One Notch to Death

by Matt Chisholm

  Alarm showed in the small eyes. Stott made angry threatening noises from the door.

  Will switched again.

  ‘The question. Where’s Stu Aintree?’

  There was silence in the room.

  It was broken by Charlie Stott.

  ‘Let me handle him, boss. Please.’

  Will laughed.

  ‘You should ought to see yourself, Grebb,’ he said. ‘You look pretty sick. You’re a little greedy man, Grebb, an’ you’ve bitten off more’n you can chaw. You’re goin’ to choke on what you have in your craw. You know that?’

  ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,’ the man said.

  ‘For God’s sake quit foolin’ around,’ Will said. ‘Do you think I don’t have information? You plan to be a big man in this country, Grebb, but you ride the trail you took when Pat Shaw and Stu Aintree came in here an’ you’ll end up goin’ up the hill with your boots on. Use your head, man. You think Ransome’s in Brack’s pocket. You think Brack’ll protect you for his own sake, but I can blow all that sky-high by lifting a finger.’

  Grebb was sweating. His hands clenched on the table top.

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this crazy talk,’ he said. The bounce had gone out of him. He could see his beautiful road-ranch going up in flames.

  ‘For crissake, boss,’ Stott pleaded.

  ‘You’re threatenin’ me in front of a witness,’ Grebb said.

  Will smiled.

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘I’m threatenin’ him too. Either I talk with Aintree or I walk out of here and you take the consequences.’

  Grebb was on his feet. His voice shook with passion and fear.

  ‘You can’t do this to me. There’s law around here.’

  ‘The law’s fifty miles west of here,’ Will said. ‘Huntin’ down my brother. You an’ this ape here’ll be dead.’

  Stott ground out: ‘Ed Brack’d never let it happen.’

  Grebb rounded on him with a curse. ‘Keep your fool mouth shut,’ he shouted.

  Will waited. Stott trembled with the strength of his impulse to draw his gun and shoot him. Grebb sat down again and put his head in his hands. At last he lifted his head and stared at Will.

  ‘You win,’ he said. ‘Charlie, go fetch Aintree.’

  ‘I thought he was wounded,’ Will said. ‘Can he walk?’

  ‘He can walk. Go ahead, Charlie.’

  Stott stared for a moment at his boss, reluctant to move, then he opened the door and slouched out.

  Grebb changed his manner. His face brightened.

  ‘Have another drink, Mr. Storm,’ he said. ‘No hard feelings. You had me worried there. Really worried. You see, this Aintree is a dangerous feller. He’s scared us here. A killer. Nothin’ but a hired killer. Not the kinda man I like to have around the place.’

  Will took the drink offered to him. He found that he needed it.

  Grebb continued—‘That’s what stopped me talkin’ to you. That gun of his. You can’t think what life’s been since he came, Mr. Storm. He’s terrorized the whole place. Your brother was no way to blame. He couldn’t do nothin’ but kill Pat Shaw, Mr. Storm. They set him up sure’s God made little apples. My God, you shoulda seen it. That brother of yourn is sure an artist with that gun. They had him a crossfire. He shoulda been dead twice over. He sure should of.’

  Grebb talked on.

  ‘Where’s Aintree at, Grebb?’ Will asked.

  The flow of words stopped. Grebb blinked.

  ‘At? Why, he’s here.’

  ‘Exactly where?’

  ‘Why on the other side of the yard. He’s holed up there. The girls is terrified to go near him. He’s in there with his gun.’

  Will lifted his Colt from leather, thumb on hammer.

  ‘We’ll go find him.’

  Grebb was on his feet, alarmed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Move now. No more talk. Just remember I’m nervous an’ this gun is kinda light-triggered.’

  ‘Put it away, Mr. Storm. A man never knows with guns.

  There’s no call—’

  ‘Move.’

  Grebb, eyeing the gun, went to the door and opened it. Will followed him out of the room. Grebb went to turn left.

  ‘Not through the saloon,’ Will said. ‘Go out the rear.’

  Grebb sighed heavily and turned right. He opened a door and went out into the moonlight. A moment later they were crossing the open flat ground that was surrounded by buildings. There were lights in windows on the far side. Will heard a woman’s laugh. He kept close enough to Grebb to handle him, but not too close. This was more the kind of chore that Mart could handle.

  Grebb reached a door and opened it. In front of him was a flight of stairs, dimly lit. He started up them and called: ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Cut that out,’ Will told him.

  There came the sound of booted feet on the planks above. Grebb halted. A dim form appeared at the head of the stairs. Stott’s voice came.

  ‘He’s gone, boss.’

  ‘He can’t have.’

  Will reached out and grabbed the clothing on Grebb’s back, heaving on it with all his strength. The man’s heavy body lost its balance and fell down the stairs past him. Grebb yelled. Stott made a hurried movement.

  Will yelled: ‘Freeze, Stott.’

  Stott froze.

  Will ordered: ‘Drop your gun.’ The weapon clattered to the floor. Will went up two treads at a time, shoved Stott clear of the head of the stairs and scooped up the gun. He glanced around. To his left was an open door. A lamp burned beyond. He rushed into the room. A disheveled bed, a whiskey bottle on the table. The room stank of human occupation. It was empty. The window was open and the curtain blew in the light breeze.

  Will turned and ran out of there. Stott backed up from him because from the foot of the stairs Grebb yelled for him to keep away from Storm. Will went down the stairs faster than he had gone down stairs in twenty years, thrust Grebb from his path and ran outside. He turned right, his feet pounding and his breath rasping in his chest. When he reached the corner of the building, he turned right again. Twenty paces and he reached the rear of the house.

  Nothing but space and night. He listened.

  Above the tinkling of the piano and a raucous song in the saloon, he heard a horse whicker. He ran along the rear of the house, sucking air into his tortured lungs. What would he have given to have been ten years younger. There in the moonlight was the corral with Grebb’s treasured horses in it.

  The creak of saddle-leather, a man’s uncertain form rearing up into the saddle.

  ‘Hold it or I fire,’ Will roared. He wanted the man alive. He wanted to hear him talk.

  A gun cracked and lead sang wide. Will, fearful of hitting the horses, aimed high at the man and let fly as the horse jumped forward. Even as his gun went off, he knew he’d missed. Holding his breath to steady himself was torture. He cocked for a second shot. The man was disappearing into the dark, going south. He fired again and again, but he knew it was no use. He walked up to the corral fence and leaned against it, filling his lungs with air, shaking a little. Hearing the sound of hoofs disappearing into the distance, he carefully reloaded his gun. He was greener than spring grass in the rain. He’d been suckered like a pilgrim just off the train.

  Slowly, he walked back around the building. Grebb and Stott were standing by the open door talking in low tones.

  Will halted and said: ‘You’d best laugh now, Grebb, because you ain’t goin’ to have much chance in the future.’

  Grebb complained: ‘Comin’ in here like you owned the place, shootin’ off guns promiscuous. Why you didn’t even know who you was shootin’ at.’

  ‘I was shootin’ at Aintree an’ by the time I’m through he’ll wished I’d of hit him. In the haid.’ Will paused and added: ‘He was goin’ to talk, Grebb, an’ you know it. Well, he ain’t the only one I can make talk. There’s somebody else who’ll tell me all I want to know. You know
who?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Stott there. You think he’s tough, but you’re wrong. He’s weak. That’s why he follows you around like a shadow. You think he protects you. But that ain’t so. The Stotts of this world can’t survive without men like you. He reckons you’re a king. I’m goin’ to show him different. An’ when he sees the truth, he’s going’ to wet his pants and tell me all I want to know. Then it’s finish for you.’

  He turned and walked away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Joe Widbee may have been a remarkable man, but he needed sleep. Not as much as most, but some. After he left Will Storm, he headed back up the ridge and decided that if he didn’t shut his eyes and fill his belly he wouldn’t be much use to man or beast. Accordingly, he headed for home, reached his well-hidden cabin, baited his horse well and retired to his bunk. He heaved off his boots and lay down in his clothes with his rifle under his hand. He had slept in that manner ever since the day old man Storm had given him his freedom and he had taken to the wild places of the world.

  After four hours, he rose, walked down to the creek nearby and plunged his head in the cold water. Having thus paid respect to the habit of cleanliness instilled in him by his mammy, he returned to his cabin and cooked himself a meal that would have done justice to several hungry cowhands. Thus refreshed, he walked into the sunlight and decided to ride the sorrel gelding. He needed speed and that little horse sure could travel.

  As he walked toward the corral, he heard the sound of an approaching horse. Rifle in hand he took cover among the rocks and waited. A man rode a horse up the rising trail too fast for the horse’s good. Either the man was a damn fool or sure was urgent. A few minutes later horse and rider heaved into sight. It was Jody Storm. Joe walked out of cover. The horse was lathered and it was beat.

  Jody said: ‘Pa needs you fast, Joe.’

  The Negro didn’t say anything except, ‘Rope yourself a fresh horse, boy.’ He didn’t hurry, but he didn’t waste a movement. He toted water up from the creek for the horses in the corral, then he saddled the sorrel and swung into the saddle. The two men rode back down the trail.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mart Storm lay back with his head on his saddle and he reckoned if it hadn’t been for the fact that he had the sheriff and his posse on his mind this life would be like the angels enjoyed in paradise. Life was full of surprises. There he was minding his own business, running from a posse, an activity that came as second nature to him and he found himself unaccountably rescuing a beautiful girl from Indians. Not so long after she kissed him. A piece further into the story he and the girl had killed a couple of men between them. Now, here he was in the girl’s camp and being waited on as if he was a belted earl or something.

  And there was the girl’s aunt.

  Man, that aunt!

  He’d pictured her as a dragon. Who could blame him? An aunt who dominated a beautiful young girl’s life, who went around the world exploring and such like a man—what else could she be but a dragon?

  She could be a handsome red-headed woman like her niece only about his own age, with a face that could melt a man and a figure that could make his impulses run as hot and wild as a brush fire. She’d welcomed him like a woman who likes men and hasn’t seen one in a long time. If she was a dragon he wasn’t any St George to fight her. She had attended to his wound competently and cool as you like, bandaging him with hands that should have been used for nothing but playing minuets on a piano. When she was through, she smiled a smile that made him feel ridiculously like a boy of sixteen and patted him as if he were a favorite poodle that had hurt itself. He’d never felt less like a dangerous gunhandler in his life.

  Her people, as she called them, were a sight to see. It was like coming on some crazy dream in the Colorado hills. Flunkeys and huntsmen, a groom, even a lady’s maid, a little chit of a thing that would have turned his head if the two Misses Hargreaves had not been around. He’d never been more fussed over even in a dream. Real French wine chilled in the creek had been served him, cold fowl offered to him on a metal plate that he could have sworn was solid silver. God, they must have had more pack-horses than the army to carry their gear.

  He watched as the elder Miss Hargreaves sat on a canvas chair not far off having her hair dressed by the maid. No silly modesty by these two intrepid explorers. He watched with delight.

  A voice said: ‘It’s always the same. I find a delicious man and my aunt takes him away from me.’

  He turned his head and saw the girl.

  ‘Nobody has taken me away from anybody,’ he said. ‘Sides, you saw me first. Finders keepers.’

  ‘That’s a rule,’ said Vanessa, ‘and she never plays by the rules.’

  The maid was through dressing the golden hair. Horatia rose with a splendor of controlled movement that it was a privilege to see. She came toward them, stopped and smiled.

  ‘And how is our wounded hero feeling now?’ she asked in that deep voice that shook him to his sox.

  Mart grinned.

  ‘You ain’t goin’ to a catch me admittin’ I’m well,’ he said. ‘This might stop.’

  ‘He’s quaint,’ she said. ‘Vanessa, my love, you were very clever to find him.’

  ‘I found her,’ Mart reminded her.

  She laughed.

  ‘Men will convince themselves of that kind of thing till the end of the world, poor darlings.’

  ‘You mean she hired them Indians?’

  She changed the subject.

  ‘My dear man, we must now be serious. That picturesque rascal whom we mistakenly employed as a guide has brought in the news that there is a party of armed men approaching us.’

  Mart sighed.

  ‘All good things have to come to an end,’ he said.

  ‘Alas, yes. That’s true and I’m glad you realize it.’

  He sat up. His shoulder hurt him like hell.

  ‘So I must depart a little hurriedly, ladies,’ he said. ‘My thanks for your help and my regrets I have to leave.’

  ‘You’re not leaving just yet,’ Horatia said. ‘My niece and I have discussed your predicament and have decided that if you are as innocent as you say you are, you have nothing to fear from the law.’

  Mart laughed.

  ‘You don’t know this law, ma’am.’

  He reached out left-handed for his gun. Nothing. He turned and looked at the spot where he had laid his holstered gun. It was gone.

  ‘I have it,’ Vanessa said. He turned and saw her produce it from the folds of her riding habit.

  He turned to reach for his carbine. He saw it in the hands of some huntsman or groom or what have you. He groaned. These two lovelies had just gently, but firmly put a rope around his neck.

  Or had they?

  He got to his feet and said: ‘Wa-al, if I can’t ride outa here armed, I’d best go unarmed.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Horatia said, ‘but I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Why not? You can’t stop me.’

  ‘I would hate to do it,’ Vanessa said, ‘but if you try to escape I shall be forced to shoot you in the leg.’

  He looked into her eyes and knew the crazy creature would. He sat down.

  Horatia said: ‘We have planned most carefully, Mr. Storm. Rest assured that we have your interest at heart.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘you’re handin’ me over to men who want me dead. All they have to do is ride outa sight and string me up.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Vanessa, ‘but they won’t ride out of sight. We’ve thought of that. We’re coming with you.’

  Mart gazed at them in awe.

  His eyes still had a somewhat glazed look when Burt Ransome and his posse rode slowly into camp. A lot of cocked guns were prominent in the hands of the posse men when they saw the terrible Mark Storm sitting there. Ransome, ever the gentleman, doffed his hat courteously to the two ladies and introduced himself. Horatia and Vanessa said that they were delighted to meet him and how beautiful his countr
y was. They were repaying the wonderful American hospitality they had received by offering a badly wanted criminal to the authorities. Ransome smirked and said: ‘That sure is handsome of you ladies. Every law-abidin’ citizen of this neck of the woods will sure be grateful to you.’ He went on to say that he and his men, if the ladies would permit them, would ‘light a while and then get off home with their prisoner.

  Horatia smiled in the grand manner, being charming to this charming peasant and said that she wouldn’t think of them departing without their having enjoyed their hospitality. She ordered food and drink to be brought for the poor dear men and their poor dear horses. They looked absolutely exhausted. The sheriff could not deny that food and drink would compensate them a little for the hardship of travel in the mountains and dismounted.

  It was during the resplendent meal that followed that she begged the sheriff’s protection back to civilization. They had been a little bothered by Indians and would feel so safe in the company of the brave sheriff and his intrepid men. Ransome became quite coy and declared that it was an honor and a pleasure that he and his men would not forego for all the gold in the hills.

  So it was settled. Within a couple of hours the camp was packed onto the backs of horses and mules, the cavalcade mounted, Mart was helped into the saddle by two huntsmen, grooms or what have you and they all set off into the east.

  The last thing Mart heard as Horatia rode forward with the sheriff out of earshot was her saying: ‘Do you know Mr. Edward Brack, Sheriff Ransome? You do? Excellent, then perhaps you can direct us to his ranch. We have a standing invitation to visit him.’

  Chapter Twenty

  By the time Joe and Jody reached Three Creeks, their horses were tuckered out. It was all the animals could do to breast the water of the last creek and stagger up onto dry land. As soon as the two men had ridden up to the house and slipped from the saddle. Will was there. As if drawn by a magnet, everybody on the place gathered in front of the yard. Even Pete Hasso limping badly on one leg.

  Will gave orders for his horse to be saddled and for Joe’s saddle to be thrown on a fresh horse before he told the Negro what had happened to him at Grebb’s place. Joe listened in silence. He knew what was wanted of him without being told.