Funeral By The Sea

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Shadow isn’t important,’ Gold answered. ‘Sand is piled up on the beach in the cove. Only place to see the ocean from town is from upstairs in the big house. But no one watches from there. They don’t figure anybody’s crazy enough to try to hit them from out here.’

  The bounty hunter dropped his grin and made no further effort to mask his nervousness as he looked at the younger man, who was gazing at the gently convoluted surface of the water a few feet beyond the point.

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘This point? How wide is it?’

  ‘About the same as the last one we come around.’

  Barnaby Gold clicked his tongue. ‘Okay, Mr. Pruett. You, me and the horse know what to expect this time.’

  ‘And friggin’ how.’ He shuddered, not entirely from the cold.

  ‘He’s your horse, so you steer him. Straight out at least fifteen feet. Then north. Into the cove as soon as the point is behind us. The currents could make it tougher than last time. But he’s an intelligent animal. Soon as he sees the sand ridge along the beach, I figure he’ll make for it. We have to hope he’s got the strength to handle the currents until the tide starts to work with him.’

  Pruett directed an apprehensive glance at the by turns moon-silvered and moon-shadowed water at the crests and troughs of the waves, then sucked in a deep breath and took a double-handed grip on the horse, at bridle and front rigging strap.

  ‘Let’s quit talkin’ and start doin’, kid.’

  ‘Foot in the stirrup until we’re in the water,’ Gold instructed.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  ‘Pruett did so and Gold the same. Then Gold nodded and the bounty hunter barked a command to the stallion.

  There was no gentle slope with a steady rise of water on this occasion. The horse went forward and immediately plunged beneath the surface. Took the men with him.

  Gold saw Pruett’s mouth gaping wide and heard the start of his shriek of fear. Then there was ice cold blackness and a rushing sound in his ears. The wrench against his armpits was as hard to take as when he was jerked awake by Hal Delroy to find himself strung up on the house stoop. His booted foot came clear of the stirrup, but he hung on.

  His head broke surface and he had the presence of mind to gulp in fresh lungfuls of air. But he did not go down again. Heard Pruett coughing up salt water before his vision cleared and he saw the man had also retained his hold on the saddle.

  He could feel the stallion struggling vainly to swim forward, but sensed a sideways motion. Knew they were caught in a current which, because he was considerably lighter than the stallion, was trying to tug him free and carry him along at greater speed.

  ‘I can’t do nothin’!’ Warren Pruett yelled.

  The stallion was swung around to face the same way as the current was running, the pumping of his legs having little effect on the speed at which the animal and two men were moving.

  Pruett was screaming at the horse and succeeded in hauling his head around to the side. But the forward momentum continued, carrying them out towards the middle of the cove entrance away from the wedge of moon shadow from the cliff.

  Barnaby Gold considered letting go of the saddle and struggling to stay on the surface. To be swept out to sea, dashed against the cliff base on the far side or washed up on the beach. A one in three chance of survival. But what lay beyond initial survival if he came to rest on the beach fronting Oceanville? Half drowned and unconscious, helpless until he was found by the Mexican fishermen.

  He became aware that the momentum had slowed. That the speed of the water rippling around him was in keeping with the regular rhythm of the stallion’s paddling actions.

  He shook his head and blinked water off his eyelids. Saw the ridge of sand directly in front of him. With the dark silhouettes of the tilted fishing boats at its crest.

  ‘Shit, I figured we’d had it for sure!’ Warren Pruett gasped, an expression of euphoric happiness on his face as he turned his head from peering at the beach to stare across the saddle at Barnaby Gold.

  The younger man spat a foul taste from his mouth and sprayed shreds of tobacco into the sea.

  ‘Tide must have beaten the current back there.’

  ‘What does it friggin’ matter, kid?’

  ‘And you have a fine horse, Mr. Pruett.’

  ‘You better believe it!’

  In the calmer, slower moving water, the bounty hunter let go with one hand to pat the neck of the horse.

  ‘And you better keep the noise of your celebration down,’ Gold cautioned. ‘Considering what kind of place it is, Oceanville’s a quiet town.’

  Pruett spat into the sea at his side. ‘You’re right again, kid.’ Patted the neck of the stallion a second time and growled, ‘Come on boy, just a little ways further.’

  Very much further and the horse would probably not have made it. Because the beach shelved more steeply here, they almost had to get into the breaking combers before feet and hooves touched bottom. And the horse, drained by exertion and fear, staggered and dropped exhausted on to his front knees the moment he was on dry sand.

  Barnaby Gold released his grip on the saddle and hurled himself clear as the hind legs of the animal collapsed in the same way and he rolled over on to his side, quivering and snorting weakly.

  Pruett did not let go and he lay across the horse, venting soft sounds of relief that had the tone of sobs.

  Gold lay spread-eagled on his back, listening to his heart beat and making a conscious effort to control his panting breathing.

  Waves broke over his feet but the water rose no further than his knees. The sky beyond the glow of the moon and between the glinting stars was as inky black as when they had started along that other beach from the ravine. So there was time to rest. But not to sleep, and now it required a conscious effort to keep his eyelids from closing.

  ‘Crazy as an asylum full of lunatics, kid,’ Warren Pruett murmured. ‘But it friggin’ worked, didn’t it? I figure we must have God on our side.’

  Barnaby Gold turned his head to look over an outstretched arm to where the bounty hunter was grinning at him, still draped across the distressed stallion.

  ‘Maybe, Mr. Pruett. But I figure there are just the two of us now. From what I’ve heard, He doesn’t pack a gun.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WARREN Pruett crawled clear of the stallion and came close to where Barnaby Gold lay. The horse struggled to stand up and then was unmoving, head hung low. The sounds of the two men sucking in air and expelling it were louder than those of the animal’s breathing.

  ‘You did great, kid, and I wanna thank you for it,’ the bounty hunter growled.

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Intend to. But I’ll never forget being in that water. Could be I’ll never take a bath again.’

  Both of them began to shiver and Gold folded up into a sitting position and started to massage his upper arms vigorously as he hugged himself. ‘Could be we’ll never do anything again, Mr. Pruett. If we don’t start moving around.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He grinned as he rose to his feet. ‘I’m gettin’ a warm feeling just thinkin’ about all that money on the hoof bein’ so close.’

  He moved back to the weary stallion and Gold was about to follow him. But something dark bobbing on the white water of the breaking combers caught his attention and he went to get it, a smile on his good-looking face. It was his hat, which had been swept across the cove by the current and then carried in to the beach by the tide. He put it on, unmindful of the water that dripped from it and ran down his face. Fell on to his sodden shirt.

  ‘Crazy as a friggin’ coon, you are,’ Pruett said good-naturedly when Gold joined him beside the horse.

  The bounty hunter already had on his gunbelt and was using his wrung-out handkerchief to wipe excess water from the ivory-butted Army Colt.

  ‘Always had a reputation for being that,’ Gold allowed as he took his coat off the bedroll and unfolded
it. ‘Ever since I was just a kid just starting to talk.’

  ‘And never did give a shit about it. I bet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The caped Ulster was sodden from when the stallion had plunged below the surface on the other side of the point. But it was thick enough to have kept the Murcott reasonably dry and no water had got into the twin barrels and breeches. He used the scarf to wipe off the surface moisture and then attended to the Peacemakers, while Pruett was checking his Winchester.

  The carton of cartridges for the shotgun were spoiled and he tossed them into the water. Likewise his matches. But he had thought to put a few in the watertight cheroot tin and he lit two smokes while Pruett was finishing his gun drying chore, then handed one to him.

  On this occasion, the aromatic tobacco smoke masked the smell of slowly drying salt water lingering on their clothing and the horse.

  They drew silently against the cheroots for a full minute, squatting down on their haunches and gazing out across the cove. Then Pruett was the first to smother the glowing tobacco in sand. Left it there. Gold doused his in the same way, but replaced the dead cheroot between his teeth.

  ‘You ready, kid?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So let’s get to it.’

  Pruett led the stallion by the bridle and Gold walked on the other side of the horse, moving without haste along the moonlit beach a few feet clear of the regularly thudding breakers of the incoming tide. Heading toward the deep moon shadow of the cliff that curved around the southern side of Oceanville and the cove. The fishing boats and the roof of the big house the only visible signs of the single street town behind the high ridge of sand. The cliff beyond looked ominous.

  The muted sounds of hooves and footfalls on the beach were accompanied by the breaking of the waves, and counterpointed by the squelching noises of water in the men’s boots.

  Barnaby Gold felt an odd sense of well-being that acted to negate the cold and dull aches that should have been causing him discomfort. Pruett was right. Had it not been for the intervention of the bounty hunter, he would have left Oceanville with nothing except bad memories. Plus, perhaps, a valuable lesson which could prove useful in the future - that his arrogant, self-confidence which had caused so many people to dislike him in New York City and the peaceful towns of Fairfax and Standing, Territory of Arizona, could well get him killed on the dangerous trail he rode since blasting Floyd Channon to death.

  But this did not concern him right now. Circumstances in the shape of Warren Pruett had brought him back to Oceanville and it felt good to be here on the verge of tying up loose ends which otherwise would have concerned him. And compounding his easiness of mind was the fact that the bounty hunter had merely steered him along the route back here. There had been ample opportunities to get rid of Pruett and go his own way. So it was by choice that his way matched that of the other man.

  It felt colder in the shadow of the cliff - as if the moon radiated an illusion of warmth along with its light. Gold was conscious of this but gave no physical reaction to it. While Pruett shivered several times as he unsaddled his horse and hobbled the animal’s forelegs.

  The younger man waited patiently off to the side, dead cheroot angled from a corner of his mouth and shotgun canted to his shoulder. Content that, for as long as it suited him, the again totally self-assured bounty hunter should consider himself in command.

  ‘Undertaker,’ Pruett said, grim-faced and rasping the word in a harsh whisper as he rose and turned from hobbling the stallion.

  And Gold notched up another point toward the need to kill the man. As he recalled the occasions when the hired guns of the Channons of Texas had prefaced their attempts to kill him by using this term instead of his name.

  ‘What is it, bounty hunter?’

  But there was no aggression on the rugged, sun-burnished face of the other man. Just a trace of anxiety in the incredibly blue eyes.

  ‘If that’s what you was, you ain’t old enough to have done much else, kid. I just thought of somethin’. Anyone can do damage with a shotgun close up. How good are you with them two Peacemakers you wear like you was a topnotch gunfighter?’

  Barnaby Gold bared his teeth with the dead cheroot clenched between them. ‘Good enough so that I don’t have to practice all the time anymore, sir.’

  Was this a point in favor of Warren Pruett? Or did he simply not know about the other gunslingers who had come after the black-clad young man - and been buried by him?

  The bounty hunter nodded. ‘Well, kid. We’re about to find out if you’re as good as you figure you are. Or just a tall pile of bullshit.’ He spat into the sand. ‘That talks big.’

  Gold clicked his tongue. ‘You asked me and I told you, Mr. Pruett. Apart from that, as I recall, you’ve done most of the talking.’

  The bounty hunter showed one of his spartan smiles.

  ‘Which got us both out of our depth, uh, kid?’

  ‘Just for a while, sir.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THERE was not a single light showing anywhere along the row of buildings that comprised Oceanville. But the white adobe of the Mexicans’ houses and the cantina were clearly illuminated by the moon. While the timber-built big house and its outbuildings were shadowed by the towering cliffs behind them.

  It had been Warren Pruett’s guess that this was how they would find the community in the dark hours of night. Quietly, if uneasily sleeping. With sentries posted in the accustomed positions along the ravine through which no stranger had ever come unless invited.

  Throughout the previous afternoon, while Pruett maintained his vigil from the cave above the pool after claiming four more victims, no other man from Oceanville had followed the same easy trail as Grogan, Clay, Ivers and Bowyer. Which made it a good bet that the rest of the American fugitives were waiting for the word that this quartet had succeeded - or failed to hear from them and had to assume they had not.

  Beyond this, it was futile to guess at a course of action. But reasonable to assume that Hal Delroy and his men would bed down behind the sentries rather than have time drag heavy while they kicked their heels and nursed their grudges by staying awake.

  The two intruders took no unnecessary risks, though. Guarded against light sleepers and insomniacs by keeping to the shadowed area and treading cautiously as they advanced upon their objectives. Were conscious, too, of the danger that they could be entering Oceanville at a time which coincided with a changeover of sentries.

  Because Barnaby Gold had been able to confirm Warren Pruett’s cliff top impression of Oceanville and agreed with his suggestion of where they should position themselves in the town, they had no need to communicate with words or even gestures after the final exchange on the beach.

  They did not even offer each other a sign of farewell or good luck when they separated to take up the predetermined positions. Where they squatted down to wait and watch and listen. Unafraid, unexcited, unconcerned by the clammy touch of the drying clothes against their flesh minds uncluttered by thoughts of what lay ahead and free from memories of the dangers they had overcome to get here.

  For his part, Barnaby Gold’s single source of discontent was that he could not yet risk re-lighting the cheroot angled from a corner of his mouth.

  The darkness of night faded into the dull grey of the false dawn.

  The men’s outer clothing dried stiff with seawater and the solid black of the younger man’s outfit became marked with uneven lines of white stains.

  The smell of woodsmoke began to permeate the air and the subdued sounds of people moving sluggishly at the start of a new day could be heard.

  The first shaft of brilliant light from the rising sun angled down from the rim of the cliff to become diffused far out on the calm surface of the Pacific Ocean.

  The salt air, aromatic now with the scent of coffee pots coming to the boil, began to lose its chill feel as the warmth of the sun made inroads into the last remnants of night. And Gold reflected upon a rational
reason for the sense of well-being that had gripped him for so long - that it was quite simply good to be alive.

  He did not consider even for a moment that this could possibly be a temporary situation.

  For awhile, all the early morning sounds came from the adobe houses, and the womenfolk had roused and fed their men before there were any signs of life within the big house. First smoke from one of the three chimneys, then the opening of windows and some talk that did not carry clearly outside. By which time the sombrero-wearing fishermen had trudged across the beach to the crest of the ridge and hauled their boats down to the water. Two babies were crying but there were no sounds of children at play.

  The tall, skinny, gaunt-faced Mexican opened up his cantina and his flabby woman started to sweep the floor while he washed glasses left dirty from last night.

  The morning air brightened and the temperature rose.

  The six whores who plied their trade in the cantina congregated in the kitchen of the place and fixed their own breakfast. And were joined by Seth Harrow who had slept on the floor of a room shared by two of the women.

  What little talk there was outside of the big house was low in tone and terse. For the rest there was a sullen silence of morose expectancy gripping the town.

  Then the double doors of the big house were wrenched open and Hal Delroy strode purposefully out on to the stoop. Dressed in the same clothing as yesterday, the outfit looking as if he had slept in it. He was unshaven.

  The seven men who came out in a group behind him were in the same disheveled condition, some of them looking hungover.

  The bearded Vic and two others were carrying Winchesters and they broke away from the group to align themselves at three-yard intervals, backs to the ocean and heads tilted so that they could peer up at the sharply defined line where the cliff top met the sky.

  Two more men went around one side of the house and two more around the other, leaving Hal Delroy standing in isolation at the foot of the steps from the stoop.

  Nothing had been said to send the men to their appointed duties and the emergence of the grim-faced group from the house had acted to silence all but the crying of one baby in a house at the far end of the street.