by Neil Hunter
He rose to his feet and stalked grimly back to his horse. Gathering the reins he swung into the saddle, setting the horse into motion with an angry jab of his heels. He rode away from the stream and crossed the final slope of the foothills to reach the silent wilderness of the flatlands.
Jim rode hard for the rest of the afternoon. An hour before dark he reined in as his aching eyes picked out the irregular shape of what could have only been a town some miles ahead. He sat for a while, staring at the dusty outline, and eventually moved off again. There was no doubt in his mind that the tracks he was following were aiming directly for the town.
He rode in after dark, passing the skeletal outlines of cattle pens and loading platforms that lay alongside a single-span railroad track. Just beyond the tracks lay a huddle of crude adobe huts and Jim caught the smell of spiced food cooking, heard the soft accents of Mexico. The way led him up a rutted slope that opened onto the town’s main street. He rode by stores that were still open for business and saloons that were just opening for the night ahead.
Jim spotted a hotel and took his horse over to the hitch rail. He climbed down, took his rifle and saddlebags and went inside. The lobby was dim, the air warm and smelling of dust. Jim’s boots rapped against the worn floor as he crossed to the desk where a middle-aged man watched him with total disinterest.
‘Single room,’ he said. ‘Just for the night.’
The clerk reached behind him and hooked a key off the board. He dropped it in front of Jim. ‘Sign the book. Room’ll be two dollars. Pay me now.’
Jim signed the yellowed page of the register. He fished out a couple of silver dollars and shoved them across the desk.
‘Where can I get a meal?’
‘Out the door. Turn left. There’s a place a few doors down.’
Jim took his key and climbed the creaking stairs. His room turned out to be on the front, overlooking the street. He tossed his gear on the bed and opened the window.
‘Where are you, boys?’ he asked softly, staring out of the window, and along the street. He knew damn well that he could be too late. The Parsons bunch had ridden into this town — it was entirely possible that they had already ridden out again.
Jim cleaned himself up as best he could, put on his last clean shirt and left the hotel. He found the place the clerk had mentioned. It was a small, but pleasant restaurant run by a dark Italian and his wife. They provided plain food that was at least well cooked. Jim had a steak with potatoes and greens, followed it with some stewed apples and a pot of rich coffee. He lingered over the meal, giving the saloons time to fill before he started visiting them. If Parsons and his bunch had spent any time in this town the saloons were the likely places for picking up any information. It was also a risky way of doing it but Jim had no other options.
It turned out to be a long and fruitless night. Jim moved from saloon to saloon, even chanced a visit to the two cantinas down in the Mexican section of town. He didn’t learn a thing apart from confirming his own suspicions that he was no drinking man. Somewhere close on midnight he made his way back to the hotel. He had spent too much of his money, swallowed too much bad liquor, and his only gain was a hell of a headache. He wasn’t exactly drunk but his senses were dulled enough so that he didn’t even see the two dark figures closing in on him until it was too late.
Far too late.
Jim’s first warning of trouble came in the form of a hard fist slamming into his left side. The blow drove the breath from his body, pain flaring up through his ribs. And then a hard bulk smashed against him, driving him sideways into the dark mouth of an alley. He tried to keep his balance, but hard punches came at him from the shadows, bouncing him against the rough planks of a building. The back of his head crashed against the planking. A savage blow numbed his jaw, filling his mouth with the taste of blood. Jim struck out wildly, felt his fist connect with soft flesh. Dimly he heard a man curse. And then the beating began again. They knocked him to the ground, dragged him up again, kicking and punching until he was so much dead weight in their arms.
A hand took hold of his hair, dragging his head back. Jim coughed up blood from his throat and spat it out. A man laughed. Close by a match flared and Jim blinked at the sudden bright light.
‘You hear me, boy?’
Jim croaked his answer.
‘Word is you’ve been all over town tonight askin’ questions. Now I’m askin’ one. What’s your business with Luke Parsons and his boys?’
‘My business,’ Jim husked, forcing the words from his swollen throat.
‘Looks like we got us a hard one, Will,’ the second man said.
‘Hard or not they can die just like anyone else.’
The match held near Jim’s face went out. The man cursed. There was a pause as he fumbled for another, scraped it alight. This time Jim caught a glimpse of the face behind the ring of flame. He made a mental note of a thick, hooked nose and narrow gray eyes.
‘You think of a right answer, boy, ‘cause I don’t like a smart mouth. Just what is it you’re after?’
Jim’s bottled-up frustrations boiled to the surface in a rush and he struggled against the hands holding him down.
‘Damnit, he’s got something that belongs to me and I aim to get it back.’
The man called Will chuckled. ‘Hell, boy, if everybody Luke Parsons has stole from come after him this town’d have half the territory in it!’
‘I don’t reckon we’ll have much trouble with this one,’ the second man chuckled. ‘He ain’t but a kid.’
‘Tell you something, boy,’ Will said. ‘You’re lucky it was only me and Lee you crossed. Luck too that the others already rode on. If you’d bumped into Nolan Troop or Luke himself ... well, hell, boy, you’d be dead right now!’
‘That supposed to satisfy me?’
Will grunted in annoyance. ‘Boy, you’re startin’ to rile me. I’ll give you some advice. I were you I’d get me on a horse and go home. Whatever it is you lost it ain’t worth the dyin’ for.’
The one called Lee jerked brutally against Jim’s hair. ‘You hear him? Hear him good, boy, ‘cause if I set eyes on you again I won’t come at you with words.’
‘That’s a promise,’ Will agreed. ‘Show your face in town come daylight you’d better do it with a gun in your hand!’
The match was snuffed out. Darkness rolled over Jim as he slid to the ground, his face pressed against the dirt. He heard the faint scrape of boots against the ground, the muted jingle of a spur, and then it all melted away. It became very quiet. He lay and decided it was in his best interests to stay where he was for a while. He was starting to hurt ...
Chapter Eight
The pain was still there but the flood of wild, unreasoning rage had practically blotted it out. Hurt as he was, his body pulsing fiercely with every step he took, Jim walked out of the dark alley and along the deserted street. His good sense told him he was acting like a fool kid, allowing his temper to get the better of him — yet he knew, deep down, that come hell or high water, he was going to find the two men responsible for his condition and square the account. There was no way he could ride out of town just because they’d told him to. It was pride bordering on vanity almost, but it meant the difference between walking upright on two legs or crawling in the dirt like a whipped dog.
Along the street, where lamplight threw yellow pools into the darkness, he could hear noise and laughter. In the background the tinny sound of a piano. As he neared the source, a smoke-filled saloon, the batwing doors swung open and an unsteady figure swayed out onto the scuffed boardwalk. Jim had one foot on the step as the man leaned out to grasp the porch support, resting his weight against the weathered timber. Their eyes met for a brief instant.
‘Looks like it’s been a rough night for the both of us,’ the man mumbled, staring at Jim’s bloody face.
‘Yeah — but yours is over,’ Jim said and moved on by.
He stood at the door, peering into the saloon. A feeling of utter frustrat
ion swept over him as he scanned the crowded interior.
Dammit, where were they? He sighed wearily, admitting that he was clutching at straws. There was no way of knowing where those two had gone. No reason to think they were here in this saloon. They could have gone anywhere in town.
Jim had already started to move back from the door when he caught a glimpse of a vaguely familiar face. He focused his attention on the man who was sitting at a table on the far side of the saloon. Jim stared long and hard. There was a second man at the table, his back to Jim. The one facing in Jim’s direction leaned forward, catching the full glare from one of the lamps suspended from the ceiling.
It was the hard-faced man from the alley. The one who had spoken to Jim. The one who had warned him off. He felt his blood rise. Became aware of the wildness boiling over, urging him to ...
Jim was inside the saloon without being aware of having moved. Oddly, above the general din, he could hear the batwing doors creak behind him as they swung on dry hinges. Jim made his way across the saloon, ignoring the curious stares. He threaded his way in and out of the crowded tables. Men still looked at him, eyeing the bruised and bloody face, the dirt-streaked clothing. Yet there was something in Jim’s expression that made them step aside.
And then the man called Will spotted him. His heavy features darkened in a scowl. A forewarning of Jim’s intentions promoted him into startling movement. Yelling a warning to his partner Will rolled sideways out of his chair, twisting his body as he hit the floor so that when he rose to his feet he was facing Jim, his gun up and firing.
Knowing he had only seconds, Jim launched himself forward in a long dive that took him to the floor. While he was falling his fingers were plucking his gun from its holster, thumb rolling back the hammer. He broke his fall with his left hand, the impact jarring his shoulder, snatching the breath from his lungs. He heard the loud slam of a gunshot and felt something tug at his shirtsleeve. He pushed his gunhand forward, tilting the muzzle of the weapon up, aiming between the curved backs of suddenly vacant chairs. For a fraction of a second the man named Will appeared to be frozen in Jim’s sights and he triggered a frantic shot. Gathering his long legs beneath him Jim thrust up off the floor. As he uncoiled his lean body a gun exploded close by and a hungry pain filled his right side. He stumbled, off balance, catching his hip against a table. Another shot rang out, exploding needle-sharp splinters of wood from the table top into the side of his face. Jim dragged his gunhand round to the right, triggering as he saw the rising bulk of a man’s body. Saw the dull gleam of a smoking gun in a clenched fist. His bullet hit high in the chest, throwing the man back, arms wide apart.
‘Damn you ...’ the one called Lee yelled.
Jim spun on his heel at the cry, his gun following in a reflex movement. He saw Lee, only yards away, crouching, his face twisted with rage. Lee’s gun was pointing at Jim and the hammer was already dropping as Jim fired himself.
The two shots were close enough to sound as one.
Something ripped through Jim’s left arm, high up. The impact twisted him round. He fell, pain sickening him. He slumped against the floor, putting his weight on one arm and was surprised to see bright splashes of blood on the scuffed floorboards.
Get up! On your feet dammit! Get up ‘cause they ain’t going to wait! Jim’s mind screamed the command to a body unable to respond. He could hear a rising roar of sound — voices mingling until they were a blur — and above it all lay a pulsing throb that rose and overwhelmed him completely.
Chapter Nine
Brilliant, hurting sunlight stung his eyes. Jim turned his head to one side, awareness of where he was dawning swiftly. A quiet, pleasant room. He was lying flat on his back in a soft bed with clean white sheets. In the background muted sounds. A closer sound drew his attention.
‘Hurts I dare say.’
‘Some,’ Jim answered. He could feel a dull, deep-down ache in his side; a raw, nagging pain like an exposed nerve in a bad tooth. ‘No, damn, it hurts a lot!’
‘Body goes round getting in the way of bullets then I reckon he deserves to hurt.’
The speaker moved into Jim’s vision, eyeing him with the intensity of a vulture sizing up a potential victim. Jim saw a gray-haired man dressed in a crumpled black suit. A craggy brown face with a lot of wry humor behind the gruff exterior.
‘They call me Quincy. Doc Quincy. Tell me something, boy, you got something against growing old?’
Jim frowned at the unexpected question. ‘Not sure what you mean, Doc’
‘I mean going up against Will Loomis and Lee Brown. Boy, that was a damn fool thing to do.’
‘Wasn’t exactly the way I had it planned. Not a shootout.’
‘Whatever, just tell me why.’
‘I had my reasons.’
Quincy shook his head. ‘They to do with that beating somebody gave you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Boy, you’re one hell of a conversationalist.’
‘Doc, what happened to Loomis and Brown?’
‘Some gunfighter you are,’ Quincy sighed. ‘Loomis is dead. Brown’s recovering from the bullet you put in him and waiting for the US Marshal to collect him. I hear you’ll be picking up some reward money on those two.’
‘I don’t want any reward money,’ Jim said defensively.
‘And there I was thinking I might get paid for a change!’
‘You’ll get paid, Doc.’
Quincy sat on the edge of the bed. He took off his steel rimmed spectacles and began to wipe them with a crumpled handkerchief.
‘You did a fair amount of talking while you were getting over that fever.’
‘What fever?’
This time Quincy smiled. ‘You wouldn’t know about that. Almost four days since they brought you here. I had to leave my bed to cut out that bullet. You were lucky. It bounced off a rib. Didn’t break. If it hadn’t you’d be watching the grass grow from the root end. But I reckon you’ll mend.’
‘I’m obliged for what you did, Doc. How long before I can get up?’
‘There you go again. All set to go chasin’ off ‘fore you’re ready.’
‘I’ve got things to do that won’t wait.’
Quincy poked a long finger at Jim’s chest. ‘Like finding Luke Parsons?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe nothing, boy. Like I said you did a fair piece of talking under that fever, and I’m a good listener.’
‘I’d say you got a bad habit there, Doc’
‘Well I’ve stayed healthy for a lot of years and I’m too damn old to change my ways now.’ Quincy stroked his stubbled chin. ‘You want tell me if I heard everything right?’
Jim smiled. ‘I guess I owe you that much.’
‘What’s so important it makes you want to brace Luke Parsons?’
‘Parsons and his boys raided the bank back in Sweetwater. Took every penny in the place. Including what I had there.’
‘Hard-earned?’
‘Doc, I’m just a working hand. Took me a long time and a lot of sweat to build my stake. I want it back.’
‘How much?’
‘Three thousand.’
Quincy nodded. ‘Appreciate how you must feel. That’s a fair piece of money in any man’s language.’
‘So when can I ride, Doc?’
‘If I told you to rest for four or five days you wouldn’t listen.’
‘Damn right I wouldn’t.’
‘Don’t come back complaining if you fall off your fool horse.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Doc’
Quincy cleared his throat. ‘Ain’t likely to, boy,’ he said without too much conviction.
The marshal arrived on the evening train. His name was Beckmann. A tall, spare man with graying hair and eyes like cold flint. He made his feelings clear to Jim within minutes of speaking to him.
‘Boy, if you weren’t in that bed I’d be kicking your ass clear out of town. What is it? You tired of living?’
‘Marshal
, all I want is my money back. The way I see it if I don’t go after Parsons nobody else will.’
‘Tyree said you were a stubborn son of a bitch. He was right. Damnit, boy, is it really worth it? For three thousand dollars? Money won’t be much use when you’re buried.’
‘You expect me to ride back to Sweetwater? Just forget about my stake and go on being a forty-a-month-and-found ranch hand for the rest of my life! If that’s what I’m expected to do, Marshal, I might as well be dead.’
Beckmann made an angry sound. He stared around the room as if he was looking for something to hit.
‘It ain’t likely to get any easier, boy,’ he said finally. ‘Luke Parsons doesn’t stay on this side of the border any longer than he has to. He isn’t like his boys. He puts off playing around until he’s safe in Mexico. That’s where he’ll be now. Where the law can’t touch him.’
‘You forget, Marshal. I’m not the law,’ Jim said. ‘I can touch him.’
Beckmann sighed. ‘I was afraid you’d say that. You think on, boy. It’s right when you say you can go where the law can’t — but it’s also right that once you cross over that border the law can’t help you either. You’ll be a damn sight more on your own than you are now.’
‘That won’t be new to me, Marshal,’ Jim said. ‘I’ve been looking after myself since I could walk.’
‘Boy, you’re hard as a whore’s heart. Mind you’ll need to be if you’re aimin’ to call out Luke Parsons in his own backyard.’
