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

by Neil Hunter

  ‘Hold it, Olsen,’ Jim yelled. He hoped Olsen would heed his words, but even as he spoke Olsen was moving.

  Dirt streaked his face and marked his clothing. He’d lost his coat and hat. The left side of his face was scratched and bloody. He looked a different man — not scared, but becoming more desperate as the minutes passed. He’d got into something deep and now he was trying to get out, still believing he could come out on top.

  ‘Olsen,’ Jim called again.

  This time Olsen did stop, but only to turn towards Curly. ‘Take him, Curly, take him!’ he yelled.

  As if Olsen’s command had all he’d been waiting for, Curly let out a savage cry. He drove his spurs in and let his horse run free at Jim. At the same time he went for his gun, bringing it to bear and firing. His aim was upset by the moving horse. He fired twice more, his anger mounting rapidly.

  Curly’s third shot was his last. Before he could pull back the hammer for a fourth, Jim, who had stood fast through the attack, leveled his own gun, took steady aim and loosed one shot. The slug took Curly directly over the heart, the force of it knocking him out of the saddle. Curly hit the ground on the back of his neck and he was dead before his body stopped rolling.

  Before Curly’s riderless horse passed, Jim was moving up the street, thumbing fresh loads into his gun. He could see Olsen, now on the boardwalk, some distance ahead. Olsen had seen Curly Browning’s demise and he was doing his best to keep away from Jim.

  Jim could see the livery now. If Olsen got in there it would be one hell of a job flushing him out. The livery-stable was a huge place and there were a hundred places for a man to hide. With this thought in mind he increased his pace.

  Olsen turned without warning, his gun exploding with sound. The slug was close. Jim dropped into a crouch, lifted his gun and returned fire. He saw Olsen stiffen momentarily, then watched as the man supported himself against the boardwalk’s porch railing. Still unsure of Olsen’s condition, Jim rose slowly, his gun ready in his hand. He moved onto the boardwalk, advancing cautiously.

  When Jim was no more than ten feet away, Olsen lifted his head. Pain was strong in his eyes and on his broad face. He was grey and sweat ran freely from him. A thin trickle of blood showed at the corner of his mouth. He stared hard at Jim as if he didn’t recognize him, then gazed out beyond the town, to the wide, empty land beyond. Only now did Jim see the great wet patch of blood on his shirt, just above the waist.

  ‘I could have been big,’ Olsen said then, his voice steady, still bearing the arrogant tone, though even this was quieter now. ‘You hear me, Talman? I could have been goddam big.’

  ‘You’re big enough,’ Jim said, ‘why not be satisfied with what you’ve got.’

  ‘Satisfied? Hell, man, the ones who are satisfied are ten to the dollar. They’re the little ones who grub around and just manage to survive. They never do anything worth remembering, never leave anything worth seeing.’

  ‘And what will you leave?’ Jim asked. ‘I’ll tell you. You’ll leave a lot of grief and misery, but I don’t think many will weep over your grave.’

  Olsen’s head came round, his eyes blazing with renewed hate and fury. ‘Then I won’t go alone, by God,’ he roared, and Jim saw the gun he still held as Olsen’s hand shoved it forward, his finger pulling on the trigger. The gun went off and Jim felt a burning pain explode just under his heart. He felt himself fall, hit the boardwalk. Above him he could see Olsen aiming his gun again. Everything seemed distorted, out of proportion. The muzzle of Olsen’s gun looked enormous, the barrel incredibly long. For a moment Jim felt helpless, then he remembered his own gun. He brought it to bear, thinking all the time that he was too late, that Olsen would fire first. And then his gun went off and kept going off until it clicked on empty chambers.

  Jim remembered little after that. His last clear image was seeing Olsen falling away, his face a ruined, bloody mask, bright blood pumping out of his chest. And then the whole world spun into fiery darkness and Jim, drained of everything, let go and slid into that darkness.

  Epilogue

  Summer slid away and before long the days held a touch of winter. The nights grew longer and frost began to show each morning. The ranches around Garnett began to prepare for winter. In mid-November the first snow fell. By December the weather had settled into the pattern it would follow for the next long months.

  Despite the fact that snow lay thick on the ground, Garnett’s lawman, Ben Nolan, made the trip out to Rocking-T for Christmas Day. He was well over his injuries, but he walked with a slight limp that would be with him for life.

  In Garnett the Christmas festivities were well under way as Nolan left for Rocking-T.

  John Dobbs celebrated with his daughter and his new son-in-law, Albert Doubleday. The pair had been married two months before, and one of the things John Dobbs had given the couple was a new sign for the front of the store. It read: Doubleday and Dobbs.

  In the Garnett hotel dining-room Frank Spode had more than just Christmas to celebrate. Victorene Olsen had returned from Chicago a few days back, her affairs concerning her marriage to Philip Olsen now settled. Boxed-O, now renamed the Bar-S, would be titled over to Spode when he and Victorene were married in the spring. Olsen’s death had been the end of Boxed-O’s threats. The crew of roughriders had been sent packing and a regular crew had been hired. The huge herds had been cut down to a size fit for the range available and the Chicago contracts had been renegotiated.

  It began to snow just before Ben Nolan reached Rocking-T, but the welcome he received on his arrival did more than just make up for the discomfort of his long ride from town.

  The big main room of the house, decorated and warmed by a huge log-fire was packed. The entire Rocking-T crew were there, every man looking as if he’d just stepped out of a barbershop. The entire crew was clean-shaven and had combed and trimmed hair. They were, to a man, enjoying themselves like there was no tomorrow.

  Ruth was there too, passing round drinks, laughing and looking more lovely than Nolan had ever seen her. He wasn’t sure whether it was despite the fact that she was five months pregnant or because she was five months pregnant. Whichever way it was, he decided, it was a good thing to see. Ruth showed her pleasure too when she saw him, coming over to kiss him and make him welcome.

  ‘You sure you’re not overdoing it?’ Nolan asked her. He knew he had developed a mother-hen attitude towards her. He knew it, Ruth knew it, and so did everybody else, but Nolan didn’t give a damn.

  ‘Ben, I’ve never felt better,’ she said. ‘Now you give me your coat and go warm yourself by the fire.’

  ‘I brought you a present,’ he said. ‘If it doesn’t suit you can change it, Melanie said.’

  She took the gaily wrapped parcel, her eyes sparkling. ‘Why, Ben, I wouldn’t think of changing it. Thank you. I’ll give you yours later.’

  ‘I’ve got something for Jim too,’ Nolan told her.

  Ruth smiled. ‘He’s over by the fire.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Much better,’ Ruth said. ‘You know Jim. He’s as stubborn as you. He just won’t quit.’

  ‘He’s a Talman, Ruth.’

  Her head came up, eyes bright and proud. ‘I know, Ben,’ she said, ‘and I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  He nodded. He moved across the room, greeting and being greeted by the men of Rocking-T, and it took him some time to reach the big stone fireplace.

  Jim was there, filling a worn pipe from a pouch of tobacco. He glanced up at Nolan’s approach and his face showed his pleasure, his smile warm. Even so, Nolan could still see the thinness in his face, a thinness that was only just beginning to fill out. It had been a long haul for Jim, up out of the pain and weakness that had been the aftermath of Olsen’s last bullet. No organs had been damaged, no permanent injury caused, but he had lost a lot of blood, and at first it had been thought he’d lost far too much to be able to recover. But Jim Talman was too much of a fighter to let go. He’d fought, for he ha
d a lot to fight for. A home and a wife, a future. And when Ruth told him about the baby he had another reason for hanging on. He was almost back to normal now, though a day in the saddle still left him weary. He tired quickly, but he was gaining strength from day to day.

  ‘Hello, Jim.’

  ‘Ben.’ Jim put his tobacco pouch aside. ‘Glad you could make it. Wouldn’t be Christmas without you.’

  ‘I figure it’s one to remember.’

  Jim nodded. ‘Amen to that. Though I wish Andy were here to say it for me.’

  ‘He’d be proud to know you came through.’

  ‘I’m pretty glad myself.’

  ‘Hey, I near forgot.’ Nolan handed over the parcel he held. He watched Jim open it, saw his knowing smile.

  ‘Brandy, eh. I reckon I’ll have to give you an invite to come over and help me drink it.’

  ‘Why the hell do you think I brought it?’

  Jim placed the bottle on a table under one of the windows. The falling snow caught his attention and he stood watching it for a while. Nolan, beside him, let the silence drag on for a time.

  ‘What does it tell you, Jim?’ he asked.

  ‘Same as always, Ben. It doesn’t make much difference what we do, that land out there just goes its own sweet way. Rain, shine or drought. What happened this year hasn’t really changed a thing.’ He glanced at Nolan, smiling for a moment. ‘Tell you what, Ben, I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  Nolan nodded. ‘Me neither. Mind, I won’t forget this year in a hurry.’

  ‘Hell, no,’ Jim agreed. He turned then, seeing Ruth coming towards them, a filled glass in each hand. ‘Tell you something else, Ben,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’m going to forget the next one either.’

  The End of

  A Piccadilly Publishing Western

  By Neil Hunter

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