‘I’m sorry, Mr Stroup,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’ Stroup’s face had blanched.
‘It’s about Eben, isn’t it?’ he said. The man nodded.
‘He’s been shot.’
‘Shot?’
‘There wasn’t anything we could do. We were taken by surprise. It was a plain case of bushwhackin’.’
‘Never mind that,’ Stroup snapped. ‘Where is he now? He’ll need a doc.’ The man shuffled uneasily in the saddle.
‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that,’ he said. ‘Eben’s dead.’ Stroup seemed to rock visibly in the saddle.
‘Who did it?’ he mumbled.
‘It was a stranger. We were just passin’ by old Ben Howe’s place when we came under fire. I don’t know. Maybe the old man thought we were trespassin’ or somethin’.’
‘What? You mean Ben Howe killed him?’
‘Not exactly. We had just taken cover when this stranger came by. It was him did it.’
‘Where is Eben now?’
‘Still there. We had to leave him.’
‘Then how do you known he’s dead?’ The rider looked blank as the dazed look on Stroup’s face suddenly became one of anger.
‘When did this happen? Today?’
‘Nope. It was the day before yesterday.’
‘And you’ve taken till now to tell me?’
Stroup looked as though he was about to strike the man who glanced guiltily at Barnet as if he expected to find some kind of protection from that quarter. Stroup struggled for a moment to get his anger under control.
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea what you were doin’ out at the Howe spread,’ he finally snapped. He turned to his foreman. ‘Go on back to the ranch and roust up a few of the hands. Then join me.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘At the Howe spread, of course.’ He turned back to O’Neil. ‘You come with me,’ he rapped.
Without waiting for a reply, he dug in his spurs and sped away, quickly followed by O’Neil. The foreman took a few moments to watch them before addressing some remarks to his horse.
‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘I guess this don’t come as any surprise. The only pity is it wasn’t his brother. If anybody deserved to get shot, it was Rafe. Mr Stroup sure didn’t deserve any of this.’ He gathered a ball of spit in his mouth and spat it out in a high arc.
‘Come on, feller,’ he said. ‘Let’s do as Mr Stroup says.’
CHAPTER TWO
Westoe drew his buckskin mare to a halt beneath a tree from which hung a weather-worn board on which were carved the words: Desolation Wells. It hung at a crazy angle so it was impossible to tell which direction it indicated. After a few moments spent in contemplation, he got down and inspected the ground. His practised eye detected traces of three horsemen having passed that way. A faint smile passed across his countenance. He was aware they had been following him for at least the previous two days, but he had eluded them and now they had gone on ahead. There was little doubt that if he continued to follow their sign, he would catch up with them in town. It was an old trick, but it seemed they had fallen for it. He had simply ridden down into a stream-bed and followed its course for a couple of miles before doubling back on himself. Who they were, he couldn’t imagine, but he would soon find out. He could have challenged them at the stream, but he had thought better of it. He had no desire to get involved in a shooting match, and he had a better chance of avoiding one if he confronted them in town. So right now they were the pursued and he was the pursuer.
As he rode, he continued to think about who they could be, but he couldn’t come up with any answers. Dusk was falling and only the creak of leather and the occasional snorting of his horse relieved the silence. His eyes peered into the distance and eventually he detected a glimmer of light and the first vague outlines of buildings. There were trees lining a narrow stream which curved at a sharp angle and he clattered across a narrow plank bridge over the dark, murmuring water. The street beyond was deserted, but after continuing a little further he came to a junction and turned into what was obviously the main street of the town. There were people about and some of the stores were open. He was looking for a saloon and it didn’t take long for him to see one. There were horses tethered outside. Coming to a halt, he slid from the saddle and tied his own mount to the hitching rail before pausing to take a look at the other horses. Three of them bore the same brand: The Barbed S. The name meant nothing to him, but he had no doubt they were the horses the men who had been following him had been riding. He paused for a few moments, still thinking, before stepping up on to the boardwalk and shouldering his way through the batwings.
Inside, the saloon was dense with smoke, but it took only a moment for him to see two of the three men who had been following him standing at the bar with their backs to him. He looked around for the third one, but he had only viewed them through his field glasses and didn’t recognize anyone who might answer the part. He moved forward past groups of people sitting at tables or playing faro and blackjack. There was a piano in a corner, but the pianist had vacated his stool. Some saloon girls circulated among the crowd and one of them approached him, but he brushed her aside. He reached the bar, put his foot on the rail and observed the two men through the ornate mirror behind the counter. One of them looked vaguely familiar, but it could have been anyone he had met. The other one he didn’t recognize, but the type was unmistakable. They wore their guns slung low. He glanced at the barman who was standing at the end of the counter talking to a customer; after a final word he came over.
‘Whiskey,’ Westoe said.
The barman poured and Westoe took a sip. He looked in the mirror again and saw one of the men staring at him. If he recognized him, he wasn’t letting it show.
‘You boys headin’ some place in particular?’ Westoe said. The man exchanged glances with his companion.
‘What’s that to you?’ he said
‘Nothin’, except you’ve been followin’ me for the last couple of days.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’
‘Those horses standin’ outside with the Barbed S brand – I take it they’re yours?’
The man looked awkward. He wasn’t sure how to react or what to say. As he stood trying to work out what to do, Westoe observed his companion edge away from the bar. He had been hoping to avoid trouble, but it looked like it was coming his way.
‘You’re not denyin’ you’ve been on my trail?’ Westoe said. The man’s expression darkened and the puzzled look became one of anger.
‘I don’t know what you’re game is,’ he said, ‘but if you’re accusin’ me of somethin’ you’d better take it right back.’
‘I’m accusin’ you of followin’ my trail,’ Westoe replied, ‘and I want to know why.’
There was a moment’s silence. Some of the other people in the saloon had caught on that something was happening at the bar and turned their faces in that direction. One or two towards the centre of the room were surreptitiously shuffling their chairs further back and the batwings suddenly creaked as a few of the customers at the rear of the room made their exits. Suddenly the man’s hand moved towards his holster, but Westoe was too quick and, as the six-gun appeared in the man’s hand, Westoe’s .44 spat lead. The man reeled sideways, catching his companion as he fired in turn so that the shot whistled harmlessly over Westoe’s shoulder and thudded high up the saloon wall. Steadying himself for just a moment, Westoe fired two more shots and then ducked to one knee before firing again. The noise of gunfire was deafening. People were shouting and screaming and he heard the glass of the mirror shatter as gun smoke filled the air. Bullets were ricocheting round the room and a chandelier hit the floor with a loud crash. When the shooting stopped and he had a chance to take stock, Westoe saw the two men both lying stretched full length on the floor. He rose to his feet and walked over to where they lay, taking care in case they were only feigning or wounded. It only took a moment, howeve
r, for him to ascertain that they were both dead. He looked up at the bar-tender whose ashen features had just appeared above the counter.
‘You saw what happened,’ he said. ‘I acted in self-defence.’
The barman nodded as the silence of the room was broken by a few concurring voices and then a hum of excited comment and conversation. From somewhere behind the bar the swamper appeared with a bucket and broom.
‘Somebody had better get the undertaker,’ Westoe said.
Just at that moment the batwings flew open and the sheriff burst in, his revolver in his hand. Westoe looked him over. He looked to be in his early forties, lean and in good condition. He came forward and examined Westoe with clear, steely grey eyes.
‘You responsible for this?’ he snapped.
‘They started it,’ Westoe replied. ‘All these folk can witness to that. I was only defending myself.’ The sheriff looked around before trying the barman.
‘Is it true what he says, Lorne?’ he said. The barman nodded.
‘I don’t know what started it off, but those two were the first to draw.’
The sheriff paused for a moment before sliding his six-gun back in its holster and turning to Westoe.
‘I think you and me got some talkin’ to do,’ he said, ‘over at the jailhouse.’
Westoe was about to remonstrate, but something about the sheriff’s demeanour suggested it might be better to comply. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I ain’t got nothin’ to blame myself for.’
With the sheriff right behind him, he passed down the saloon and out through the batwings. He continued walking in the direction of the jailhouse. When they had reached it, the sheriff indicated a doorway leading to his office and stepped inside. Somewhat to Westoe’s surprise, the sheriff invited him to take a chair before reaching into a drawer from which he produced a bottle of whiskey which was about half full, and a pair of tumblers.
‘Guess we could both use this,’ the sheriff said, pouring. Westoe took the proffered drink and threw it down his throat. The sheriff’s eyes were looking closely at him. Westoe held out his glass and the sheriff refilled it.
‘I’m Sheriff Snelgrove,’ he said, ‘and I like to keep a tight ship, so I guess you’d better do a good job of persuadin’ me why I shouldn’t throw you behind bars right now.’
‘I don’t know what this is all about,’ Westoe said, after introducing himself in turn. ‘What I do know is that three men have been following me for the last couple of days – maybe before. I let them get ahead of me. I could have fixed them back on the trail but I was kinda curious about what they were up to. I let them get ahead of me. They made for this place.’
‘Desolation Wells – it’s better than it sounds.’
‘I figure I’ll reserve judgement on that for the time bein’.’
The sheriff took a swig of his whiskey before leaning back in his chair. ‘I checked on those horses outside the saloon too,’ he said. Westoe looked up quickly. ‘Oh yes, I keep my eyes open to everythin’ that goes on around here,’ Snelgrove continued. ‘So what do you know about the Barbed S?’
‘Nothin’ at all. Except those three riders seem to be connected with it.’
‘And what about a man named Stroup, Eben Stroup?’ Westoe’s brows puckered as he considered the question.
‘Nope,’ he said after a few moments’ deliberation, ‘can’t say as I’ve ever heard the name.’
The sheriff gave him a quizzical look. ‘Now that’s kinda strange,’ he replied, ‘considerin’ that I’ve been told you’re responsible for murderin’ him.’
‘You mean …’
‘Yeah. I had a word with one of them. I figured I needed to know what they were doin’ in town. I’d be more likely to get the truth from one than if I asked them all together.’
‘Look, I don’t know what’s goin’ on. I’ve never heard of anyone called Stroup.’
Snelgrove finished his whiskey and placed the glass carefully on the table. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘I don’t even know why I had to get involved in this, but since I’m the representative of the law round these parts, I guess I’d better do somethin’ about the situation. I ain’t sayin’ I believe either him or you, but it’s clear someone’s lyin’.’
‘That’s easy settled,’ Westoe said. ‘Bring that varmint who told you I’d killed this Stroup feller over here and we’ll see who’s tellin’ the truth.’ The sheriff grinned.
‘You might have a point there,’ he said. He stretched and yawned. ‘One thing I always figured, however, is that a man tends to think a whole lot better when it’s daylight than he does in the dark. This little matter can wait at least till morning. In the meantime, I can offer you the comforts of a cell for the night. You’ll be needin’ someplace to stay and I’ll make it as comfortable as I can and even throw in some grub into the bargain. You must be feelin’ kinda tired after all this activity.’
‘What about the other man? The one I guess you were talkin’ to.’
‘Don’t you go worryin’ about him. He won’t be goin anywhere till I say so. Mind, I don’t like to think what his reaction will be when he hears how you dealt with his two companions.’
‘What else did he tell you?’
‘Nothin’ much. In fact, strangely enough, he more or less confirmed what you just told me. Leastways, that they’d followed you almost as far as Desolation Wells and you were likely to be hittin’ town soon.’ The sheriff yawned. ‘It’s gettin’ late,’ he said. ‘What do you think to my offer?’
‘About a cell for the night? Seems like I ain’t got any choice.’ Snelgrove nodded.
‘That’s the way to look at it,’ he said. He glanced across to the wall on which hung a bunch of keys. Westoe was thinking rapidly. He couldn’t make head or tail of what he had got himself into. The sheriff seemed like a decent sort, but a night spent in jail didn’t appeal to him. One night might somehow get stretched to another and then more. Who could tell what the Barbed S rider might allege against him? Stuck behind bars, he wouldn’t be able to do anything to help himself. As Snelgrove began to rise from his chair, he had made up his mind.
For only a moment Snelgrove’s back was towards him, but it was long enough. In an instant he leaped to his feet and kicked the desk over, sending the sheriff tumbling to the floor. Before Snelgrove had time to recover, he was through the outer door of the office and dashing across the street to where his horse was tethered. Without any hesitation he swiftly untied it, vaulted into the saddle and wheeled away, galloping hell for leather down the street. He glanced behind him and saw Snelgrove just emerging from his office. He thought he heard a shout and then a bullet whistled over his head. He ducked and lay low across the buckskin’s back. Another shot rang out but he was almost out of range and in a few more moments he had reached the junction and was out of sight. His horse was fast and he had a head start of any pursuers. He let the mare have its head and was soon clear of the town and lost in the darkness of the night. He kept riding, intending to put a lot of distance between himself and Desolation Wells before sunup. He didn’t really anticipate any pursuit, at least not till the morning. Whether Snelgrove would be concerned to get up a posse at that time seemed unlikely, but he couldn’t rule it out. He had committed no crime, apart from the minor assault on the sheriff. As he settled the horse to a steady jog, he thought about what had happened.
He couldn’t make it out. What were the facts? Three men, apparently from a ranch called the Barbed S, had been trailing him. One of them had accused him of murder. They must have got the wrong man. Well, it was really none of his business. He was tempted just to carry on riding and shake the dust of the region from his feet. But would he ever be free of suspicion till the matter was properly resolved? What was the name of the murdered man? The sheriff had mentioned it. He racked his brain. Eben Stroup, that was it. Quite an easy name to remember. If he had ever come across someone with that name in the past, he would have recalled it. So the whole affair must be a matter of mistaken identity.
Shortly before dawn, satisfied that he was safe from pursuit, he drew the buckskin to a halt in the shade of some trees and dismounted. Quickly, he built a fire and placed a slab of bacon in the skillet. He made coffee with water from a nearby spring and settled down to enjoy breakfast. While he was doing so, he relaxed and he stopped thinking. When he had eaten he got out his packet of Bull Durham and rolled himself a cigarette. Somewhere nearby an oriole began to call. The first tints of light appeared in the sky. These were the times he enjoyed. Despite not having slept for almost twenty-four hours, he felt alert. As he began to think back to the night’s events, he had a feeling that the sheriff’s shots had been meant more as a vain attempt to bring him to a halt rather than anything else. He recalled the shouting which had only just reached his ears. Whatever Snelgrove thought of the whole affair, he didn’t have enough against him to want to shoot him. After all, it was only his word against that of the three men from the Barbed S. What was it all about? Suddenly he knew what he had to do. There was only one final way to clear his name. He would find out the truth of the Eben Stroup affair. The only real clue he had was the Barbed S connection. His first step was to find out just where the Barbed S was located and make his way there. He could pose as a ranch-hand looking for work. It would soon be roundup season and there was every chance he would be taken on. From that point on, he would just have to play it by ear and trust his intuition.
There were only two things to worry about. If a murder had taken place and someone at the Barbed S suspected him of it, would he be recognized or mistaken for the real murderer? The Barbed S meant nothing to him, but he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t be riding into a hornet’s nest. The second thing was a bigger concern. What would happen if and when the remaining rider returned to that ranch? If he decided to carry on the pursuit, he might be delayed, but sooner or later he would be back. There was no time for delay. He would need to act quickly. And from the moment he set foot on the Barbed S range, he would be on borrowed time.
Desolation Wells Page 2
