by Abe Dancer
‘You’ve got some horseflesh in there. One or two I wouldn’t mind myself,’ Jack said in support of his deception.
Two men walked side by side from the livery stables; one was a big, hirsute Mexican as tall as Fishback, and the burly man whose voice Jack had recognized: Walter Bishop. They both eyed him with obvious concern.
‘So, you got your sorrel settled in?’ Fishback asked.
‘Yeah, I’ve done that.’
‘Then took yourself a stroll,’ Fishback added derisively. He looked towards the surrounding foothills and paused for thought. ‘I’ve got me some business in town today, Walt. Will you show our Mr Finch here around?’ he said.
‘Yeah, sure thing.’ In a low voice Bishop said something to the Mexican, then sidled up to Jack with a smile on his heavy face. ‘Until you know the run o’ the place, we’ll take a buggy,’ he said.
Jack nodded and followed Bishop to where a buggy was parked alongside the ranch house. When Bream unhitched the chestnut mare Jack looked back, saw Fishback in close conversation with the Mexican. As Bishop swung the buggy from the yard, the two men gave Jack a look that left no doubt it was him they were talking about.
CHAPTER 9
Jack sat awkwardly beside Walter Bishop’s bulk as the buggy bounded over the rutted trail. The heavy profile of Bishop gave little hint of what went on in the thick head. But Jack thought there was a slight smirk on the man’s lips.
On reaching the RK gateway Bishop swerved the buggy broadside on to the barbwire fence. The manoeuvre almost threw Jack from the seat. He clung on as the guffawing driver whipped the horse to a full gallop through the drifted mesquite and tumbleweed. The lightweight vehicle bucked and bounced. Bishop’s eyes rolled, and his coloured teeth fronted soundless laughter.
‘You soiled yourself, feller?’ he shouted into the turmoil.
‘It’s getting that way.’ Jack gripped the railing tighter.
Reaching the top of a long, sloping rise, Bishop continued to slap the horse viciously with the reins. Snorting its alarm, the beast surged on. At a breakneck run it was almost dragging the buggy free of its shaft straps. Bishop was holding the vehicle so close to the wire that the wheel hubs on Jack’s side scraped the arrow barbs several times.
Suddenly Bishop kicked on the brake and dragged on the reins. The buggy skewed to a sliding halt, the locked wheels steering into clumps of softer ground and grass. Bishop was grinning breathlessly.
‘What did you think o’ that?’ he gasped, turning in the seat.
Jack drew a deep breath, whirled his left fist hard into the smirking features.
Bishop’s head didn’t move much on its thick neck, but the man rose from his seat, nearly standing, as bright blood dribbled from his mouth. In a short movement Jack drove his right fist low and deep into his back. Bishop’s legs weakened, giving way, and he went down, crumpling heavily on to the grass.
‘I think you should ask the horse. You’re down there with it,’ Jack rasped in reply.
The beefy man wobbled to his feet, rubbed his knuckles across his bleeding mouth. He spat, his small eyes filling with resentment.
‘You hit me – punched me twice,’ he spluttered, his right hand twitching close to his Colt. But something in Jack’s angry, challenging gaze warned him, and his podgy-fingered hand drew away.
‘One from me and one from the mare,’ Jack returned. ‘Any more and I’ll put you between the shafts. Now get back up here and show me the spread.’
Bishop grasped the railing and swung his weight back into the seat.
‘Takes some muscle to put me down, feller,’ he puffed, kicking off the brake and taking up the reins. ‘We heard you was an invalid, like an outpatient.’
‘Who said that?’ Jack asked.
‘John Fishback said it. So who the hell are you?’ Bishop inched away, almost cringing at his own question.
‘Who the hell do you think I am?’
‘Lawman o’ some sort?’
Jack smiled dully. ‘I can guess that’s what you’d be thinking. But, no I’m not, and I didn’t come here looking for trouble. You and your friends can go on shifting beeves.’
‘Christ! You heard me an’ Rico, talkin’. You were in the stables?’
‘Yes I was, you fat thieving son of a bitch.’ Jack took a closer look at Bishop ‘I might not be after trouble, but I won’t be watching you rob Ralph Kettle blind, either. You understand?’
Bishop narrowed his eyes in thought.
‘Meanin’ what, exactly?’
‘You stop what you’re doing until I’m gone.’
‘You an’ your partner? Raul Chama?’
‘He’s not my partner. We just arrived together.’
‘Hmm. We’ll take a look at the west pastures,’ Bishop replied, starting to consider Jack’s proposal.
Confident that he had Bishop’s measure, Jack eased himself into a more comfortable position, thought he’d take in the features and quality of Ralph Kettle’s ranch. He saw enough to convince himself it was no shirt-tail outfit. There were at least two thousand head and some of the finest grazing west of the Rio Grande.
Approaching the home yard, Bishop came out with a few more words.
‘How long do you figure on stayin’ around?’ he asked, revealing his real concern.
‘Ten days. Three weeks at most,’ Jack said as he jumped to the ground. He paused and stared up at the man. ‘Is Fishback in on the deal?’
The tip of Bishop’s tongue examined his split lip.
‘It’s just me an’ Rico.’
‘OK. Well, what do you say?’ Jack said.
‘Two weeks,’ Bishop snapped back as he wheeled away.
Jack watched him walk the buggy towards the livery stables, heard him curse in predictable surprise when Rico seemingly appeared from nowhere to meet him.
At the cookhouse Hector Bream was sitting at the end of the long table, peeling onions.
‘Me and Walter Bishop have been getting acquainted,’ Jack said. ‘Hell, he sure knows how to handle a rig. Have you seen Raul?’ he added, pouring coffee from one of the stove pots.
‘In the bunkhouse.’
‘Thanks.’
Raul Chama shook his head when Jack entered.
‘Look. This is the work they expect me to be doing,’ he said, pointing to a barrel containing various brooms and brushes.
Jack smiled. ‘Yeah, you’d think they’d at least give you a decent mop,’ he ribbed. ‘But never mind that, just listen to this.’ After he’d informed Chama of the morning’s events and the deal he’d made with Walter Bishop, the young Mexican’s face was even more despondent.
‘If they accept that easy, it could be they will put you away,’ he suggested. Jack shook his head.
‘I don’t think so, Raul. Not unless that Rico character’s got a lot more grit than Walter Bishop. Besides, I said that killing me would be no good, I’d told you everything. I figure they’ll sit tight for a couple of weeks.’
‘You do not think it’s life or death for them?’
‘No, not yet anyways. They can’t be rustling on a scale for Kettle to notice. Not unless Bishop lied about Fishback not being in on it. If they wanted to rustle big time, they’d need him. Without him there’d be no way the beeves wouldn’t be missed.’
‘That’s true, amigo. But whether he’s in or out makes it bad for us.’
Jack smiled again. ‘Bad for me,’ he corrected. ‘I was ribbing you, Raul. I told the fatman Bishop you and me weren’t even friends.’
North Mexico was a deceiving land. A hot, sultry day became a cool afternoon, a sharp, cold night. The sky changed from clear blue to near indigo, and when the sun sank red behind the Sierra Madres a man could be chilled to the bone.
Under the tin roof of the RK cookhouse Hector Bream had stoked his double-bellied stove until it glowed with the heat.
Throughout the meal Rico constantly lifted his eyes to watch Jack. Platters of beans and potatoes and slices of beef disappeared quickly before the keen
appetites of the men. Pouring coffee for himself and Chama, Jack listened to the good humour around him. Most of the talk was in Spanish and broken English, but the camaraderie was obvious. And why not? he thought, noticing that Walter Bishop and Rico hardly joined in.
Rico’s dark eyes burned with hostility.
‘Hey, gringo,’ he called.
In the ensuing silence the crack and spit of logs in the big stove suddenly became the only real sound.
‘Hey, I’m talkin’ to you, gringo,’ Rico called out again.
Jack knew the big Mexican meant him. He placed his mug carefully back on the table in front of him.
‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice sounding a wearisome edge. Rico stood up and grinned.
‘I’m thinking of taking me some exercise,’ he said.
‘Yeah, you look like you could do with it. What’s it got to do with me?’
‘It’s with your head and your ass I’ll be taking it.’
Walter Bishop licked his lips. His flabby face was puffed up with anticipation and his eyes were gleaming. Jack could see it was the grudge he was nursing, and understood the plan. Well, if Bishop had Rico to square things up for him, Jack wasn’t about to disappoint.
‘There’ll be none o’ your brawlin’ here,’ Hector Bream shouted, brandishing a long-handled hot skillet.
Rico beckoned Jack to follow him outside. Raul Chama got to his feet, his expression shouting for Jack not to follow. Common sense told Jack not to go either, but he knew it would only delay the inevitable. Looking into the darkness he recalled a wheatfield and a wind that stirred the calico dress of his dead wife.
‘Yeah, let’s get on with it, you scrub pig,’ he muttered.
Rico was standing a little away from the cookhouse where there was just enough light to see. The Mexican undid his gunbelt. Jack did the same, then turned to Chama.
‘No offence, Raul, but no one more than you knows what these goddamn Mexes are like,’ he said. ‘They’re real tricky sons of bitches. If by chance he beats me, shoot him dead. Then Bishop. Then ride back to civilization.’
From the open-ended cookhouse the punchers watched as Rico stepped a couple of paces to Jack’s right, then back to the left. He was grinning, sizing Jack up.
‘So, gringo man, I am not as fat or as slow as Walter Bishop,’ he hissed unpleasantly.
‘No, you’re more like a big monkey,’ Jack said, remaining very still.
Dropping his left shoulder, Rico took a quick step forward. He crossed the knuckles of his right fist across Jack’s jaw. Shaking his head at the small, dancing stars, Jack hopped out of the reach of Rico’s long arms. The Mexican had fists like rocks; if he made a wrong move it would be like being kicked by a balky horse, probably bringing terminal injury.
His senses clearing, Jack took Rico’s next barrage head on. He managed to block most of the blows on his shoulders and forearms. He threw a punch up to the broad forehead, saw an instant look of shock in the man’s savage eyes. But it wasn’t near enough to stop or slow Rico down; he went on swinging heavy punches, grunting with lust and exertion. They were all numbing blows and Jack was beginning to tire.
A pistoning fist thudded into Jack’s ribs, driving the breath from him. Trying to smother the brutal onslaught, he made a grab for Rico. He stumbled, and Rico brought a knee up. Jack gasped with pain and, dropping his arms, staggered backwards. He was trying to retreat from the man’s range, but a set of hard knuckles battered the side of his face.
Jack could hear Raul Chama’s shouting protest as he rolled on his back. On the hard-packed dirt, for a few seconds he wallowed in a blaze of pain. Then Rico was there with his boot raised.
There was a shout for Rico to stop, and the Mexican hesitated. But someone else intervened, louder than the others:
‘Let ’em fight.’
Jack turned his head, focused on the tall figure of John Fishback staring down at him.
‘We get little entertainment as it is. Let ’em fight,’ the foreman repeated, an eager grin across his face.
Rico needed only Fishback’s OK to drive his boot down on Jack’s face. But Jack had used the few seconds of respite and was ready. As the boot came down he grabbed at Rico’s ankle with both hands, pulled and twisted in one desperate movement. Rico went over and down, sprawling heavily on his face. Jack pushed himself to his knees, grabbed a fistful of Rico’s greasy black hair and pulled his head up.
He drove in three chopping blows, each more powerful than the last, before letting go of Rico’s head. He took in a gulp of air, felt a hand grip his shoulder.
‘You’ve beat him,’ Fishback said. ‘An’ ol’ Ralph implied you were next to crow bait.’
‘It’s a matter of timing.’ Jack was too winded to say more. Too dry to spit at the ground.
Chama stepped in. He picked up Jack’s gunbelt and helped him to the bunkhouse.
‘That son of a bitch wanted Rico to dance on my head,’ Jack groaned as he rolled on his bunk. ‘He’s got to be working with them – Bishop and Rico.’ Jack cursed and ground his teeth against the pain. ‘They figured Rico would do me serious harm – probably kill me in a fight. It would look like another tolerable loss for the ranch.’
Chama gave a sombre nod.
‘Maybe we should leave this place, amigo. The money either of us gets isn’t enough for this. It’s not what I was expecting.’
‘Nor me,’ Jack agreed. ‘And to think it came recommended. I’ve a bone to pick with young Connie when she gets here. As for her pa’s cowboys and their rustling, at the moment it’s only our word against theirs.’
Chama fetched a water dipper, handed it to Jack.
‘I don’t want to stay here if it’s just to get some proof. It’s no business of mine, amigo,’ he offered.
Jack drank the water, handed back the dipper and lay back on the bunk. For more reasons than just finding himself some camouflage or a ’fraidy hole, he’d already decided he was staying. If the fight had been arranged Connie herself might be in some sort of danger. He thought she deserved better than Fishback’s fervid intentions.
CHAPTER 10
Something awakened Jack before first light. Maybe it was the snoring, or the heavy air of a dozen sleeping men, or the ache low in his belly. Whatever the cause, he couldn’t sleep any longer so he got up and dressed. He buckled on his gunbelt, quietly slipped outside and saw that Hector Bream was already busy at his stoves.
‘Good morning,’ Jack greeted as he entered the open-fronted cookhouse.
Adjusting the dampers, the cook raised a hand and nodded.
‘He hurt you, did he, the big Mex?’ he mumbled.
‘Yeah, but I’ll live,’ Jack replied. He lifted the coffee pot, saw it held the grounds from the night before.
‘When these fires are up an’ runnin’, I’ll make some,’ Bream said. ‘Hand me some wood, will you?’
Jack gave him brushwood from a box as he needed it. The fires took hold and Bream grinned.
‘Hah. I never seen this as a two-man business before,’ he chuckled. He slammed the stove doors shut, filled a pot and they waited for the water to boil.
‘What was your little scrap about last night?’ Bream asked.
‘You obviously haven’t heard the warning about asking questions,’ Jack advised.
‘It don’t include me, feller.’ Bream didn’t smile. ‘Well, you best watch out for that Mex, Rico. He’s a mean one. I wouldn’t turn my back on ’im.’
The sky above the distant mountains lightened. Jack held his hands over a stove, stomped his feet to get some blood moving.
‘I’ll remember that,’ he said and went outside. He stared thoughtfully at the hand pump for a moment, then spurted cold water over his head. He rinsed his mouth and teeth, turned to the cookhouse and spat. John Fishback had appeared, was standing watching him.
‘Hey Champeen,’ the foreman greeted. ‘You trainin’ for a rematch?’
‘No need. Next pigeon’s you,’ Jack snapped back.
This time Bream did smile and laugh, and Fishback gave him a withering glance.
‘Why’d you say that?’ Fishback asked.
‘You know why. You want me to say in front of your camp cook?’
The foreman watched Bream placing more kindling in the stoves.
‘Take a walk, Hec,’ he told him. After Bream had strolled across the yard in the direction of the bunkhouse Fishback turned back to Jack.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘Dumbness fits your face,’ Jack said. ‘I’m talking about the little extra cattle business you and Rico and Walter Bream have got going.’
Fishback’s mouth opened, twisted into a cynical smile. He shook his head slowly. The foreman’s manner didn’t make sense to Jack.
‘Suppose I ask Ralph Kettle if he ever confirms the tally sheets for range and home pasture with stock pens?’
‘You go right ahead an’ ask him whatever you like,’ Fishback replied. He tested the heat from the coffee pot, immediately shook his burning fingertips. ‘You want some o’ this?’ he asked.
For the shortest moment Jack wondered if Fishback was really in on the deal.
‘Yeah, why not? It doesn’t mean we’re affianced,’ he said quietly.
Jack sat down and stared at the table in front of him. What made the ramrod so confident, he wondered. The man should have been in a cold sweat. Instead he looked, sounded like someone holding a full house.
Hector Bream came back to the cookhouse. ‘All right if I cook now, boss?’ he enquired, eyeing Fishback tetchily.
‘Sure, you carry on,’ the foreman replied. ‘An’ if you don’t like the way I run things here, you can leave,’ he told Jack. ‘The coach that brought you to Aqua Cajon runs the other way.’
‘If and when I do leave I’ll be ripping a strip off your hide on the way out,’ Jack said.
Once again, Fishback appeared to shrink in confidence. His face paled and his Adam’s apple danced in his throat.
‘What the hell’s eatin’ you, Finch?’ he complained. ‘I came down heavy on Rico for starting the brawl.’
‘More like gave him different orders and upped his fighting wages,’ Jack said and sipped his coffee, saw Bream lighting a couple of brea lamps inside the cookhouse.
