Right now all he wanted to do was get in that shack, stir up a warming fire, and dry himself out. He wanted to be in good shape when the storm was over. If he knew much about posse men, and he’d had his share of scrapes with them, then he knew they rarely trekked toward their prey in the midst of a little blizzard such as they were now having.
He felt safe in this judgment. After watching the shack for a full two minutes, he saw no shadowy movement, no sign of breath rising from a window—the only one visible to him was a paltry window covered with the remnants of sacking tacked up on the inside. As Haskell recalled, that sacking had been there when he was here last, about two, two and a half years before. Had anyone been here since?
“Well, horse,” said Haskell to the hangdog mount standing closest to him, “looks like we’ll be sleeping pretty tonight.” He looked at the horse. “Leastwise I will be. You, you sorry old soap sack, and your two compadres, will be outside. You better pray the snow lets up. I ain’t got but a few handfuls of feed left for you all. But I daresay you can eat through the snow and find yourself something. Won’t matter. I’m fixing to make a meal or three out of one of you anyway. Whichever of the three of you looks worst will be the one to go in the fry pan. The other two, I have use for. So you stay fit.”
There were no tracks in the snow, leading to the shack, no depressions in it to indicate anyone or anything had ventured there at the least since the snow began the day before. Haskell cradled his rifle and leading the horses he strode purposefully to the shack.
He poked the snout of the rifle in through the flapping window cloth, parted it, and saw nothing inside save drifted snow, the stove, and the rough log bunk in the corner. The little lopsided table with the fancy turned legs still stood by the door. Grady smiled and led the horses around to the lee side of the shack. “Enjoy yourselves. I got housekeeping to get to.”
Grady sighed, squinted into the slowing snow. The clouds still hung low, dark, shapeless masses that threatened more of the chilling white stuff. It took Grady twenty minutes to get the stove cleaned out. The stovepipe hadn’t been clogged, and for that he was grateful. Must be my lucky week, he thought, a scratchy laugh bubbling up his throat. Another few minutes and he had the shanty as cleaned out of debris and snow as he was likely to do. He laid the rest of the gear—money bags first—on the rough bunk.
He set the coffeepot and fry pan, both filled with water, on the little stove top, to melt. He chewed slowly on a strip of jerked beef, parted the window rags once again with the rifle barrel, and gazed out. He saw only his own tracks. The trail beyond the little cabin could represent trouble, should someone somehow get beyond him and double back, or come at him from the northeasterly direction toward which the trail led. But he doubted it would happen.
It was more likely that any attacks would be from the same direction he’d come. But one thing still bothered him, and that was Dutchy. In truth, Haskell had had his doubts about the man. He’d not seen eye to eye with him since he first met up with Pap and his gang. He’d also recognized that the man was not your average lazy thief. He was a man out for himself, for anything he could grab.
That was a trait Haskell himself knew only too well. He’d been surprised that it wasn’t the big, sullen Indian who’d lived through it all, the one who’d been a pain in his backside, the one to cause him grief. But no, he’d been the first of the gang to die. At least he’d provided a welcome slowdown, distracting the crazies from that town long enough for him to plug Pap and then ride hot on out of there.
But now Dutchy was nowhere to be found. Before Haskell had split with them all on the trail, he’d told them he’d meet up with them, that he had to go on ahead and make sure things were as he expected on up the trail. And to prove he wasn’t leaving them to fend for themselves in the dust, he was letting each continue to carry the money they’d all ferried from the bank.
Ace and Simp looked as though they’d bought it. And the fact that they were still heading toward the rendezvous point verified their foolish acceptance. But Dutchy, that man was a different piece of work altogether. He’d looked at Haskell with something like humor in those two dark eyes. Even as his mouth grinned and his head nodded, Haskell knew that Dutchy was on his own page of the book.
But to abandon them and make a run for it on his own? Not hardly. No, Haskell didn’t buy that gambit one bit. And that was why he suspected Dutchy was fixing to ambush him, rebound, and set a trap for him. After all, he knew where Haskell was bound. Might even have watched him make his way here, from one of the high-rock places that ringed this little spot.
“Nothing for it,” said Haskell, swallowing the last of the jerky. “Have to kill that rascal before he does for me.”
Chapter 37
The cool, steady snow pelting his face brought Charlie around, dragged him up out of his deep torpor. He tried to stretch his arms and legs, as was his custom when he awakened, but he hurt something fierce, and he couldn’t move his limbs. He was leaned against a log; that much he was pretty certain of.
The fuzzy feeling in his head began to pull apart enough that he was able to recall snatches of all that had happened to him. Once again the river washed over him—this time in his mind, feeling that pain from the rocks wrenching his legs, the water slamming him this way, then that, filling his mouth.
Then he remembered being dragged . . . a rope up out of the river by someone . . . a horse? Then there was mud, lots of mud.
“Charlie? You okay now, boy?”
Someone called his name—Charlie forced his eyes open, tried to run a hand over his face, but something held his arm down.
“Charlie? Can you hear me?”
He tried to speak, felt as if he had gravel in his throat. He swallowed and tried again. “Yeah, who’s there? Who’s that?”
“Charlie, it’s me, Marshal Wickham. You in your right mind now?”
“Marshal . . . you found me. Oh, I’m coming around now, I suspect, but I tell you . . .” He swallowed again, ran his thick tongue around his dry mouth. “I reckon I’ve felt better. What in blue blazes happened to me?”
Wickham laughed. “That’s a long story, Charlie. Time enough for all that once you’ve waked up enough to take a drink of water. You’re dry as a cork, I’d wager.”
Charlie nodded slowly, kept his eyes open. “You’re right. I could use a cool drink. Thank you.” He focused through the steady snow on the bright, dancing shape before him, past his feet. It was a campfire. It felt good enough by his feet—which he noticed weren’t in their boots—but he wanted to crawl forward and put his face right by that fire. He tried to shut up again, but found he couldn’t. “What’s going on here, Marshal?”
Wickham brought a tin cup full of water. “That’s a long story. Lemme untie your hands so you can drink.”
“Who tied my hands?”
“I did,” said Wickham as he worked the knots free. “You was trying to kill me, so I had to do what I had to do.”
“What’s that mean?”
The rope came free and Charlie slowly raised his hands before him, rubbed the wrists gently. He reached for the cup with one big paw, gulped it gratefully, then reached for his head with the other hand.
“Easy on your bean, there, son. You’ve taken a mighty wallop.”
“I remember.”
“You do?”
“Yep, the river. That was one hard ride.”
The marshal slowly made his way down to Charlie’s feet, began working on the ropes there.
“You tied my feet too?”
“Yep, as I said, you were a mite worked up.”
The firelight reflected off the old man’s face. Charlie saw a swollen nose and purpled cheek, and the eye above was half swelled shut. “Marshal, what on earth happened to you?”
The old man finished untying the rope, dragged it free from Charlie’s ankles, and sighed. “You did, you b
ig galoot.”
Charlie sat up too fast, got a case of the dizzies, and held his head. “I . . . I did? Marshal, I don’t know what you think, but I wouldn’t do that to a man. Not unless he deserved it.” He peered at the marshal.
“Relax, Charlie. You wasn’t in your right mind. I had to yarn you out of the river and revive you by whomping on you to get you breathing again.”
“That don’t sound like something I’d beat on you for.”
“Well, like I said, you weren’t in your right mind.”
Charlie sat in silence for a minute, then said, “You mind me asking how you got the better of me?”
Wickham laughed, then reached up and held his jaw. “Oh, that hurts. Charlie, seems to me you’d make a pretty good politician. I mean that as a compliment.” He took a pull on his flask. “I did the only thing a man in my position—and condition—could do. I beaned you upside the head with a length of driftwood by the riverbank yonder.”
Charlie looked into the dark. “So that’s what that sound is. I thought maybe I was all fuzzed up in my head.”
“No, we ain’t made it all that far in the last day and a half, Charlie.”
“Day and a half?” He said it too loudly, sat up too fast. His head throbbed like a cannon booming.
“Yep, but you needed the time to recover. I think you’re better off for staying put.”
“But Haskell,” said Charlie. “He’s . . .” Then he sagged back against the log. “Oh, he’ll be up there, waiting for us at his little shack. I reckon we’re not but a day or so from him.”
“Charlie, Haskell’s likely got a whole lot of stolen money and a couple of horses to lug it. He’ll be long gone over the pass up there. Best thing we can do is head on back to Bakersfield. We’ve given it a good lick, but there isn’t much more we can do.”
Charlie spoke, his voice coming out bigger than he anticipated. “You do what you need to, Marshal Wickham, and I’ll do the same. I’m heading on up into the mountains.” He leaned forward. “Hey, how’s Nub? He make it okay?” Charlie swiveled his head around, as if he could see through the snow and into the dense dark surrounding them.
“Relax yourself, boy. He’s fine. Off yonder with my Missy, picketed and as well as I can make him. He has a sore back leg, but I think it’s a bruise. He should heal up in fine shape. Heck of a horse, that one. Nub, you say?” Wickham chuckled. “Good name.”
Charlie leaned back, closed his eyes. “He was a gift. From a good man, a good friend of mine.”
Wickham nodded, said nothing.
Soon Charlie roused himself. “I tell you, I could eat a small elephant, Marshal. No offense, but you didn’t send me packing with much food.” Before the marshal could answer, Charlie said, “And while I’m talking on it, I reckon you trailed me awhile, huh?”
“Yep, since town.”
“Then you saw what happened to Ace?”
“I saw what you did for him, if we’re talking about that man on the trail. The one I assumed Haskell killed.”
“That’s what happened all right. Ain’t no reason Haskell should have done that.”
“No man deserves to be murdered.”
“So where’s the posse, Marshal?” Charlie wiped the snow off his face. “And why in blue blazes didn’t you build a shelter?”
“Well, pardon me all to heck, Charlie Chilton!” The marshal sounded half ticked off. “I been a little busy tending to you and your ailing hide and then there’s the matter of my own whomped-on head.”
“Oh, Marshal Wickham. I’m sorry about that.”
“You are a prize package, Charlie Chilton. But tell me more about why you think Haskell will be waiting on us, up ahead on the trail.”
Charlie sighed. “Only if you tell me why you let me go free from the jail. And what you’re really doing out here.”
Chapter 38
Haskell sat upright, not knowing where he was. It was dark, cold, and he felt sort of numb—then that much at least came back to him—he’d polished off the last of the whiskey he’d had in his own saddlebags.
It wasn’t enough to lay him low all the next day, but it was enough to dull him up for the next few hours of sleep. Which was something he should have known better than to do. Especially given his jitters over being eyeballed by Dutchy. He didn’t think the man was lurking around, had been mostly convinced he wasn’t, in fact, which was why he’d tucked in to the whiskey.
But there was a little bug, burrowed deep in the back of his brain somewhere, that kept on digging, making him think that he should be paying attention. And that was what woke him up. That and the sound of a disturbance somewhere close by.
“Coulda been a mouse,” said Grady to the small, dark room. Where he was at was coming back to him, the miner’s shack, above the little cluster of buildings, the remnants that had at one time been a mine camp. But Grady was glad there was only this one left. He didn’t need other folks around. Never had and never would.
Instinct had driven him to snatch at his rifle, the worn stock cool in his hand. His other held the haft of his skinning knife. He held his breath. Focus, boy, he told himself. Something had awoken him. Something had made a noise, a scuffing sound that set his instincts to jangling as fast as a finger snap.
Had to be that rascal Dutchy. Ain’t no way any posse could have gotten here this fast, even if they knew where to go—and the only one who could have told them was the big kid, Charlie boy. He’d have blabbed all right.
But Grady had sent the first batch of do-gooders back home to Bakersfield, crying into their hands with at least one dead man among them. They’d lick their wounds and the fool young lawman who’d been leading the charge would have a time whipping up lather enough for a new batch of posse members.
Haskell knew he had a couple of days on them—and that was before the storm. So who could it be? Likely it was Dutchy. He’d been a lippy one, and too uppity for his own good. Should have shot him when I had the chance. Right there in the bank when he’d started haranguing me about popping that old man. Too annoying by half.
Part of Haskell wanted Dutchy to show up. Might mean he was dumb enough after all, to wander in expecting his share of the loot. But more than likely he would be sniffing around for all of it.
There it was again! Grady tensed, eased his right leg down off the bunk. He shouldn’t have slipped his boots off. Now his feet were cold, especially the big toes ticking through the holes in the ends of his socks. Ought to trim those nails, else they’d keep on and eventually work their way through his boots too.
Wouldn’t matter once he got to some city where he could hole up. He’d have a Chinese whore trim his toes, feet, and tend to everything else that needed it. But first, it was time to gut whatever was roaming out there. Didn’t sound like a mouse to him, sounded like a Dutchy. . . .
He gently shoved the seven bank bags off him—he’d used them as a partial blanket, and found it was true, cold cash that could keep a body warm—and slid the rest of the way off the bunk. He paused when a plank popped from his weight. He shoved upright and padded across the room to the window.
Earlier he’d managed to cover the thing with an old flannel shirt. It managed to keep much of the snow out, save for twin drifts along the floor where the wind whistled on through.
The stove had chewed up most of the wood he had managed to scavenge, but there was little point in keeping it going. Save for the coffee and beans he’d warmed, there was little heat in the paltry affair. He had initially thought to give it a day or so, make sure he wasn’t being followed. But the cold was helping convince him that his plans might not have been the best to begin with.
There—had that been a shadow? Not hardly, not with all that cloud in the sky. Again he heard something. By the door this time? He bent low, cat-footed to it, and peered out through a gap between boards. Dark . . . the snow had slowed to a lighter flurry,
and . . . there! A long shadow fled by!
Haskell poked the snout of the rifle hard between the boards, pried to make the gap wider, but he was too late. Whoever had made the shadow was gone from range. Haskell held still, heard nothing but his own breath and the wind beginning a soughing sound through the ragged top of the tin chimney pipe.
He tugged on the rifle. It was stuck, wedged tight between the boards. For the moment he forgot the intruder, the fleeting shadow that wanted his money. Grady tugged on the rifle, yanked harder. The door bucked back and forth on its strap hinges, sounding violent and out of place in the windy, dark canyon.
He paused, his teeth grinding, cursing himself for the noise, for jamming the rifle in there, for finishing the whiskey—he could have used a few swallows about now—for not having much tobacco left, for the cold night, for his foul plans. It was all building up to a big headache.
And then another sound, beyond his huffing and his under-the-breath growling, came with a fresh round of eerie soughing from the stovepipe. The new sound was a shade different, rose with it, reached a higher pitch, then split from it. And that was when Grady heard it for himself, the unmistakable sound of a man’s chuckle, a dry, wry sound rising above the shack, spinning there in the breeze, then peeling apart and blowing away. But as soon as it vanished from his hearing, another round descended, seemed to swirl around the outside of the cabin.
Grady stood, wrenched free the rifle, snatched up his boots, tugged them on, and kicked open the door, bellowing, “Show yourself, you howling cur! Might as well, ’cause I am Grady Haskell and there ain’t no escaping my wrath!”
The cackling laugh pinched out, but the wind kept right on building blustering snow into his eyes, pelting like cold sand. He held up his forearm, shielded his eyes, even though there was precious little to see save for snow, the shadows of the peaks surrounding him, and the bulk of the cabin to his back. And that was where the laugh came from once again. He spun, peered into the gloom of the single room, saw nothing.
Shotgun Charlie Page 20
