Talman's War (A Piccadilly Publishing Western #9)

by Neil Hunter

  Nolan’s distant figure turned into the doorway of the store. Narrowing his eyes against the blinding glare of sunlight on the dusty street Jim led his horse over to the opposite side of the town’s thoroughfare. He tied his mount at the hitching rail of the Garnett Palace Saloon. The sign bearing the name was weathered and pale, the wood dried out and beginning to warp. Jim took off his hat and dusted it against his leg. A great many things were going to be dried out before this drought was over, he thought. He realized in the same instant that he was becoming morose, and he couldn’t allow that to happen. He stepped up onto the boardwalk and went into the saloon. The batwing doors swung noisily on hinges that needed oil. The noise carried outside onto the street, losing itself in the hot emptiness.

  Garnett appeared to be slumbering, resting in the bright hotness. It seemed peaceful enough; but there was something in the air, a growing mood of unrest, a brooding swell of menace that had gone unnoticed up to now.

  It was not to remain so. A change was due, though it was to have its origins some distance from Garnett itself.

  Chapter Five

  Swinging out of the saddle Andy Jacobs rein-led his horse along the edge of the creek. His face was grim, his eyes dark as he paused to study the flow of water. His suspicions were confirmed to the full, and Jacobs felt a rise of anger at the confirmation.

  Rocking-T’s water was drying up. But not by any natural happening. Jacobs had felt his feelings grow stronger as he had ridden up into the hills. Now, as he neared the very crest of the range, he knew what was taking place. Someone was stealing Rocking-T’s water; someone who had blocked off the creek’s natural flow, diverting it elsewhere. And Jacobs knew who it was. He didn’t need to be told. He knew as sure as he knew there was going to be trouble over this.

  Beyond the western edge of Rocking-T range, on the opposite side of the hills lay the vast, sprawling cattle-empire belonging to Philip Olsen. Rocking-T was big — big by any standards — but Olsen’s Boxed-O was gigantic. It spread far and wide, a great tract of land that was too big for its neighbors’ comfort. Every ranch in the area was shadowed by Boxed-O’s bulk, and the presence of its owner. Philip Olsen had been beaten to the punch by John Talman in the race for good rangeland. Where Olsen grabbed and held by force, John Talman selected and filed his claim. He secured title on Rocking-T right under Olsen’s nose, taking in the range of hills that gave birth to the creek that watered the flatlands below. Olsen had never forgotten this. For a long time Olsen had tried to take over Rocking-T, but John Talman had blocked his every move. Violence had flared once or twice, but it had never gotten out of control through John Talman’s handling. It was a clear, but undeclared fact that Olsen wanted Rocking-T. While John Talman lived Olsen was thwarted every time. His bluster and bellow didn’t bother John Talman; now, though, John Talman was gone, and as yet his heir had not had to prove himself — since Jim had taken over Olsen had been unusually quiet. Soon after John Talman’s death, Olsen had gone away for three months. When he had returned he’d brought a wife back with him, a young woman of twenty-four, sixteen years his junior. A lot of changes had taken place at Boxed-O since then: new buildings had gone up, the range was restocked with bawling herds of cattle, adding to Olsen’s already huge herds. It became obvious that Olsen was intent on building up the largest cattle-ranch in the territory. And it seemed as if he would succeed. He made a couple of financially rewarding drives, selling his beef at record prices. He bought out a couple of smaller brands, adding to his huge range. Yet always, to those at Rocking-T, was the feeling that Olsen’s eyes were on them, on Rocking-T’s good graze and water. Jim Talman had a spot on his mind that was always alert for any move from Olsen. There were times when he forgot the man altogether — but somehow Olsen was always there, a close-at-hand, lurking threat. Jim knew that one day Olsen would make his play — and when that happened Jim would need everything he had in him to combat it.

  Being as much a part of Rocking-T as anyone, Andy Jacobs’ thoughts ran along the same lines as his employer’s. And as he followed the course of Rocking-T’s creek up into the hills he began to realize that Olsen’s move was already under way. Jacobs had no qualms at pinpointing Olsen before he had proof. There was no-one else it could be. With the size of herds he ran Olsen was going to face hell in broad daylight during this drought. His need for water would be more than desperate. And Olsen would never tolerate going under, especially if Rocking-T managed to stay alive. It was simply a case of survival — survival of the toughest, the most ruthless. Jacobs saw the beginnings of a full-scale range war in the offing. He knew this because just as Olsen would use every trick to get what he wanted, Jim Talman would do just the same to hang on to what was his. Jim was not a strongly violent man, but he would face a threat to his land and life with as much fury as any adversary.

  Up ahead, from somewhere in amongst jumbled, eroded rock and tangled brush, Jacobs spotted a thin spiral of smoke rising into the pale sky. Now his fears were justified. Someone was making camp at the source of the creek.

  Easing silently into the heavy timber that flanked the banks of the creek Jacobs tied his horse. Sliding his Winchester from the leather sheath, he moved through the dappled shadows of trees and brush, making his way up towards the rocky escarpment where the smoke was still visible.

  It took him no more than five minutes, and he found himself almost on top of the smoke before he knew it. From the cover of the undergrowth Jacobs was able to move into the mass of hot, jumbled rock with ease. Here he had to move with extra caution, for any noise would carry loudly amongst the great slabs of tumbled stone.

  He heard them before he saw them. First a murmur of voices, then the scrape of a boot against hard rock. A little way off to his left he heard a horse snort. Working his way higher up the sloping rock-face, Jacobs abruptly found himself looking down on a hastily improvised camp. Five men were gathered around a small fire, drinking coffee. Every man was heavily armed. Jacobs saw tools as well — shovels, picks, axes; before they had taken their coffee the five had been busy.

  Just beyond where the five sat the ground sloped away to the place from which Rocking-T’s creek originated. Bubbling up out of a four-foot fissure into the hard rock the water collected in a broad, natural basin, which in turn flowed over the crest of the hill and down the age-old watercourse to the flatlands below. Now though, the flow-off was blocked by a solid dam of logs and tumbled stone. Some water still got through but it was a mere trickle to what it should have been. On the opposite side of the basin a fresh run-off had been hacked out of the rock, draining the water down Boxed-O’s side of the hill.

  Jacobs took this in and saw it as nothing less than a death-blow aimed directly at Rocking-T’s heart. It was plain to see, and he knew it had to be stopped before it went too far.

  He glanced towards the bunched horses. There were five, so it appeared that the five men below were all that were here. If there were others he would just have to be on the alert for them. Whichever way it went, Jacobs decided, his next move was going to start something off that had been brewing for a long, long time.

  He thought no more about it. Coming to his feet he brought his rifle to bear on the five men.

  ‘Move easy, gents,’ he said evenly. ‘Don’t give me the excuse I need to shoot.’

  They rose as one, seeking his voice. Coffee mugs clattered on hard rock. One spilled its liquid into the fire and it hissed and sputtered a cloud of steam into the air. When they saw the rifle he held, they kept their hands away from their sides — all save one. He was a tall, thin redhead who uttered an oath and went for his holstered Navy Colt. He was fast, but nowhere near fast enough to go against a man holding a cocked gun. Perhaps he had thoughts that Jacobs wouldn’t shoot. Plainly he didn’t know Andy Jacobs’ reputation as a man who never made a statement he didn’t mean. It was a mistake the redhead never got a chance to rectify. As his handgun cleared the leather Andy Jacobs triggered off one shot. The redhead’s jaw dropped open as th
e heavy bullet took him just below the hat brim, above the left eye. His arms flew wide as he spun round on his toes like a dancer. He was already dead when his body struck rock. He rolled until he was almost in the water, lying on his stomach, his face twisted round so that one eye, still open, stared unblinking at the sun.

  With the echo of the shot rattling away among the rocks and trees, Andy Jacobs slithered down the sloping rock face, bringing himself onto the same level as the men under his gun. They were still staring at the body of their redheaded companion, and Jacobs took advantage of their shock, placing himself with his back to solid rock before he spoke again.

  ‘All right then, let’s have the hardware on the ground.’ His tone was hard, snapping out the words at them, and they obeyed meekly. ‘Step back, gents, just far enough so I don’t have to feel nervous.’

  ‘Damn you, Andy, there weren’t no reason to kill Red,’ one of the four burst out; Jacobs recognized him, as he had also recognized one other Boxed-O rider. The one who had spoken was a fair-haired, heavy man who went by the name of Curly. To his right stood a young man named Jack Murray. The other two were strangers to Jacobs, as was the man he had shot.

  ‘Why, Curly, you know I had no choice,’ Jacobs answered him.

  ‘Olsen ain’t goin’ to like it. He ain’t goin’ to look at it that way,’ Curly threatened.

  Jacobs spat suddenly, his face hardening. ‘You can tell Olsen I don’t give a damn which way he takes it.’

  ‘This could make a war,’ Curly stated flatly. ‘And if that happens Rocking-T ain’t got a chance.’

  ‘Try it and we’ll see,’ Jacobs snapped, then realized he was just being drawn into a brag and threat match. He jerked his rifle in a sharp, cutting movement. ‘Let me see you take that dam down, boys, ’cause we got some thirsty beef down yonder.’

  They moved to obey, knowing that argument was futile. This time they had been caught out. This was Rocking-T’s round. There was no use anyone else getting killed for nothing. Today Boxed-O ate crow — but there was always tomorrow. The men of Boxed-O cursed Andy Jacobs to high hell, but while they cursed they tore down the dam they had built. They toiled beneath a blazing sun and sweated, tearing raw hands on rough logs and blistering their skin on rock turned furnace-hot in the heat.

  And as they worked they were always aware of Andy Jacobs and his ready gun, each of them knowing that he would use it without hesitation if the need arose. It only took a quick glance at the stiffening corpse of the man named Red to quell any thoughts of what would obviously be rash action.

  While the larger part of his attention was focused on his four unwilling captives, Andy Jacobs let his mind consider the facts of what had just happened. The killing of Red bothered him only from the angle that he had most probably plunged Rocking-T into a war. The fact that he had killed a man didn’t bother him at all. Red had made his play and had lost out, and that was as far as it went.

  Jacobs’ prime move from here would be to inform Jim what had happened. And knowing his employer like he did Jacobs knew that Jim Talman would back him up as far as it needed to go. It gave Jacobs some comfort. Even so he felt he had let Rocking-T down by precipitating this course of action.

  When the dam was cleared and the new run-off blocked, Jacobs ordered the Boxed-O men to load their dead companion onto his horse so that they could take him back to Boxed-O headquarters. Before they did this Jacobs collected all the rifles out of the saddle-sheaths.

  ‘Curly, you tell Olsen what went off here,’ Jacobs said. ‘Make him see there’s no point in taking it any further.’

  Curly turned from where Red was being tied onto his horse. He stood with legs apart with his hands on his hips. ‘I don’t see it that way, Andy. Hell, Olsen’s had his sights on Rocking-T for a damn long time, and he usually gets what he wants.’

  ‘He won’t get Rocking-T, or it’s water.’

  Curly swung up into his saddle. He sat, watching his companions move off, and before he gigged his own horse into motion he looked back at Andy Jacobs.

  ‘Red was a good friend of mine, Andy,’ he said. ‘I won’t forget you did for him.’

  Jacobs shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was a fair shoot-out. You figure to give me the same odds?’

  A faint smile touched Curly’s lips. ‘Who knows, Andy, who knows?’ He tipped his hat slightly. ‘I’ll see you, hombre. Watch your back trail.’

  Andy Jacobs climbed up to where he could watch the line of riders descending the long, rocky slope that led down to Boxed-O range. He stayed where he was for over an hour. By then the riders were tiny specks far below him. Only then did he prepare to leave.

  Collecting up the discarded weapons he bundled them under his arm. A swing of his boot put out the cook fire, sending the coffee pot rolling into the water. As the brew mixed with the water it spread a pale stain of brown that went with the flow, spilling through the run-off. Watching it Jacobs found his gaze being pulled to the dark, drying bloodstains where the man called Red had fallen. He wondered how much more blood, if any, would be spilled. It was something he couldn’t answer. He hoped it would never need to be answered. It was a faint hope, he knew. Past experience had taught him that the desires and dreams, hates and emotions of men were things never to be reckoned with.

  Chapter Six

  Unaware of what had taken place during his absence Jim Talman rode easy on his return to Rocking-T. With him rode the two hands he had hired while in town. Jim was pleased with his choice; both were seasoned cowhands who had been on the lookout for steady work for some time; when they’d heard of Jim Talman’s call for riders they had ridden a long way to see him. Over a drink in the saloon Jim had assessed the pair and had made his decision. From the saloon Jim had returned to the store to collect Ruth’s things, then he had rejoined his new hands and the three of them had ridden out of Garnett.

  By the time they reached the creek the horses were eager to drink. Jim dismounted and moved about to stretch his legs.

  ‘It’s a fine piece of land, Mr. Talman,’ Rem Callender said; he was a lean, sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties, his face tanned a deep brown from years of exposure to blazing sunlight and harsh, dry winds.

  ‘None better,’ Jim told him. He prodded a dry bunch of grass. ‘Right now you’re not seeing it at its best.’

  ‘Drought.’ Callender spat. ‘Man, I seen enough of ’em to last me two lifetimes. Leastways, Mr. Talman, you still got yourself some good water.’

  ‘And we need it all,’ Jim said as he mounted up again. Settled in the saddle he glanced at Callender. ‘By the way, the name is Jim. Call me Mr. Talman when I’ve got gray hair and a house full of grandchildren.’

  Callender grinned, showing strong white teeth. ‘I hope I’m with you that long.’

  Josh Keel, Callender’s partner, younger and darker, shaded his eyes as he spotted something moving towards them. ‘Rider coming,’ he said.

  Jim recognized his foreman long before Jacobs reached them. He felt a sudden tightness in him for something in the way Jacobs was riding spoke of trouble. It wasn’t like Rocking-T’s ramrod to push his horse so hard, and even more so in this kind of weather.

  Dust boiled up in a stinging spray, coating men and horses as Jacobs reined in with near savagery, sawing his sweating horse around in a plunging semi-circle.

  ‘Andy, you trying to ride the legs off that animal?’

  Jacobs took his hat off and sleeved his face. ‘I got to talk to you, and I mean now, Jim.’ He glanced beyond Jim to where Rocking-T’s new hands sat their mounts in watchful silence.

  ‘Rem Callender, Josh Keel,’ Jim said. ‘Signed them on while I was in town.’ Jacobs nodded to the pair as Jim told them, ‘This is Andy Jacobs. He ramrods Rocking-T.’

  Rem Callender inclined his head slightly. ‘Heard of you,’ he said. ‘Good man by what the tale tells.’

  ‘I hold my own,’ Jacobs told him.

  Callender nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. He glanced at Jim. ‘Josh and m
e better ride on if you got to talk, Jim.’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but spurred his horse away with Josh Keel following close.

  ‘Good pair,’ Jacobs remarked. He had dismounted and was on his knees beside the creek, swilling his neck and face.

  Jim got off his own horse and waited for Jacobs to speak. While he waited he rolled himself a cigarette.

  ‘Jim, I had to kill a man,’ Jacobs said straight out. He was facing Jim as he spoke and the pain was clear in his eyes.

  ‘What happened, Andy?’ Jim asked, and listened in silence as Jacobs told him, his anger growing with each word.

  Jacobs finished his tale and trailed off into an awkward silence. Knowing him as he did, Jim began to realize just how hard Jacobs had been hit by this. Rocking-T’s foreman would never let himself forget that he had most probably landed his outfit in the middle of the biggest trouble ever to cross its path.

  ‘Andy, let’s get one thing straight here and now,’ Jim said. ‘I’m damned sorry this had to happen, but we didn’t start it, and I’m not going to dwell on it. You had to kill a man — but he knew what he was doing and you’ve got no cause to worry. When a man carries a gun and goes to use it, then he’d better be faster than the man he’s going against. This fellow obviously thought he was, but you proved him wrong. You beat him fair and square, Andy. What we’ve got to do now is figure Olsen’s next move.’

  ‘If he’s so short on water we haven’t seen the last of him.’

  Jim nodded. ‘Then we’d better be ready.’

  Tipping his hat back Jacobs raised his eyes to the distant hills. ‘A couple of the boys up at the spring with loaded rifles?’