by Dale Graham
‘Can’t the local tin star curb his aggression?’ Ben asked.
Lafferty shrugged resignedly. ‘That’s the trouble. We ain’t gotten no official law in this part of Texas yet. And until we have, his warped version of land management can’t be challenged.’
‘Looks like I seem to have stumbled into a range war,’ Ben mused. His reserved manner hinted that he was decidedly reticent about becoming involved. ‘If’n we ride double and head for the nearest town, I could buy me a fresh horse and light out of here.’
‘Hold on there, compadre,’ Lafferty said, laying a restraining hand on his rescuer’s arm. ‘That don’t seem the right course of action for a hombre with your reputation.’
‘And what might that be?’ Chisum’s response was cautious, reserved.
‘Everybody knows how Blue Creek Ben Chisum single-handedly cleaned up San Angelo and Val Verde.’ The sodbuster’s eyes glittered with enthusiasm as he continued pouring out praise onto his liberator. ‘You’re a man who stands up to injustice, fights for those who only want what’s rightfully theirs. Ain’t that why you were down in Zaragoza?’ He didn’t wait for a response. ‘The good folks round here need a saviour like you to stand up to Web Steiger and his gang.’
A diffident hand waved away the effusive praise for his gun-toting actions up north. ‘You’re right about Val Verde,’ he said, lifting a wary eyebrow. ‘But even the great Ben Chisum needed some help with those bad boys in San Angelo.’ A dark shadow clouded his features as recall of that help resurrected bad memories.
The farmer did not notice the sudden cooling of his liberator’s mood. ‘Just goes to prove what I said,’ Lafferty persisted. ‘You’re the man to hogtie these galoots and bring peace back to the Nueces.’
Ben was not convinced. He’d had enough of other people’s troubles. The fiasco over the border in Zaragoza had left a bad taste in his mouth. Due to the backstabbing betrayal of a partner he had trusted, six hard months had been spent in a Mexican jail. And during all that time, he was left to languish on death row whilst never knowing when the proverbial axe would fall. The experience was enough to curb anybody’s appetite for adventure. He needed to rest up before again selling his gun to settle any other reckless insurrection.
‘I don’t know, Chico,’ Ben hesitated.
But Lafferty was not giving in that easily. ‘This latest attack by Steiger has left me exposed. And I ain’t afraid to admit that I’m scared. There’s no legal document to prove this land is mine. Never felt the need for it before. So anybody strong enough can take it over. And I can’t do a darned thing to stop them.’ The urgency of the farmer’s entreaty had taken a lot out of him. His gravelly voice stumbled to a series of rasping grunts. He fell back, exhausted, as the near-death experience reasserted its debilitating consequences.
‘Not so fast, old-timer,’ Ben reproved gently. ‘You need a doctor to check you out. Dancing with the Devil ain’t good for the body, nor the soul.’
Lafferty rallied quickly. He ignored the advice, continuing with his petition. ‘Forget all that. This is more important. I can write a letter for you to instruct a lawyer I know to draw up an agreement. It’ll make you a legally binding partner in the Jaybird. All you have to do then is lodge it at the bank in Uvalde. State-sanctioned endorsement will curb Steiger’s foul ambitions. Even he ain’t foolish enough to think he can take over an officially-endorsed property.’
Ben was still not convinced. ‘You sure about this? You don’t even know me.’
Lafferty waved away the uncertainty. ‘That reputation for doing good deeds is more than enough to convince me you’re the man to help me out.’ Thoroughly enthused, the guy struggled to his feet. ‘Us small guys badly need help if’n we’re to survive. And you’ll be well paid. I’ll make sure of it. You’re gonna need supplies to run the place.’
Ben’s shoulders lifted to indicate he was stony broke. ‘All I have is the clothes on my back and a few sticks of jerky.’
Lafferty fished out a billfold hidden under his saddle and pealed off a wad of greenbacks. ‘Those critters searched me, but failed to find this.’ He chuckled at the recollection. ‘Like I said, the Jaybird is a successful farm. This should see you right until we meet up again.’
It sounded a good deal. Yet still Ben hesitated to accept the handout. Would he be exposing himself to a heap of danger he could well do without? It was like putting his head into a snake’s nest. Was he ready to take on a ruthless gang of desperadoes with only a reputation and a six-shooter for support? He was just a man alone, and Steiger clearly had a small army at his beck and call.
Lafferty could see the hesitation in his saviour’s tightly knit features. The homesteader eyed his associate, willing him desperately to accept the offer. ‘And when you’ve harvested the next crop, we’ll split the profits down the middle. Can’t say fairer than that. So, what do you say?’ He pressed home his offer by a further declaration. ‘With you in charge, Steiger will think twice about taking on that gunslinger to back his play.’
Mention of a hired mercenary piqued Ben’s curiosity. ‘Who has he brought in?’ he enquired.
‘A real tough hombre called Squint Rizzo. Some’n wrong with one eye, but it sure hasn’t affected his gun hand. He shot and killed my best pal last week just for looking at him the wrong way.’ The farmer’s scowled recollection made him miss the sudden interest the name had generated.
‘So that backstabbing varmint has decided to join the vigilantes,’ Ben muttered under his breath. His presence in Texas changed everything. Squint Rizzo had been his partner down in Zaragoza. It was that Judas who had betrayed Ben to the federales, and no doubt for a sight more than thirty pieces of silver.
Ben’s silence and muttered imprecation caught the nester’s attention. ‘You know this fella?’
‘You could say,’ was the stilted reply, as Ben Chisum’s thoughts veered back to that vindictive betrayal of a once powerful alliance between the two buddies.
CHAPTER TWO
Sold Down the River
The two men had first met up in New Mexico in the border town of Columbus. Ben had arrived at a critical moment. That had been three years back. But he could still recall the incident as if it had been yesterday. The main street was devoid of activity. Not a soul could be seen. Nothing moved. Not even the twitter of a bird disturbed the macabre silence that reigned supreme.
The newcomer hauled rein, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. A tense atmosphere hung in the fetid air; it was so palpable you could have cut it with a knife. A collective holding of breath had gripped the place. Something was clearly about to happen. Ben drew his horse to one side in time to witness a tall, bronzed figure step out from an alleyway and position himself in the middle of the empty street.
The man’s challenge echoed back from the white washed adobe buildings lining both sides of the thoroughfare. ‘Guess who has come to town, Tulsa Jake. It’s your old buddy, Squint Rizzo. And I’m here to call you out. Just you and me: face-to-face. Let’s see if’n all that bluster you been spouting about taking me down is just a load of hot air.’
Tulsa Jake Tralee was a rustler who had been terrorizing the local ranchers with impunity for months. After snatching the cattle, all he had to do was just push them across the border for sale in old Mexico: a simple operation with no danger from overstretched law enforcement agencies. To counter the outlaw’s depredations, the local ranchers had brought in a hired gunslinger to solve the thorn in their side once and for all.
Ben had never come into contact with the hired gunfighter, but he knew of his reputation, and he was curious to witness the outcome of this classic duel in the sun.
Based in Alamagordo, Squint Rizzo had come highly recommended. Clad in a black leather vest, with black corduroy trousers tucked into a pair of shiny black boots, the gunman presented a formidable image. The tough persona was intended to strike fear into his adversaries. The wayward eye causing a permanent leer only served to enhance the intimidating aura surround
ing the man. And it had clearly worked its magic on the local townsfolk. As to whether Jake Tralee would be similarly cowed, now that was another matter.
Ben watched the all-too-familiar scene unfold with interest. He had been in a similar position on numerous occasions himself. But one hired gunfighter studying the tactics of another was a rare occurrence. Ben felt strangely privileged for such a situation to have presented itself, and he was thoroughly intrigued to see how his opposite number would deal with the renowned outlaw. Tulsa Jake was worth a cool thousand bucks, dead or alive.
Rizzo had checked his double-holstered gun rig. The right-hand Colt Frontier was tied down in the standard way with the left for emergencies in cross-draw mode. Ben nodded to himself – impressive! This guy appeared to know his stuff. But how would he perform under pressure? The gunman stood there, alone, hands flexing but with a casual demeanour essential for a rapid action response when the imminent conflict blew up.
Ben crossed his arms, leaning against the side of a fence. Out of sight, he still had a good view of the upcoming gladiatorial combat. An expectant half-smile creased the handsome profile. If Rizzo failed to remove Jake Tralee, the path would be open for him to assess what went wrong and step into the empty void. A thousand dollar reward was not to be sniffed at.
His back stiffened as Tulsa Jake emerged from the gloomy confines of the Blind Owl saloon. An unlit cigar was stuck between his teeth. A black beard encased a face riven by a lifetime of lawless endeavour. The man’s cold appraisal of his challenger held no fear as he leaned casually against a veranda post. ‘Figure you can take old Tulsa out, mister?’ The question was chock full of disdain. ‘Others have tried. And as you can see, they’ve all failed. You ain’t gonna be any luckier.’
‘You’re all talk and no action, Jake,’ came back the scornful reply, as Rizzo removed a watch from his vest pocket and laid it on a barrel. ‘When the music stops, we get to shooting.’ He flipped a lever and a mellifluous series of notes, sinuous yet hauntingly beautiful, filled the air.
A full minute passed as the melody slowly wound down. Ben’s focussed gaze shifted between the two men. If anything, Tulsa Jake seemed the more at ease. He’d heard tales of Squint Rizzo’s defective vision being no hindrance to his gun hand. Did Tralee reckon to be faster?
Moments before the music faded, Ben discovered the answer to the conundrum. A movement over to his right found him eyeballing a hidden bushwhacker. Where there was one, others would be close by. Rapid panning of the immediate surroundings revealed another up on the roof of the general store and yet another behind a wagon over on the far side of the street. Little wonder that the owlhoot was unfazed by the challenger.
A clear-cut shootout was one thing. But dry-gulching was the action of a coward, and the lowest form of life. Drawing his own single-action Colt .45, Ben called out a stark warning. ‘It’s a set-up, Rizzo. Two bushwhackers on your right. I’ll handle the other rat.’ Surprise registered on the gunman’s face. Yet, ever the professional, he ducked down on one knee. A hawkish gaze swept the street, searching out the hidden assailants.
In the flick of a gnat’s wing, gunfire erupted. Caught out by this sudden and unexpected thwarting of his underhanded chicanery, Tulsa Jake was the first to fall victim to the newcomer’s timely intervention. The prospect of an easy removal of the hired gunman had made him careless. The error ended with his own removal from this mortal coil.
The surprise ambush was now turned on its head. Panic had gripped the hidden assassins. As a result, shooting from the two ambushers at ground level was wild and uncontrolled, giving Rizzo time to eyeball the skunks and remove them from the affray.
Only the man on the roof of the store remained a threat. He had a rifle that was now used to deadly effect. Caught out in the open, Rizzo took a bullet in the leg. He went down, but still managed to crawl behind a water trough as more bullets kicked up dust around him.
‘Stay where you are,’ Ben called out. ‘I’ll flush the critter out.’ Tendrils of curling gun smoke drifting across the field of battle enabled him to scurry unseen across to the far side of the street. There he slipped down a narrow passage, circling around to locate the building where the dry-gulcher was secreted.
A couple of barrels enabled him to scramble up onto the back of the roof. Peering over the edge, he could see a crouched figure hiding behind a chimney. His whole attention was concentrated on the main street. Ben levered himself up quietly onto the sloping roof and slowly edged across to catch the sniper unawares. His luck failed when a loose slat creaked beneath his boot.
Instantly sentient to the presence of danger, the man swung round, pointing his rifle. He was no slouch and managed to trigger off a shot, but too fast. It missed by a whisker, burning a hole in Ben’s hat and rattling the ghoulish keepsake. Levering a second shell into the upper chamber of the Winchester allowed Ben sufficient time to place his own reply, dead centre. A red splash blossomed on the man’s chest: a killing shot. He fell back, disappearing over the edge of the roof. Moments later a dull thud heralded a meeting with the hard ground below.
Another unseen assailant, crouching in an alleyway on the far side of the street, had clearly adjudged the ambush to be a lost cause. Moments later, he dashed out on his horse, frantically leathering the animal to the gallop. The intended escape was cut short abruptly when Ben snatched up the fallen Winchester and pumped a couple of shots his way. Both were well placed; the rider threw up his arms and tumbled out of the saddle.
Ben then scrambled down off the roof. Still wary that more such miscreants might be hovering in the shadows, he ducked down and waited for any alien response. Only the slow creak of a swinging signboard disturbed the silence. Satisfied that the brief mêlée was over, he hurried across to check both men had indeed gone to join their buddies stoking up the fiery furnace.
A couple of curious mutts slunk across to sniff at one of the corpses littering the street. They were followed by a few more curious creatures of the two-legged variety. With the infamous rustler and his gang no longer a threat, fear had taken a back seat.
‘You alright over there?’ Ben called to his fellow protection specialist. A blood-smeared hand raised above the trough told him that Rizzo was still in the land of the living. But he was clearly hurt and in need of a sawbones’ proficiency. Still not ready to assume everything was safe, Ben issued a salutary caution. ‘Keep your eyes peeled and cover me while I cross the street.’
Moments later, he reached the far side and was helping the injured man to his feet. ‘Lucky for me you came along at the right moment, mister, else I’d have been taking up early residence on Boot Hill,’ Rizzo grunted, wincing as Ben tied his bandanna around a blood-smeared leg to staunch the flow. The injured man laid a reflective eye on his benefactor. ‘You seem kind of familiar. Have we met before some place?’
Ben shook his head. ‘Don’t reckon so. But in your case, the funereal gear kind of gives the game away. Not to mention that lopsided look.’ He held out a hand, which the man grasped. ‘In my game, Squint Rizzo might well be a rival for the best paying jobs.’
‘Now I remember.’ The wayward peeper flickered. ‘Saw your picture in the South Texas Sentinel. That was some job you pulled, cleaning up Val Verde of those Mex bandidos. Guess I’m now beholden to you, Chisum.’
‘Just doing my professional duty, helping a fellow protectionist.’ A wry smirk creased Ben’s face. ‘Although, if truth be told, you were a mite too trusting in figuring a skunk like Tulsa Jake would play by the rules.’
‘Guess you’re right there, Blue. I owe you a drink for that.’
Ben laid a poignant eye on his associate. ‘A bit more than that, I’d say. Reckon this earns me a half share of that reward money, don’t you?’
Rizzo’s half scowl balked at such a suggestion. This was something he had not considered. But the brittle regard aimed his way curbed any animosity; after all, this guy had saved his life. He nodded. ‘Reckon that’s a fair deal.’
W
ith the business side of things agreed, it was down to more immediate needs. ‘Best we get you serviced by the croaker first,’ Ben advised, signalling to a couple of onlookers. A firm voice ordered them to carry Rizzo down to the surgery. No protest was offered. Gunslingers possessed a certain aura that precluded any refusal. Guys of their standing said ‘jump’, and folks tended to ask ‘which way?’
‘I’ll be in the Blind Owl when you’re ready to buy me that drink,’ Ben called out, receiving a thumbs-up in return. ‘And don’t forget to bring the dough.’
The two had become partners. Both figured it was better to join forces and split the proceeds rather than act alone as rivals. The collaboration had worked to their mutual advantage for two years until the green-eyed monster had reared its ugly head. Money talks where hired gunmen are concerned. And Squint Rizzo lacked the scruples of fair play that his associate took for granted. The climax of their brief liaison came to a brutal finale in Zaragoza.
That was where the trust Ben Chisum had unwittingly placed in his partner’s hands was ignored callously. And all for what? He shuddered at the recollection – what else but money, US dollars?
The Mexican federales had the resources to pay far more than cash-strapped peons struggling to secure a decent life for themselves and their families. Unlike his avaricious partner, Ben had refused to sell them down the river. As such, it was he who was duped by the proverbial dousing.
Rizzo had secretly informed the authorities about the location of their campsite. The skunk had made an excuse about visiting a nearby cantina for some female companionship. That had left the trail wide open for a night time ambush.
It was in the early hours when the peace had been shattered by shouts and gunfire. Ben hadn’t stood a chance. Following his arrest, the jefe de policia in charge of the detail had been more than happy to reveal the name of his informant. A trial had followed but the result was a foregone conclusion. Blue Creek Ben Chisum was well known to the authorities, and they were cock-a-hoop to have him under lock and key, secure in a filthy jail cell and a future date with the firing squad.
