by Tony Masero
‘Well, luck to you, boy,’ said Bolton, downing his shot in one. ‘You head back here after you’ve settled your mess and we’ll see how things hang then.’
‘I’ll do that, Sheriff and I’m obliged to you for all you’ve done. Real sorry to have caused so much grief but as you can see there was no avoiding it.’
‘I know how it goes,’ nodded Bolton sadly. ‘Story of my life, I reckon.’
Chapter Five
Diehard spent the night in the back of the buckboard. He dragged the canvas cover over himself and closed his eyes, falling asleep instantly. He felt no remorse at the killings and knew it was a matter of survival that called for no regret on his part. That was the way things happened out here. Live or die it was a hairbreadth decision and one that could abide no ill feelings of guilt afterwards.
Up early, he was dousing himself in the horse trough when Dalton greeted him from the barn.
‘You ready for some breakfast?’ he called.
Diehard wiped his face on his shirttail and looked up, ‘Sure am,’ he grinned.
The blacksmith had raked over the coals from his forge fire of the day before and fed the blaze until it glowed. With a large pan laid on top the brazier he dropped eggs and strips of bacon and let them sizzle. Diehard walked into the smithy to smell the frying food and his mouth watered at the scent.
‘Can really do with this,’ he said to Dalton, who stood turning the bacon with a pair of blacksmithing tongs.
‘Coffee there,’ said the blacksmith, pointing at the pot. Diehard helped himself and Dalton lifted the bacon onto a dish and slid three eggs alongside. ‘There you go,’ he said offering the breakfast dish to the cowboy.
Diehard squatted and picked at the hot food with his fingers as it appeared the blacksmith did not believe in using regular eating utensils, ‘Obliged for this, Mister Dalton,’ he mumbled.
‘Think nothing of it,’ the blacksmith answered with a shrug of largesse. ‘That was one fine show you put on yesterday. Standing alongside the Sheriff like that.’
‘Guess I brought an awkward mess onto his doorstep, seemed the least I could do.’
‘Aw, Garby Mainwearing was always a troublemaker. He’s been asking for it for years, always getting way ahead of himself. Well, this time he went a step too far. You know that son of a bitch was loaded with cash and he would always come in here expecting to cut a deal for re-shoeing his ponies and get them done at discount. I mean the guy was a cheapskate, he could afford to buy half this town he wanted.’
Diehard cast a glance over at the stall where the mare was watching him.
‘Shame about that horse,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t you worry none; Sheriff Bolton will work it out. I think he appreciates you taking a hand with him. He’ll see you right.’
‘I guess,’ sighed Diehard, sliding another rasher into his mouth.
Dalton poured himself a coffee and refilled Diehard’s mug, ‘You heading after those fellows now?’
‘I am, wish I knew for sure where they were heading though.’
‘Well, it’s north like I said. The trail splits there ahead though, when you come to the divide. The Luega Mountains come down like a knife and the trail goes off on either side of the range. One heading for Mobach Springs, the other a cut-off to the town of Columbine. Those fellows could have taken either way, I reckon.’
‘One way or the other I’ll track them down.’
‘Determined young fellow, ain’t you? Can see why they call you Diehard.’
‘Wrong is wrong, Mister Dalton and if you don’t do anything about it, well, it just gets worse.’
‘That’s true enough,’ sighed Dalton. ‘Still it takes some brass to carry it out, there’s plenty that wouldn’t.’
‘What are those two towns like?’ asked Diehard.
‘Mobach Springs ain’t much of a place, kind of rough, I hear. They say that some of the devious sort, banditos and Commancheros come up from Mexico; they hang there and trade some. It’s said they bring in rustled livestock and buy liquor and such but maybe it’s a lot worse, I don’t rightly know. Columbine’s a bigger place, more like a proper town. Could be your party will head there as the pickings will be better.’
Diehard sucked a thread of bacon from between his teeth, ‘I ain’t so sure. Those beggars are bent as an oxbow and it may be they’ll find better amongst their own sort.’
Dalton shook his head doubtfully, ‘That would be a risky choice. Mobach Springs don’t have a good name at all.’
‘Well,’ said Diehard, getting up and wiping his hands on his poncho. ‘Thanks for the feed; I guess I’ll be heading out. How much do I owe you, Mister Dalton?’
‘Nothing, son. It’s been a real pleasure having you. Careful in those mountains though, that’s where old Garby had his mine, might be his workers will not be too happy at his passing, what with them being put out of work and wages. Maybe some that got shot down could have friends.’
‘Mighty hospitable of you, sir and don’t worry I’ll take care.’
‘Hold on a moment,’ said Dalton, moving over to a workbench. ‘I seen you with that cut-down, good for close in work but not much further. The Sheriff sent over the pistols those dead miners used, I ain’t got no call for them. Why don’t you take a set, could come in handy.’
‘That’s a fact,’ said Diehard, strolling over and studying the rolled cartridge belts lined up on the work surface. He checked out the action on a few and decided on a top break Cavalry Schofield pistol that looked in good repair and had been well maintained. The belt loops were full of ammunition and Diehard tried it on for size.
‘Works well,’ he said, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand. ‘But you have to let me pay you for this.’
‘Sure, you can pay me when you get back. I reckon you’ll be passing by again when they work out things with the horse.’
‘True,’ Diehard nodded. ‘I’ll have to head back to Prentice Bridge anyway.’
Dalton smiled knowingly as he noted Diehard’s distant look, ‘You got a girl waiting on you I guess.’
‘Just that I have to return the borrowed buckboard,’ answered Diehard evasively.
‘Right, get the buckboard back,’ agreed a grinning Dalton, as he recognized the young man’s coyness. ‘I believe you surely do.’
It was still an unclear decision for Diehard until he approached the knifepoint of rocks that marked the extended foothills of the Luega Mountains. He could plainly see how the road forked ahead. It was obvious that the largely unused trail on the left was the one that most likely led to Mobach Springs. Nobody went down there; it was a barely discernable track with windblown drifts overgrown with patches of mesquite. Diehard climbed down from the buckboard and scouted the trail. The regular road to the right was a rutted and well-used track, with plain to see hoof and wagon tracks that had to be bound for the calmer environs of Columbine. The left hand path showed only a scattering of fairly recent prints. A group of pony tracks and Diehard reckoned that two of the ponies were shod and the rest still unshod. That firmed it up for him; Carter and Betterman had passed by here with the rest of his string.
Diehard cut off and headed down the left hand path.
He took his time going and along the way checked out the accuracy of his new firearm. Sitting on the buckboard driving seat he took potshots at stands of cactus and found the Schofield was an okay weapon, never far off the mark up to a hundred yards or so.
The road dipped and rambled around large boulders and over sand drifts beneath the overhanging range of the mountains. It was a trail most used by horseback riders and the buckboard made hard going of it. When Diehard reached the final rise he could feel the effects of the rough ride in his aching ribs.
Below, the trail led down to a flat area between two rocky outcrops almost hidden by the surrounding mountainsides. A poor looking collection of wooden shacks confronted him with a roped area to one side where a group of ponies were tied off. None of them, he noted
were of his string.
That gave Diehard a moment of pause; if the horses were not here was it wise he wondered to press on into what he had been told was a danger zone? The thing he knew for certain, going by the tracks, was that Carter and Betterman had certainly passed this way and it may be that he could discover where they had been headed if he found out nothing else. He had to try he decided and urged the mules on.
As he rode down the slope Diehard noted a welcoming note that gave even more gloomy gravitas to the small shantytown. Beside the trail stood a fresh grave, it had no marker to identify the owner only a large white stone placed at the head. Resting against this bleak headstone lay a long handled axe, the blade dark with dried blood.
There seemed to be some activity around one long and flat-roofed shack and Diehard moved down between the rest of the buildings to pull up in front. There were a bunch of five idle men gathered on the veranda outside, they lounged and stood leaning against the porch posts watching him with cool curiosity. No one moved as he pulled up and questioned them from the driving seat.
‘Howdy, fellas. Looking for a couple of men with a string of fine ponies maybe passed by here,’ he said to the blank faced crowd. ‘Carter and Betterman by name, anybody seen them?’
They were certainly a rough looking crew, Diehard decided. The clothes dusty and travel worn, some faces were scarred and most were bearded and stared back at him with the drawn and callous reserve imprinted on those of a merciless nature.
Nobody answered him.
‘You ain’t seen them?’ Diehard asked again.
One man levered himself away from the shack wall and moved to the edge of the veranda. He was a tall fellow, lean and cadaverously featured with a tight unshaven jaw that he tensed, flexing the sunken cheek muscles with regularity so they appeared as taut rope under the skin.
‘And just who might you be?’
‘Name’s, Charlie Wexford some call me Diehard.’
‘Die-hard, huh?’ the fellow smiled thinly, exaggerating the name. ‘You come to the right place then.’
That brought a ripple of laughter from the other men.
‘You seen the party I asked about?’
‘Why don’t you step down, friend? Come on in and have a drink. Old Pablo that runs this place may have heard of your people.’
The invitation was about as warm as a winter frost but Diehard decided that if he was to find out anything he had to man-up and brazen it out.
‘Sure,’ he said, tying off the traces. ‘My rig okay out here?’
‘I reckon,’ said the man. ‘There ain’t no thieves in Mobach Springs, ain’t that right, boys?’
There was a chorus of guffaws and snorting sniggers from the others.
‘And who are you, mister?’ asked Diehard.
‘Name’s William Black, you can call me Bill.’
‘Bill Black, I’m sure that rings a bell,’ said Diehard stepping down from the buckboard. He knew for a fact that Bill Black was a wanted villain and had been for some years. Earning himself reward flyers from Phoenix to El Paso as a rustler and killer of some renown. ‘You stand for State Governor one time, was that it?’
Black wheezed a laugh, ‘I see you got some lip on you, boy. No, I ain’t the political type, I’m much too honest a body for the likes of that.’
Diehard stepped up onto the veranda but nobody moved aside to give him passage through.
‘Come on then, Die-hard, don’t be shy,’ said Black. ‘These here are The Midnight Riders; there’s no need to be a-feared of them until it gets dark. That’s the time they spread their wings.’
Diehard stepped around the lounging bodies and made for the door that Black held open for him.
‘Hey, Pablo!’ called Black as they entered. ‘We got us a passing traveller here. Fellow calls hisself Die-hard. You going to set him up with some of your special brew, I’m sure he’s got a thirst on. Ain’t that right, Die-hard?’
Every time Black said it he drew out the name with a kind of pass at unsubtle ridicule. It was an irritant to the young cowboy but he let it pass.
Inside the shack it was poorly lit with a hard-packed dirt floor underfoot. There was ripe smell, a mix of cooked food and the spice of meaty red sausages that hung drying in garlands above a plank-and-barrel bar. The array of dangling meat attracted an army of flies that hovered and buzzed over the display with tiresome attention.
A fat man with a sour face, dressed in a long and dirty peon’s shirt hanging tight over his bulging belly and stretching down clear to his knees, lurched up from a bed of meal sacks piled behind the bar. His face was so stretched with fat that the eyes appeared button-small amongst the puffy expanse of greasy skin that shone wetly in the dim light. A thin mustache dripped down from the edges of his mouth to the double chins underneath.
‘Wha…’ he blurred, awakening from his doze. ‘Joo wanna dreenk?’
‘That’s what I said, you dumb greaser,’ growled Black. ‘He ain’t only hard of hearing,’ Black confided to Diehard. ‘He’s plumb stupid as well.’
‘Come on, Beel,’ said the Mexican with an offended shrug. ‘Don’ be unkind weed me.’
‘Just set them up.’
Duly the fat man shuffled over and reached down to fetch up a misty looking unlabeled bottle full of some yellowish mixture.
‘Tastes like piss but it does the job,’ said Black. ‘Now, what’s this party you’re looking for?’
‘Couple with a string of ponies, they go by the names of Aaron Carter and Lorn Betterman. I seen their trail heading this way and reckoned maybe they passed by here.’
Black pouted his lower lip, clenching his jaw muscles as he did so, ‘Can’t say I recognize the names, you seen anybody like that Pablo?’
The fat man shrugged, his eyes half closing as he considered it. ‘I theenk there was somewun like that. I dunno….’ He finished vaguely.
‘His brain is sure fried by his own liquor,’ said Black as he watched the Mexican pour into two grubby glasses. ‘What you want these fellows for anyway?’
‘They took my horses.’
‘That a fact? Wowee! They took the man’s horses, you hear that, Pablo? That’s a rotten shame, Die-hard, that surely is. Anyway, have a tug on this I guarantee it’ll make all your troubles pass.’
He shoved one of the glasses towards Diehard and picked up his own.
‘Here’s to you, Die-hard.’
The liquor tasted like a mix of hot creosote and pure turpentine to Diehard and he gasped as the foul-smelling burning liquid passed his lips.
‘The very devil, ain’t it?’ chuckled Black, slurping at his own glass freely. ‘Hey now, Die-hard. These ponies those deadbeats stole, they was good horseflesh I take it?’
‘The best,’ croaked Diehard, still trying to adjust to the deadly mix that had just scalded his throat.
‘Beel,’ interrupted Pablo, his eyes vacant and far away. ‘Wasn’t thees the one who….’
‘What you say, Pablo?’ cut in Black, his voice a sharp monotone. Pablo’s fat lips shut together with a rubbery sounding plop.
‘The one who what?’ pressed Diehard, realizing that there was something hidden going on here.
‘Nada,’ said Pablo, looking away innocently. ‘I don’ know wha’ I say.’
‘He ain’t right in the head, you gotta see that,’ said Black disarmingly.
‘They been here, right?’ pressed Diehard. ‘You’ve seen them and knowing them like I do, I reckon they caused you some grief.’
Black sucked air through his teeth and his jaw clenched, ‘Well…. Maybe they were the party you’re looking for. Pair of assholes, sure enough. But I have to say, those ponies was real fine horseflesh. They didn’t want to part with them anyhow. Man! They wanted ridiculous money for them. My old pard, Lou Collingwood, maybe you heard of him? Goes by ‘Longshanks’ Lou Collingwood, sometimes? No, well, old Lou he took a real liking to one of them mares….’
‘He bought the mare?’ said Diehard quickly.
‘No sir, he tried but no, there was no deal there. They all was asking a mite too much for it, least that’s what Lou reckoned. I think he might have tried some more forceful means come nighttime and got hisself an axe in the head for that.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘Nope, Lou tried to convince them to part with the mare but they done split him open like a peach on a breadboard and rode out.’
‘You didn’t stop them?’ asked Diehard in disbelief.
‘We was all a sight incommoded at the time,’ said Black with a faintly embarrassed nod at his empty glass. ‘Poor Lou, we put him under out there, maybe you passed by the site when you come in?’
Diehard nodded, ‘I saw it.’
‘That’s where he lays, poor soul.’
‘You didn’t go after them?’
Black spread his hands expansively, ‘It was a three-day drunk we was on. Me and the boys just had a run up from the Rio Grande and a brush with the Rangers on the way so we all needed a spot of recreation. Wasn’t no way we could chase down them two bastards, both us and our ponies was totally discommoded and plumb tuckered out.’
‘Hellfire!’ cursed Diehard. ‘You see which way they went?’
‘There’s only one way, ain’t there. Pablo?’
‘Sure,’ The Mexican agreed as he poured from the bottle again. ‘Ees the mountain road, the way ees through the pass they make out there,’ he nodded vague direction with the neck of the bottle.
‘What pass?’
‘The new railroad,’ Black supplied in an irritated tone. ‘You must have heard of it. The blasted thing is a damnable stain on the landscape, I ain’t for all this modern reconstruction myself,’ he gritted his teeth angrily. ‘Why the hell they can’t leave things alone, building crap all over the place. It’s downright outrageous.’
‘They got a railroad camp up there in the mountains?’
‘Sure have, building a tunnel through them hills. You stay around long enough you’ll hear the blasting. Place is crawling with little beggars. Must have nigh on a few hundred of them yella fellas working up there. Chinee imports, small people with slanty eyes, as if we ain’t got enough foreigners here already.’
