by Will DuRey
I heard the creak of leather as someone, Wade I supposed, climbed into a saddle, then the steady drum of hoofbeats as horse and rider headed away from the house.
‘Well, he’s gone,’ I said, ‘and still hasn’t paid you.’
‘What!’
‘Wade. Ridden off but I don’t remember him putting any money in your hand.’ There was a silence that could only mean he was pondering over my words. ‘I was thinking,’ I continued, ‘that he seemed prepared to give his last partner a lot more than he’s giving you. A ranch and a woman. Worth a lot more than the thousand dollars he hasn’t paid you.’
‘Shuddup!’ I felt the iron of his gun thrust into my back.
We had turned the corner from the front of the building and were heading down the side towards the outbuildings.
‘Do you suppose you’ll be able to do this job on your own?’ I was talking for the sake of it. Hoping I could find some way to distract him long enough to give myself a chance to overpower him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You needed Wade’s help last night when you hanged Charlie Darke.’
He laughed, but it was without mirth. ‘Wade knocked on the sheriff’s door. That’s all Wade did. Don’t worry, Indian man, I won’t need any help to kill you.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cole Grant jabbed the barrel of his gun hard into my back. ‘Keep going,’ he said. ‘Round the back of the barn. No need to scare the horses in the stable.’ He gave one of his coarse, mirthless laughs. I half-turned my head. ‘Keep going,’ he said. ‘Don’t get any ideas. I don’t mind shooting you here.’
But I did have an idea. We were passing close to Red who stood patiently in the spot where I’d left him. He lifted his head and studied us as we began to pass behind him. I made a clicking sound with my tongue and saw his ears prick up.
Grant poked the gun at me again. ‘What you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, but by now I had passed behind Red and gave a sharp whistle. I rolled to the ground and simultaneously heard a yelp of pain from Grant and a gunshot. Red had kicked out, his rear hoofs hitting Grant with sufficient impact to lift him off his feet and drop him in the dust some five yards from me. He’d hung on to his gun, but, dazed by the unexpected blow, his reactions weren’t quick enough to bring it into play.
I gained my feet in an instant, ran forward and kicked the Colt from his hand. I grabbed a handful of his shirt and attempted to haul him to his feet. Cole Grant was a big man, and strong. He’d shaken off his surprise and brought his right fist up from the ground to punch me on the side of the head. I stumbled backwards, almost falling, but eventually keeping my balance. Grant had begun to slither towards his gun. I took a couple of steps and jumped on his back, bending my knees as I landed to drive the breath from him.
Astride his back I tried to get a grip around his throat but, besides his strength, it was clear that Cole Grant was no stranger to rough-house fighting. He grasped a handful of dirt and threw it over his shoulder into my face. My eyes stung as the dust covered them and, temporarily, I released my hold on him while I tried to clear my vision. He heaved me off his back and threw another right punch. I saw the blow coming only with enough time to turn my head so that it caught me behind my left ear. It carried enough force to pitch me face down into the dust. Now Grant was on my back, his hands locked on my forehead, pulling backwards, his knee pressed against my spine. I jabbed back with my elbow and felt his nose break. He cursed and, as spots of blood dropped into the dust, I rolled away from him. He was sitting on the ground, kicking his legs at me, hoping some lucky blow would incapacitate me.
Then he remembered the gun and turned his attention to finding it. It lay a couple of yards behind him. I saw it before he did, got to my feet and lunged at him before he spotted it. We wrestled for a few moments, each of us throwing punches with only a modicum of success. It wasn’t possible for either of us fully to swing our arms or aim our blows as we grappled to gain the upper hand.
Then the fight turned in Grant’s favour. We’d been struggling for supremacy, first one on top then the other, each trying to land a telling blow or get free for long enough to reach the pistol and put an end to the mêlée. We’d pushed each other away, got to our feet and somehow Grant came up with a length of timber in his hand, a broken carriage-shaft. It was over three feet long and in the hands of someone as powerful as Cole Grant it was a deadly weapon. It came at me in a great arc and crashed into my left upper arm. The blow lifted me off my feet. Once again I found myself with dust in my mouth, but that and the injured arm weren’t my only discomfort. I had landed on something hard, something dug painfully into my midriff.
But now Grant stood over me, a gleam of victory in his eye. He lifted the great cudgel again, intent upon smearing my brains all over the yard. Before he could deliver the blow, Red came once more to my rescue, rearing above him, forehoofs clawing the air. Grant backed away from the assault with Red following him, snorting, stamping and rearing, until Grant turned and began running. I levered myself off the ground. Underneath me was Grant’s gun. I picked it up and followed him and Red round to the front of the house.
Grant had reached his own horse and was slinging himself into the saddle. He pulled his rifle from the fancy saddle boot and jerked the mechanism to ensure a bullet was in the breech. He braced it against his hip and swung it back towards the corner where I stood. But this time I wasn’t his intended target. It was Red he sought. Before he could aim I fired the Colt. The bullet didn’t hit him but got close enough to make him reconsider his action. He fired at me. I felt the wind of the bullet pass my right ear. I fired again, the lead ricocheted off the corral rail. Urged on by Grant’s spurs, the cow-pony leapt forward. Grant’s rifle roared again, but, shooting backward from a galloping horse, there was little danger of being hit.
On the ranch-house porch stood Roly, the cowboy who had got the drop on me earlier. By his bemused expression I gathered he’d witnessed Red’s pursuit of Cole Grant. He hadn’t drawn his six-gun. I pointed the one I held at him.
‘Take off that gunbelt and throw it over here,’ I told him. He did so without speaking. ‘Is that my gun you’ve got tucked in your waistband?’ He touched the butt and lifted it clear. ‘Gently,’ I called. ‘Throw that over here, too.’ I picked it up, checked that the cylinders were loaded and put it in my holster. ‘When the posse gets here tell them to get across to the Darke ranch as quickly as possible. Do you understand?’ He nodded. ‘Now lie down and stay down until I’m well clear of this place.’ He did it in stages, down on one knee, then both knees, then pressed his palms flat on the ground before finally stretching his length on the porch. I climbed on to Red and slapped his neck. ‘Come on, boy,’ I said, ‘let’s finish this off.’
Grant’s horse was kicking up dust more than half a mile ahead. He was hitting the ground hard, travelling fast, aiming, I suspected, to catch up to the slower-moving Wade Barton who was a further distance in front. Wade had started something he couldn’t stop. What had begun as a way of getting his hands on some cash to pay off his gambling debts had snowballed. Now he would settle for nothing less than owning the Silver Star and Annie’s Circle D ranch. He had proved he would stop at nothing to get them and now I suspected that the lives of his father, brother and Annie Darke were in imminent danger.
I didn’t run Red flat out. What I’d seen of Grant’s pony, though a good working horse, didn’t encourage the belief that it would be capable of maintaining its early pace for any great distance. Over a long run I had confidence in Red’s abilities. I hadn’t yet seen his match for speed and stamina. We followed at a steady pace, the land hereabouts being low and level so that I could see the pair in front. I’d covered more than a mile when they met up.
By this time they were approaching a more undulating landscape. I urged Red to lengthen his stride; this was strange territory to me and I had no wish to lose them. I galloped the mile that had separated us when Grant had reached Wade, ce
rtain that by doing so I had rapidly closed the gap between us, but, when I reached that point, they had disappeared into the folds of the hills. I slowed Red, constantly checking the ground for signs of their trail. It was clear enough to follow, the dry ground clearly showing hoof prints which I followed around the lower slope of one hill and over a rise into a dry valley.
I brought Red to a halt and scanned ahead, hoping to catch sight of them. Their mounts were still moving fast and their route followed the line of the valley. Half a mile ahead it curved away to the left. I was surprised that they were still so far ahead of me, but Wade had the advantage of knowing the terrain. There were no tell-tale wisps of dust to be seen, neither along the valley nor up the hillsides. I tapped Red’s flanks with my heels and we continued the pursuit.
I hadn’t covered a hundred yards before I spotted their ruse. I dismounted this time, taking my rifle from its scabbard as I did so. Knowing Grant’s predilection for ambush it was to be expected that I’d be led into a trap. Probably it was Wade who chose the location but it had to be Cole Grant who was waiting to pull the trigger.
It was the hoof-prints that betrayed their plan. There had been a gradual slowing of pace, marked by the depth of print and shorter distance between strides, but then the pace had quickened again and the horses had run on to the bend in the valley. Now, however, one of the horses was lighter. The rider, probably Grant, had jumped off. It took only a few seconds to spot the disturbed scrub where he had landed, stumbled forward, then made a beeline for the slope which led to the crest of the hill.
Although I was well within rifle range from the hillside, no shot had been fired at me which could only mean that at that moment I wasn’t under surveillance. There had to be a more advantageous position for a sniper further round the valley. I led Red into the shade of some cottonwoods then began a cautious climb up the hill, following the footsteps of my would-be assassin.
A light breeze blew along the crest of the hill, cooling my face and body as I pressed my ear to the ground. There were no vibrations. He’d found a good spot and now waited patiently for me to ride into his line of fire. I shuffled slowly forward, raising my head now and then, seeking a sound or a sight or a smell that would disclose his position.
Suddenly he was a mere handful of steps away from me, lodged between two boulders, one of which he was using as a rest for his rifle to give him extra accuracy. Despite the heat he hadn’t removed his brown jacket, figuring, I guess, that his wait would be short.
I stood up and set myself in a firm stance. ‘Grant,’ I said, my voice soft and low allowing the breeze to take it to his ears. His shoulders stiffened, the grasp on his rifle tightened, his head turned ever so slightly as though satisfying himself that the wind hadn’t lied. Then he spun, his rifle came up and his finger found the trigger.
But I fired first, the shot hitting him in the chest and pushing him further into the space between the rocks from where he’d hoped to shoot me. I fired again, then again. Each slug thumped into his chest, jerking his body deeper into the fissure. I left him there where death had claimed him, suspended, upright, the barrel of his rifle still gripped in his left hand.
From the top of the hill I looked into the valley below. Grant’s pony, complete with fancy Mexican saddle, waited alone further along the trail. In the distance I could see the dust trail of Wade Barton’s mount as it progressed on its journey north. If he’d heard the shots they didn’t cause him to pause, but then, he wouldn’t expect Cole Grant to make a mess of this ambush; his own liberty depended on it. But though he had failed it didn’t alter the fact that he’d caused my delay. Ahead of Wade I recognized the hill line that formed the ridge above Annie’s ranch. I had no hope of catching him before he got there.
I hurried down to Red, untied him, shoved the rifle into the saddle boot and swung myself into the saddle. He ran as he’d never run before, Grant’s brown pony shying away from the trail, startled by the speed of our approach. Ten minutes later I was on the heights where Hawk had found the first spent Springfield shells. Without slackening pace I guided Red towards the road from town, then turned him to the fence line at Annie’s ranch. As we came through the gate I snatched Red to an abrupt halt. Face down on the ground, the folds of her skirt lifting in the breeze, was a body. Even Red’s speed had proved insufficient. I had arrived too late. I stepped down to take Annie in my arms.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
There was an unexpected heaviness about the body when I turned it over, and a greyness about the hair that flipped in the breeze, and lines in the face that bespoke more years than Annie Darke had lived. My relief that the woman in my arms wasn’t Annie didn’t dissolve the block of anger in my guts. This woman, Mrs Lowe I presumed, who was guilty only of acting neighbourly, had died alone and in pain. Her hands were formed into two tight fists, her face distorted by the final agony. Blood had spread, ugly brown, over the bodice of her plain, grey frock. I laid her head on the ground and headed for the house.
There was an unnatural stillness about the place, an air of desolation such as I’d encountered at abandoned mountain cabins and worked-out mines. No birds sang, no sound carried, as it had the night before, from nearby herds or their human herders. The bunkhouse was silent as, too, was the ranch house. Even Wade’s horse, loosely hitched to the veranda rail, stood motionless, head lowered, as though ignoring the death that had occurred in the yard.
It didn’t seem possible that my arrival had passed unnoticed, but Wade expected Cole Grant to join him, perhaps he was so sure of his own schemes that he gave no thought to their being foiled. I drew my gun and cautiously peered through a window. There were signs of a scuffle. A chair was on its side and the table was displaced from its central position. A couple of cups were overturned on the table, and, on the floor near the door to the bedroom, lay Duke Barton. I lifted the latch on the door and stepped inside.
Sinister sounds came from the bedroom, sounds that were human but which didn’t have their source in any physical experience. I couldn’t describe them as growls or giggles, or groans or moans, but it seemed to me that they registered the culmination of some deep-seated need, though whether the person from whom they issued experienced joy or despair I couldn’t tell. Stealthily, I crossed to the bedroom.
Duke Barton, grey and bruised, raised his head from the floor. ‘Help,’ he said, the word no more than a fading whisper.
‘Help!’ cynically repeated a voice from the bedroom, ‘it’s too late for that.’
I stepped over Duke and paused in the doorway. Wade looked at me over his right shoulder while pressing down on a pillow which covered Chet’s face.
‘That’s enough,’ I told him. ‘Step away from the bed.’
I have observed three types of men under imminent threat of death: those who accept the inevitability of their fate and face it full on; those whose faith and bravery fails them and plead for the thin thread of their life to be sustained; and those who, by invention and trickery, seek to cheat Death’s scythe. But which man will act in which manner is unknown to him unless that moment arrives. Wade Barton proved to be the resourceful kind.
How he picked up the lamp I cannot tell. One moment he had both hands pressed on the pillow then, at my command, he raised the pillow from his brother’s head and turned towards me. Somehow, perhaps by screening his left hand with the pillow, he grasped the heavy lamp from the table by the bed and flung it at me. I fired, but it was a secondary reaction, my first being to fend off the object he’d thrown at me. Consequently my shot struck the roof. I took a step back, stumbled and fell over Duke Barton. Even so I was able to fire another shot before Wade could draw his own gun. That too was off target. Before I could fire again Wade slammed the door closed, leaving him in the bedroom and me on the floor of the main room. I fired a third shot but the door was too thick to be penetrated by a .45 slug.
‘Come on out, Wade,’ I shouted. ‘The posse can’t be far behind. You can’t escape.’
I didn’t
get any response. I reloaded the three emptied chambers and threw a glance at Duke. His eyes were open and his lips were moving but if there was any sound coming from his mouth I couldn’t hear it. His skin was the colour of uncooked dough and I knew he was dying. I couldn’t see any bloody wound on his chest or head. I touched his hand with my own but could offer him no greater solace. My concern at the moment was for Chet who lay at his brother’s mercy beyond the door. I had no immediate strategy to get either brother out of the room. Rushing the door would be suicide. I called again, and again Wade refused to answer.
The bedroom, I recalled, only had the one door, the one which connected it to the main room, but it did have a window. I figured that if I spoke to him again, convinced him that I was still in the front room, I could slip out through the door and get the drop on him from the rear window.
So that’s what I did. ‘Come on Wade, throw out your gun.’ It was too late for that, of course. When he opened the door he would come out shooting. I spoke about the posse again, he would know that he had no chance of escape once they arrived. But all was quiet in the other room so I went outside, hurrying off the veranda and round the side of the house. I turned the corner at the same time as Wade came round from the back of the house. He’d come out through the window that I’d intended to cover him from. We saw each other at the same moment, and exchanged shots. He carried a rifle, a more dependable and accurate weapon than my six-shooter, so I dodged back around the corner, vaulted the veranda rail and squatted on the porch step. Suddenly Wade stepped into view, firing five or six shots that splintered wood from the veranda rails, wood from the chair by which I crouched, and lifted my hat from my head and sent it skimming through the air. I fired two quick shots, dived through the open doorway and kicked the door closed behind me.
