Wild Bill Williams (A Piccadilly Publishing Western #10)

by Jack Martin

  ‘There’ll be a fight,’ Clemens said. ‘That Welshman ain’t the type to give up and the Carthy kid’s as hot-headed as they come. We ride in carrying iron and we’ll have to use it.’

  ‘I’m counting on it,’ Caleb said and then a bloodless smile, which chilled the other man to the bone, crossed his lips.

  ‘If my grandfather dies, I’ll end up running this little empire,’ he said. ‘Neither Dismas nor Eder have the strength to hold it all together. You know that.’

  That was one thing Clemens had to agree with. Neither of Abaddon’s sons were up to much as men. It had been his daughter, Caleb’s late mother, who had inherited the strength and the ruthless streak that went with the Stanton name. She had passed these traits onto her son, Caleb but the problem was that where she, like her father, had self-control her son had no such sense. It was as if a red mist descended on Caleb and he went off into a frenzy from which very few people could control him. As far as Clemens knew the only man that could control Caleb was laid up in town after suffering a heart attack.

  ‘And I’ll remember my friends,’ Caleb said and then turned on his feet and headed back to the ranch house. But before he was out of earshot he looked back over his shoulder and added a chilling counterpoint, ‘And my enemies.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Darn strange thing for a fella to do,’ Sam said and peered down the barrel of his pistol. Satisfied it was clean he wiped it over with an oily rag and placed it on the desk in front of him. He leaned back in his chair, now feeling at home in the jailhouse cum sheriff’s office.

  ‘Not where I come from,’ Bill said and continued with his knitting. He too was leaning back in his chair and had his feet up on the desk. The two men sat there, side by side, Bill knitting and the sheriff watching as the Welshman skillfully handled the bone knitting needles.

  ‘Make a fine weapon those,’ the old man said, pointed to the needles. They were each about a foot long and tapered down to a fine point.

  Bill smiled, said, ‘These actually saved my life at the Little Bighorn.’

  ‘Welsh,’ the sheriff said. The old man had taken to calling Bill, Welsh ever since pinning on the tin star. ‘You’ve got sand; I’ll give you that. But you do tell a lot of fish-tales.’

  Once more Bill smiled.’ I was down, wounded,’ he said. ‘Shot in the shoulder and I think I must have lost consciousness, because one moment the battle was raging and the next I was looking at the desolation that was the battlefield. The Indians called it the Battle of Greasy Grass and as I looked around I realized the name was apt, for the ground was slick with the blood of the fallen. The Indians were scavenging amongst the fallen soldiers, the spoils of war, you know. I knew that if I was discovered still alive I would be swiftly killed, but there was little I could do. I was too weak to try and escape and my wound was still bleeding,’ Bill unbuttoned his shirt and exposed his left shoulder, showing a vicious looking scar.

  ‘So what did you do?’ the old man asked. He had removed his feet from the desk and now sat bolt upright, captivated by the tale the Welshman was spinning. Of course there were no white survivors of the Big Horn, he knew that, but the Welshman weaved a good story and on times it even seemed convincing.

  ‘There was a dead horse lying next to me, biggest damn horse I’d ever seen. Half its head had been blown away, and as I looked at its swollen stomach I knew I had but one chance. I had no weapons. I had lost them all in the fight, my pistol would have proved useless in any case but I could have done with my saber. And then I remembered my knitting, which I had placed inside my tunic when the battle had begun.

  ‘Well I slid one of the needles out; it was one of these I’m using now. And I used it to stab into the horse’s stomach. I worked the hole until I could get my fingers in and then I tore the creature’s stomach open and removed his guts. The smell was almost overpowering and I had to swallow the bile back in my throat as I quickly pulled the creature’s innards out. I slid myself inside the horse and pulled all the mess back in over me. And then I must have passed out again for when I awoke, and emerged from the horse’s belly, the battlefield was deserted and I had only the dead for company. Yep, if it weren’t for my knitting needles I wouldn’t be here to tell that story now.’

  ‘You hid in an ’orse’s belly?’

  ‘I did,’ Bill said and shivered at the memory. ‘And I don’t want to be doing that again anytime soon. Yn diflasu chybola.’

  The old man was about to say something, but whatever it was it was lost forever as Henry came barging in through the heavy front door. The kid stood there in the doorway, while he caught his breath.

  ‘Eder and Dismas Stanton have turned up,’ the kid said.

  ‘Abaddon’s sons,’ the old man said, noticing Bill’s puzzled look.

  ‘And where are they now?’ Bill asked.

  ‘They’ve gone straight to the hotel,’ the kid said. ‘They came in alone. All on their lonesome and went straight to their father.’

  ‘They had no men with them?’ the old man asked.

  ‘They were alone,’ the kid repeated. ‘They went to the hotel and Martha and the doc let them in.’

  ‘Well I’ll be darned,’ Sam said and rubbed his chin. ‘No men with them. Perhaps we are going to avoid a gunfight after all.’

  Bill slid his knitting into his shirt and got to his feet. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘This is one family reunion I feel we should attend.’

  The three men left the jailhouse and crossed the dusty main street. Dutch Carter was standing outside the saloon and he raised a hand in greeting as the three men went by. As soon as they reached the hotel they went inside and were immediately met by Martha. She was standing behind the reception desk and looking through a weighty looking ledger.

  ‘Hear the old man’s got visitors,’ Bill said. It wasn’t a question.

  Martha nodded. ‘His sons,’ she said. ‘They’re with him now.’

  ‘How is he?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Doc says he’s tough enough to pull through.

  ‘Should have finished him off when we had the chance,’ Henry said.

  ‘We ain’t murderers,’ Bill snapped and once more gave the kid a stern look. He turned back to Martha. ‘I’d like to speak to the Stanton boys.’

  ‘You’re welcome to wait,’ Martha said and indicated for the men to be seated on the bench that ran the length of the reception area. Bill and the sheriff did so but Henry turned and left the hotel in disgust. The sheriff said something about going after the kid and also shuffled out, leaving Bill alone while Martha thumbed through the thick ledger.

  Feeling awkward Bill reached into his pocket and pulled out the makings and quickly made a quirly. He struck a thick match against the underside of the bench and sucked the smoke to life.

  ‘It is kind of you,’ Bill said after an awkward silence, smoke drifting between his teeth as he spoke. ‘To let the old man stay here.’

  ‘I couldn’t leave him dying in the street,’ Martha replied without looking up from the ledger. ‘And besides I’m sure I will be paid for the room when Mr. Stanton recovers.’

  ‘If he recovers.’

  ‘I’ll be paid,’ Martha said. ‘One way or another I will be paid.’

  Once more silence fell between them. The ticking of the clock on the wall became impossibly loud and Bill shifted in his seat. It was Martha who finally broke the silence.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Bill replied and stood and went to the door. He opened it, threw the remains of his smoke out into the street and then went back to the bench. He sat back down and noticed Martha was staring at him. She was certainly a beautiful woman and the late afternoon sunshine, filtered through the net curtains as it was, gave her skin a golden glow.

  ‘All this,’ Martha said. ‘Going against the Stantons. Why?’

  ‘Paham mo?’ Bill said, and then when Martha gave him a quizzical look, added, ‘It means why not?’

&
nbsp; ‘The Stantons have run this town for as long as anyone can remember,’ Martha said. ‘It was originally called Sweetwater but then it had been nothing more than a few miners shacks, and it was only when the Stanton family arrived that it started to grow, to prosper. The name was changed to Stanton shortly afterwards and these days the Stantons own half the town, and that which they don’t own they don’t want.’

  ‘It’s not their town, though,’ Bill said. ‘They don’t own the people here. People are not a commodity.’

  ‘They may as well. They own the homes, the businesses. They charge each and every resident here the town tax, but it’s nothing more than extortion. It’s not for nothing the town’s called Stanton.’

  ‘They own this place?’

  ‘No,’ Martha said. ‘They don’t own this place. I do. They’ve make offers from time to time, but I always refuse, just as my husband did before his accident. It used to be that windows would get broken or drunken cowboys would come in and smash the place up, but I stood my ground and now I think they’ve given up on the notion of ever buying me out. My husband bought this place for our future. I’ll be dammed if I’m going to let anyone buy me out now that’s he’s gone.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bill said. ‘About your husband.’

  ‘He fell from his horse, snapped his neck,’ for the briefest of moments her eyes clouded over but she took in a deep breath and bit her lower lip. ‘He was an expert rider but even the best riders can have accidents. The sheriff said a snake may have startled his horse and caused him to get thrown.’

  ‘You don’t believe that?’

  ‘About my husband’s accident?’

  Bill nodded, ‘You don’t believe it was an accident?’

  Bill thought he detected something in Martha’s eyes. There was something that troubled her about her husband’s demise, some suspicion that she just couldn’t shake off, but before she could answer the door of the room to the left opened and the doc emerged with two podgy red haired men. Dismas and Eder Stanton, Bill guessed. He had seen them at that mockery of a trial.

  ‘William Williams,’ Bill said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand in greeting.

  ‘The Welshman,’ Dismas said, stating the plainly obvious.

  ‘That’ll be me,’ Bill replied, and smiled wryly as if apologizing for the fact. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance but I do wish it had been under kinder circumstances.’

  ‘My father’s asking to see you,’ Dismas said and gestured with an arm to the room where old man Stanton lay.

  ‘He wants to see me?’ Bill hadn’t meant to give the question voice. ‘You think I’d be the last person he wanted to see.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Dismas said. ‘He wishes to speak with you.’

  Bill and Martha exchanged looks and then Bill nodded.

  ‘I’ll take you in,’ the doc said and grabbed Bill’s arm and led him through to the room where the old man lay recovering. Or dying – no one seemed really sure which.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The man in the bed looked totally different to the man who had presided over the farce of a trail. Then he had seemed strong and although aged, there had been vitality in his eyes, and yet now he looked frail, weak, as if each breath could be his last. His skin was pallid and his cheekbones sunken so that his face resembled that of a corpse. It was as if he was already dead but hadn’t yet realized the fact.

  Bill cleared his throat.

  ‘Mr. Stanton,’ he said.

  The old man opened his eyes but was unable to move his head and they remained focused on the ceiling.

  ‘Williams?’ he asked, his voice sounding gossamer thin.

  ‘Aye,’ Bill said.

  ‘Come closer.’

  Bill looked at the doc who nodded.

  Bill moved closer, standing over the bed. Abaddon’s skin looked yellow like old parchment, and his eyes rheumy.

  ‘You can leave us alone, Doc,’ the old man said.

  At first the doctor looked unsure but then he nodded to Bill, held up a hand to signify five minutes and then left the room.

  ‘How are you then?’ Bill asked.

  A hint of a smile crossed the old man’s lips.

  ‘You want money?’ he asked.

  ‘The twelve hundred dollars you stole from me would be welcome.’

  ‘I stole nothing.’

  ‘Semantics,’ Bill said. ‘Then the twelve hundred you levied from me in court fines wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘A piffle,’ the old man said and coughed weakly.

  ‘To you, maybe,’ Bill said. ‘But it represents a considerable sum to me. Have you any idea of how long it took me to raise a stake like that?’

  ‘I can give you twice that,’ the old man said. ‘Thrice even.’

  ‘And what would I have to do for such a sum?’

  For a moment there was silence and the old man closed his eyes. For a second Bill thought he had fallen back asleep, or even died, but then he spoke again.

  ‘I am an old man and, as you can see, I am not in the best of health. Only a few years ago I would have come down hard on you for what you have done,’ the old man coughed, more violently this time. Bill was about to fetch the doc when Abaddon lifted an arm. ‘Wait.’

  ‘Look Mr. Stanton,’ Bill said but something in the old man’s manner stopped him.

  ‘Hear me out,’ Abaddon managed and weakly wiped the spittle from his lips.

  ‘I don’t think you should be exerting yourself,’ Bill said.

  ‘Help me,’ Abaddon said. ‘Prop up my pillows. It will be easier if I can look you in the eye.’

  ‘Duw duw’, Bill said. ‘I don’t think that’s very wise.’

  ‘Just do it,’ Abaddon said and even in his weakened state his frail voice carried authority.

  ‘Ar eich pen yn ei,’ Bill warned but did what the old man said. He gently lifted Abaddon’s head, disgusted by his clammy feel of his skin and pulled the feather pillows up. Then he lowered the old man back down again. ‘I really don’t think this is wise.’

  ‘You talk too much,’ the old man said. ‘Please do a dying man the courtesy of shutting up. Let me speak.’

  ‘Well go on then,’ Bill said and sat down on the edge of the bed. The room was growing dim now as the afternoon gave way to evening. Soon it would be night and Bill considered it a distinct possibility that it could prove to be Abaddon’s final night.

  ‘I built this town,’ Abaddon said. ‘When I came here it was nothing more than a mining camp. The saloon, the bank and the jailhouse were all built with my money. I had the dam that feeds this land constructed. Before that dam redirected the waters this town was nothing more than a dust bowl. The bones of both my wife and daughter lay beneath the soil and soon mine will be besides them. If it were not for me this town would have died long ago.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ Bill said, taking the old man’s pause as an opportunity to contribute to the conversation. It wasn’t that he had that much to say, but he had always felt awkward if he remained silent for too long. Bill could never be called the strong silent type; he knew that and considered himself to be more of the tenacious talkative variety.

  ‘You said you would hear me out.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  A silence fell between them, the old man’s eyes closed and for a moment Bill thought once again that he had fallen asleep, but then the eyes snapped open.

  ‘I’m am tired,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Bill got to his feet.

  ‘No stay,’ Abaddon started to cough again, his chest sounding as if each breath could be his last. ‘I just need a moment.’

  The door opened and Dismas and Eder Stanton stood in the doorway, they both looked suspiciously at Bill for a moment and then turned to their father on the bed.

  ‘Shall we wait?’ Dismas asked.

  ‘No,’ the old man said. ‘Go and keep Caleb under control.’

  The two men didn’t question their father and immediately closed t
he door just as the old man went into another coughing fit.

  ‘My sons,’ the old man said presently, wiping spittle from the back of his lips with a hand. ‘They are weak. Quite useless.’

  Bill nodded, said nothing.

  ‘Where was I?’ the old man closed his eye again, searching his mind for his train of thought.

  ‘You were telling me how you practically built this town,’ Bill helpfully informed him.

  ‘Indeed,’ the old man said. ‘I did and more than that. I’ve made it a decent place for people to live, a safe place. In order to do that I’ve often had to make difficult decisions, and on times I’ve had to use force to maintain law and order.’

  ‘How did having the kid hung and me shot help with your law and order?’ Bill asked. The old man may have been gravely ill, but Bill was getting tired of this self-righteous tripe. From what he could tell Abaddon Stanton was nothing more than a dictator who crushed anyone and everyone who stood in his way.

  ‘Sometimes I have made mistakes,’ the old man said. ‘That is inevitable in law. The court found Henry Carthy guilty of attempted murder and the death penalty is just is such cases.’

  ‘I was charged with being a transient,’ Bill said. ‘Was murdering me just?’

  ‘I am willing to admit a mistake has been made,’ Abaddon said, ignoring the finer points of the Welshman’s question. ‘The law is not infallible.’

  ‘Your law is no law,’ Bill said. ‘I’ve known men like you before. You’ve murdered people behind the color of the law.’

  ‘I am the judge in this town,’ Abaddon said, his voice rising which clearly wasn’t good for him in his current position, and yet again he went into a spasm of coughing. Afterwards he lay there, breathing deeply while he regained his breath.

  ‘There’s little use in skirting the issue,’ Abaddon said, presently. ‘I’ll get straight to the point.’

  ‘I do wish you would,’ Bill said. He wasn’t comfortable being here with the old man like this. True the old man was frail and probably didn’t have that much time left to him, but only days ago he had sentenced both Henry and Bill to death, Henry by the rope and Bill by a assassin’s bullet in the back. The old man didn’t deserve any sympathy and he certainly wasn’t going to get it from the Welshman.