Hart the Regulator 9

by John B. Harvey

  He gave her a son, whom she named Robert and doted on, even while Jordan was becoming more and more grudging with his attentions and more and more demanding in his requests for spending-money that would see him through his increasingly frequent trips to San Francisco.

  Lydia gave him as little as she could to keep him quiet, loved her son all the more and despised the father to the same degree. After he returned sick with what she assumed (yet had no way of telling for sure) was a venereal disease, she hired a detective from the Didion Agency in Sacramento to follow him. When she read the report he was already too low in her regard even to be shocked; all that it did was to confirm what she had suspected. The only thing for which she could not forgive him was dragging her son’s name through the smirch and stink of the gutter.

  One night she plied him with brandy and champagne and made him think she was inviting him into her bed for the first time in a long while. Naked, he cowered beneath her eyes when she showed him the detective’s report of his activities. She told him that she was making him a regular allowance on condition he left the house in the morning, changed his name and promised never to attempt to get in touch with either her son or herself again.

  She had ceased to think of Robert as Jordan’s son also.

  There was little Jordan could do but agree.

  From that minute Lydia considered herself a free woman and at breakfast the following morning she told Robert that his father had died in a shooting accident in San Francisco. A fight had broken out in the street and he had been hit by a stray bullet. It had entered his brain and he had died instantly, without pain.

  Robert was then a month short of his third birthday.

  Lydia was no more than thirty-four but she decided that she had done with men for all time. She put a good manager into the mine, paying him the highest wages of all to secure his best service and loyalty. She took advice about investment and diversified sufficiently to treble her income over the next decade. She was a very rich, large woman who lived in a large, rich house with two servants and a cook and a handyman and – since seven weeks earlier – without her son.

  That was the reason for her contacting the Didions for the second time in her life; the reason for R. G. Fowler’s sweating, finally dangerous journey up through the spreading foothills and. onto Bear Creek road in search of the MacPhail house. It was not quite grand enough to be called the MacPhail mansion, though some did, shaking their heads in a mixture of envy and admiration that one person should own so much.

  And a woman at that.

  ~*~

  But, ‘See,’ they said, ‘she’s lost her husband and now her son’s run out on her. They ain’t happy, not for all their gold.

  And they shook their heads, feeling some sorrow and not a little pleasure.

  When Fowler clambered, wet with sweat and masked in trail dirt, from the chestnut’s saddle, his suit was a torn rag, his dark hair tousled and unkempt, his temper that of a bear who’d been caught with his leg in a rusty trap.

  He shambled a few paces towards the porch and an astonished Lydia MacPhail, her hand resting with an attempt at elegance against one of the white-painted wooden pillars.

  ‘If you don’t get back on that animal and ride out of here this instant, I’ll order my men to run you out!

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fowler with a slow nod of the head. ‘Yeah, that’s fine. Fine.’ His voice was slow and low, near enough inaudible. He made a couple of scratching gestures across his chest and said: ‘Lady, I could use a drink.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I—’

  ‘Sure I heard you. You were real good. Now about this drink

  Her hand came off the pillar in the shape of a not-so-small fist. There is no drink!’

  Fowler’s nose twitched disappointedly. ‘No drink, huh? Damn big place like this an’ you ain’t got a drink in it.’ He heaved his chest forward and lumbered a few vague paces towards the porch. Lydia was certain by now that the intruder was either suffering from sunstroke or merely insane. She called aloud for the handyman, set herself across the front of the porch with her arms folded and waited for the stranger to be thrown out.

  ‘Lady, it’s hot an’ I been in the saddle of that nag for a long time gettin’ up here. If you’ve changed your mind that’s okay by me, I guess, though you might’ve sent a wire and saved me the trouble. But if you can get one of your boys to feed an’ water my horse and get me a couple of shots of bourbon, I’ll be on my way.’

  The hired help appeared round the corner of the house, a pick handle tapping against the palm of his open hand.

  Lydia MacPhail said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Fowler’s shoulders lifted and fell. ‘Suit yourself. Just keep that boy there away with that stick.’

  ‘Cord, throw him out.’

  Fowler gave another bear-like shrug and shifted his weight on his short legs and waited. The feller with the pick handle was maybe twenty and an inch or so over six foot. Muscles bloomed under the thin cotton of his work shirt. His eyes were bright and blue and dismissive as he waved the handle in Fowler’s direction and told him to mount up and get the hell out. Fowler gave his head a shake and waited, standing his ground.

  The youngster came for him then, throwing the pick handle high over his shoulder and then bringing it down through a wide curve that was aimed at the side of Fowler’s skull.

  But Fowler was hot and tired and sick of playing games. What’s more he was thirsty. He didn’t believe what the woman had said about the house being dry. One moment the length of wood was on its way down and the next it was looping harmlessly away over the grass. Cord’s right arm was up tight between his shoulder blades and he was on his knees, face contorted in a scream.

  The bright, blue eyes found Lydia MacPhail imploringly.

  She advanced a step from the porch. ‘Let him go. Let him go!’

  Cord went spinning forward, arms and legs flailing. He scrambled to his feet and stood there, breathless and hurt, hugging his arm like a busted wing.

  Fowler looked at Mrs MacPhail and said: ‘Next time be more careful about sending a boy where only a man will do.’

  Cord’s eyes smarted but he held both his tongue and his ground.

  Fowler scuffled his right foot and said, ‘Aw, hell! The agency’ll send you a bill for my time.

  He was gripping the bridle when Lydia MacPhail stepped towards him. ‘You’re from the agency? The detective agency?’

  ‘I sure as hell ain’t Western Union.’

  ‘You didn’t look like a detective.’

  Fowler shrugged. ‘It’s something to do with the way I dress.’

  The last detective—’

  ‘I know. Looked like Kit Carson in a three-piece suit.’

  ‘I thought I might get the same man.’

  ‘What I heard, you prefer to change ’em every once in a while.’

  Lydia MacPhail flushed and started to say something but Fowler raised a hand apologetically and stopped her. ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean no offence an’ I don’t want to have to bust that kid’s arm on account of you setting him on me again. Like I said, I’ll report back that you got your business done some other way an’ the Old Man’ll send you a bill.’

  ‘My business,’ she said to his back, ‘it isn’t dealt with. Not at all.’

  ‘I understood you to say …’

  ‘I was confused.’

  ‘About the drink too?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Just level with me.’

  ‘About my business?’

  ‘About my drink.’

  She rubbed her hands together for a moment and sighed. ‘You’re a very determined man, aren’t you, mister …’

  ‘Fowler. And about some things, yes.’

  ‘Like your work?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘And alcohol.’

  ‘Always. Now do you have any bourbon?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t t
hink so. My last husband, he may have left some behind …’

  ‘He must’ve run out in a hurry. You set your boy on him?’

  Lydia MacPhail came close to a scowl. ‘For a detective you aren’t very close with your tongue, mister …’

  ‘I told you. Fowler. And maybe you noticed, I’m not very tall either.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Just your thirst. All right, Mr. Fowler, why don’t you come inside?’

  As she turned and walked towards the paneled front door, Fowler noticed, a little to the right of the sullen handyman’s head, a bronze statue of a hunting dog poised in the bushes, its nose pointing expectantly skyward.

  Chapter Five

  Cantrell’s ranch was at the northern end of the Lost Creek valley, its buildings one above the other so that from a distance they seemed to be standing almost roof to floor. Closer to, it was possible to see that the land lay in broad ledges and Cantrell – or whoever had built the place – had made good use of the natural gradations. The main building was at the center, bunkhouse and barns set above and below. Out front was a narrow corral with a high fence, some dozen or more horses bunched towards the furthest end. Cattle grazed lazily across the pasture. There were fruit trees running at an angle between the ranch house and the western slope of the valley and what looked like a large vegetable patch had been dug by the corral.

  Hart and Sheriff Mosley reined in their mounts in the shelter of a bunch of juniper, most of them pushing their spread branches up some twenty feet.

  Mosley switched a wad of tobacco across his mouth and pulled a pair of field glasses from his saddle bags. He trained them on the ranch, fidgeting with the focus and cursing softly under his breath. Apart from a honey-colored hound dog and a woman who was sitting close to the door of the main house slicing onions, he couldn’t see a damn thing.

  ‘Here!’

  Hart took the glasses and made a sweep across the valley end.

  ‘Reckon they’re out checkin’ stock?’

  Hart handed back the glasses, shrugged. ‘Could be mendin’ fences, any fool thing. Then again, they could be right back of that log wall doin’ nothin’.’

  ‘What the hell’d they be doin’ restin’ in the middle of the day when there’s work to be done?’

  ‘Search me, Sheriff. But either way, we won’t find out sittin’ on our asses.’

  Mosley grinned and spat tobacco juice in a dark stream. ‘Sounds to have a grain of truth in it. You want me to ride on ahead?’

  ‘An’ claim all the reward?’

  ‘Now what makes you think I’d do a thing like that? Invited you along, didn’t I? ’Sides, might make more sense for me to go in first. This feller Bennett proves to be who he could be, he’s liable to start shootin’ off every damn gun in sight soon as he sees who you are. Ain’t likely to forget you, I reckon.’

  Hart leaned an elbow down onto the pommel of his saddle and gazed along the valley. ‘Makes sense, Sheriff, only you just might be in for a little trouble.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘You go in there on your own and start askin’ questions and then he starts takin’ target practice, it’s goin’ to take me some minutes to ride in an’ lend a hand. Just could be too late.’

  Herb Mosley leaned back his head and squinted up at the sky. ‘Course,’ he said after a few moments’ thought, ‘if I weren’t plagued with this leg, that’s a risk I’d take. But seein’ as that’s the case – and as long as you understand that – I reckon what you say’s got some sense to it.’

  ‘So we’ll ride in together.’

  Mosley shifted his plug of tobacco with his tongue and managed the beginnings of a laugh. Together,’ he said.

  ~*~

  At first they wondered if she couldn’t hear them, was maybe deaf. But some slight faltering with the paring knife, a sense of rigidity which suggested a body held under tight control, told them that she knew only too well of their slow approach.

  The sheriff halted his mount ten yards from the bunk house, the woman seated above him on the first ledge of land, the empty unglazed windows of the house behind her.

  Hart came to a standstill a couple of yards back from the lawman and over to his right, giving his gunhand clearance and room. When Mosley talked, Hart scanned the three levels for the least sign of movement.

  At first there was none.

  ‘Your man ain’t home then?’ Mosley asked a second time.

  ‘Like I said, Sheriff.’ Her voice was strained and worn like her face and hands, a young enough woman worn down like so many by the land. She made no attempt to keep her distaste for Mosley out of her voice and he felt no less for her on account of that.

  ‘Any notion when he’ll be back, Mrs Cantrell, ma’am?’ Her feelings towards him made Mosley excessively polite.

  ‘Some time after sundown’d be usual.’ She peeled the vegetables as she talked, hardly bothering to look at either man. Dirt tracked across her hands in broken lines.

  Mosley glanced round at Hart, uncertain whether to believe her and ride off or make a search of the buildings. Hart was undecided also, knowing only that the woman would try to stop them if they attempted to go past her. Of course, they had the power to force her, only …

  ‘He take on any new hands lately, Mrs Cantrell?’

  She did look at him then; looked at him and lied as calmly as she sliced an onion and pushed out the rounds, one after the other into the big iron pot at her feet. ‘Not a one, Sheriff. Can’t afford more’n the one. That’s Cal an’ he’s been with us five, no, six year.’

  Mosley nodded, glanced at Hart quickly. If she was lying about that then she likely was about everything. Hart caught the sheriff’s sense, felt the tension rise in the older man’s body. His faded blue eyes skimmed the buildings once again and saw nothing that hadn’t been there before. Off to the side the hound dog stretched and sniffed suspiciously before falling back to his lazy dream.

  ‘I guess we’ll wait, ma’am,’ said Mosley and swung his leg, stiff as a poker, over the saddle.

  ‘I told you, Sheriff,’ she began, but the confidence wavered in her thin voice at last as if she realized he no longer believed her.

  Before Mosley got his good leg to the ground Cantrell stepped out from the house. He was wearing a white shirt loose over his work pants, like a man who might have been sleeping and just woke. A man who’d had time enough to strap his gun belt on tight.

  Hart’s thumb flicked the safety thong from round the hammer of his Colt.

  ‘What’s goin’ on, Sheriff?’ Cantrell asked. His eyes shifted across to where Hart was still astride the gray, but if he recognized him, he gave no sign.

  ‘Lookin’ for a feller figured might be workin’ for you. Name of Bennett.’

  Cantrell shook his head and looked relieved. ‘Made a trip out here for nothin’, Sheriff. Ain’t got but one man an’ he’s—’

  ‘Called Cal and been with you five year,’ Mosley interrupted, his voice tightening with anger. ‘Your wife said. I was thinkin’ about a feller goes by the name of Bennett.’

  Cantrell shook his head. ‘I don’t know no Bennett. Sure don’t work for me. But if you want to stick around till Cal comes back in off the south end, you can make sure.’

  Hart shifted the gray sideways to give himself a little more room. ‘When we met up on the ridge a few days back, he was ridin’ with you. Maybe you can’t remember that?’

  Cantrell looked puzzled. ‘Bennett? That was his name? He never said as I recall. Went his own way not more’n a couple of miles after we quit your camp. Sure ain’t round here.’ He continued to look surprised. ‘Bennett, I didn’t know him for a Bennett.’

  Mosley pulled a folded flier from his vest pocket and shook it out. ‘Could be you know him as Barlow. Henry George Barlow. Killed a feller over Ely way.’

  Hart imagined a movement up at the barn and his body tingled alert.

  Cantrell moved back a step closer to the doorway. ‘What’s your jurisdiction here, Sheri
ff?’

  Somebody darted across the high arched doorway of the barn, far enough back to be no more than a scuttling shape. Hart’s hand settled on the pearl grip of his gun.

  ‘Here’s my damned jurisdiction!’ called Mosley and made a play for his pistol.

  Cantrell surprised them all by clearing leather faster than any rancher should have been able. Mosley stood gaping as the report sang out and something hard and hot as all hell hammered through his side.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he called as his pistol slipped through his fingers and back down into the holster. He swayed off to the left and the support he should have had from his stick wasn’t there.

  As he was falling to the ground, Hart turned the gray fast and headed towards him, bending low and snapping off a couple of quick shots as he went. The first slivered several inches from the side of the barn door and the second found the empty space between Cantrell’s head and the planking about it.

  ‘Never mind me!’ yelled Mosley and pushed himself up onto his knees, trying all the while to prise his gun from its holster. Both Cantrell and whoever was in the barn were firing at will and the dirt spat up wildly around the gray’s hoofs.

  ‘I said don’t mind me!’

  ‘I heard you.’ Hart reached his left hand low past the saddle, seeking Mosley’s own hand. The sheriff clasped his fingers tight round Hart’s wrist and made as good a jump for the back of the mare as he could. He rammed his chest against the animal’s withers and a second bullet went clean through his right buttock, removing a slice of flesh and leaving a channel four inches long. He yelled in anger more than pain and grabbed at the saddle and pulled hard. Hart kicked Clay with his spurs and urged her into a gallop.

  When he was fifty or more yards down the valley and passing the end of the corral, he angled the gray steeply round and ordered Mosley to jump clear.

  ‘Like hell!’

  ‘Do it!’

  Mosley landed in a sprawling heap and rolled over several times, ending up with one arm twisted behind his back and the other uncertain which of his wounds to cover.