by Jack Martin
The old man smiled, weakly. ‘If you remain here,’ he said. ‘There will be bloodshed, regardless of what happens to me. My son’s may be weak but my grandson, Caleb is not so. He is young, foolish, and impulsive. He thinks every problem can be solved with a gun and he has a small army of men at his disposal. The longer I am here the more difficult it will be to keep him under control.’
‘Let him come,’ Bill said. ‘I have never run from a fight and I see no reason to start now. As my da used to say, ynmgryma achos na ddyn. Bow down for no man.’
‘Very poetic,’ Abaddon said. ‘But we have men, many men and you are few. Too few.’
‘I have all I need,’ Bill retorted.
‘Three thousand dollars American,’ Abaddon said, and allowed the words to hang on the air before continuing. ‘I will give you that sum. To be used as you see fit.’
Three thousand American, was a fortune. A truly life changing amount of money and momentarily the gambler within Bill considered what he could do with such a stake. But it was only for a fleeting moment and Bill knew he would never accept such a sum from a man like this. He had his pride and to take the money would be to turn his back on everything he had ever believed in. It would be a blow to the principles he tried to live by.
‘All I want is my twelve hundred back,’ Bill said.
‘Forget the twelve hundred. I will give you three thousand. All you have to do is leave town,’ Abaddon said. ‘Take the kid and that fool old man playing sheriff with you. You can give the money to them for all I care. Just go.’
‘No deal,’ Bill said and then stood up.
‘You have an inflated opinion of yourself,’ the old man said. ‘You make the deal you live and get rich. You don’t and you die a poor man.’
‘No deal,’ Bill repeated.
He turned to Abaddon, knelt over the bed and looked the old man directly in the eyes. He no longer had anything to gain from holding back, since by now Thomson would have reached Fort Hood and would most likely be on the way back with soldiers, maybe even the US Marshall. Stanton’s empire was crumbling just as the old man himself now withered.
‘It’s over for you,’ Bill said. ‘ I’ve sent for the US Marshall. He will be on his way here by now and I fully expect that by noon tomorrow there will be real law in Stanton.’
The old man looked at him, searching the Welshman’s eyes for signs of a bluff but somehow he knew that this was no poker face. The Welshman was telling the truth and knowing the details didn’t matter.
‘Bastard,’ Abaddon said and then closed his eyes.
There was nothing more to say.
Chapter Eighteen
It was a clear night.
Bill felt uneasy, as if someone was hiding in the shadows, as he crossed the street and made his way to the saloon. He knew he was being jumpy but nevertheless he was relieved to push open the batwings and step inside.
The saloon was busy and the atmosphere seemed easy. Laughter, singing – people were having a good time and Bill suspected much of that was to do with the fact that the Stantons no longer appeared invincible. The patriarch of the family was close to death’s door and Bill and his companion had stood up to Stanton and his men, seemingly come away the victors. It felt as if an oppressive cloud had been lifted from the town. There was even talk, Bill had heard from Dutch Carter, of changing the name of the town. Someone had apparently suggested Williamstown in Bill’s honor.
Bill spotted the kid stood against the counter, nursing a beer, and he pushed his way over to him.
‘Howdy, Welsh’ the kid said by way of greeting. Like Same the kid had taken to calling Bill, Welsh. When Bill merely smiled the kid added: ‘So?’
‘So?’
‘So what’s happening? Is old Man Stanton dead yet?’
‘I’ll have a beer please,’ Bill said, ignoring the question and while the Kid waved to get the barkeep’s attention, he looked around the saloon and saw Sam standing talking to a couple of cowboys in the far corner. Sam was waving his hands about as he spoke to illustrate whatever point he was trying to make. He was clearly relishing being a lawman. He had polished the tin star he wore on his shirt to such an extent that it sparkled every time the light hit it.
‘Beer,’ the kid slapped the glass on the counter before Bill. ‘Well?’ he prompted.
‘Duw, that hit the spot,’ Bill placed his glass back down on the counter. ‘Well, I think our troubles with the Stantons may all be over.’
‘The old man’s dead then?’
‘No, he ain’t dead. Though I don’t expect he has much longer left. He’s gravely ill and he knows it’s all over for him. The US Marshall will arrive tomorrow, the day after at the latest. The Stanton’s reign is over.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that,’ Bill nodded and took another sip of his beer. ‘Maybe if the old man hadn’t have suffered the heart attack he would have rallied some men together, and gone against us. But as it stands he has bigger issues to face. Recovering from his illness for one.’
‘What about his family?’
‘His sons won’t make any trouble,’ Bill said. ‘And his grandson, your buttie, Caleb is being kept on a tight leash. It’s over and as soon as the real law arrives I guess I’ll move on.’
‘I’ve still got a score to settle with Caleb,’ the kid said.
‘Ahh yes,’ Bill smiled. ‘That’s what started all this. Tell me what exactly did Caleb do?’
‘I told you already.’
‘No. You said he disrespected your mother. Tell me how did he do that?’
The kid drained his beer and was just about to speak when gunfire sounded from the far corner of the saloon. Bill almost jumped from his skin and the beer that had been on the way to his mouth ended up over his shirtfront. He dropped the glass and in one fluid movement cleared leather, spun on his heels and had his weapon ready to fire. He noticed the kid had drawn quicker, and was already looking into the pandemonium that had erupted.
‘Sheriff,’ Bill shouted.
Confusion followed. Nobody was dispersing as was to be expected but instead everyone in the saloon seemed to be surging forward to one corner of the saloon, fighting to get a view of what was happening. Bill pushed into the crowd, followed by the kid but they made no progress until Bill set off a shot into the ceiling, plaster falling down like snow on the air, and the crowd parted.
Bill saw Sam on the floor, cursing, rolling about and clutching a foot, which was spurting blood through the scorched leather of his boot.
‘Sheriff?’ Bill looked at the old man in confusion. He and the Kid shared puzzled glances and then moved forward as one.
‘Shot my darn foot,’ the sheriff said. ‘Darn it hurts.’
Bill returned his Colt to leather.
So did the kid.
‘Someone bring the doc,’ Bill shouted and bent to help the old man.
‘He was showing off,’ a bearded man with only one eye explained. He ran the back of a hand over his mouth and spat tobacco juice onto the floor. ‘Demonstrating what he called, “his new lawman way of drawing his gun.” Loco old coot.’
‘Deke Hawkins,’ Sam said through gritted teeth. ‘I just might shoot you next.’
‘That’ll be the day,’ the bearded man said and shook his head before wandering off to the counter to get another drink. The stench of cordite hung heavy in the air and seemed to be stimulating the thirst of many of those here. There was a sudden rush for the counter.
‘You sure killed your foot,’ the kid said, grinned, and went off to get a drink of his own.
‘My darn gun’s faulty,’ Sam said as a fresh wave of pain set his nerve endings alight. ‘Someone get me a whisky.’
‘It’s not whiskey you need you old fool,’ the doc said as he pushed his way through the crowd and knelt down besides the old man. He opened his ever-present bag and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Damn fool.’
Bill smiled and left the doc to administer to
his patient while he too went in search of another drink.
Chapter Nineteen
Caleb had never felt such rage. It seemed to start at the very core of his being and radiate out in every direction, setting his blood boiling and his nerves on fire. He clenched his fists in fury, so tightly that his nails dug into the palms of his hands and the veins running along his arms bulged purple. He wanted to shoot someone, anyone, set off a full chamber into someone’s gut, screaming his anger as each and every slug tore flesh and ruined organs. He kicked out at a discarded bucket, sending it crashing into the corral fence and stormed towards the bunkhouse.
Dawn was still some hours off as he entered the bunkhouse and he had to light the oil-lamp that hung inside the doorway before he could see anything other than shadows.
‘Get up, he yelled. ‘Each and every one of you.’ And with that he turned on his feet and headed back to the house, leaving a bunch of mighty confused ranch hands scrambling about in the semi darkness.
Dismas and Eder were asleep in their rooms upstairs and Caleb didn’t want to wake them. He didn’t need them for what he had in mind. Indeed he knew they would try and stop him, just as they had tried to talk him out of his plan of action when they had returned from town the previous night.
It was their opinion that nothing should be done other than wait for their father to recover. Then and only then would the problems in town be addressed. In the meantime the Welshman and Henry Carthy, both men who had been tried and convicted by the Stanton court, would be allowed to wander about as they pleased. That stuck in Caleb’s craw and the best option as far as he was concerned was to let his uncles sleep, and then by the time they woke, neither of them being early risers, he planned on being back from town with his grandfather safely recovering in his own bed and Clemens reinstated as town sheriff. The Welshman and that damn Henry Carthy would be dead and let anyone say anything about that. Those two had to be killed if the Stanton authority was to ever mean anything again. What his two fat uncles failed to realize was that every second that the Welshman and the kid wandered around, seemingly without a care in the world, weakened the Stanton’s position in the town.
Clemens had been given the guest room on the ground floor and Caleb went directly there and threw the door open. He heard the fat man snoring and he shook his head. No wonder the Welshman had gained the upper hand with Clemens if he didn’t even stir when someone came charging into his bedroom.
‘Wake up, ‘ Caleb said.
‘What is it?’ Clemens sat up, staring through bleary eyes at the shadowy figure of Caleb standing in the doorway. He reached over to the bedside table and took a match to the lamp. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Get your clothes on,’ Caleb said. ‘Wear your guns. We’re riding into town.’
‘Why?’ Clemens asked yet again. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and searched for his watch, which was hanging from its chain and still attached to his shirt, which had been tossed over the chair besides the bed. Three thirty. What could be so all fire important to wake him at his ungodly hour? ‘What’s happened?’
‘Get up, fat man,’ Caleb said. ‘I won’t tell you again. Be outside in ten minutes and ready to ride.’
Clemens looked at Caleb but said nothing. There had been a time when Caleb would never have had the gall to talk to him like that, but a lot of things had changed lately and Clemens knew that if old man Stanton died and his grandson did take over, then things would be mighty different around here.
Caleb looked at Clemens and shook his head in disgust. He left the room, closed the door behind him and went back to the bunkhouse where twenty men were now awake and waiting for him.
Caleb hadn’t slept more than an hour. He had kept tossing and turning through the night, his mind refusing to let go of the fury he felt towards the Welshman and the kid. He felt equal fury for his uncles who had returned from town with the news that their father was weak but on the mend. They claimed that his orders were for nothing to be done until he was well enough to decide the correct course of action.
They had told Caleb that there had been a meeting between his grandfather and the Welshman, and that only served to infuriate him even further. His grandfather was a big man, an important man and this Welshman was nothing, just another saddle tramp.
There was only one way to handle this situation. Caleb knew that and he was sure that his grandfather knew that also. The fact that he had seemingly ordered Dismas and Eder otherwise suggested that the old man was not in full control. Maybe his illness was clouding his judgment, or maybe he was trying to protect his family by ensuring nothing was done until he was ready and able to do it himself.
‘Get your weapons,’ Caleb said as he went back into the bunkhouse. ‘ Pistols and rifles. We’re heading into town.’
He was answered by puzzled expressions across the faces of every man present. It was the ranch foreman who stepped forward to question Caleb.
‘What’s happened? ‘ Jake asked.
‘We’re going to get my grandfather,’ Caleb said. ‘And kill that damn Welshman.’
‘But,-‘ Jake started but his words were cut off when Bear pushed past him and went and stood besides Caleb.
‘The Welshman’s mine,’ Bear said.
‘You can have him,’ Jake said and a cold grin crossed his face. ‘After I’ve finished with him.’
Chapter Twenty
‘This don’t feel right,’ Clemens said, looking at Jake who rode besides him. Behind them were another twenty heavily armed men and ahead of them rode Caleb and Bear. It felt to Clemens that he was riding as part of an army, which he supposed to all intents and purposes he was.
Caleb clearly aimed to take them into battle.
‘I know what you mean,’ Jake said, shifting in his saddle. ‘But without Mr. Stanton around, I guess that means Cal’s in charge.’
‘You think this is what Abaddon would do?’
Jake shrugged, ‘Beats me,’ he said. ‘Then I’m just a hired hand and I do what I’m told.’
‘It’s insane,’ Clemens grumbled. ‘I know Mr. Stanton better than any man and he wouldn’t do this.’
‘It’s been done before,’ Jake pointed out.
Clemens knew what Jake was referring to. Maybe ten years ago, just after the war, a group of homesteaders displaced by the battles in the South had set up a camp on the meadows to the east of the town. The Stantons had previously ignored the land that stretched away towards the Ruthless Mountains like an ocean of tall grasses, but as soon as Abaddon discovered the settlers he had decided that it was his land and that the newcomers were trespassing. At first the settlers had been told they had to pay tent and then when they refused they had been warned off, told to move on, and then threatened when they failed to heed the warnings. Still the settlers stood firm and so more direct action had been taken. The camp had been raided one night; the single building that had been constructed was taken to the torch and raised to the ground. No one had been hurt but cattle had been run off and stock destroyed.
Clemens was involved in that raid which was something that still troubled him from time to time. Using the badge of office he’d served papers on the settlers, papers that had ordered them to vacate the land, which they were illegally occupying. He’d known the legality of the papers, which had been drawn up by Abaddon himself, was questionable but he’d served them anyway. And when the men had ridden roughshod through the camp, destroying property and running off or killing livestock, he had taken part, had been among the riders.
The settlers though had been tenacious and had challenged Abaddon’s claim to the land, threatening to bring in the US Marshall’s office to make a ruling on the matter. It didn’t get that far because one night a group of unknown riders rode into the camp and shot dead three men and a woman. After that the settlers, or what was left of them, moved on. No one ever did find out who the gunmen were. Well not for certain in any case, but deep down Clemens knew that whoever they were they had been acting on Abadd
on Stanton’s orders.
‘Things are changing,’ Clemens said, presently. ‘The West is becoming civilized and it ain’t so easy to use a gun to solve problems anymore. There’s other law besides Stanton law.’
‘Maybe it won’t come to any blood,’ Jake said, though without any real conviction in his words. ‘Maybe Cal will ride in and pick up his grandfather and then ride out again. No one need get killed.’
‘You don’t believe that any more than I do,’ Clemens said.
‘Nope,’ Jake had to agree. ‘Don’t suppose I do.’
Clemens frowned and fell silent. He knew he had lost control of events and that he was being dragged along to a conclusion that was terrifying. There was something about the Welshman that troubled Clemens and he knew that the man wouldn’t be easily defeated. He was too smart for that and if it came to a fight Clemens suspected that the Welshman was more than a match for any man among them. What Caleb and Abaddon before him had failed to realize is that this Welshman was like no man they had ever come across.
The sky was breaking up as the false dawn was fast becoming a reality, and there was enough visibility to see the town of Stanton in the distance. Clemens shivered as they neared the town and an oppressive cloud seemed to settle over him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ordinarily Bill wasn’t an early riser and would often sleep in until well into the morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the dawn arrive and yet this morning, for some reason, he had awoken before the sun had even put in an appearance. Of course the bunk in the jailhouse, which served as his bed, wasn’t the most comfortable, but that didn’t bother him none and was nothing to do with his being up and about so early. The sheriff had slept in the next bunk, with his bandaged foot supported by a cushion, and Bill had never known a man make so much noise in his sleep. For the entire night the old man had been either snoring or farting, often both together. He’d also slapped his mouth together at regular intervals and quite often it had been a combination of all three.
