One Notch to Death

by Matt Chisholm

  ‘It ain’t goin’ to be easy,’ he said. ‘They’s sign all around Grebb’s place. I don’t know nothin’ about the horse.’

  ‘I know,’ Will said, ‘but it’s our only chance. I’m sure of only one thing—Aintree headed directly south at the start.’

  ‘If he did, we pick up his sign in this valley. But I reckon he changed course after a bit.’

  He walked to the horse assigned him and swung up into the saddle. Will turned to Clay and said: ‘You take charge here, boy. I don’t want any search parties or such. Just keep Brack’s hands off this place.’

  Riley Brack said: ‘I’d like to come along, Mr. Storm.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Pete Hasso bitterly, ‘hog it all.’

  Will was thoughtful.

  ‘I’d like you to come, Riley,’ he said. ‘But it’s kinda tricky with your pa an’ all. We need everybody here.’

  George said: ‘If you an’ Joe is goin’ north you could find yourselves on Broken Spur. Heck, pa, leave me come along.’

  ‘No,’ said Will, ‘it’s better this way.’ His eye caught Martha’s. She knew that he didn’t want any of the boys hurt. He walked to his horse and stepped into the saddle. The others wished them luck, and they rode out.

  They headed north-west through the trees and within the hour were climbing the ridges. They didn’t hurry, for they didn’t want to punish their horses. They had no idea what lay ahead of them and they faced the possibility that the speed of their horses could save their lives.

  They came down onto the Spring road and, on the lower ground, the rising heat struck at them. They began to sweat. When they came to the creek that worked its way down to Grebb’s place, they stopped to loosen cinches and water the horses. Another fifteen minutes and the road-ranch would be in sight. Will wondered what effect his visit and his talk had had on Grebb. The man might be ready to fight or change his course in the opposite direction. He doubted Grebb would fight. The man liked to win and a head-on meeting with the Storms might spell out disaster for him. Will’s threat to burn down his place must be rooted deep in his mind. Will smiled grimly to himself at the thought. Circumstances could sure alter a man. He didn’t know himself from the man he had been two-three years back.

  They tightened cinches and rode on. Pretty soon they came in sight of the road-ranch. Smoke rose lazily from a cook-stove. The horses dozed in the corral. It looked a peaceful scene. As they rode off the trail toward the corral, Will knew they must have been sighted from the buildings. Grebb would guess what they were at. It couldn’t be helped. Aintree had a good start on them and they couldn’t waste time fooling around.

  Will halted before he reached the southern end of the corral.

  He pointed.

  ‘He came away from the corral about yonder.’

  Joe walked his horse forward. He peered at the ground.

  ‘This been worked over,’ he said with faint disgust.

  He turned his horse south, watching the ground. He edged his way further and further away from the corral until he was about a quarter mile distant. Will slowly rode after him. He felt a little apprehensive. So much rested on Joe finding something. If he couldn’t, nobody could.

  Before he reached Joe, the Negro rode west. Will halted and watched him and soon saw that he was circling wide. After a while he halted and signaled for Will to join him. Will rode forward. Joe said: ‘There’s a man went south not too long ago. I can’t see nothin’ more so fresh.’

  ‘We’ll have to take a gamble.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  They trotted their horse south and, as they came onto lower damper ground the sign was plain even to Will from the back of a moving horse. They followed for about a mile, then abruptly the rider turned east. They halted and looked at each other.

  ‘You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?’ Joe said.

  ‘Brack,’ Will said. ‘He panicked and headed for Brack. Maybe this is just what we want.’

  ‘Maybe Brack don’t want nothin’ to do with him.’

  ‘We’ll find him no matter what he did.’

  They talked over whether they should stay with the sign or head straight for Broken Spur headquarters. Joe reckoned he knew Aintree’s sign and could pick it up near Brack’s.

  ‘If his riders give you the chance,’ Will said.

  Joe laughed and said: ‘I think you have somethin’ there.’

  Just the same, they changed direction slightly and headed into the south-east, lifting their horses to a steady mile-eating lope. They hit the ridges to the north of Spur in the late afternoon and the climbing slowed them badly. Still they didn’t push their horses. They would be worse than useless with beat-up mounts. It was getting near dusk as they rode down into the Broken Spur valley. They halted by water and rested their horses.

  ‘Reading sign is out,’ said Will. ‘So I’m goin’ ahead to take a look around.’ He walked his horse forward. He stopped and looked back when he heard Joe’s horse behind him.

  ‘Where do you think you’re goin’?’ he demanded.

  ‘Followin’ you,’ Joe said. ‘What you think I doin’? Fly in’ a kite?’

  ‘I said I’d do this alone.’

  ‘Wa-al, you ain’t.’

  ‘I’m tellin’, Joe. This ain’t no time for foolin’ around.’

  ‘An’ I tellin’ you.’

  ‘If you ain’t the most obstinate pig-headed ‘

  ‘You can talk,’ said Joe.

  ‘But I’ll be damned if it does me much good.’

  ‘Let’s git on then an’ cut out the gab.’

  Will sighed and went on. Joe edged his way into the lead and Will let him, knowing that nobody could equal him in the dark. Pretty soon they heard cattle shifting in the darkness on either side of them. There was no other sound except the swish-swish and plod of the horses’ feet in the long grass.

  Inside thirty minutes, Joe halted and said softly: ‘I reckon this is far enough.’

  Will stepped down from the saddle.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said, ‘and hold the horses.’

  Joe dismounted.

  ‘Take a coupla buffalo along,’ he said. ‘Then maybe they hear you real good.’

  ‘Cut it out,’ Will said. ‘I ain’t in the mood.’

  ‘Man,’ said Joe, ‘you know I talkin’ sense. You know it.’

  Will knew it. Joe could go quieter than an Indian. If he went himself, maybe he’d ruin the whole enterprise. There was a note of bitterness in his voice when he said: ‘All right, if you’re so durned smart. Go ahead.’

  Joe found his moccasins on his saddle and exchanged them for his boots. Then he said: ‘There’s trees over yonder. Best place for you-all.’ He faded into the darkness and Will, grumpy and sore, led the horses among the trees and tied them. He settled himself down with his back against the trunk of a tree and shivered a little in the increasing cold. After a while he started wanting to smoke. He put some tobacco in his cheek and made do with that.

  Time ticked by. He felt sleep creeping over him and finally he started nodding.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ed Brack was drinking and brooding, doing both with concentrated energy. He sweated and he thought about his worthless treacherous son, Mart Storm who ought to be dead by now and Will Storm who he’d by God kill one day.

  Some far corner of his mind heard the cry from the corral of ‘Rider comin’. Only when he heard the sound of hoofs to the front of the house did he become aware and rouse himself. He walked to his office door that opened onto the stoop and saw a man ride up. Once glance was enough to tell him the man had been hurt. He crouched in the saddle, all beat up and shrunken.

  Brack stepped down from the stoop and said: ‘Who’re you?’ The man looked at him palely. His eyes were filled with pain.

  ‘The name’s Aintree,’ he said.

  For a moment, the name meant nothing to Brack. Then his mind went click and the name fitted into place, took on meaning. A couple of the hands drifted n
ear. Dwyer came out of the bunkhouse his arm in a sling and walked toward them. Brack felt a flutter of alarm run through him.

  ‘Go into the house,’ he ordered the man. Aintree eased himself from the saddle and walked slowly into the house. Brack turned to one of the men: ‘See to his horse.’ He took time to give Dwyer a long and bitter glance before he followed Aintree. He was deeply suspicious of his foreman. Could he never find a man he could trust? Dwyer’s story was a good one and he stuck to it, but Will Storm’s words stayed in his mind. Was Storm trying to sow dissension in the minds of Broken Spur? By heaven, if Dwyer was guilty he’d have the man’s guts. He’d put his trust in him. It was Storm’s mention of Shuster that worried him. Somehow it had the ring of truth about it.

  Aintree was in the hall of the house, sitting hunched up in a chair. Brack stood in front of him, legs wide, a master of men.

  ‘What the hell,’ he said with quiet menace, ‘do you mean by coming here?’

  Resentment showed on the man’s face.

  ‘I couldn’t think of no place else.’

  The alarm fluttered in Brack again.

  ‘Grebb had you holed up,’ he said. ‘You were safe there.’

  ‘Storm came after me,’ the man told him. ‘He’d of killed me. I broke down timber outa there.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Brack said in disgust. ‘You’re real tough. You mean Grebb didn’t stop him?’

  ‘He threatened to burn Grebb’s place down.’

  ‘He—?’ Brack’s mind jolted. ‘Which Storm?’

  ‘Will.’

  ‘Will?’ Brack’s voice cracked with disbelief.

  ‘He’s tryin’ to get the rope from around Mart’s neck.’

  ‘Is he, by God?’ Brack brought the harshness back into his voice. ‘Well, you can’t stay here. I told Grebb I didn’t want any of this connected to me. Why the hell do you think I pay out good money. I’ll give you a fresh horse and supplies and you ride. Hear?’

  ‘Christ, Mr. Brack, I’m wounded. The ride from Grebb’s plumb played me out. Let me stay over till tomorrow.’

  ‘And have Storm find you here? I should smile.’

  ‘Hell, Storm wouldn’t dare buck you.’

  ‘You heard me. You ride.’ He went to the door and yelled for Dwyer. The foreman came on the run and cut the sunlight out of the doorway. Brack said: ‘A fresh horse and supplies for this man. I want him out of here. He doesn’t talk to anybody. Not even you. Understand.’

  Aintree reached back for the butt of his gun. Brack hit him with the back of his hand, hard, and knocked him out of the chair. He hit the floor with the gun in his hand. Dwyer jumped forward and stamped down on the wrist. The gunman screamed. Then he lay on the floor, near to weeping.

  Brack said: ‘Get him out of here.’

  Dwyer picked up the gun and hauled Aintree one-handed to his feet, propelled him toward the door.

  ‘You won’t get away with this, Brack,’ he said. Brack turned away. Fifteen minutes later he watched Aintree hunched in the saddle heading into the hills. But the sight didn’t reassure him. Uneasiness rode him. For a moment, he faced the fact that he had been trounced twice by the Storms. It rankled. It burned in his guts. He reached out for the bottle and poured himself a generous drink. When he threw it down, it didn’t help much. He wanted action, violent action. He wanted to feel his strength. He would never become accustomed to feeling weak. For one glorious moment, he dreamed of riding down onto Three Creeks and razing the place to the ground, driving the terrified Storms from the land.

  In the midst of this dream, he heard the cry of: ‘Riders comin’. ‘ He hurried out onto the stoop. He shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun. He saw the moving mass of riders, the pack-animals. What the hell? He thought. He went back into his office and fetched his glass, focused it on the approaching cavalcade and exclaimed in surprise.

  Women!

  He kept his glass on the leading figure—a woman riding upright in the saddle, head held high, bottle-green riding habit, a female general leading her troops forward.

  Ed Brack gasped.

  It looked like Horatia Hargreaves. It couldn’t be. But he knew it could be. That woman would turn up in any old corner of the earth without warning.

  Not now, he thought. She couldn’t come here now.

  He put the glass on the girl to her rear, letting his eyes take in her beauty. He passed on, saw the sheriff’s lined and unshaven face. The man looked as if he was suffering in the saddle. The glass ran over the faces of the posse, stopped. Now Ed Brack could not believe his eyes. The glass held still on the tall figure leaning forward in the saddle, resting one hand on the saddle-horn as if to ride at greater ease.

  Mart Storm!

  By God, Ransome had caught him. Brack felt the exaltation rise up in him like an overwhelming flood. He could have jumped for joy then. Suddenly his fortunes were reversed. He felt the energy and determination flow back into him again. He hurried down off the stoop to greet his guests. The cavalcade reached the corner of the corral. Men were coming out to watch their arrival, all eyes for the two fine-looking women. Brack felt a momentary rush of embarrassment. With all his brashness, he never felt comfortable with women, feeling instinctively that they didn’t like him. But this woman was looking down at him and smiling. He pulled off his hat.

  He tried to make himself urbane, a man-of-the-world. ‘Why, Miss Hargreaves. I never expected—an unexpected honor, ma’am.’

  The cool clear voice reached him—

  ‘Mr. Brack, how nice. We remembered the invitation you extended to us in Baltimore. We were in the area and thought how pleasant it would be to see you again.’

  A blush flooded Ed Brack’s craggy features. The girl behind Honoria was smiling on him. He muttered: ‘Miss Vanessa,’ rushed forward to help them dismount. ‘You must both be tired after your journey.’ His mind was on Mart Storm just the same. He had him here right in his hand now. Now he had the whole damn family by the short and curly ones. He felt Honoria’s cool hand in his. It was a long time since he had touched such a woman. His mind was confused.

  Dwyer was there, smiling, being the smooth Texas gentleman to Vanessa. She turned and thanked him with a warm smile when he helped her down to the ground. Brack turned to briefly greet Burt Ransome, let his eyes rest longingly on Mart Storm. The gunman grinned at him maddeningly, the calmest man there.

  Brack’s mind was busy—

  I’ll stretch your neck before the week’s out, you smirking bastard. Where’ll I put the women? Hell, there isn’t room for women here. Dwyer—where in tarnation was Dwyer? Leave that girl be you randy sonovabitch.

  ‘Dwyer.’

  Reluctantly, the foreman turned from the girl.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Brack.’

  ‘Get that man tied up.’ He turned to the women—’Ladies, my accommodation here, well, we’re not used to ladies around here. But we’ll do our best. Everything is at your disposal. Everybody.’ At his most unctuous now, smiling, hands rubbing together, trying to slip and jolt from being a violent man to being a smooth and charming one. His face grimaced in turn in hatred for Storm and pleasantry for the ladies. The result was grotesque. He was bowing the ladies toward the house, bawling for the Chinese cook to bring cold lemonade. He’d have to give up his own room to them.

  Mart Storm slipped from the saddle. One of the Broken Spur men kicked his feet from under him and another dabbed a rope around his neck.

  Vanessa turned and exclaimed in anger, but her aunt caught her by the arm and pulled her toward the house.

  ‘Dwyer, get him into a safe place. Don’t take your eyes off him.’ Yelling for the cook to prepare food for the army. The cook ran out, gobbled incomprehensively at the sight of so many mouths to feed and scuttled back into the house again. Saddle-leather creaked as the posse heaved itself tiredly out of the saddle.

  They were seated on the stoop and in that cool clear voice of hers, Horatia Hargreaves was telling how the wounded outlaw had thrown himself on th
eir mercy. Mr. Ransome, the sheriff, really had arrived in the nick of time, as they said. Ed Brack allowed himself to develop the theme of Martin Storm at some length, dwelling on his crimes and his violence, not missing out the fact that he was the worst of a totally bad crew. The whole countryside was terrorized by the terrible Storms. The Misses Hargreaves listened in awe and horror, making suitable exclamations at the appropriate places. The lemonade came and it was far from cold; the ladies drank it thankfully. Ed Brack consumed something stronger. With all the excitement, he was in need of it. Thank God, he thought, he had put Stu Aintree on his way before these two arrived. He prepared himself for uphill work with the ladies for the remainder of the day, but, to his immense relief that problem was solved by the charm of the ladies. They met him halfway—Horatia was graciousness itself. She put herself out, was charming and flattering. Ed Brack melted. Vanessa chatted ingeniously, stimulating him with her youth and by her show of open admiration for him. He found himself utterly captivated.

  He sent for Dwyer and the foreman stood there fiddling with the brim of his hat and not able to take his hungry eyes off Vanessa. Brack told Dwyer to take care of the posse men. The sheriff could come and eat up at the house. A short while after, Ransome joined them, ponderously gallant, obviously a little nervous of the famous gunman he had somehow managed to capture. He was a fish out of water here in such elegant company. Brack appreciated his gaucheness. Beside the sheriff Brack felt civilized. He excelled himself. He had the ladies laughing at his sallies. He showed them to their room and ordered a bed made up for himself in his office and, while the ladies freshened up, he took the opportunity to pay Mart Storm a visit in the bunkhouse. He had an enjoyable ten minutes, telling Storm what he was going to do with him if his brother Will didn’t come to heel pretty smartly. Mart didn’t seem much put out and that ended with Brack in a rage stomping furiously back to the house.

  Thirty minutes later, the ladies appeared, having produced elegant dresses from the dozen or so pieces of baggage that had been toted by sweating straining servants into the house. The tents of these men now dotted the grass to the south of the corral. Their cook-fires were smoking. Broken Spur looked as if it had been invaded by an army.