by Abe Dancer
‘Weren’t you scared, boss?’ Cole had asked. ‘I mean, you seen how fast he was with a gun and he was sure ready to use it….’
‘Don’t admire him, kid,’ the trail boss told him curtly. ‘Bein’ fast with a gun is nothin’ much. You think such a man is popular. He ain’t. A lot of the time, it’s just that folk are plain scared of him, don’t want to rub him up the wrong way. So they pretend to admire him. Oh, some actually do, of course, but all in all, bein’ a gunfighter ain’t anythin’ to be proud of. Pride’s for the man who earns the respect of his pards.’
Later, one of the wranglers told him that the boss had once been a gunfighter, but one of his bullets wounded a child and he hadn’t worn a six-gun since; swore he never would.
A nighthawk was killed in an Indian raid one night and the trail boss handed the man’s Colt rig to the boy – now approaching his teens.
‘This is a good weapon, son. You need to carry one if you aim to follow the cattle trails.’ The trail boss paused. ‘You dunno nothin’ about handguns, do you? You’re OK with a rifle, but a Colt, no. Well, I’ll teach you how to take ’em apart and put ’em back together blindfolded.’
‘Why would I want to do it blindfolded?’
‘’Cause sometime you might be in a bind in the dark and you’ll need to be able to recognize each part of your gun and its workin’s by touch. Might never happen, but if it does … you get to see the sunrise.’
The trail boss, calling himself simply ‘Montana’ now, kept his word and Cole turned out to be a good pupil.
‘Will you show me a fast draw?’
‘Son, I will not. I’ll show you a safe draw, so you don’t shoot your own foot off or your hoss, or even your saddle mate if he’s close by. But you won’t need a lightnin’-quick draw.’
‘How d’you know? S’pose I find I do need a slick draw – and can’t do it. I’m dead.’
The trail boss, a grizzled man pushing sixty, worked his jaws on his chaw of tobacco and spat a stream, never taking his rheumy grey eyes off the youngster.
‘Thing is, son, you can show a man all the short cuts you know – but it’s up to him to use them as fast as he’s able – and some men just ain’t able. That’s what gets ’em killed: believin’ they know how to make a slick draw – and when it comes down to doin’ it the only fast thing they get is a funeral.’
But twice he caught the kid behind the chuck wagon, testing himself, whipping out his Colt from the dead nighthawk’s rig. He was pretty good, but fumbled a lot. At last the boss took him aside.
‘You disappoint me, boy. Why you so damn keen to learn how to draw fast?’
‘’Cause my father never could draw fast and it near got him killed when I was just a shaver. I was never so scared in my life, wonderin’ if he’d die or recover.’
The trail boss frowned. ‘Who looked after you while he was recoverin’?’
The kid looked at him steadily. ‘I looked after myself. An’ him, too. The man who shot him left us out in the desert.’
‘He left you too?’ The boss was outraged. ‘By God, what kinda snake was he, this fast gun?’
The kid’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘A dead one – eventually. After I caught up with him.’
‘How old were you?’
Cole shrugged. ‘I dunno – eight, mebbe, coulda been nine or ten….’
The trail boss didn’t ask any more, but he took the Colt from the kid and showed him how his grip was wrong, how the holster was too low, and how cutting out a piece of leather to allow the finger to reach the trigger at the moment of draw was a definite advantage.
Once again, the kid was an apt pupil.
‘I ever hear of you tryin’ to make a name for yourself as a fast gun, I’ll come after you. There’s a trick or two I ain’t taught you and it’ll gimme the edge if I have to chase you down.’
Cole never went looking for trouble. Once or twice he had to put his acquired gun-speed to use. Mostly, if he used the Colt at all it was during a trail drive – or when doing ranch work. For he drifted around, took a variety of jobs, all connected with cattle. It was all he knew and he enjoyed the life, meeting the tough rannies who rode these trails, living out lonely winters in line shacks, talking to the cows and the wild animals on occasion, just to hear his own voice.
He knew women in the trail towns, he ‘saw the elephant’, but he often stared longingly at ranchers in from their spreads, with wives and families. He didn’t recall his mother very well but he knew she had been soft and kind and had made him feel good.
But a wife and ranch was out of reach of a drifting trail hand who could barely write, like him. He knew that. The rough cowboys joshed him when they saw him in one of his dreamy moods.
‘Cole, you ever see a rich cowboy? I mean for more’n a few days? If he’s got money, he spends it, recovers from a bender and lousy hangover, then what does he do? Go trailin’ again, works his butt off, and does the same blame thing all over … That’s a cowboy’s life. There ain’t many married ones. I mean, what woman’d want a man who wasn’t gonna sit across the supper table from her more’n a coupla times a year?’
So he started saving his money. Sure, he painted a few towns red with his pards, but he had an arrangement with a small bank in Denver where he could deposit money by telegraph. At trail’s end, on pay-day, his first stop was at a telegraph station where he laboriously filled out the necessary forms and got his bank account number from the greasy slip of paper a clerk had written it on for him and sent off a few dollars.
Those of the crew who knew, joshed him, often asked him for a loan, but knew it would never be forthcoming.
They made fun of him but he had the last laugh: he met Alice Brown in a town where the herd was flood-bound for two weeks.
At the end of that time, he quit the trail herd and the boss was generous enough to pay him the bonus he would’ve earned if he had completed the drive.
He and Alice were married and he took up a quarter-section and homesteaded it. They had a boy child, named him Jeff, after Alice’s dead father, and Cole knew he had found what he had been searching for all those years without even realizing it: happiness and comfort in the form of a beautiful, loving woman, a healthy son and a small ranch that would soon expand. Satisfaction, that’s what it was; at long last he had found himself a satisfactory life.
Then three days after the community had celebrated one Independence Day, some kids playing with left-over fireworks shot a rocket into a loaded haywagon parked against the west wall of the log house.
Cole was out on the range, fencing, when he first saw the smoke. He hit the saddle at a dead run and rode straight as an arrow towards the flames he could now see shooting up above the hogback rise.
It was too late. A warped door he had been meaning to fix had jammed and Alice and the boy had been overcome by smoke. Although the neighbours had the fire out quickly, it wasn’t quick enough to save his family.
The boy would have been six years old now, his birthday being the Seventh of July.
Instead of celebrating the boy’s progress through life, for the past five years Adam Cole had drunk himself senseless each July 7, drowning thoughts of what might have been….
But not this time!
This time he could do something about saving a boy and he would need to be as sober as a bishop.
In a moment of new resolve he took the whiskey bottle and smashed it against the rocks. He watched the dark-brown liquid trickle away, soak into the earth.
Whether he were successful in finding Donny Charlton, or not, he realized he had reached some kind of turning point this day.
The tragedies and happiness of the past were still there. Nothing had changed, never could change.
But he could.
And this was the time.
CHAPTER 7
THE STRANGERS
It was after sundown on July 8 when Cole rode slowly back into town, the weary grey plodding towards the livery. The hostler helped him down from the
saddle and the sheriff, grimy from long trails, leaned against the stall post and massaged his aching leg.
‘How’s the wound comin’, Cole?’
‘I can tell you it’s still there,’ the sheriff growled, then smiled crookedly, softening his tone. ‘It’s not too bad, Earl. If those hardcases hadn’t massaged it with their boots I’d be running like a deer now.’
The hostler nodded soberly, took his pipe from his leathery lips, sniffed deeply through his bulbous nose. ‘They was strangers, but I think I’ve seen the one in the green shirt before. Rode in with that Quinlan feller few days earlier but stayed on for the Fourth.’
That news earned the livery man a sharp look. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I’ve covered half the damn county these past couple of days, trying to get a line on him and his pard. Reckon they’re connected to the kidnapping.’
The hostler sniffed again, moved his feet uneasily. ‘Well, I dunno who he is, Cole. Just recollected he came in with Quinlan.’
‘Yeah, all right, Earl. Take care of the horse.’
As the sheriff took down his rifle and warbag, Earl said, ‘Linus asked me to tell you, when you showed he wants to see you.’ He paused, then added, ‘Poor devil looks like death warmed over. ’Course, that Bess ain’t makin’ things any easier for him.’
Cole nodded and headed back to his room at the Star. He ordered hot water for a bath and afterwards shaved. Halfway through there was a knock on the door and Linus Charlton came hurrying in.
‘I’ve had a second note,’ he said, without preamble. He produced a crumpled piece of paper and offered it to Cole.
The sheriff saw it was the same printing as before:
Better hurry with that money
This is just to show we really
do have the kid.
Next time it could be a finger
Linus held up a tuft of greasy, tow-coloured hair. ‘All Bess said was “They might’ve let him wash his hair!”’ He shook his head jerkily, his drawn, greyish face tightening. ‘Damn woman.’
The banker looked terrible: he had dark smears under his eyes, his jowls were drooping, even his neck seemed scrawny. He still wore a bandage on his left hand and it looked to be the same grimy one from a couple of days ago.
‘Where’ve you been, Cole? Damnit, man, I need to have you close by for this thing.’
‘Rode around to see everyone I could remember being at the celebration and who didn’t come from town. Didn’t learn much. Most folk saw Donny and some playmate, Sam Bale, but no one saw them leave the area. Didn’t get as far out as the Bale place or the Bowden spread, but I’ll take a packhorse later and cover more ground.’
‘Well, I dunno how much more time they aim to give me to get the ransom. I’d be obliged if you’d stay close.’
‘Linus, you do your part with the ransom. I’ll do what I can from my side. Have you got the OK for the money yet?’
Charlton heaved a sigh. ‘Yes – and no. I mean, Carl Curtis, after a slew of wires sent in Bess’s name, finally agreed to allow access to the trust funds – but it’s gotta be done through my bank’s head office. The very thing I was trying to avoid!’
Cole frowned. ‘Makes it easier, doesn’t it?’
‘You might think so.’ There was a dull sound to Linus’s words. ‘Now, as well as all this worry, and making the arrangements, I have to write reports which amount to little more than ‘Please Explain’ – and that’s ridiculous. What can you say about a kidnapping, other than it happened?’ He rubbed hard at his head, shaking it. ‘I haven’t slept more than two hours straight since I last saw you.’
‘Looks like it, too. Linus, you’d better take or, better still, make time so you have a break. Once they want the ransom, you’ll be working like a berserk beaver and its just the time you’ll need all your wits about you. If you don’t get it right, for some reason….’
Linus nodded. ‘I know. Bess blames me – oh, you, too, equally, I think. She’s relentless in her criticism. I – I even hoped at one stage that the kid would turn up – dead. Just to have the blasted thing finished with.’
‘You wouldn’t want that to happen,’ Cole said slowly and Linus knew he meant he wouldn’t want it to happen, either.
He didn’t know about Cole’s past and the loss of his own son five years earlier, but for some time he had suspected a tragedy somewhere along Cole’s backtrail.
‘When will you have the money ready?’
‘If I can stall head office on these unnecessary “reports”, tomorrow afternoon, maybe. I – I’m going to count it myself and package it. That way there’ll be no mistakes, and it should keep those fools in Denver off my neck.’
‘You ought to have someone with you to check, Linus. That’s what will keep head office off you. And it’ll be better if anyone claims there’s been a mistake.’
‘No! I want to do this myself as far as possible, Cole. I have to square myself with Bess and if I can take credit for getting the ransom paid and bringing Donny back safely….’
Cole could see the man’s reasoning: he was probably more afraid of Bess than of his superiors in Denver but he would never admit it.
‘Cole, I need to ask you another favour.’ The sheriff waited, face unreadable. ‘Will – will you deliver the ransom? Oh, I know there’re no arrangements yet, but – well, you’re experienced in handling this kind of thing.’
‘No, I’m not, Linus. I’ve never been involved in a kidnapping pay-off. But if they’re agreeable to me handing over the ransom, I’ll do it.’
He was surprised at the relief that showed on the banker’s face. It seemed the man was close to collapse and now some of the tension drained away – visibly.
‘I – I’m much obliged, Cole, very much obliged.’
Then Linus wheeled and fumbled at the door, and stumbled out into the passage, leaving the door swinging.
Cole slowly closed it, frowning.
Because payment instructions for the ransom seemed imminent, Sheriff Cole did not make his planned extended ride out to the edges of the county, interviewing people who had attended the Independence Day celebrations.
As Banker Charlton had pointed out, when instructions came they would likely have to be acted upon pronto. Linus was ready to go, now that the bank’s head office had at last approved release of the money. In fact the Denver people sent extra funds down in a strongbox on a special stage run, to supplement what Linus’s safe already held. $20,000 was one hell of a lot of money.
No wonder Denver was nervous.
Cole had escorted the strongbox from the depot to the bank and then Linus locked himself in his office, preparing the ransom, taking full responsibility.
Feeling edgy, with it being more or less general knowledge that part of the ransom had arrived and was being counted in the bank, Cole stayed in town, on the balcony outside his hotel room. Using field glasses he watched the bank and its surrounds, noting everyone who entered the building.
He was bored after a while but admitted the enforced rest was helping his leg’s recovery. He barely limped at all now, though he couldn’t run yet – jog-trot for a short distance, maybe, but no more.
He swept the glasses around town and some of the country that he could see beyond the outskirts. The lenses were good quality, Army issue, but still not good enough to pick out the features of riders approaching the town, entering by way of the short adobe bridge at the southern end of Front Street.
That was how he missed recognizing the two men who drifted in, several minutes apart. One was forking a big black, the other a dirty-white gelding. They both made for the livery and he moved the glasses back to the bridge trail, then slowly around the outskirts.
He jumped when shortly afterwards a piping voice behind him called his name. ‘Sher’f Cole…?’
He spun round, regretting it as pain shot through his leg. He stared at a freckle-faced boy in ragged patched overalls, only one strap holding the garment up.
‘What d’you want,
son?’
‘I’m Toddy. My father runs the stables. He sent me to find you.’
‘What’s up, Toddy?’
‘He said to tell you that the feller in the green shirt’s just arrived – only he ain’t wearin’ a green shirt today. It’s faded blue. And he was ridin’ a black geldin’.’
Cole was tense. ‘Where is he?’
‘Turned his mount in for groomin’. Pa’s doin’ it—’
‘Was he alone?’
The kid scratched his head – another towhead, Cole noticed. The town seemed full of them. ‘Might’ve been someone with him – another feller arrived a coupla minutes after him. He had a grey shirt an’ was wearin’ a tatty old vest over it. I – I think they knew each other, but din’ let on, you know?’
‘You’re pretty bright, Toddy, noticing something like that. You couldn’t be mistaken?’
‘No, sir. Not the way they looked at each other and the one in the blue shirt kind of – nodded, but hardly moved his head. Like this.’
Cole gave the boy a dime and, as the kid ran off down the length of the balcony, went into his room and picked up his rifle from where he had left it in a corner.
He locked the door behind him and hurried down the stairs into the hotel foyer.
Using the back alleys, he made his way to the law office, entered by the rear door and placed his rifle beside the battered desk; if the men he wanted to see saw him walking the streets with a rifle in hand, they might be scared off.
And he didn’t want that: he wanted to know what they were up to. Someone had to deliver those ransom notes.
It was approaching sundown and long shadows began to mottle the streets. Men who worked in town at the stores and the small sawmill, the stage depot and so on, closed up shop and many of them made their way to Mannering’s Delta saloon to sink a few beers and maybe a whiskey, if they could afford it, before heading home to supper.
