by Paul Durst
Dead Man’s Range
PAUL DURST
Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
By the same author
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
The train ground to a halt and a solitary passenger swung down to the platform. Dumping his warbag beside him he pulled a sack of tobacco from his shirt and gazed about him in the noonday heat. The man stood drawing idly on his cigarette, glancing up at the sign that read: SAND VALLEY. He hadn’t noticed the train had gone, had no idea he had been standing there as long as he had. After eight years in prison a man has a strange sense of time.
He gazed beyond the depot toward the town. It had grown a little, but not much. He wondered if anybody here would remember him. Hardly likely. He had only been passing through when it happened and they sent him off to the state prison at Huntsville. Nobody would recognize him now, at twenty-eight, as the youngster he had been then. He found grim satisfaction in that. Picking up his warbag he crossed the depot platform and started up the single dusty street.
The heat lay heavy everywhere, even in the shade. He could even feel the heat of the dust as his boots sank into it. Sand Valley, Texas. Dust Valley would suit it better, he thought. He squinted his eyes against the glare and glanced beyond the length of the street.
A few assorted wagons were scattered along the street between an occasional tethered pony, and towards one of these a woman was leading a little girl of seven or eight followed by a scampering black and white puppy. The woman got into the buckboard and waited for the girl to follow with the pup. But the pup would not be caught, yipping playfully and dodging beneath the vehicle, ignoring the girl’s cry of, ‘Pinto, come here!’
Jeff Carmody lowered his warbag to the ground and stood watching. It was not the pup nor the girl that held his attention, but the woman. She was the first woman of his own age he had seen in eight years. The only woman, save two elderly ranchers’ wives on the train. He felt a strange hollowness inside him at the sight of her. Her face was turned partly toward him as she watched the girl and the pup with an amused smile, but she had not seen him. He was glad of that, for it let him look his fill. He was sorry when the pup was caught at last and hoisted aboard and the buckboard clattered down the street.
Carmody gave a sigh and bent down to retrieve his warbag when a scream and a clatter brought him upright again. The buckboard had lost a wheel and had settled down on the rear axle, raising a cloud of dust as it dragged to a stop. The woman and the girl were stepping gingerly down from their tilting seat and glancing hopelessly at the wheel. The pup had tumbled to the ground and was now capering excitedly about, barking his enthusiasm.
In eight bitter years Carmody had forgotten how to smile. He was unaware that his offer of help sounded brusque and he wondered at the strange look the woman gave him when she accepted. He saw the woman was holding the hub nut out to him and noticed the wedding ring.
‘This came off,’ the woman was saying. ‘I’ve got a wrench under the seat, but there’s no jack. I’m afraid we’ll have to unload before you can get it on. Those sacks of flour and things are pretty heavy.’
Carmody said nothing. Eight years of breaking granite boulders with a sledgehammer – and she thought he’d need a jack. He caught a corner of the buckboard in his right hand, balancing the wheel on the ground with his left.
‘Oh, don’t try to lift it, you’ll break your back! There’s a blacksmith just down the street, you can borrow a jack there.’
Carmody braced his feet, lifting with his right hand. The heavily-laden buckboard came slowly upright. He juggled the wheel into place, then stepped back and began threading the nut. He could feel the woman looking at him.
‘You said you had a wrench, ma’am?’
She didn’t answer, but he could hear rummaging under the seat. When she handed it to him their eyes met. He saw something in hers he didn’t quite understand. Disapproval, maybe. Perhaps she thought he’d been showing off. No, it wasn’t that. Maybe the mark of prison was still in his eyes.
He finished and stood up. ‘That ought to hold,’ he said.
‘I’m much obliged,’ she said sincerely.
There was a sudden clatter of hoofs and he heard the girl cry, ‘Pinto, come back!’ He turned and saw half a dozen riders coming down the street at a canter. The pup was racing toward them, yipping at the ponies’ heels, oblivious to the shouts and curses of the riders as they fought their spooking mounts.
One of the riders pulled up short in front of them, his bronc wheeling in frenzy as the ball of black and white fur yipped at his fetlocks. ‘Lady, git that gawdamn dawg of yours out’n the way afore I shoot the sonofabitch!’
Carmody saw the woman’s face redden. ‘Just control your horse, and your language, Mister Anson and ride on by. The pup won’t follow. Penelope, stand back!’
At the mention of his name the rider jerked his eyes from the pup to glance at her. ‘Oh, so it’s you, Mrs Merriweather.…’
Merriweather! The name sent a tremor through Jeff Carmody and he jerked his head instinctively to look at her, his pulse quickening. Merriweather had had a wife, he’d heard. But she’d been back East at the time of the trial. Gone back to Missouri so that her mother could look after her while she had her baby. He found himself looking at Penelope. Eight years ago. Yes, it was just possible. Good God!
The shock of hearing the name had driven everything else from his consciousness. It wasn’t until he heard Penelope scream and the shot that followed that he jerked himself back to the present.
The pup rolled over in the dust under the impact of the heavy slug, kicked convulsively and lay still.
‘… maybe that’ll learn you to keep all your livestock out’n other folks way. An’ if any more of your cows come driftin’ onto my range after this they’ll get the same medicine.’
Penelope was bent over the pitiful remains, stroking the still-warm fur while her mother stood ashen-faced, staring up at Anson.
Carmody broke out of his trance and stepped up beside the man’s stirrup as Anson re-holstered his pistol. ‘Get down,’ Carmody said quietly.
Anson jerked his head to look at him. ‘What did you say, mister?’ he rasped in hoarse anger.
‘You heard me,’ Carmody said without raising his voice. ‘I said get down.’
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Never mind who I am – just do as I say.’
The man’s hand whipped at the Colt. Carmody threw his arms in the air and yelled, ‘Hold it! I haven’t got a gun!’
Anson paused, then let the Colt slip back. ‘Then maybe you’d better get one – or else don’t go around shootin’ off your mouth.’
Carmody was standing close to the man’s stirrup, and now he slipped his hand under the latigo and closed his fist around it. It was like a shoestring in his grasp.
‘You gonna get down?’
Anson glanced at Carmody, weighing him up. He was a big man himself, but he could see this angry youngster wasn’t exactly puny. The advantage lay in the gun. If the stranger wanted to pick a fight with an armed man, then that was his own lookout.
‘Why don’t you try and make me?’ he rasped.
There was a split-second of dead silence in which everybody froze, waiting.
; Anson saw Carmody move and started his draw, but his target disappeared with the loud pop of the latigo breaking as Carmody heaved upwards, tearing saddle and rider from the horse’s back. The other five sat in slack-jawed astonishment for just an instant before clawing for their guns, but Carmody knew what was coming and didn’t wait. He jerked the bridle of Anson’s mount and slapped the animal hard on the belly with the flat of his hand, sent him spinning into the five mounted men with resultant chaos. Anson landed on the flat of his shoulderblades, taking the weight of the saddle in his groin. He rolled, gasping painfully for breath, trying groggily to bring his gun to bear. Carmody flung himself on Anson, clamping one hand on the man’s gun, shoving the other under his chin and forcing his head back till Anson’s eyeballs showed white. The gun hand went limp and Carmody flipped the Colt, covering the others from a crouch.
‘Hold it!’ Carmody shouted in warning.
All movement ceased abruptly. The five mounted men glared down at him, some with half-drawn guns, still undecided.
‘Holster and shuck ’em, boys,’ Carmody said quietly.
Nobody moved.
The hammer clicked twice to full cock, unmistakably clear in the silence. ‘I don’t mean pretty soon – I mean now!’
In slow motion the guns slid away, angry fingers fumbled with gunbelts followed by the thud of gun harness in the dust. Carmody straightened, relaxed, and glanced at Anson stumbling to his feet.
‘Saddle up, mister. It’s hot standing here.’
Anson picked up saddle and blanket, dumping them on his mount. ‘It’s gonna be a damn sight hotter when I catch up with you, feller,’ he gritted, looping the busted latigo without taking his eyes off Carmody.
‘I’m scared stiff,’ Carmody said.
Anson pulled himself painfully into the saddle and leaned heavily on the pommel. ‘You ain’t seen the last of me, fella.’
The man jerked his head to his riders to follow and they cantered off, riding stiff-backed and angry. Carmody followed them with his eyes till they were hidden in their own dust, then he turned around. Penelope was still holding the dog tightly to her.
‘He’s dead, Mommy,’ she sobbed.
Mrs Merriweather leaned over and hugged the little girl to her, swallowing hard. She glanced up at Carmody. ‘I-I don’t know how to thank you,’ she said with difficulty.
Carmody squatted in front of Penelope and ruffled the dead pup’s ear. ‘He ain’t bad dead, little lady,’ he said. ‘He’s just kind of busted up a little. Tell you what, why don’t you let me have him for a day or two? Maybe I can fix him up.’
‘Fix – fix him up!’ Penelope’s eyes widened with hope. ‘Could you really, mister?’
Carmody saw the woman shaking her head at him, trying to save her daughter the torment of hoping for something that could never be. He gave her a solemn wink over Penelope’s head and said, ‘Well, I can’t fix him myself. But I’ve got a doctor friend who’s awful good with dogs. I’ll take Pinto over there. He might not look exactly the same when you get him back, understand. Doc might have to put him back together a little different, shift the spots around some to get the pieces to fit. But it might take a little time.’
‘Oh, I’ll wait!’ she said, holding the broken carcass out to him.
Carmody took it and turned to the buckboard. There was a gunnysack there and he took it out. As he turned around again he noticed people were beginning to come out of a few buildings along the boardwalk and stand staring in their direction now that the danger seemed past. He folded the gunnysack and laid the pup carefully on it. ‘Reckon he ought to be comfortable like that till I get him to the doc,’ he said convincingly.
While Penelope bent over the pup in wondering admiration, Carmody turned to her mother. ‘Who’s your friend?’ he asked.
‘Booth Anson? He owns the big spread next to our little place. Anson’s Anvil. He’s a troublemaker.’
‘He didn’t strike me as bein’ real neighbourly.’
‘Always pushing little people around. He’s tried to buy me out, and when I wouldn’t sell he started trying to make things so uncomfortable that I’d leave. But I guess I’m just stubborn. My husband got killed eight years ago.…
I know, Carmody thought. God, how well I know!
‘… and since then it seems there’s been nothing but trouble.’ Then she smiled. ‘Thanks, again, for all the help. Will we see you again?’
Carmody found himself smiling for the first time in eight long years. ‘I reckon.’
‘Anybody can tell you where we live,’ she said, starting for the buckboard. Carmody gave her a hand up and lifted Penelope up beside her.
‘What’s your name, mister?’ Penelope piped.
Carmody hesitated. ‘Why – Jeff. Jeff Connolly.’
‘Goodbye, Jeff,’ she said solemnly.
Carmody stuffed Anson’s gun inside his waistband and gathered the others, slinging the belts over his shoulder. Then he stepped up onto the boardwalk. Blank faces and curious stares followed him as he passed. Outside the barbershop one man ventured to ask, ‘What was all the ruckus about, stranger?’
‘What ruckus?’ Carmody said, eyeing him.
The man edged back toward the door uneasily, sorry he’d opened his mouth. ‘Why – nothin’, I guess.’
‘Where’s the sheriff’s office?’
The man pointed. ‘Down there. Next to the post office. Mose ain’t there, though. He rode to Canadian this morning early.’
‘Mose?’
‘Mose Dalmas. The sheriff.’
Carmody remembered now. He’d forgotten the name. So it was the same man that had been here eight years ago. If anybody would recognize him it would be Dalmas.
Carmody nodded and walked on. Outside the sheriff’s office he stopped. There was a sign on the door: BE BACK TOMORROW. LEAVE ALL MESSAGES AT POST OFFICE.
The ‘post office’ turned out to be in a general store. A bald-headed oldster sitting behind the counter peered at him over steel spectacles. ‘Where’d you get all them guns?’ he said in amazement.
‘Booth Anson’s crowd,’ Carmody said. ‘If I leave them here will you give them to the sheriff when he comes back?’
The postmaster-storekeeper pulled a wooden soap box from under the counter. ‘Dump ’em in there. I’ll be right happy to see Mose gets ’em when he comes back.’
They buried the pup in a corner of the back yard, and when they had finished and put the spade away Carmody said, ‘Any idea of where I can find another pup? I promised Penelope one.’
The old man scratched his bald head reflectively. ‘That’s a tall order, mister. Wait a minute though – seems I heard my wife talkin’ about dogs last week. Hold on while I go ask her.’ He went inside and opened a door that led to living quarters upstairs. ‘Emmy!’ he shouted. A woman’s voice answered and he said, ‘Wasn’t you sayin’ somethin’ last week about somebody havin’ a litter of pups they wanted to get rid of?’ The woman said something Carmody couldn’t hear and the man nodded and closed the door. When he came back he said, ‘There’s a rancher named Henstridge lives down on the Canadian river. They was up for supplies last week and his missus told my woman they had a litter of pups they was gonna have to get rid of. It’s a long way, and they might have drowned ’em by now, but if you really want one and don’t mind a long ride.…
‘How far is it?’
‘’Bout ten mile. Take the stage trail to Canadian and branch off at the first creek you come to and follow the wagon track due south. You can’t miss it.’ Then he said, ‘You a friend of Mrs Merriweather?’
‘You might say I was.’
The man nodded. ‘Thought I’d seen you around somewhere.’
Carmody asked, ‘You seem to sell pretty near everything – you don’t happen to carry Colt handguns, do you?’
The storekeeper turned back inside. ‘Let’s take a look. I think I got one or two somewheres about. One’s second-hand, but it’s in good shape.’
Carmody waited
while he rummaged among various boxes on the shelves. ‘Here they are,’ he said, laying them on the counter. ‘The new one comes kind of high. Thirteen-fifty. But I took the other one on trade and I can let you have it for five dollars. It’s in good shape.’
Carmody inspected the new one first. It was a Remington .38. A good gun, but he was prejudiced against the calibre. He laid it aside and picked up the other, a Colt’s frontier model .45. It had had good care, and the action was smooth. He bought it, plus a harness and box of cartridges. Then he inquired about a horse.
‘There’s a livery stable just down the street,’ he was told.
‘Thanks,’ Carmody said.
At the door he remembered something and turned back. ‘I see you carry a pretty good line of spurs.’
‘Sure. I can fix you up with about any size you want.’
Carmody shook his head. ‘I got mine down the street in my warbag. I just want some information.’ He opened the flap of his shirt pocket and pulled out an object and dropped it on the counter. ‘Ever sell anything like that?’
Gabe Ranson picked up the thing Carmody had dropped and adjusted his glasses. It was a spur rowel, three-quarter inch, eight pointed, with silver inlay radiating from the hole in the centre out along each spoke. ‘Might have done,’ he mused, turning it over. ‘I’ve handled a lot in my day. Why, you tryin’ to match a pair of rowels?’
Carmody reached for the rowel and put it back in his pocket, shaking his head. ‘I just thought you might remember selling a pair with rowels like that. I’m looking for the man who lost this one.’
CHAPTER 2
It was nearly sundown when Jeff Carmody re-crossed the stage trail near the edge of the caprock high above the valley of the Canadian. Across the pommel in front of him lay a six-week-old pup.
The high plateau of the northern Panhandle lay before him, rolling a little, then gradually flattening until it stretched like a tabletop into the blue haze of evening dusk. Off to his left, toward the west, he caught the reflected light of the setting sun as it struck fire from the top of the water tank beside the depot at Sand Valley. The heat of the day had begun to fade, and already he caught the first breath of coolness of the approaching night. Shadow of horse and rider stretched long on the parched grassland, and inside his shirt the pup had fallen asleep, one paw and a black button nose visible between shirt buttons.
