively watching. As Porton walked further up the main street he thought about going to see Setter, but dismissed it as too hasty, unsafe. ‘Best go find Munk and Mose,’ he muttered.
From Galt Sherman’s place Porton stared tetchily around him. ‘Maybe you got no reason to open,’ he snarled, then turned to Waddy’s Halt.
13
BRIDGEHEAD
Chad took a step forward from the doorway of the bunkhouse as Perdi Bridge ran towards him.
‘Jack Meel’s gone missing,’ she called.
Chad all but smiled. ‘He probably heard somethin’ he didn’t like.’
‘Well, he’s taken his effects. No, he’s gone, Chad … left Big Windy.’
‘Well if he has, it’s a mighty helpful time to do it. An’ not a lot any of us can do about it. Not now, anyways. But if it’s runnin’ away ’cause he don’t like the odds, I’ll find him an’ kill him afterwards, if I ain’t dead myself. I’ll let you know what I find out, Perdi.’
Chad went over to the corral, saw Marlow Frost checking over the horses.
‘Where’d you reckon Meel’s gone?’ he asked. ‘Looks like he’s done a runner.’
Frost laid a bridle over a corral rail. ‘He ain’t done that, Chad. More likely he wouldn’t want to be tied down at the house. No, he’ll be watchin’ an’ listenin’ from somewhere … givin’ us time.’
‘Yeah, perhaps you’re right.’ Chad thought for a moment. ‘You know we can’t wait Marlow … just hopin’ on someone arrivin’ from Alamosa. There’s too much at stake. Meantime, I’ve sort o’ taken to the Bridge family.’
Frost grinned. ‘So you won’t be doin’ a runner then. You reckon Porton’ll come tonight?’
‘If they do, them braves o’ his won’t like it. But given the choice that Porton offers, maybe they’ll put their dread o’ night skookums behind ’em.’
Frost slapped a leather tie-
strap against the palm of his hand. ‘If they do come, they’ll make a big loop … down from the timber-line … use the trees as cover.’
Chad backed off. ‘I’ll have a word with Quinn. He might know who’s likely to side with Porton. Field officers put a lot o’ store on intelligence, but it’s us that needs the advantage.’
‘Yeah, an’ if we’re goin’ into town, we’ll need some workin’ artillery.’
Perdi was waiting as Chad approached the ranch house. He saw the distress, knew the reason.
‘Pa’s just died,’ she said, dully. Her attention was focused somewhere out beyond the San Juan Mountains.
Chad swore to himself. ‘I’m real sorry, Perdi,’ he said quietly. ‘I guess it don’t come any easier … knowin’ it’s comin’?’
Perdu didn’t say anything, just shook her head and took some deep breaths.
‘Marlow says that Meel’s out there, waitin’, watchin’ for somethin’ to report. We’ve got to be ready, Perdi.’ For the first time Chad saw the real effect of Brig Porton’s oppression, his attempt at dominating the San Luis Valley. ‘I’m goin’ to take a look at your gun cupboard,’ he said. ‘We’ll make your pa’s dyin’ worth somethin’.’
‘What’s Porton after, Chad? Hasn’t he got enough?’ she said, the words almost choking her.
Chad was looking at Ashley Bridge’s collection of rifles and shotguns. ‘I don’t know, Perdi,’ he said. ‘What is it they say: it’s women an’ religion that makes men fight? For Porton, though, it’ll be for land an’ money. That’s what gets him the power … the control. From what I heard it’s more’n likely his reason for goin’ on. He don’t have much else,’ he added.
Rose came into the room and smiled thinly at Chad and her sister. Her eyes were raw and red-rimmed. ‘I just hope Pa’s got everything for the land he’s going to,’ she whispered.
Doc Quinn walked slowly from Ashley Bridge’s room. ‘He’s already kickin’ ass in the big corral, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he said with regard to Rose’s sorrow. ‘No offence, ladies,’ he added.
