by PAUL BENNETT
I looked across at him. ‘Just like Grandma used to make?’
‘Comanches got to eat pie, too. Not just the preserve of the white man, you know. Wouldn’t be surprised if the Comanche didn’t invent the pie.’
I was just about to laugh when it happened. Because light travels faster than sound I saw the fence post to my right splinter. A split second later I heard the sound of the shot. Lucy’s pony was spooked, bucked and set off like the wind towards the hills. Lucy hung on to the mane for dear life, but was bouncing up and down and rolling from side to side. It was only a matter of time before she was thrown off and goodness knows what damage would be caused; broken bones might be the least of the injuries: she wasn’t wearing a helmet.
I turned Shadow around and rode back from the fence, yanked the reins sharply to the left, took a run up and kicked with my heels. Shadow jumped the fence cleanly. I immediately headed on a course that would take me to the right of Lucy and keep the fence on her left. I had to try to pen her in.
Lucy switched her grip from the mane to around the pony’s neck, her back arching up and her bottom clear of the pony’s loins, her knees were nowhere close to its flanks – control was pretty much zero.
The pony was swift, but no match for Shadow. I drew alongside and gradually came near enough to take the harness and pull sharply backwards. The pony bucked, but wouldn’t respond to me. It kept going on towards the hills and the boundary fence of the Blenkensteins’ land. If I couldn’t make the pony stop, I only had one option.
I slowed Shadow down until I was level with Lucy, leaned across and took her by the waist. I hauled her from the pony’s back and swung her ahead of me on to Shadow. I breathed a sigh of relief and slowed down. Lucy looked at me and, the danger registering, the relief settling in, began to cry. I pulled her close and set Shadow on a course back to where Red, Fey and Cameron had dismounted, using the horses for cover against another bullet. Maybe there was something to this Western-style riding after all: I couldn’t have brought off such a manoeuvre with both of my hands on the reins.
I swung Lucy down from the saddle; she ran over to Fey and fell into her arms.
‘Nice work,’ Red said. ‘With riding like that I might make you an honorary Comanche. Heap big warrior brave.’
Lucy started to calm down and came across to me. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Johnny,’ I said. ‘Johnny Silver.’
‘We would like to find a way to repay you, Mr Silver. Would you come for dinner tomorrow night?’
‘I’d be delighted,’ I said. ‘And now I think it’s time you all went back to your retreat. We don’t know how safe it is here any more. The pony will find its way back.’
‘Till tomorrow then,’ Fey said, lifting Lucy up on the back of the palomino and climbing up behind her. ‘Seven o’clock. Bring Red and the other man who was at the airport.’
They turned and rode slowly south-east. I lined Shadow up and, with much more confidence this time, jumped to Red’s side of the fence.
‘Whoever fired,’ Red said, ‘it was lucky for us he was such a bad shot.’
‘Or a very good one,’ I said.
CHAPTER FIVE
We were lined up again on the porch, eating sandwiches with Stan’s beloved dill pickles and drinking cold beer. No one was trying to outcool anyone else. The time for posturing was over – it was serious now.
Bull took a sip of beer and winced.
‘Something the matter?’ I said.
‘Beer tastes funny,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and get another.’
‘Plenty in the ice bucket,’ I said.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, getting up. ‘I think I’ll have a warm one.’
‘A warm beer?’ I said, surprised. ‘Who in the world drinks warm beer?’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘Want to make something of it?’
I shrugged. Friction in the camp. Time to back off and analyse the situation. ‘Go ahead,’ I said. ‘It’s a free country.’
He went inside and reappeared with a can of beer. Took a sip. I swear I saw him shudder. Something to investigate here.
‘Observations, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘What have we learned from this morning’s reconnaissance?’
‘Hell of a place to defend,’ Bull said. ‘Damn sniper in the hills could pick anybody off real easy.’
‘Then we will have to hold the hills,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to take turns on watch. Red, can you get us a sniper rifle? A Barrett M82A1 would be best.’
It was my favourite sniper rifle – effective range of 1000 metres and could put a hole in a tank.
‘We could go to the gun shop this afternoon. See what he’s got.’
I nodded. ‘What else?’ I asked Bull and Pieter.
‘The fences wouldn’t deter any one,’ Bull said. ‘High enough to keep cattle in, but not so tall that a man couldn’t climb easily.’
‘It’s all so big,’ said Pieter. ‘Takes too long to get from one side to the other, or from here to the furthest point on the foothills. I suppose we could parcel it up into more manageable units and have one man on each.’
‘Split our forces?’ I said. ‘Having us as a combined unit is our strength. We don’t want to give up that advantage unless we absolutely have to.’
I pondered on the best defensive position and couldn’t find an obvious answer.
‘I see you’ve been busy, Stan,’ I said, looking at the cross of gaffer tape marking one side of the porch.
‘I’ve laid out a few firing positions,’ he said in his most serious voice – which wasn’t much different from his normal voice. ‘I concentrated on inside the house and on various points surrounding it.’ He shook his head and gave us his usual melancholy face ‘Tricky, though.’
I raised an eyebrow in a questioning look.
‘No clear field of fire,’ he said. ‘Bunkhouse gets in the way here at the front, and the stable masks the view to the back. I’ve done the best we can, but again it means splitting up. I’d feel much safer if we could have all stayed in the house – one man guarding each side. That will have to be the last line of defence.’
‘Now you can see why I needed help,’ Red said. ‘One man’s a sitting duck.’
‘Not much better with five,’ I said.
‘Reckon so,’ Red said. ‘Sorry to drag you all along.’
‘No need for apologies,’ I said. ‘One for all and all for one.’
‘So tell us what happened on your reconnoitre, d’Artagnan,’ Bull said.
I relayed the action of the morning and our supposed lucky escape.
‘I think the shooter missed deliberately,’ I said. ‘Whatever game someone is playing, I think we’re still in the early stages. Up till now everything – including that gunshot – has been a warning. Whoever’s behind it is hoping we’ll quit.’
‘And we won’t,’ Bull said. ‘He don’t know you.’
‘Reckon so,’ I said. ‘We’re not going to run.’
‘Not yet,’ said Stan, bringing a touch of reality to the bravado. ‘I like to know what I’m running from.’
Red, Stan and I drove into town. Stan was there partly as our armourer and also because he had to get some steaks and side orders to feed everybody before the evening’s fun.
The gun shop was dark inside, as though trying to provide a hiding-place from the relentless heat of the sun. There were glass display counters for handguns and racks along the walls with rifles, shotguns and other large weapons. The storekeeper was a small man with glasses and a receding hairline. He had on a blue-and-white-striped apron and looked like a chef who’d forgotten his hat. The apron was covered not with stains from food, but with oil from where he had cleaned the guns.
‘Barrett, you say,’ he said, sucking at his teeth. ‘Now let me see.’
He gazed along the walls and then nodded his head. He picked a rifle out of a rack and handed it to me.
‘Can’t do no Barrett,’ he said. ‘Got a Dragonov, though.
’
I handed the gun to Stan. He started to break it down, laying the parts on one of the counters. When he had finished, he inspected each part in minute detail.
‘Got a good range,’ the storekeeper said.
‘Eight hundred metres,’ Stan said. ‘Muzzle velocity eight hundred and thirty metres per second. Not as good as the Barrett, but it will do.’ He started to reassemble the gun. ‘Need a couple of boxes of shells, too.’
The storekeeper dug around under one of the counters and came up with some boxes. He laid them on the glass counter top, took a pad out of his apron pocket and wrote down some figures. He tore off the top sheet and passed it to Red.
Red stared at it.
‘You could always try elsewhere,’ the storekeeper said.
Red peeled off a wad of notes and handed it to the storekeeper.
‘Good day, gentlemen,’ the man said with an insincere smile.
Stan picked up the rifle and the boxes of shells and we stepped outside into a furnace so filled with water vapour that you could have taken a handful and squeezed the water from it. Waiting for us was the bulk of the local sheriff.
He was a large man – sixteen or seventeen stone, maybe – with a face that was tanned by the sun and reddened by the wind that blew down from the mountains. Along his forehead was a frown that looked like it had been tattooed there in order to save him the trouble of using his muscles. He was dressed in faded chinos with an iron crease and a blue shirt, similarly pressed. The badge was pinned to the pocket of the shirt. The whole ensemble was finished off by a gunbelt with a Colt Magnum sticking out.
‘Howdy, Red,’ he said, taking in the three of us and the rifle. ‘Planning a little shooting practice?’
‘Squirrels,’ Red said.
‘Mighty big squirrels if you need a rifle that size,’ the sheriff said. ‘Be kind enough to step into my office, boys.’
He led the way along the sidewalk to a small building with a white door. He pushed it open and ushered us inside.
The air conditioning was running at its maximum setting and you could almost hear the sheriff sigh as he stepped into the cool. A deputy sat reading a paper. As we entered he took his feet off the desk and returned them to the floor. He nodded at us and went back to his paper.
The sheriff sat down at a shiny-topped steel-framed desk with a name plate perched on top: Sheriff Tucker, it said. He looked up at us.
‘Can I see your gun permits, boys?’ he said. ‘To cover the rifle and the guns you’ve got tucked down your waistbands.’
Much to his disappointment, I presumed, we handed over the permits. I was getting the feeling that this was not a friendly town. The sheriff handed back the permits and looked me in the eye.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ he said
‘Does the smile betray me?’
He frowned.
‘I have to warn you,’ he said, ‘this is a wise-guy-free town and I want to keep it that way. No lip and no trouble. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Reckon so,’ I said. ‘Trouble is the last thing we want. But if it comes along, we aim to handle it. You can spread that round on your travels.’
He gave a sigh. ‘You’re British,’ he said with a look that suggested he should have been speaking more slowly.
‘English, actually,’ I replied.
‘Actually,’ he said. ‘Don’t get much actually round here. Now you take your actually ass out of my actually office and, if you know what’s good for you, out of my actually town.’
‘Nice meeting you, Sheriff,’ I said. I nodded to Red and we turned around and headed for the door. The deputy was still reading the cartoons in the newspaper. Good to have reliable back-up if you’re ever in a tight spot. Maybe that accounted for the sheriff’s tough-guy impressions. Time would tell.
The three of us walked the main street and got our bearings for the evening visit. There was a hotel with a porch and an old black man in a dark-blue uniform in a rocking chair with a grey-muzzled dog sitting by his side. The dog was panting, even though he was in the shade. The black man just kept rocking as if he could take whatever heat God sent down.
I left Red and Stan to carry on the tour and went up to the porch of the hotel.
‘Where can a guy get a beer around here?’ I asked him.
With an economy of movement he raised his thumb and gestured backwards inside the hotel. I went in and found a small bar area just off the reception. I bought two beers and took them out to the porch. I handed one to the old man and stretched down to stroke the dog. He opened a mouth that was missing several teeth and licked my hand.
‘Good sign,’ the old man said. ‘If he didn’t like you, he could have gummed you to death.’
‘A good dog is hard to find,’ I said.
‘Easier than finding a good man.’
‘Reckon so.’
I sat down on the porch rail and looked down at the old man.
‘See you made acquaintance with the sheriff,’ he said.
‘You must see a lot from here. Tell me about him.’
‘Sheriff Tucker? Bark’s worse than his bite. Anyways, whenever there’s trouble, he never seems to be around. Good nose for trouble, has Tucker. Still, it’s a quiet town, or at least it was till Red showed up. Been a storm brewing for a while now. Pretty soon it’s gonna break.’
‘But why? What has Red done to cause a fuss?’
‘Maybe ’cos he’s half-Indian. The senator likes his town white as the snow in wintertime.’
I went inside to think it over. I got another two beers and a bowl of peanuts and went back outside. I took a handful of peanuts and gave the bowl and a beer to the old man. I tossed a peanut towards the dog and he caught it mid-air. Still got a trick or two.
I placed the cold bottle against my forehead and then took a long pull. The heat and humidity seemed relentless, even in the shade of the porch. Didn’t seem to bother the old man. Maybe if you were here long enough you got used to it.
‘What do you know about the Alamo Retreat?’ I asked.
‘Bunch of long-haired kids. Throwback to the sixties – peace and love and all that. Don’t do no harm, although the senator would like to get rid of them, too.’
‘Don’t seem that tolerant, your senator.
‘His daddy was the same and his grandpa, too. Living as if it’s the nineteenth century. Don’t realize that times have changed.’
‘And what about you, old man. What does he think of you?’
‘I’m the token black,’ he said. ‘Been fetching and carrying for this hotel for a whiles now. The senator leaves me alone if I know my place. Calls me boy. Gives me a dollar if I open the door for him.’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘Boy!’
‘Seems like the town should be called Bigotsville.’
‘You got it,’ he said.
‘What about the Blenkensteins?’ I asked. ‘See much of them?’
‘Keep pretty much to themselves. Come to town once a month or so for stores and that’s it. Don’t eat here, don’t drink here. All their money goes to the upkeep of that farm of theirs. Life can be hard for a farmer.’
What’s your name, old man?’
‘People call me Jerome.’
‘Stick around tonight, Jerome. Might be some excitement for you to watch.’
When we got back, Stan and Red unloaded the jeep and started to lug the heavy bags of groceries inside. I carried the Dragonov sniper rifle and the two boxes of shells – got to be some perks for being in charge. I went across to the bunkhouse and found the men washing and sprucing themselves up ready for their meal and the treat of a night on the town. Jesse, barechested, came up to me.
‘What’s the plan?’ he asked, pulling on a red-checked shirt that was usually the province of lumberjacks.
‘Leave at nine,’ I said. ‘We’ll be there before you. Don’t acknowledge us.’
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Keep cool. Whatever goes down,’ I said with a rea
ssuring smile. ‘And stick around and watch the fun.’
He nodded and went back to join the others.
In the house Stan was talking to Ho. ‘I need to teach her a few things about Western cooking,’ he said to me. ‘Why don’t you guys relax and I’ll join you on the porch in a little while.’
Pieter filled a bucket with ice, put some cans of beer inside and we went out to the porch to think over how we were going to play the evening. Bull joined us with a lowball glass with a light-brown liquid inside.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Bourbon and branchwater,’ he said. ‘Trying to camouflage myself as a local.’
‘And no ice?’ I said, seeing a pattern. ‘You’ve got toothache, haven’t you?’
‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘You should see a dentist and get it fixed,’ I said.
‘Dentist in town is good,’ Red added.
‘Reckon it will go away with time,’ Bull said.
‘You’re scared,’ I said, amazed. ‘Scared of the dentist. A big guy like you who can shoot the heads off snakes and you’re scared of the dentist.’
‘I ain’t scared of nuttin.’
‘Your roots are showing,’ I said.
‘What?’ said Bull.
‘Nuttin?’
‘Leave it,’ Bull said.
I gave a little laugh and shook my head. Just as long as it wasn’t a distraction when the doodly-squat hit the fan. Leave it be for a while and see what developed.
We decided to go in two jeeps, park a hundred yards away from the bar and approach separately. The big decision was whether we all went or left someone behind to keep watch. Nobody wanted to miss out on the action. There was one of the ranch hands whose religious beliefs didn’t run to bars and cathouses, so we left him as lookout with one of our mobile phones in case he needed to recall us.
We sipped beer and watched the ranch hands come and go for their dinner. They left with smiles on their faces. A good sign, but we went indoors to test the quality of the food for ourselves.
Stan had done well, although, as he later said, you can’t go far wrong with steak, chips and salad. The steaks were succulent, the chips crispy, the salad – well, the salad was salad and, purportedly, good for us. We drank just water, keeping ourselves alert for the remainder of the evening. At 8.30 we set off and filtered into the bar one by one at five-minute intervals.
