by Abe Dancer
He wondered about Quedo’s whereabouts for a brief moment, then undid the flap of his a saddle pouch. From deep down he drew out a big, ancient pepperbox pistol. ‘Looks like you an’ me finally got a job, ol’ feller,’ he said quietly.
9
Hector tied his mare at the hitching post, walked calmly up the steps to the single door of the saloon. He had a quick look through the window, saw Wilshaw Broome’s hired guns were now seated, and playing Slippery Sam. There were a few drifters and ’punchers standing at the bar, but none of them was recognizable as trouble for him.
It was obvious from the mannerisms of the card players that they had both consumed a fair amount of liquor. It was very late now, and Hector knew that the men had been at it for a few hours. Suits me, he thought. The more drunk you get, the more sober I get.
He quickly went through the door and within three or four paces was standing very close to the card table.
‘I’m lookin’ for Wilshaw Broome an’ Judd Kettle,’ he told the man who had raised his boozy eyes to him.
‘They’ve been gone a couple of hours,’ the man answered, and threw a quick glance at his partner who had dealt him another card.
Hector didn’t know that Wilshaw Broome had told the gunmen to say exactly that, and only a quarter-hour earlier, when they’d seen him on the outskirts of town arriving from the direction of the Lunes’ adobe. And he didn’t know that they had their orders not to let him leave town alive. The men didn’t know the reason, and they weren’t paid to care or ask questions.
‘Oh, I know just about how long they’ve been gone,’ Hector said. ‘I meant, I was lookin’ for ’em. So, do you know where I can find ’em?’
‘Back at the bunk house by now, I should think.’
‘You an’ your friend been here all evenin’?’ Hector asked him.
‘Yeah, if it’s any o’ your business, Mr Chaf,’ the man smiled knowingly. ‘Ol’ Broome spoke o’ you,’ he suggested, eyeing Hector’s holstered Colt.
‘I’m sure he did,’ Hector responded without a smile. ‘But other than takin’ his fightin’ pay, don’t pretend it’s your business either. You ain’t much good to man nor beast sittin’ here playin’ the papers an’ swallowin’ forty-rod.’
‘If you got somethin’ in mind, feller, you’re a mite outnumbered,’ the man tested.
‘Yeah, maybe. But what you an’ the dealer here’s got to ask yourselves is, what happens if all seven o’ these here barrels go off at once?’ Hector threatened. With that, he took a step back and drew his hand from inside the front of his jacket. He smiled icily as he levelled the old multi-barrelled pistol.
The man who was dealing the cards, cursed. The other one whistled quietly through his teeth. But the bar’s cheap booze had worked its magic and careless bravado emerged.
‘That sure looks like one hell of a threat you’re holdin’ there, Mr Chaf, but nevertheless we still got to protect our employers,’ said the man who had told him Broome and Judd were back at the bunk house.
‘Yeah, an’ we get a bonus for actually doin’ it,’ the other one joined in, the threat sober and palpable.
The men started sneering, trying to goad and unsettle Hector. But because of the drink, they didn’t recognize Hector’s gritty resolve, the danger they were both in,
‘Hey, Baron, are you goin’ to swat this fly,’ one of them said, ‘or you lettin’ me collect ol’ Broome’s bounty?’
But now the gunmen had said enough for Hector. It was the inescapable moment he knew would eventually arrive. There was no more time for him; any longer and he’d lose.
‘I was only joshin’ about this,’ he said, his eyes boring deeply into the man directly in front of him. ‘It really is a defective ol’ piece o’ junk. But this ain’t.’ As he spoke, Hector tossed the old pistol onto the table between the two men. It distracted them for the moment he needed, and he drew his holstered Colt. He fired with cold detachment as his .44 bullets struck home.
Neither of the men managed to get their guns clear of their holsters. Even if they’d been stone sober they wouldn’t have beaten Hector. He’d had the vital edge.
From his chair, the man named Baron stared out blearily. ‘You did the right thing, mister,’ he said slowly. ‘It was the goddamn cactus juice that did it. Funny how a bullet in your gut sobers you up.’
‘Protectin’ Wilshaw Broome ain’t a funny way to die,’ Hector retorted, as the man closed his eyes.
Hector felt an icy chill run through him. He pulled a knife from his pants pocket, then workmanlike, as if he was marking calves, he took a pinch of lobe from the two dead gunmen. ‘Keepsakes,’ he muttered, shivered involuntarily as he turned to face the few others who remained in the bar.
‘You saw what happened here. If you want answers, there’s two dead ladies out at the Lunes’ house,’ he rasped. ‘I’ll pay fifty dollars for the collectin’ an’ buryin’. The county pays ten for these two. Either that, or drag ’em to the end o’ town for the crows an’ coyotes. You’ll have no trouble from the law in this godforsaken place.’
Hector stood in the street, took a few deep breaths, as if waiting to take on anyone else who tried to stop him. Then he mounted the claybank, started on a long, curving ride back to the Standing K.
Far to the north, a fork of lightning suddenly split the black sky, then thunder rolled down from the Chuska Mountains. ‘It’s headed here, ’cause this ain’t a good time,’ he rumbled miserably. ‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’
As if on cue, it was Judd Kettle who met him halfway between the corral and the main house.
‘I reckon Pa’s dyin’,’ he said with remarkable aloofness. ‘I’ve sent someone for the doc, but he’s been sayin’ it’s you he wants to see.’
The detachment of Judd’s message threw Hector’s train of thought, struck him an additional and unwanted blow. And he’d arrived too late, never got to hear what it was that Hoope wanted to see him about. It was only for him to wildly speculate on. Then, a week later, six miles downstream, the half-drowned body of a Mexican wrangler was found under a cut-bank of the Rio Bonito. But no one in Lemmon or out at the Standing K ranch ever got to hear of it.
Treachery pervaded the Standing K. It was a vulture treading the high beams of the ranch house, standing menacingly atop the water vane, circling low above the corrals and home pasture. It was an all-pervading shadow wherever men rode and worked or talked together.
It was some time before Hector got round to asking Wilshaw Broome and Judd Kettle about the deaths of Clemente Lunes and her mother. But they both shook their heads indifferently, never gave an inch towards regret or even concern. Both of them held the opportune thought that Hector believed the murders were the grisly work of their paid gunmen, the reason for him taking revenge in the dog-hole saloon. But Hector had always known who was responsible.
Judd grew more sullen, and it was for some reason other than the death of his father. But he took more control of the ranch workings, frequently by-passed both his foreman and Jasper. His mother arranged for a monthly share income to be paid into a bank in Salt Lake City, Utah, where she now lived with her sister.
These were gloomy days for Hector, but he stuck it out for Jasper as he’d done for Hoope. Besides, he believed there was no other place for him to go; that the Standing K was his home. He saw even less of his old friend Ben, who was paying full attention to a growing family and the care for his land. ‘My own little world of league and labour,’ he called it. ‘What some folk would call “hoot-owl hollow”,’ was always Hector’s faked response.
So, taking everything into account, the day eventually came when Hector was gone. Without fuss, he upped and left along with Jasper and his boy Joseph, who was now nearly ten years old. Ben did get word from his old friend – a letter posted from Westwater Bend, a border town along the Colorado River, but it contained no explanation. As it affected them all, Ben found the years weren’t getting any longer. As they rolled by, there remained plenty to o
ccupy his time and thoughts.
10
Ben McGovren’s lanky hair was now ash-grey, and his skin was the colour and texture of rawhide. But his eyes retained their bright, piercing darkness. He was jogging along a flat winding trail, his legs clasping the barrel of his favourite clear-foot mare. He crossed the Rio Bonito, rode on to where one remaining grove of live oaks sheltered the spread of his log cabin. As he swung down from the saddle, he looked towards the girl who was rubbing the nose of a fine looking sorrel.
‘Ho there, Megan. How’s Ma’s ague?’ he asked in a dusty croak.
‘She’s OK, Pa. You know she’s always a tad improved when you’re out of earshot. You get the mail?’
‘Yeah, a letter from Westwater. The one I told you about.’ Ben pulled the letter from inside his jerkin, handed it to his daughter.
‘Ain’t that where…?’ Megan started to ask.
‘Yeah, you go an’ read it,’ Ben replied quickly.
Dear Ben,
I would have written you sooner, but the river’s in spate and there’s been no mail transfer for a while. Joe’s here, and I showed him your letter. He favours it, says he would have been there long ago, if I had ever told him. It don’t sound like much of a hoe dig in the old pear country, so I guess I’ll just remain here, kicking heels with the younker. Can’t change the habits of a lifetime eh? No, that’s me joshin’ you, Ben. We’ll even trail this letter pretty close, maybe take us a car from Grand Junction all the way to Flora Vista. That’s still a ways from Lemmon, but we’ll make it soon enough.
Yours truly,
Hector
‘Do you know what he’s writin’ about, Pa? What it means?’ Megan asked, handing the letter back to her father.
‘Yeah, I know. It means Hector an’ young Joe are takin’ a railway car. As far as they can, anyway. Take off the post time, an’ they could be here real soon.’
‘You ain’t yet said why, Pa.’
‘You get yourself into the saddle, Megan. We’ll take us a ride to the Muleshoe tank, an’ I’ll tell you why ol’ Hector an’ the boy Joe are comin’ back.’
Ben waited for Megan to drag on a set of well-worn chaps. As he nodded for them to move off, a grimacing, dishevelled woman appeared at the door of their cabin.
‘Where you all goin’? You only just got here,’ she shrilled.
‘Up to the water-hole, Ma. There’s saddle stock needs bringin’ in,’ Ben called out, but without looking back.
‘Better get back in time to split some logs if you want any supper,’ she warned.
With Ben leading, the two riders turned their mounts into an old trail that led through dense pear thicket. Megan wore a battered Stetson that covered her coppery brown hair. Time spent in the saddle had tanned her face too, but unlike her father’s, it remained smooth.
Ben stopped when they came out of the thicket, and Megan drew alongside. ‘You know, Megan,’ he started, ‘for givin’ me you, I’ll be ever grateful to your ma. But for most else, it’s been a road with some dark colour to it.’
A mile further and they reined in beside the water-hole. Ben dismounted, let his mare drop its head. ‘I’m tellin’ you this not just because you’re my daughter, but because you’re one o’ the very few what knows when an’ how to keep a mouth closed when it oughtn’t be open,’ he said. ‘An’ that does include your ma, God bless her.’
‘But I’m not to tell her whatever it is you’re about to tell me, right?’ Megan inferred.
Ben nodded and smiled ‘Right. It won’t improve her disposition, that’s for darn sure.’
‘What is it can be that serious, Pa?’
‘We’re broke, Megan. Ruined.’
‘What, the ranch? The land? We ain’t ever had money.’
‘The land. I had a talk with the circuit attorney from Gallup. He says the title ain’t mine. Never has been. I wanted to find out some time back, but never got round to doin’ much about it. He says there ain’t any record showin’ this land was ever deeded to my pa. It still shows as bein’ owned by Hoope Kettle’s pa,’
‘So who does own it now?’ Megan asked.
‘Wilshaw Broome.’
‘Wilshaw Broome!’ Megan protested, ‘How in God’s name does he figure in the ownin’?’
‘He’s got a quit claim deed from Judd Kettle. It was made just before Judd killed himself, and he had it recorded. The lawyer said there’s new laws that protect gifted titles, but I never had one in the first place.’
‘We got nowhere to go other than here, Pa. We ain’t got more’n a pot to piss in.’
‘You’re goin’ to have to watch that fancy language o’ yours, Megan, if not your sentiment. Even so, there is a hope.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘That pettifogger told me somethin’ I don’t think he ought to. He said them new title laws come about by bein’ in peaceable possession for so many years. Wilshaw Broome’s claim comes lawful on Thanksgivin’.’
‘Where’s the hope in that then, Pa?’
‘It’s where Hector and Joe come in.’
Megan smiled knowingly. ‘I thought the letter would have somethin’ to do with it,’ she said. ‘I recall there weren’t any mention o’ Joe’s pa.’
‘Yeah, funny that. But if Hector ain’t goin’ to mention him, I won’t. Not just yet anyways. Do you remember much o’ Hector Chaf, Megan?’
Megan nodded. ‘Some. He used to duck his head when he came through our door.’
Ben smiled back. ‘Yeah, that was him.’ Ben pulled up the head of his mount, looked caringly at his daughter. ‘I didn’t want to have to tell you any o’ this, Megan, an’ there’s still a lot you don’t know. Most of it’s history, but that don’t mean it’s gone an’ forgot. In fact, there’s a whole barnload o’ stuff that’s happened that I ain’t too sure about. Maybe we’ll all find out before the end o’ November.’
‘If we ain’t got that much, or never had it, it can’t be that bad,’ Megan suggested.
‘Losin’ everythin’s pretty bad, Megan. Our very way o’ life. An’ now I’m thinkin’ of all the things I coulda done. There’s a good school in Albuquerque that I’ve always known about.’
‘I’m turned seventeen, Pa,’ Megan said patiently. ‘An’ what I would’ve learned there, wouldn’t be much good to any of us out here.’
‘That’s my point. A schoolin’ could’ve helped you up in life … up an’ away from here.’
Megan glanced coyly at her father, ‘There’s more ways to skin a cat, Pa, if that’s what you want,’ she said. ‘Fact is, I turned down a chance like the one you’re talkin’ about, just this very day.’
‘You did? How come?’
‘A rich man’s son, by the name o’ Felix Broome. He asked me to his wife.’
‘He asked you to marry him?’
‘Yep, bold as brass, just up an’ made the proposition.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said I’d think it over.’
‘Well, I don’t reckon how I’d manage here without you, Megan, but I’d sure give it a try if you’re goin’ for happiness. Of course, if you did marry the offspring o’ Wilshaw Broome, I’d have to shoot you.’
Megan smiled broadly. ‘An’ if Felix keeps up the pester, I’ll have to shoot him.’
Ben returned his daughter’s smile, then his expression turned serious. ‘Soon after Hector an’ Joe get here, there’s goin’ to be trouble, Megan. We ain’t got long.’
‘I don’t know what you got in mind, Pa, but I’m guessin’ whatever it is, it’s goin’ to happen this side o’ Thanksgivin’.’
‘Yeah. Just keep what I told you to yourself, Megan. Look out that scattergun o’ yours. Better still, don’t go ridin’ out o’ here without tellin’ me. Mind you, chances are that I’ll be found stretched across some ball o’ mesquite before this trouble’s over.’
‘Na, you won’t, Pa. You once said, better a poor livin’ than a rich dyin’.’
‘Yeah. An’ that
was before makin’ a pile for the Kettles, let alone Wilshaw Broome.’ Ben climbed back on the mare. ‘That’s about all I got to say, Megan, let’s go home,’ he said, and turned back towards the scrub thickets and the cabin.
11
Although possessing an immense spread with thousands of cattle and horses, Wilshaw Broome didn’t build himself a fine new home, or even make a mark on the old one with renovations or improvements. He moved his family into the main house that was once occupied by the Kettle family, but his wife didn’t take; she wanted back to the bosom of her family and friends. Now, Broome lived there with his son Felix and a few Mexican servants
The ageing, once-upon-a-time foreman sat in the den with a high beamed ceiling. The November chill was stealing its way across the range, and Broome’s features turned ruddy in the reflected firelight from the open hearth. He stirred in his wing-back chair, frowned, grunted at the sound of someone trailing his spurs through the hallway. ‘Felix’, he muttered. No one else would risk marking the polished oak.
‘Pa,’ was Felix’s simple greeting as he dropped onto a short sofa. ‘I thought maybe we could talk. I want to offer some straight goods about my life,’ he said, without preamble or the removal of his hat.
Broome looked his son over less companionably than if he’d been a remuda bronc, scanned him from his pale-blue eyes to his neatly shod feet. ‘Well, if you do, Lemmon will be all the poorer for it. Specially the tinhorn gamblers you’re so fond o’ donatin’ my money to,’ he answered sarcastically.
‘I knew you’d scoff, Pa, but this time, it’s different. I didn’t really decide, it just sort o’ happened. The feelin’ hit me, an’ that was it. I want to settle down, have a wife an’ home.’
