by John Glasby
Sherman untied his horse from the hitching post, mounted, then swung away down the street, dust kicked up from the hooves of his mount obscuring him as he reached the far end and then swung out of town, back along the trail to the east. The gunman who had spoken with him had paused, turned to watch the rancher ride off, then he went inside the sheriff’s office and closed the door behind him. For a few moments Neil deliberated that move, then decided that there would be no more trouble from that man for the time being. Evidently Sherman had left him behind in town to keep his eyes open and report back to him everything that happened, particularly when the wagon train moved into town and then continued on its way west. Twin Creeks lay on the very boundary of Sherman’s vast cattle empire. West of the town, where the country changed, reaching out as far as the distant mountains, lay the Hollard country. Matt Hollard, a man tarred with the same brush as Sherman … Two sworn enemies, but he had little doubt that when it came to letting a wagon train move across their land, they would temporarily forget their differences and band together against a common enemy.
‘You reckon that he’ll come riding after us like he said?’ asked Jackson, as they went outside on to the wide boardwalk, stood looking about them for a long moment, with the heat of afternoon lying over them.
‘I’m sure he will. He’ll never rest until he’s killed us all.’
‘Maybe it would have been better for everyone if I had shot him back there and finished it then.’
‘Could be.’ The other looked at him from shaded eyes, then his lips twisted into a curling smile. ‘But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, my friend. There is no point in worrying about these trifles.’ He clapped a huge hand on Neil’s shoulder. ‘Now we must see if we can get any supplies. It may be that everyone here is so afraid of Sherman that they won’t sell us anything, even though we have the money to pay for it.’
This proved to be true in the first three stores they tried. It was not until they entered the fourth, a smaller place at the far end of the street, that they had any better luck. The middle-aged woman behind the counter eyed them curiously as they went in, glanced at the guns which hung low on their hips, then stared up into Neil’s face as if trying to read what she saw there.
‘Howdy, Ma’am,’ Neil spoke pleasantly. ‘We’re from the wagon train to the east of town a mile or so back along the trail. We need some supplies, thought you might be able to sell us some.’
She continued to eye him for a moment with a look of frank puzzlement on her face. Then she nodded her head slowly as if in secret understanding. ‘There was some shooting down at the saloon a while back,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t suppose either of you two gentlemen had any hand in that. They tell me that crooked sheriff and a dozen or so of the killers who go under the name of deputies around town were gunned down.’ She raised her brows a little, the ghost of a smile playing around her lips.
‘Reckon you heard right, Ma’am,’ murmured Neil, quietly.
‘I thought so. Ain’t much I don’t hear. They also say that Jesse Sherman was wounded in the fighting and that he’s ridden out of town swearing revenge on the men who did it.’ Her eyes were shrewd and bright. ‘Can’t say I’ve liked that man or what he does around here. Anybody who takes a gun and teaches him a lesson deserves everything this town can give him. Though I doubt if you’ll find many people here who’ll be willing to help you. They’re all too afraid of what Sherman and his men will do to them if he should find out.’
Neil nodded. ‘We’ve already discovered that for ourselves, Ma’am.’
‘I thought so.’ She paused, then said quietly: ‘Well, what is you need?’
‘Many thanks, Ma’am,’ Neil grinned. He gave her the list of supplies they needed. ‘It’s good to know that there are some folk at least who aren’t afraid of Sherman and what he stands for in these parts.’
‘He’s an evil man. He’ll kill you if he ever gets the chance. Don’t underestimate him, whatever you do.’
‘We won’t,’ said Jackson loudly. ‘He’s ridden out of town but left one of his men in the sheriff’s office. Reckon we’d better get back to the train and warn them before it’s too late.’ He tipped his hat to her, bowing a little from the waist.
Outside, they loaded the supplies on to the waiting horses, untied them from the rail, then swung up into the saddle, heading out of town. Out of the corner of his vision Neil noticed the white face of the gunman staring at them through the window of the sheriff’s office, watching them as they rode out of town.
At the wagon train the news spread like wildfire, but strangely there were no dissenting voices when Jackson put the position to them, told them that they had decided to ride west, to finish the drive. But there was a certain hardness in the others now. Neil noticed it, not only with the men — for he had expected it there — but the women too, were hard-faced, as if they had been stung by something so that their pride had been touched. He knew now, with a conviction deep within him, that there could be no turning back for the train now.
These people were solidly behind him, would fight every single inch of the way to the California border, facing no matter what lay ahead of them with that singleness of purpose which came from the knowledge that they had right on their side and that whatever happened they would triumph over evil.
‘What’s the terrain like west of here?’ asked Jessup harshly. He chewed on a plug of tobacco, teeth working on it endlessly. He gave Neil a shrewd glance.
‘Rugged, I’m afraid. It’s Hollard’s land but he won’t stop Jesse Sherman from riding over it and bringing his killers with him if he knows why Sherman is trailing us.’
‘Never figgered he would. Seems the cattle bosses ought to have their tails cut a little. Wonder why there ain’t been no Texas Rangers moving into these parts, maybe a straight marshal or two.’
‘They’ll be along one of these years,’ Neil told him. ‘Until then, whenever you come up against a crooked sheriff working in cahoots with these killers, there’s only one thing you can do. Fight them yourself.’
‘Sure. And if they catch you, there’ll be a wanted poster out for you, and they’ll telegraph your name and description to every sheriff’s office in the territory. Even the straight lawmen will be on your trail then and you don’t stand much chance proving your innocence to them, do you. Not only the lawmen, but the bounty hunters, too.’
Neil nodded his head slowly, eyes clouded a little with memory. He left the other and went over to where the sorrel stood waiting. That was how it had been with him several years before. The outlaws had moved into town, bringing their own brand of lawlessness with them, setting up their own sheriff. They had tried to run his father off their small ranch on the outskirts of town, and when Neil had shot four of them down and sent the rest running off with their tails between their legs, he had been arrested and tossed into jail on a charge of murder.
Fortunately, he had still had some friends in town, and one dark and moonless night they had overpowered the two men set to watch his cell and busted him out of jail. He had ridden hard for the ranch, only to find it a smouldering heap of ruin and ashes. His father’s body lay in the yard by the well they had dug. The outlaws had ridden back with him out of the way and shot his father down. There were four bullets in his back and he hadn’t even had a chance to get a gun to defend himself. It was then that Neil had sworn to hunt down the men who had done that deed, even if it meant searching for them throughout the whole of the territory. But it hadn’t taken him as long as that, for they had taken over the town then, set themselves up as the law there. He had gone on a bloody trail of vengeance which ended when ten men lay dead in the dusty streets and there had been only one man left-Jesse Sherman.
Almost of its own volition, his right hand moved down, touched the butt of the gun in its holster, fingers running over the smooth metal, almost caressingly. Killing Sherman had become his own special burden now. It was something which had changed him utterly from the man he had used
to be. It had burned most of the humanity out of him, seared through him like a living flame, taking with it any tendency towards mercy and justice. It had made him tough, had forced him to practise with the guns until he had become the fastest and most feared man in the territory. Now he had the reputation of a killer, and yet had never shot a man except in self-defence, and then only men who deserved nothing more.
But he doubted if that reputation would ever leave him. It was something he could never throw off, something indelible like dirt that stuck to a man and changed his entire life, turned a man from a peace-loving citizen into a dedicated killer with a purpose.
How many of the people riding with this train guessed that, he wondered. There was no doubt in his mind that some of them knew he had a past, perhaps had figured out for themselves that he was wanted by the law, but so long as he made it possible for them to get through to California, then they were prepared to forget that, overlook his past. While he regretted the necessity of bringing Sherman’s vengeance down on these people, he knew that he had had no other choice left open to him. Jackson knew that too. He threw a swift glance to where the big man was hefting large bags of flour and beans into one of the wagons. Soon they would be ready to move out. The heat of the day was past and it would be getting cooler. The country that lay directly ahead of them was not easy ground to cover in wagons, and he knew that it would be thirty, maybe forty days before they crossed it and came into the foothills of the tall mountains that formed a vast barrier to their progress.
By then it would be nearing winter, the first snows would be falling up there among the peaks and the narrow passes. There were two passes over the mountains, and they would have to choose one of them. Whichever they chose, it was going to be difficult to cross the mountain barrier, a nightmare of snow and ice, raging blizzards that could bury them.
With an effort he put the thought out of his mind. A lot could happen before then. There were other dangers to be faced, swollen torrents as the rains swelled the rivers, the border gangs who preyed on the wagons that managed to get that far; and, above all, Jesse Sherman, thirsting for revenge, hunting them down with hatred in his heart.
6. Night Ride
Four hours after the long wagon train pulled through Twin Creeks, heading west along the rough trail, a small party of men left the Sherman ranch and rode across country, heading in the same direction, but much further north so that their paths would not cross. Leading the men, Jesse Sherman, ignoring the wound in his shoulder, from which the bullet had been taken that afternoon, his teeth gritted against the pain and his face grey from loss of blood, sat taut and straight in the saddle, gripping the reins with an unnatural tightness with his good hand. The deep-seated anger and the need for revenge drove him on. The doctor who had extracted the lead from his shoulder and patched it up had warned him against leaving his bed for two weeks, had told him that he might not live if he persisted in his wild idea of riding out that night with some of his men, running the risk of opening the wound again, starting the blood flowing into the bandage around his shirt.
Five miles to the west of the ranch they crossed the boundary between his land and that which belonged to Matt Hollard. The uneasy truce which had existed between the two men lasted only so long as neither side made any wrong move along this boundary, but Sherman knew deep within himself that there would be armed men watching every inch of the trail from that point on, and there might be a bullet waiting for him before he could get to the ear of Matt Hollard.
But such was his anger at what had happened back in Twin Creeks that he had thrown all caution to the winds, had deliberately decided to take the risk of being shot from ambush. Before he had ridden out he had debated whether to go alone; knowing that if he went with a bunch of armed men such as this, it might appear that his was a warlike, provocative mission and not a peaceable one as he intended. But he had decided against this. A couple of men might think twice about opening fire on them if there was a large party.
He debated on the wisdom of even approaching Hollard with his proposition, and wondered how the other would take it. But Neil Roberts and that wagon train had moved out of Twin Creeks, was headed west, and if he wanted to stop them, if he was to fulfil the threat he had made, that he would shoot down every man, woman and child in that train, then he would have to cross Hollard’s territory to do it, there was no other way open for him. He knew how Hollard hated settlers and nesters just as he did, and there was the chance that the other might listen to reason, might be willing to forget the feud which had existed between them, at least until he had carried out his promise of destruction.
He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the men who rode with him. Grim, determined killers, men he had chosen carefully and well. They would obey every order that he gave, would have no compunction about shooting down unarmed women and children. In fact, he thought with a touch of grim amusement, they might even prefer things that way. It would minimise the risk of any of them being shot down in return.
Two miles further on they crossed a narrow trail which led up into the dark fastnesses of the hills, and he turned his mount deliberately on to it, so that within minutes they were climbing the steep, switchback courses that swung around the side of the hills, looking down on to the rough open plain below. Here they were forced to ride in single file, and as he neared the Hollard ranch he felt his nerves beginning to jump uncontrollably. A lot would depend on Hollard now. He was a strange and unpredictable man at the best of times, a man it was unwise to cross. But he might be inclined to be a little more co-operative now when it came to destroying this wagon train and he knew that Roberts killed some of Hollard’s men at some time in the past. It was more than likely that the other would be glad to get rid of him, once and for all.
The wind had built up to powerful gusts here and there was a storm blowing up on the horizon, with brief flashes of lightning running along the dark skyline. Overhead the clouds were gathering, a dark curtain that came sweeping across the sky, blotting out the stars, sending the first heavy drops of rain down on to their heads and into their faces.
Gritting his teeth as a spasm of pain lanced along his arm, Sherman drew his heavy coat tightly around him, knowing the foolishness of trying to hurry along a trail such as this where, in places, only a mule was sufficiently sure-footed to be absolutely safe.
Half a mile on the trail widened, and Trudeau, the ranch foreman, rode up alongside, his face in deep shadow.
‘I got the feeling that we’re being watched all the way, Mister Sherman,’ he said gruffly.
‘That’s more than likely. They’ll have seen us ride in from the ranch over the boundary, but they won’t be sure of what we want. That’s why they’ll hold their fire until they get any orders from Hollard, and I’m figuring that he’ll be more than curious to know why we’re riding out to see him.’
‘You reckon he might agree to your proposal,’ Trudeau asked. His voice was quiet and calm, the voice of a man unafraid.
‘I don’t reckon he’s got anything to lose.’ Sherman turned quickly. The wind switched from side to side now that they were more in the open, away from the shelter of the lee of the hill, hitting them from one side and then the other like the angry switching of a mare’s tail. The rain began to pour on to their heads now, sweeping in sheets down the side of the hill.
‘We’ve got to move if we want to hit the ranch before the storm gets any worse,’ Sherman growled. He felt the weakness growing in his body and there was a mist in front of his eyes, a mist which came from the weakness in him, from the blood which had flowed from the gaping hole in his shoulder before the doctor had managed to plug it. The bandage, which had been bound tightly over it, was still warm and sticky where fresh blood had soaked into it, but the anger that drove and spurred him on would not let him rest, would not allow his body to get the sleep it craved so much. There was a lot he had to do before the night was over, and all of it began with Matt Hollard.
They reached the e
nd of the downward trail, came out among the tumbled rocks at the base of the hills. The trail was a grey scar over the darkness of the plain that stretched away in front of them, dimly seen through the driving rain. The heavy drops fell from the brim of his hat, pattered against his face, half-blinding him. The lightning, never ceasing now, speared across the western heavens, bringing the roaring thunder close on its swift heels.
They put the heads of their mounts into it, crouched low in the saddle now, bending over the necks of the horses, hanging grimly to leather as they made their way over the rough terrain.
In spite of their haste, the full fury of the storm swept about them before they reached the Hollard ranch. They rode around the brow of a tall hill which overlooked the ranch house and corral, and were moving slowly when the three dark figures materialised suddenly from the stunted bushes that grew on either side of the trail. Sherman reined his mount instantly, saw Trudeau go for his gun and stopped him with a sharply hissed warning.
‘They’ve got rifles trained on us,’ he said harshly. ‘Keep your hands away from your guns. I’ll deal with this.’
‘Now if that ain’t real sensible of you,’ sneered a deep voice. ‘Better ride up here aways, mister, and let me take a look at you — and no tricks, mind, it would be the greatest pleasure for me to put a bullet into you.’
Gigging his mount, Sherman rode forward, said in a soft level voce: ‘I’m Jesse Sherman. I’ve come out here to speak with Hollard.’
