The more Lowell thought about his situation, the less he could make of it. He sat in the dugout smoking one cigarette after another, racking his brains, but he still couldn’t come up with a reason why anybody would want him dead. For a long time he had been more or less out of the flow of affairs altogether. So it must have something to do with his past. Yet whoever was behind it certainly knew where to find him. He was able to employ people to do his dirty work. Was it a gang operating in the area? He suddenly had a glimmer of inspiration. Maybe they were ranch-hands. That would tie in with what he had overheard Eliot and Fuller say. He pondered again whether or not he should make for the Half-Box M but decided to stay with his initial plan.
Time passed and his thoughts came to a stop as his shoulder began to hurt. Getting to his feet, he went through the pockets of his jacket, bringing out a piece of broken mirror. Holding it in position, he examined the wound as best he could in the flickering candlelight. He was pleased with the results. It looked clean and on the mend. That being the case, he could cope with a little discomfort. He turned away and made his way outside where he stood for a while, breathing in the clean night air. The sky was filled with stars which cast a pale glow over the range. He felt refreshed. He was about to turn away when he thought he saw a flicker of movement in the distance. He stared intently. It was a rider. He slipped back inside the dugout and emerged with his rifle. For the moment he had lost sight of him and might have been tempted to believe he had been mistaken when his ears picked up the horse’s hoof-beats. It was moving very slowly. Lowell was puzzled. Why was it going at that pace? The rider came back in sight, and as he got closer something about him seemed familiar and it came as no real surprise when a voice rang out:
‘Lowell! Are you in there? It’s me, Eliot!’
Lowell lowered his rifle. ‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘but what the hell are you doin’?’
Eliot came up and dismounted. ‘You seem to be makin’ a habit of hidin’ out in places like this,’ he said.
‘How did you find me?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? I simply followed your sign.’
A sudden thought struck Lowell and he peered out into the night. ‘Is anybody else with you?’ he asked. Eliot shook his head.
‘Nope. I had a notion you might not appreciate it if we showed up in numbers.’
‘Come on in. I’ll make some coffee.’
Eliot seemed hesitant.
‘Fuller’s worried about you,’ he said. ‘So is Lorna. Why did you take off without tellin’ anybody?’
‘I’m sorry. I could have handled things better. I guess I wasn’t thinkin’ straight.’
‘Then come on back with me.’
Lowell shook his head.
‘Nope. I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’ and there’s somethin’ I have to do.’
‘Yeah. What’s that?’
‘I heard you and Fuller talkin’ about Rickard. I figure he might be worth payin’ a visit. I’ve decided I’m goin’ back to Granton and see Rickard.’
‘You’re not really serious? Have you forgot what happened back there? You’ll be walkin’ straight into a trap. You only need to show your face and you’ll be a sittin’ target.’
‘I’ve thought about that.’
‘Wouldn’t it be more sensible to come back to the Long Rail with me?’
‘Maybe. But I don’t want to do that. I’d be puttin’ the place at risk.’
‘We could round up a few men and then ride to Granton in force.’
‘That wouldn’t work. It’s gonna take somethin’ a bit more subtle to worm the truth out of Rickard. Besides, if the Long Rail’s under any sort of threat, it would be foolish to take anybody away. That would just make it all the more vulnerable.’
‘I can see you ain’t gonna change your mind,’ Eliot said. ‘In that case, any objections to me comin’ along as back-up?’
‘You’ve done enough for me already. Nope, the same thing applies. If there’s any trouble here, you’re gonna be needed. You can give my apologies to Fuller, though. I guess the way I left wasn’t exactly right. And you can tell me what else you know about Rickard.’
Eliot looked closely at him. ‘You could still do with givin’ yourself some time for that wound to get better. At least stay on here for a day or two till you’re fully fit.’
Lowell nodded. ‘I feel fine, but I guess that kinda makes sense.’
All this while Eliot had remained in the saddle but he finally dismounted. ‘If it’s OK with you,’ he said, ‘I could sure use a cup of coffee.’
Lowell took up Eliot’s suggestion and waited a few days till he felt he was fully recovered before starting for Granton. He was pleased to get away. Before he left, Eliot had made further appeals for Lowell to accompany him back to the Long Rail. His arguments made a lot of sense, probably a lot more that Lowell’s plans. However, after a lot of troubled thinking, he had decided on a course of action and now he intended seeing it through. It had been useful talking things over with Eliot, however. He had been able to give Lowell more information on Rickard and the state of affairs in Granton. One thing he had intended doing was to pay a call on the marshal. Now he knew that might not be a wise thing to do. From what Eliot had told him, it seemed the marshal owed his position to Rickard. Basically, he was on Rickard’s payroll.
He rode at a steady pace until around noon he began to observe buzzards wheeling and circling in the sky. The sorrel pricked up its ears and was obviously agitated. As he continued the smell of death assailed his nostrils. He had seen small groups of buffalo, mainly males, and somehow he knew what to expect.
‘Buffalo hunters,’ he said to his horse. ‘I hate ’em.’
As he topped a rise the scene of slaughter lay spread out below. All across the prairie the corpses of buffalo rotted in the heat. Dense swarms of flies hung in the air as buzzards and prairie wolves fought over the remains. He knew that the practice had arisen of shooting them from the railroad cars, but it seemed the slaughter here was even more wanton. Whoever was responsible must have come across the herd at a buffalo wash and killed them for the fun of it. They hadn’t even bothered to skin them, but just left them where they had dropped. Circling in order to avoid the heaped up corpses, he rode on towards Granton.
Vernon closed the door of the Fashion Restaurant behind him and stepped out on to the boardwalk. He had just eaten and he was feeling a little heavy. He walked slowly till he reached the saloon where he paused before entering. He leaned against the balustrade, looking towards the stacks of hides outside Rickard’s imposing emporium, waiting to be shipped out. The sun was high and their smell was strong. The air shimmered in the heat and through it he perceived a horseman approaching him. Something about the figure held his attention but it was only when the man was almost upon him that he realized with a start that it was Burt Lowell, the very man he had been commissioned to kill. He couldn’t be absolutely certain; he had only seen Lowell around town a couple of times, but he was quite an arresting figure. His immediate thought was how unfortunate it was that he wasn’t prepared, but then, how could he have known? The best thing to do would be to follow his movements and wait for the chance which was sure to come. Then he had another idea. Quickly, he began to make his way towards the marshal’s office.
Lowell rode directly to the building across which the lettering Ludwig Rickard, Animal Hides and Fertiliser was written in bold lettering, where he dismounted and tied his horse to the hitch rack. Inside, an arrow directed him up a flight of stairs. A young lady sat at a desk beyond which was a heavy door with frosted glass. She looked up at his approach.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked. Her voice and manner were like a shard of ice.
‘I’ve come to see Rickard,’ he replied.
‘Have you an appointment?’
‘Nope. Do I need one?’
‘I’m sorry. No one can see Mr Rickard without having an appointment.’
Lowell hesitated for a moment and then stepped past th
e desk and, advancing to the door beyond, flung it open. The room was empty. The woman rose from her chair.
‘I was about to tell you that Mr Rickard is not available.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’
Lowell felt outmanoeuvred. Turning away, he began to make for the stairs. Just before he commenced the descent he turned to the woman.
‘Apologies ma’am, if my behaviour was a little abrupt. It’s just that . . . maybe I could make an appointment.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Rickard’s diary is full for the foreseeable future.’
He put his foot on the stair.
‘Who should I say was looking for him,’ she said.
‘Lowell, Burt Lowell. You can tell him I’ll be back.’
‘I can assure you there wouldn’t be any point.’
Lowell clattered down the stairs. Was Rickard in town? He would stay around for a while and hopefully run into him. If not, there was the Half-Box M.
When he was outside he took time to look up and down the street, his face puckering as he sniffed the air. The smell made him want a drink. Just a little way down the street stood the Starlight Saloon and he began to make his way towards it. His eye was attracted to a man wearing buckskins who leaned against a stanchion, deep in conversation with another man. He did not take in much else; it was the man’s odd choice of garments that he noticed. They seemed entirely unsuited to the heat. He brushed past them both and went through the batwing doors. Evening was approaching and the place was beginning to fill up. He made his way to the bar and placed his foot on the rail.
‘What’ll it be?’ the bartender asked.
‘Make it a beer.’
He felt dusty and dry. Even inside the saloon, the smell of buffalo hides hung in the air, combined with stale tobacco, sweat and sawdust. As the barman placed his drink on the counter in front of him, he saw through the mirror behind the bar a man enter wearing a star. Just behind him was the man in buckskins. The marshal was evidently the man with whom he had been in conversation. The marshal paused for a moment, looking around, and Lowell knew instinctively who he was looking for. Already he was piecing things together.
Seeing Lowell standing at the bar, the marshal made his approach. The other man followed close behind.
‘That your horse outside?’ the marshal said without any preliminaries.
Lowell had left his horse near Rickard’s establishment. In any event, there were several horses outside. ‘Nope,’ he replied.
The marshal turned to the man in the buckskin jacket and then back to Lowell. ‘This gentleman tells me it’s your horse.’
‘The gentleman is lying. What about it anyway?’
Suddenly Lowell found himself looking down the barrel of the marshal’s gun. ‘I’m goin’ to have to ask you to accompany me to the jailhouse,’ he said.
A quiet had descended on the room. People had stopped what they were doing and were looking towards the bar.
‘I don’t know what this is about,’ Lowell said, ‘but if you give me a chance to finish this drink, I’ll be happy to comply.’
He was playing for time. He already knew what was happening. Eliot had warned him about the marshal. He was being set up. Whoever the man in the buckskin jacket was, he was in with the marshal. And that meant nothing good could come out of allowing himself to be locked in the jailhouse. He had a feeling that he wouldn’t come out of it alive. Before making his move, he carefully examined the features of the man in buckskins through the mirror, fixing his image in his memory. Then, with a sudden movement, he flung the glass of beer in the marshal’s face. As the marshal staggered back, he took to his heels and fled.
In a matter of seconds he had crashed through the batwings and was hurtling down the street. A shot rang out but it was only a short distance to where he had left his horse. As more bullets began to fly he set it loose and vaulted into the saddle. A bullet thudded into the wall of the building and as he veered away something caught his eye. He looked up and saw the face of Rickard’s secretary peering out of the window. Behind her he thought he detected another figure, but he couldn’t be sure. In a matter of moments he was on his way, galloping hell for leather down the dusty street. More lead was being thrown, but as he carried on riding, bent low over the horse’s neck, the sounds of shooting began to fade. Without looking back, he carried on pell-mell till the town was behind him, when he finally drew the horse to a stop. Standing in the stirrups, he looked all around for any signs of pursuit but there was nothing to be seen. He drew out his field-glasses and put them to his eyes. Far away in the distance he saw a smudge of dust. It grew bigger and to his ears there came a faint, distant rumbling. For a moment he thought there was a posse on his trail but then he realized it was the overland stage on its approach to Granton.
It was quite a new line, the one which had originally been scheduled to link up with Buckhorn before it went to Granton instead. Mossman was behind that decision and it had spelled the end for Buckhorn. The fire which had destroyed part of the town only confirmed its demise. It had been a troublesome place at best. The irony of it was that it was just when he had tamed Buckhorn so that it became a reasonably civilized place to live that people started to desert it. A lot of them had settled in Granton, even Mossman for a while. Mossman was the real winner. The stagecoach business was only the start. Since then he had acquired a railroad line and its recent extension to Shoshone Flats had created a new railhead there. Now that the loading pens were built, many cattlemen would be spared a long drive along the Chisholm Trail. There were fortunes to be made and Mossman was right at the heart of it all. Where was Mossman now? Almost certainly he had made Shoshone Flats the base of his operations. Having destroyed Buckhorn and built up Granton, the latter had become too small for him. Lowell might have been content to live in Granton himself if. . . .
It didn’t do to think too much about it. Replacing the glasses, he sat his horse for some time thinking about his next move. He couldn’t come up with any better plan than to carry on riding to the Half-Box M. It might be worth checking on the status of Rickard’s cattle.
Bark Fuller and his foreman, an experienced cowman by name of Hoyt Conrad, were driving in some cattle from rough country on the north side of the ranch. Across the range, clouds of dust indicated where men working in pairs were doing the same, occasionally firing their six-guns to smoke out some of the more recalcitrant cattle from the brush. They were working in a circle, driving towards the designated holding spot, and as the circle got tighter the bunches of cattle grew larger and the dust thicker.
The air was filled with noise: the bawling and bellowing of cattle, the crackling of horns, the pounding of hoofs, the shrill yells and yips of the cowboys. Through the racket Fuller heard the sound of an approaching horse and Conrad rode up close.
‘Looks like we got company,’ Conrad said.
Fuller looked up to see a rider approaching. Through the haze of dust he didn’t recognize his niece till she was almost upon him.
‘Lorna,’ he said, as she came up alongside. ‘What are you doin’ out here? This ain’t no place for you.’
‘I thought I’d better come and tell you. Some men have come. They’ve got a lawyer with them. I don’t understand what it’s all about, but I think they want you to sign something.’
‘Sign something? Who are they?’
‘I don’t know. Mr Eliot is with them.’
‘Eliot?’
‘Yes. He came back not long ago.’
‘Was Lowell with him?’
‘No. He said he’d found Lowell but he couldn’t persuade him to come back. Mr Lowell sends his apologies, but apparently he’s gone on to Granton.’
‘What in tarnation is he doin’ that for?’ Fuller expostulated. ‘Sorry, Lorna, but he seems to be goin’ out of his way to find trouble. He always was a cussed stubborn critter.’
‘Do you think he’s putting himself in danger?’
‘Now don’t go worryin’ your head over things. Lowell knows how to handle himself.’ Fuller turned to Conrad.
‘Can you take care of things here for a while?’
‘Sure thing, Mr Fuller.’
‘It shouldn’t take long.’ Turning his horse, he rode off alongside his niece.
As they approached the ranch-house, he saw four horses tied to the hitch-rack, and when they had dismounted he took the opportunity to check their brands, although he was pretty sure in advance what they were. Half-Box M. Taking Lorna by the arm, he stepped up on the veranda and opened the door. Two men were sitting on a chaise-longue and the other two were at the table, one of whom, by the cut of his frock-coat, was obviously the lawyer. Eliot was standing nearby.
‘Do you mind going to your room?’ Fuller said. ‘This is business, but it won’t take long.’
‘Yes, of course.’
When Lorna had left, Fuller turned to Eliot, ignoring the others.
‘Thanks for looking after these gentlemen,’ he said.
‘No problem. Do you want me to leave too?’
‘No, stick around. This could be interestin’.’
The lawyer glanced from Fuller to Eliot and back again.
‘I don’t want to beat about the bush,’ he said. ‘My name is Dinsdale. I am an attorney-at-law and I act for Mr Rickard who, among other things, is the owner of the ranch known as the Half-Box M.’
‘I know who Rickard is,’ Fuller snapped.
‘Mr Rickard has commissioned me to tell you that, after having made due enquiries, he intends to pursue his claim to the section of the Long Rail ranch known as the east range. I think I may say that his claim is sound and he has every reason to assume that a court will find in his favour. However, in order to avoid unnecessary bother and delay, he is willing to make you an offer for the land.’
Tough Justice Page 3
