Walkers Creek - A Western

by R. Bentley Davies

  Lake, surprised, fires.

  Logan's right leg, strained from crouching for so long and sprained from jumping from Billy's window, doesn't respond when he plants his foot to stand up straight. As he drops the gun, his leg folds and he collapses to his right. The bullet hits high on his left arm near the shoulder and spins him round. He lands heavily on his back.

  He knows he has been shot but feels no pain. Not yet. He looks up expecting the next shot to be the last thing he sees.

  There is another bang, and then another, but curiously no smoke from Frank Lake's gun, just a red haze in the air. A sort of warm rain that seems out of place on such a hot bright day and then Frank Lake slowly folds up into the ground.

  Wilson stands, gun in hand, a wisp of smoke drifting from the end of the barrel like the soul leaving Frank Lake's body.

  First the Mexican tries to kill him, then Lake, and now Wilson. Logan closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, he has no fight left in him now, Wilson can shoot him if he wants, he doesn't care.

  'The sheriff isn't going to like this. No he ain't. You damn fool Tanner. You wake up, d'you hear?'

  Wilson is talking to him but it doesn't make sense. Why isn't he just killing him and leaving him in a ditch like he threatened to? His shoulder starts to throb and he remembers that he has been shot. The pain wakes him and he opens his eyes to see Wilson standing over him.

  'Let go, that hurts,' Logan says, realizing that Wilson is the cause of the pain in his arm.

  'Be quiet. I'm stopping the bleeding.'

  'What? Who? Why?'

  'That Lake character was about to stick a bullet in your head. A simple "Thank You" wouldn't be out of place.'

  Logan looks over at where Lake stood. Now there is just a crumpled corpse and some blood. Lake's horse has wandered away and is grazing quietly in the open on the other side of the track.

  'You killed him,' Logan says.

  'Well that's not quite the kind of gratitude I had in mind but it'll have to do. You can't stay here. I'm going to have to move you.'

  'The Mexican,' Logan says, tugging at Wilson's sleeve to get him to understand the importance. 'Keep down or he'll shoot us.'

  'No, he ain't shooting. He ain't doing much of anything any more. You hit him with that last couple of shots you fired.'

  'Who was he?'

  'No idea, I didn't chase you here to go poking at dead Mexicans.'

  At least the Mexican is dead. One less problem to worry about. Wilson has chased him down and saved his life. That makes no sense. No, it must just be the pain in his shoulder that's making it seem so muddled. Wilson is trying to catch him. Wilson is trying to keep him alive.

  'Why don't you just kill me?'

  'Hey, come on Tanner, I'm sure it doesn't hurt that much that you need me to put you out of your misery. If we can get someone to take a look at this wound I reckon you'll survive this one.'

  He shakes his head to try to get the confusion out of it. This deputy is trying to look after him and to get him back to town. Why? To get him back to the sheriff? Why does the sheriff want him alive? He thought they wanted him free so they could follow him to find out who had paid him to dynamite the house. If that were true then surely Wilson would be more interested in the Mexican wouldn't he?

  'Can you move?' Wilson asks.

  'Of course I can move,' Logan says, grumpy with confusion, 'If you let go of my arm I can move just fine.'

  He sits up and picks up his hat where it has fallen. He tries to knock some of the dust off it and notices that it is now smeared and spattered with spots of blood.

  'They all end up the same color in the end.' He mutters to himself.

  'What?'

  He came here to get the money. Why not go and get the money? Nobody is defending the money now. Maybe the Mexican never put the money there in the first place, but it wouldn't hurt to look. He just needs to get rid of Wilson.

  Logan drags himself to his feet. It hurts. Not as much as he expected, but it does hurt. He staggers a bit as his weakened ankle protests. Wilson grabs the back of his shirt to steady him.

  'That's good. Do you think you could handle a horse.'

  Logan tries to shrug and regrets it.

  'Okay, we'll try it. Let's get you back to town and get someone to take a look at that shoulder.'

  'Wait,' Logan says, 'shouldn't you go and see who that is over there?' He thinks if he can get Wilson to take a closer look at the Mexican then he might be able to sneak over to see if the money is there.

  Wilson doesn't answer but glares at him and wafts the barrel of the gun in Logan's direction.

  'That's a relief, for a moment there I thought you were going to be nice to me.'

  'Pick up your gun and get yourself on that horse.'

  Logan looks at the horse. It's Lake's horse. He considers pointing out that it isn't his horse, but that will just lead to him having to explain where the horse came from. He's killed a man and seems to be getting away with it, he thinks it's best not to get hung for stealing a horse instead.

  He struggles into the saddle with only one arm. His eyes are watering from the pain in his shoulder that is getting steadily worse.

  'Let's go.' Wilson swings himself easily up into his saddle. He still has his gun in his hand.

  Logan looks at the two dead men spread out in the sun. He hears the horse he stole shuffling in the trees where he tied it up. Will anyone come back here to find that horse? Even if they find the bodies, would they realize there was a horse back there? He can't bear the thought of the horse dying of thirst in the sun because he left it tied up.

  'My horse,' he says. 'We can't leave it.'

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Behind the locked door everything seems very quiet. She can hear muffled conversation outside but can't make out the words clearly. The office appears only to have a small high window as though it was designed to be used a gaol cell.

  She pulls the note from her skirt and unfolds it hurriedly, worried in case Humby should come back suddenly.

  'Your friends will help you. M.' reads the note.

  She still doubts a little that she has friends, but one of them saw fit to send her this note. Perhaps one of them will help her get away from Humby.

  She sits still, listening for the muffled sounds from outside, but there are none. Humby must have gone. Is McLaren still there? With any luck he'll fall into a drunken sleep and she can sneak away. Apart from, of course, the small matter of the locked door.

  She is wondering idly what her friends might be able to do to help her and staring at the desk in front of her when she realizes that Humby may have made a mistake. He has locked her up, but not just anywhere, in his own office. All this paperwork is his. There might be something here that she can use against him.

  She starts to rummage around the pieces of paper on the desk. They are reports from the mine. Nothing interesting at all. A hand-written report describing something to do with a collapse. Nothing really in that either. Perhaps he keeps the juicy stuff in the drawers.

  She starts to open drawers of the desk. One has a bottle of whiskey and some glasses. Another contains more pages and pages of numbers from the mine. The next drawer just contains money. Quite a lot of money. She takes some and tucks it in the pocket in her skirt. Then she takes a bit more. And then she sees that, at the bottom of the drawer, where the money had been, there is a key. Surely that can't be the key for the door?

  Too excited to shut the drawer, she rushes over to the door to try the key in the lock.

  Careful now. Don't alert McLaren. If he's asleep, he certainly seemed drunk enough to be ready to sleep, then she might be able to get out without waking him. She slips the key in and turns it. It stops. Is it the wrong key? Damn, it must be the key for a different door. In frustration she jerks at the key and it turns noisily. The door is open.

  'Hey, how did you...?' McLaren turns round with a start as he hears the door open behind him. He has been sat with his boots on Haski
ns's desk, the mud clear to see on the fastidious little man's blotter.

  'I turned the handle of course.' She will talk at him, confuse him, if she can muddle him for long enough perhaps her friends will help her. She hides the key in her pocket. 'You don't think Mr. Humby actually locked me in there do you?'

  'I saw him do it, he...with the key...I saw.' McLaren frowns and stares at the open door accusingly.

  'He pretended of course. It wouldn't do for him to be locking up a woman he was trying to marry now would it.'

  'He said the judge would force you to do it.'

  'And you believe that? What do you think the judge would say if you told him you wanted to marry one of the girls from the saloon whether she wanted to or not? Do you think he'd force her?'

  'That's different,' he insisted, but his face betrayed that he was struggling to put together why it would be different. The alcohol was making his thinking rather foggy. 'And that's not the point. He said you should stay in there and that I was to make sure you stayed in there. So you get back in there and stay in there.' He swung an arm expansively to indicate that she should go back into the office.

  'You always do what he says don't you?'

  'He's the boss.' He smiles. On safer ground now. No thinking required. Mr. Humby is the boss.

  'That surprises me. I mean, the way he treats you and all.' She has come up with a plan to take advantage of McLaren's whiskey-slowed mind. 'That business with the dam.' She shakes her head theatrically.

  'There was gold there. You built the dam anyway. And you dynamited my house.'

  'You're not the only who thinks that's what happened. That's what everyone was supposed to think had happened. That's what Mr. Humby wanted everyone to think.' She pauses to let the idea sink in.

  'Get back in there.' McLaren says suddenly, realizing that he's being confused.

  'No, wait just a minute. There's a document in there that I think you'll find makes really interesting reading. Mr. Humby has written down the whole thing, right down to the bit where he hired someone to put dynamite in your house to make it look like it was me.'

  'I don't want to read no document.' The panic in his eyes was there only briefly but it betrayed him. It can only mean one thing. He cannot read.

  'I'll fetch it for you,' she continues, ignoring him, knowing that she can now safely claim that the hand-written report says anything at all.

  She puts it down in front of him and is startled for a moment when he does a very good job of theatrically reading it. Her instincts are right though, and when he puts it back down he is clearly still unaware that the paper is just a report of a mine cave-in.

  'He hired someone to dynamite my house?' he says.

  'He was trying to make me look bad. He didn't care about you. Didn't you read there the bit where he says not to worry if you get blown up or not. He even says it might be better if you were killed.'

  'I can't believe it. This must be some sort of trick. Did you write this?'

  'Don't you recognize Mr. Humby's handwriting?'

  He shakes his head slowly. The whiskey isn't helping. She is getting through though.

  'Why don't you ask him?'

  'He's here?'

  'No, he went to fetch the Judge, but you could go after him.'

  McLaren stands up. He sways a little and catches himself on the desk.

  'You've got to stay here though. He'll kill me if you aren't still in there when he gets back.'

  She tosses her head back laughing.

  'You fool, he'll kill you anyway, can't you see that? Read the document,' she adds, knowing how the words hurt him, 'read the document again and you'll see, you don't owe him anything.'

  McLaren is still shaking his head. It seems too much to take in.

  'After all I've done for him,' he says, mostly to himself.

  She stands, arms folded, waiting while the revelation seeps through the whiskey. Perhaps she should say more? No, he seems riled enough. Let him think. Stop talking and let him think.

  'I just don't understand. He put the dynamite in my house?'

  'He paid someone to do it.' She taps the paper as confirmation.

  'That's so low. Why, cheating at cards would be more forgivable than that! You don't ruin a man's house like that. And then to pretend that it was someone else. I've a good mind to put a bullet in him.'

  That is exactly the sentiment she was hoping to induce.

  He starts to walk towards the door, muttering to himself under his breath.

  'You!' he says suddenly, turning round. 'I never liked you.'

  She gasps. Can he really be thinking so clearly that he realizes he's been duped?

  'I never liked you,' he says again. 'You've helped me by showing me this paper.' He snatches it off the desk. 'And I'm going to show it to Mr. Humby and make him explain himself. But I never liked you and you've helped me here. You didn't need to do that. I'll thank you for it.'

  With that he strides out, wrestling clumsily with the door.

  He is gone. She realizes she has been holding her breath. Now is the time for action. She needs to get out of there. It won't take long for McLaren to find someone to show that piece of paper to, someone who can read who will tell him what a fool she has made of him. He'll come looking for her then and he won't be in the mood to be thanking her.

  She rushes to the door and peers out through the glass. What if someone sees her in the street? How does she know who is a friend and who is Humby's man? She knows that hesitating will be her undoing but she stands frozen, watching people coming and going in the street, oblivious to her.

  'Come away from the window or they'll see you.' A man's voice behind her.

  She whirls round, wanting to grab for some sort of weapon but flailing at thin air.

  'Come away from there. Back here.' He steps out of the shadows. It is Mannion, the shop keeper, her friend, she recognized the voice but in her panic couldn't place it. It seems obvious now. 'There is a door at the back that will be safer.'

  The little shop keeper has a shotgun resting awkwardly under his arm. She wonders what it must have taken for him to leave his shop with that weapon in his hand.

  'There's a back door?' she says stupidly.

  'All these places have back doors.'

  She hurries over to him, all the while glancing over her shoulder, frightened that McLaren or Humby will be back.

  'I saw that McLaren man leave out the front,' says Mannion, 'and I figured you'd be tied up in here, or worse. I'm so pleased to see that you're not.'

  'Nowhere near as pleased as I am to see you. I need to get out of here.'

  'I have a horse saddled up behind my store. Have you thought about where you will go.'

  'Back to the ranch, I guess.'

  'Is that safe?'

  'I need to see that Billy is okay.'

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  'The good news is that the bullet went straight through,' the barber says.

  Logan is gritting his teeth trying not to yell as the wound on his arm is prodded at. The dose of whisky they've given him to dull the pain is having no effect at all.

  'It does seem to have pulled your shoulder out of its socket though. I'll need to pop that back in if you're ever going to regain the use of that arm.'

  He isn't really listening to the barber, more to the whooshing noise his own blood makes in his ears and tries to dissociate himself from the pain. It catches him by surprise when Wilson pins him to the chair and the barber braces himself with a foot in Logan's armpit.

  He yells. He yells at the surprise. He yells at the pain. He yells at the slurping, crunching noise that his shoulder makes as it goes back into place. And then the pain subsides.

  It aches and throbs, but he can live with that. He can feel a tingling sensation in his fingers and wonders if he'd been able to feel his fingers at all before.

  'You're lucky. If Wilson had taken much longer getting you here, we wouldn't have been able to put that back. I'll bet it feels better n
ow.'

  Logan mumbled his thanks, still marveling at being able to move his hand.

  'I'll sew up this hole in your arm and then you'll be good as new.'

  He watches the barber thread a needle and start to sew the flesh of his arm. The tugging of the needle and thread feels like it ought to hurt but it is as though he has used up all his hurt and he feels nothing.

  'Where did you learn to do this?' he asks.

  'My father was a surgeon. I did the training myself but in the end I decided I didn't like spending all my time looking after sick people.'

  'So you shave people instead?'

  'Why not? It's a way of making money from my skill with a razor without needing to have people like you bleeding all over me.' He cuts the thread as he finishes the last stitch. 'This might sting a bit.' He says quickly before splashing alcohol over it.

  Logan gasps. He was right, that stings.

  'Take care with that arm. You won't be able to use it much and if you're not careful you'll pull the wound apart and it'll hurt like hell.'

  He mutters his thanks again. The arm seems stiff but he can move it a little without it being too agonizing.

  'Maybe you should have robbed the bank after all. It might have been a safer pursuit.'

  Logan is confused. What is he talking about?

  The barber laughs. 'You don't remember your first visit here do you? You speculated about raiding the bank because there didn't seem to be anyone defending the town.'

  He realizes what the barber is referring to and manages a weak smile.

  'I don't think any of this has turned out quite how I planned it. I certainly didn't think I'd have to thank a deputy for saving my life.'

  Wilson signals urgently that he should say no more.

  'Well,' Logan says quickly, 'he saved my arm at least.'

  He still doesn't quite know what to make of Wilson. He seemed like a gaoler to start with. But then Wilson tracked him all the way from the ranch to the cabin to save him from Frank Lake's gun. He's ridden all the way back to town with him and brought him here to save his arm and to get his wound treated and yet he still hasn't explained why. Is he trying to save Logan for the gallows or is there something else they have planned for him? He still doesn't trust the man, not after the way the sheriff seemed to threaten him.