‘Come on, boy. Can’t you hit this ole Swede fella? Maybe you want a bigger target.’ The man spoke with a slight foreign accent. Suddenly he chuckled. ‘Aren’t I big enough for you to hit.’
His smile broadened as the young boy lunged forward with a flurry of punches. The big man back-peddled and swayed from side to side in an effort to avoid the blows. Some of the punches landed but most missed their intended mark.
For a big man he could move fast. However his movements were fluid and effortless. His own hand flipped out and he batted the young man on the side of the head. The youngster swung wildly in a futile effort to land a telling blow on his opponent. He was cuffed a few more times before he danced back out of range. He was breathing heavily from his exertions.
‘Damn you, Adam, you devil! The only way I’m gonna hit you is if I sneak up behind you with an axe handle and clobber you while you’re asleep.’
The big man dropped his arms and grinned broadly.
‘Even then I still get up and push axe up your lazy ass.’
The boy wiped sweat from his brow.
‘Can’t we have a break now? I think I’d rather rope a herd of steers as have these here boxing lessons from you.’
‘That remind me, Master Owen, if your brother come back and find we not finish that there branding we in heap pile of trouble.’
‘Damn my brother! I have to do all the work round here while he goes off gambling and sparking the ladies in town. It ain’t goddamn right!’
‘You shouldn’t swear that much, Master Owen. How you join polite society if you use that kinda language.’
‘I hate my brother.’
‘Hate is strong word, Master Owen. Remember the Old Testament story of Cain and Able. Cain hated his brother and it made him to murder Able.’
‘Well if Able was anything like Oliver, I can’t say I blame Cain.’
Shaking his head the older man walked to the water trough and bending low, dunked his head in the water. He came up spraying water and snorting like a wild bull. The youngster stepped beside him and performed the same cooling-off exercise.
‘Tell me true, Adam, am I ever going to be good enough to take on John Charles in the competition next week?’
‘You are coming on fine, Master Owen. You be ready well in time. You got youth, stamina and strength. Jus you listen to ole Adam here. You got to box. Don’t mix it. Charles knows a lot of dirty tricks when he get you close. He really hurt you if you let him get you in the clinch. The footwork I teach you is what win you the bout.’
Reaching out he affectionately rubbed the back of the youth’s head with a big meaty hand.
‘Why you want fight beats me. You have comfortable life here. Your brother not bad fella. When you of age he give you share of ranch.’
‘Goddamn it, Adam,’ the youngster interrupted fiercely. ‘I fight for the five hundred dollars in prize money. Oliver keeps me starved of cash. He says the ranch ain’t doing any good and he has to plough all the money back in the ranch. Last month he sold those steers in Abilene. He must have got two or three thousand for that deal. I never saw a dime of that. My guess is he spends it on women and gambling in town. Damn his rotten, stinking soul!’
‘Master Owen, I not have you swearing. It… it… not dignified.’
Owen grinned widely at his mentor.
‘If you weren’t so doggone good at fisticuffs I’d whip your starchy ass for your sass.’
The big hands reached for the youth but he danced out of reach leaving the older man shaking his head in mock exasperation. Before any more horseplay could take place both men stopped and listened to the sound of hoof-beats approaching the ranch buildings.
‘Boy, that be your brother, I bet. He back early and he not be pleased we not finish that branding.’
A big, mottled gelding pounded into the yard. At the last minute the rider hauled on the rains and the horse skidded to a halt in front of the barn. Its flanks were heaving and froth speckled its jaws. The rider was laughing and turned to watch as another horse and rider followed him into the yard.
‘Yippee!’ the first rider yelled. ‘That’s twenty dollars you owe me, Josh.’
The second rider was a lean, dark-haired man with deep-set eyes and a close-cropped, black beard. He was dressed from head to toe in black leather. As he dismounted a pair of low slung matching black Colts could be seen belted around his waist.
‘I guess you’re right, Oliver. You sure ride like the devil is up your ass.’
Oliver threw back his head and laughed aloud. He was a very handsome young man in his mid twenties. He was wearing an expensive tailor-made shirt with a silk kerchief knotted round his neck. With a smooth movement he slid from his panting mount. Without looking at the man he ordered Adam to take care of his horse then walked towards the house. Suddenly he noticed his younger brother standing near the barn glowering at him. He swung round.
‘You look like you ate something sour, brother,’ he observed. ‘You finished that branding?’
Instead of answering Owen ignored his brother and stared with some curiosity at his brother’s black-garbed companion.
‘I heard you call this fella Josh. Is he who I think he is – Josh Bassinet?’
The man Owen was inquiring about was standing beside his mount. He returned the youngster’s stare without any hint of warmth.
‘Brother, I asked you a question,’ Oliver demanded. ‘I’m still awaiting an answer.’
‘And I asked you, is this the killer, Josh Bassinet?’
‘You insolent puppy!’
With a few quick steps Oliver was by his brother’s side. He was still carrying his riding quirt and with a swift movement he raised it and slashed it across his brother’s shoulder. The reaction was swift and purely instinctive. Owen’s clenched fist hit his brother in the abdomen and as the older brother gasped and bent over, the other fist came up with a neat uppercut to the chin. Oliver slammed against the barn door and bounced back to be met with a right cross. He hit the ground and lay in the dust of the yard, blood seeping from his nose. Owen stood over his brother with clenched fists, his young face tight with anger.
‘Get up, Oliver! Get on your goddamn feet. I’m gonna thrash you. That’s the last time you hit me. You hear me.’
Oliver lay on his back staring up at his brother. He wiped a hand across his mouth. Blood smeared his lips.
‘I’ll kill you for this, Owen. You’re finished here. Get off this ranch. I never want to see you again.’
‘OK, Oliver, if that’s what you want. But I want my share of the ranch. Pa left the ranch to me as well as you. I was to get my share as soon as I came of age. You pay me my share and I’ll go. I won’t go empty-handed.’
‘You’ll do as your brother says. You’ll pack your things and get lost.’
The black-clad gunman moved close to the brothers. His eyes were cold as he stared at the angry youngster. The gloved hands hovered near his gun butts – the threat of gunplay implicit in his stance and attitude. Owen stared in defiance at this gunman.
‘You’re a brave man facing an unarmed youngster, fella.’
The voice came from behind Bassinet. The gunman went very still. In a blur of movement he whirled and the guns were in his hands. That was as far as he got. A big clenched fist hit him on the on the side of the head. As he staggered back another fist hit him in the face, and another. His boots snagged against the fallen Oliver and he sprawled to the ground. With swift movements Adam recovered the Colts from the dazed gunman. His look was contemptuous as he turned and tossed the weapons into the water trough.
‘Come, Master Owen, that branding won’t get done with all this here fooling round.’
Owen’s eyes were round with excitement and wonder as he stared at his big companion.
‘You know who that is? That’s Josh Bassinet the gunfighter!’
Adam turned and walked away. Owen had no option but to trail behind his companion. They left behind two bitter men. Men who had ri
dden into the yard so full of self-importance – now lying in the dirt of the yard, battered and very angry at the rough treatment received at the hands of a couple of men they regarded as common ranch hands.
Chapter Two
‘That Swede is dead.’ The voice was full of venom. ‘What about that brother of yours? You want I should take care of him at the same time?’
The two men had clambered to their feet. Oliver looked down with some distaste at the dirt on his clothes. He made ineffectual efforts to dust himself down.
Josh Bassinet had walked over to the water trough and with sleeves rolled up was fishing out his pistols. Using the trigger guard he hung each one on the wooden edge. He swore viciously and colourfully as he regarded the tools of his trade, now sopping wet.
‘Damn Swede is above his station. Why the hell you allow him to stay on here beats me.’
‘He worked for my father. He found him at a boxing booth. The owners were using him to fight anyone as cared to challenge him. The old fool offered him a job here and he’s stayed ever since.’ Oliver stared balefully after the two cowboys. ‘Just leave him alone for the time being. I want rid of my brother but in such a way that won’t connect me to the deed. Once I’ve solved that problem then the Swede’s yours.’
The gunman shot a bitter look at the rancher.
‘Just you say the word and I’ll take care of them both. No one hits Josh Bassinet and lives to boast of it.’
‘Just lay off for now, I’ll tell you when.’
‘I’ll have to dismantle these guns and clean them. I can’t risk them misfiring after that dousing. Goddamn that Swede to hell!’
‘Come up the house. We can have a drink while I think this out.’
*
Down in the corral the sparring partners had returned to the branding. The fire they had piled high with logs was now a bright red glow of embers. Adam stood by the fire, his hand on a wooden-handled branding iron. He watched as Owen came running a steer and expertly wrestled the bawling animal to the ground beside the fire. The beast struggled wildly. Owen lay across the forelegs, his arms and shoulders straining to keep the battling animal in position. Swiftly the Swede jabbed the branding iron on the side of the steer. The smell of singed hair and toasted flesh stung their nostrils. The beast bellowed loudly.
Owen rolled away from the steer. Bawling indignantly it gained its feet, and kicking out its hind legs in a futile effort to disable its tormentor, fled to the safety of the herd. Even as the beast was released the youngster was on his feet and racing to select another animal. Adam pushed the iron into the embers again and waited for the next offering. It was this physical wrestling with his charges that had given Owen his strength of arm and shoulder.
The longhorns were no demure domestic animals but half-wild from living and foraging out on the range. Every beast had to be driven and chivvied by the men who worked the herds. It was an unremitting struggle with recalcitrant steers and Owen loved the work and the sheer physical challenge of the labour.
Back on his pony Owen quickly cut out another beast and drove it towards his partner. His rope snaked out and dropped neatly onto the steer. The cowpony was almost as adept as was the cowpuncher, knowing just when to change direction and tighten the rope the rider had twined around the pommel. The steer went down and Owen, leaping nimbly from his pony, gripped the horns. Adam was there with the hot iron and another beast was branded with the letters A Y L I.
Owen’s father, Alex Lismore, had started the ranch by doing what his son was now doing. He had caught and branded wild steers. His wife Yvette had come up with the brand design made up of the initials of their names. The basin they worked became known as Ayli Valley.
Alex Lismore had owned the biggest ranch in the area. That changed with the arrival of Leonard Duke. Now, only a few short years since that advent, Alex Lismore was dead. Killed in a riding accident, was the official version. Muttered in private was the suspicion that an expert horseman like Alex Lismore was most unlikely to have an accident with his mount.
For Leonard Duke, the demise of the man who stood in the way of his acquisitions was opportune. He was in a position to cajole and bully Lismore’s heir, the flamboyant and extravagant Oliver Lismore, into parting with large swathes of his inherited land. With grazing for his own herds secured, Leonard Duke had set out to gobble up the small ranchers in Ayli Valley. Those unwilling to sell out to the newcomer found that disaster and even death resulted. Leonard Duke’s empire grew and prospered.
*
Up in the ranch house Oliver, looking surly and mean, was nursing a glass of whiskey along with his injured pride. Nearby sat Josh Bassinet, engrossed in drying and cleaning his weapons.
‘I tell you, I should have shot that upstart Swede,’ the gunman muttered savagely. ‘Nobody, but nobody treats me like that. We let him away with this and you won’t never have no peace.’
‘I’m thinking, Josh, I’m thinking. I can’t have my brother’s blood on my hands. If that happened I’d never be able to live in this community. People thought it funny my old man died in that accident. There was a lot of talk at the time. But no one actually pointed the finger at me. If Owen were to meet with the same fate I’d never live that down. It would reopen all the old rumours about my father’s death.’
‘That Swede’s been teaching him to box. That’s why he was able to down you. I tell you, let me kill the Swede and that’ll solve half your problem.’
Oliver was staring at his friend a sudden light in his eye.
‘Boxing! You got it, Josh. He’s put his name down for the boxing show coming to town.’
Josh looked up from his cleaning task.
‘What good’s that? No one’s never died from no boxing, at least not as far as I know.’
‘John Charles – he did kill a man once over in Kentucky. There was a lot of bad publicity over it. That’s why he’s had to take this job with a travelling show. They claim they’ll pay five hundred dollars to anyone as will stay three rounds with him. That’s what Owen is after. He wants that five hundred.’
‘So?’
‘So we get to Charles and offer him an incentive to make sure my brother doesn’t leave the ring alive.’
There was a sudden light in Josh’s eyes as he looked at his friend.
‘Son of a bitch! If that ain’t the sweetest deal I ever did hear. With your brother safely out of the way I pick a fight with that there Swede and we solve our problem. Son of a bitch.’
The men grinned at each other and raised their glasses.
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Brothers in Arms Page 15
