Feud at Broken Man

by Frank Callan

  The Feud at Broken Man

  Lord Harry Lacey, the youngest son of an English aristocrat, has run away from debts at home to start a new life in America, using his skills with horses and guns to make a living as he journeys west to Colorado. Then he decides to give up his guns and start a new life as a public speaker in the new settlements where he believes people will be keen to experience culture.

  However, arriving in Broken Man en route for Denver, Lord Harry witnesses a young girl being wounded in crossfire, and quickly learns that the town is being torn apart by a feud. Seeing an opportunity to do something useful, he tries to influence local leaders to resolve the situation – only to find that some disputes can only be settled with a gun.

  The Feud at Broken Man

  Frank Callan

  ROBERT HALE

  © Frank Callan 2018

  First published in Great Britain 2018

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2605-4

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Frank Callan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Chapter 1

  The stage was now finally well into Colorado and the occupants inside were exhausted, thirsty and ratty. Altercations could easily have been ignited by a jibe, a criticism or any passing remark which could have been taken the wrong way. A fat middle-aged man in a dark jacket and striped trousers had complained for the first forty miles of the present leg of their long journey; he had moaned about the small noisy child who squealed and cried at every jolt of the vehicle; her mother soothed, comforted, offered food and then finally she and her child had slept, huddled up to each other. There was a tall man who was clearly a country man, a man used to handling steers and leather: young, raw-faced and weather-beaten, with a sour expression. Then there was an old couple, heading west to visit their daughter who worked in Broken Man.

  Finally, filling a corner, with his long legs struggling to find a resting place where they would not irritate any of the fellow passengers, there was Lord Harry Lacey. He was wearing a white shirt, dark trousers and some ex-army issue boots; his fair hair was long and stringy, and his face, hairy and weather-beaten, skulked beneath a battered hat. He had piercing blue eyes and was well over six feet tall, and so the young mother couldn’t avoid looking at him when they all boarded the stage, and he smiled when he saw her glances, tipping his hat and giving his name: ‘Lord Harry Lacey, Ma’am, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

  She had blushed slightly and looked away. But the other passengers had noted the name. The old man had asked, ‘Excuse me, mister, but you have an English voice under the Yankee one, to match that lordship you mention. You a new arrival from the old country, and are you actually a lord?’

  ‘Oh, it’s my professional name, see. Every legal contractor seems to have one. I have friends called Handy, Navaho and Captain, and no, I’ve been this side of the great ocean for three years, sir.’

  ‘Legal contractor?’ the old man’s wife had asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m a bookish sort of man, sir. I earn my corn by lecturing. I like to think that I bring a little East Coast conversation out here where folk are making a new land, a good, pure land.’

  The other passengers wanted to have this clarified, but the old man knew what the words meant and he whispered in his wife’s ear: ‘He’s lying . . . he’s a bounty hunter . . . man’s a hired killer . . . see, he has that look. I seen it a thousand times. Under the smooth talking he’s a ruthless killer.’

  Harry knew that the whole company had heard this whisper, but he pretended not to notice. Anyway, he decided that some conversation would help remove the boredom.

  ‘Look folks, we been together a long time, and only spoken a word or two. You all heading for Broken Man?’

  The fat man said, ‘Certainly. On business. There’s a whole bunch of possibilities out in Colorado.’

  The countryman smiled, ‘Mister . . . I’m going to meet my woman!’

  The others gave little words of happiness and congratulation, and the little girl asked if he was getting married. ‘Well, that’s what I’m pinning my hopes on, sweety . . . wish me luck!’ Now they all clapped hands and the old lady tapped his arm.

  ‘What about you, mister . . . you going to do some chin-wagging, I reckon?’ the fat man asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Most certainly. Broken Man has a fine literary society . . . word about it has spread far and wide.’

  There were more whispers, and this time, Harry couldn’t make out what was being said. So he tilted his hat and pretended to sleep, all the while listening to the tittle-tattle. In his head, the man’s remarks about bounty-hunting rolled around in his brain. The word was a torment to him because yes, he had done some man-hunting, among a dozen other jobs, since he arrived in New York three years back. He had soon learned that in this new world a man had to swallow pride and self-respect at first, just to put a claw in the hard land that promised so much but tended to wrench the guts out of any weak man.

  ‘Only one little problem in Broken Man. . . .’ This was the fat man again, ‘There’s a sheriff who seems to make enemies real easy, and the richest man around hates his guts. I heard that the lawman killed the rancher’s brother. Surprised it’s not led to a showdown yet.’

  ‘Soon will,’ the young man said, ‘I can feel it in my bones. It’s gonna come to a head.’

  Harry Lacey listened closely but said nothing. He knew all about life with a gun, and he knew how places tended to get split apart. This trip out west was his testing of new ground. He had heard the stories of how life was lived out there, but now he wanted to see for himself, and maybe help to steady the ship in what were, according to reports and the newspapers, stormy times now, as the war was left behind and the race for land went on apace.

  He had tried and tested any number of ways of life, but finally he had seen that violence gets more violence, and what the new country needed more than bullets was some refined behaviour, much as had been around him back home in Norfolk, where his father, Lord Kelvie, had made sure that the tough lives of his workers had enjoyed regular doses of singing, dancing and musical recitals. His father had believed in cultivating something he called sensibility, and Lord Harry believed in it. The problem was, he had never spoken the word since leaving the East for the less polite societies in the mid-West. Now here he was, venturing out further, expecting any minute to hear the sound of robbers or savages.

  But he was brought back into the present world and the stage when a voice said, ‘Mister, need a drink?’

  It was the young man who had a marriage proposal running through his head. Now he whispered as he offered the bottle to Harry. ‘Joe Dane, sir, at your service. Sir, I have to tell you . . . as you clearly don’t know this . . . Broken Man means trouble.’

  Harry was fully awake now. ‘Trouble? How?’

  ‘Well, the thing is you see, the sheriff and a character called Carney don’t see eye to eye, and what�
��s worse, they’ve been at each other’s throats for a good year or so now, and there’s men taking sides. I just thought you ought to know, sir. Matters will shortly come to a head.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Well, sir, because I’m Joe Dane and I know these things.’ He tapped his nose and gave a dark, menacing smile.

  The old man sat up and called out, ‘Ah, nearly there . . . I see the main street yonder, folks!’

  The travellers began packing bags and checking pockets. The mother and child sang a little song. Up above, the driver’s voice cried out, ‘Broken Man, Colorado, good people. Prepare to put on armour!’

  Everyone laughed, but it was forced. Harry could sense the anxiety behind the smiles. He thought to himself, as the stage pulled up and the brakes squealed, I’m a man without a weapon and I’m a few hundred miles west of reliable law.

  His information from the optimistic bachelor was not wrong. After Harry gathered his bags and let some time pass as the other travellers dispersed, he was aware of some kind of disturbance up the street.

  ‘It’s Jemmy’s dog and it’s gotten the mad head . . . come quick!’ That’s what Harry heard, and then he saw the panic running through all four streets of Broken Man. The voice that announced this was not located – it just came from some corner somewhere, and then other voices took up the cry. Soon every drunkard, cow hand, loafer, merchant and bar tender was out in the streets looking for the dog. They didn’t have to wait long. A great solid mastiff came scooting across by the sheriff’s office and started howling.

  ‘It’s black as hell and carries death!’ someone yelled. ‘Git inside you folk, less you wanna die!’ From all directions came cries of ‘Mad as hell dog!’ and ‘hyderphobee!’

  Sheriff Squint McCoy scrambled out, putting on his holster and in danger of shooting a hole in his foot as he had half a hand on his Colt. As he did this, the hound ran into The False Start saloon and there were screams of panic.

  ‘Don’t shoot, you’ll put some hot lead into a human body!’ said Happen Boodle, the owner, the foremost businessman of the town. He had run out to see what was happening, and then had gone to a drawer and brought out his mad-stone, a weapon reserved for emergencies; he grasped it firmly in his hand, so its powers could be working in case the teeth of the cur got sunk into him. His customers went under tables or ran into other rooms and slammed doors. The poor creature galloped outside again and Sheriff McCoy pulled out his gun, and pointed it at the beast – but at the instant he pulled the trigger, it ran towards two ladies who were just coming out of the general store, and the bullet splintered a square of the door frame. The ladies shrieked and fell flat on the ground, yelping like stuck pigs.

  Harry was watching all this from behind a huge water-barrel, and since he had abandoned his guns, he had never felt more helpless. Kids now flooded out into the high sun of the summer day. They were mostly the rabble, the horde of offspring from Elias Hole’s benighted family in their wreck of a home. In seconds, the rabble had cornered the dog, and its vicious teeth were out, ready for some gut-chewing work as the brood threw sticks at it and swore to high heaven.

  Elias Hole then appeared, a thick-set man as tall as a lynching tree with his hair down to his waist and his beard tucked into his belt. He had a spade, and he advanced on the hound with the alacrity of a scared rabbit. Ploughing through his rabble, he slammed the spade down on the cornered cur and there was one pitiful moan just before the creature went down and stirred no more.

  But Sheriff McCoy missed this and had only one thing on his mind: to shoot the dog. He walked briskly to the rabble, going by the heart-stopping howlings of the animal, and directed his gun at the source of the howl, just at the instant that Elias Hole entered the fray. Fortunately, the sheriff was no expert with a revolver and he hit a water trough. But Elias Hole was not skilled in constructive thinking, and he strode towards McCoy, spade in hand and murder in his heart.

  ‘Stop him! Stop that Hole!’ screamed Happen Boodle, and a crowd of assorted citizens ran out to pile on top of Hole before he could swing the spade again. He promised to behave, and the spade was yanked from him. He was left on the earth, head in the dust, and the recovery time gave him a minute to calm down.

  He gathered himself, tucked in his shirt and beard, and coughed. Then he walked back, away from the sun, back to his whiskey.

  A voice behind Harry said, ‘See, stranger, that’s what I mean about this town needing some manners. I keep telling folk this. Some little sprinkle of God dust!’ This came from Preacher Hoyt, a man with a smile like a sword-gash and a black suit pressed so that it could have stood rigid if he stepped out of it. He was there to meet Lord Harry and he had recognized him.

  ‘Seen your picture in the periodicals . . . Lord Harry Lacey, I reckon?’ Hoyt held out his hand, and Harry took it keenly. They both managed to smile.

  ‘You’ll get used to this kind of thing, Lord Harry . . . Sheriff McCoy and Hole are friends really . . . used to be on the same side, and maybe will be again, I hope.’ He saw Harry’s look and explained, as they walked towards the Hoyt home, ‘I’m afraid we live amid ill tempers and trigger-happy sawdust-heads, Lord Harry. But welcome all the same. Cherry pie and coffee await you!’

  Chapter 2

  At the Big Question, Itch Carney was taking advice as to whether he should call for the Doc. He was a man with a rankling, burning purpose in life, which was to get even with that louse, McCoy. There was nothing worse, in his opinion, than a partner who thieves and double-crosses, and that was what McCoy had done, and even worse, he had been responsible for a death.

  Itch was a big, square man who once in younger days had done every kind of work a man does on a cattle trail, including the occasional deviation from the law in a piece of rustling. Now, however, he had his steady remuda, good support for food and veterinary work, and everything a man of sixty could want, if we except the company of a woman. Truth is, that was nagging at him every day now, since he planned what was to be his last drive north before he hung up his ropes and chaps.

  Now, that last drive, he had sworn to himself, could not happen until McCoy was laid low. The only turmoil in his mind right at that time wasn’t if he would kill the man, but how and when. Trouble was, Itch was not a well man. Will Ringo, his closest compadre and the nearest thing he had to a son, said that he was sick because his mind was so bent on getting even, but there was something physical, he was thinking.

  Itch was basically seen in Broken Man as the big bald hombre with the irritating voice. He had been boss for a long, long time and had the voice to prove it. But this day, when his heart was pumping loud and his legs were wobbly, he was concerned.

  Itch sat on an old barrel, watching Will Ringo mend a fence.

  ‘Will, you noticed lately that you’re slender as a girl’s wrist?’

  ‘Pardon, Mr Itch?’

  ‘I was just thinkin’ while watchin’ you with that hammer, how slight you are. You sure you’re eatin’ right?’

  ‘Yeah. I always did worry my parents, I was so little. You want me to eat more raw meat?’ This was one of his jokes. He relished teasing the boss, and Carney sort of liked it. He liked to play, but had darkened into a more serious set of values since losing his kid brother.

  ‘No, forget it. Put down that hammer and come over here, son.’

  Will pushed back his hat, wiped off some sweat and sat on a stump. ‘Something on your mind, Mr Itch?’

  The boss wondered how much to say. Then he just went for it: ‘Son, you noticed I been different lately?’

  ‘Nope . . . except that you sit around more.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s the point. I’m not feeling too good – and here we are planning that drive up to the snow country. You reckon I should see the Doc?’

  Will frowned. ‘Well, you’re the boss. I can’t tell you . . . But I have to say that last time you saw Doc Potworthy the result was real strange. I mean, his advice was just stupid!’

  ‘Yea
h. You recall he said there was nothin’ wrong with me that a good hour with a loving, pure-hearted woman couldn’t put right?’

  Will nodded and then laughed. ‘Yeah, also with that golden medicine bottle!’

  ‘Yeah . . . did work though . . . for a while.’ Itch said, scratching his head. ‘Maybe I’ll see him tomorrow.’

  He left Will to the fence and wandered around, feeling like he was going to spew. But he wanted to keep that quiet so he went inside and sat with the old dog for a while, staring at the unused bottle of Golden Medical Discovery on the table. He had been unable to feel strong enough to risk taking it, bearing in mind that he knew two men who had drunk it and died within six months. His rational mind told him that this was just bad luck, and the Doc was most likely a sound man, but the nag was there, like a kid tugging at your coat. Anyway, as he was feeling rough as a buffalo hide and downright low, he carried on thinking about how he needed a woman. ‘She don’t have to be a woman as such,’ he thought, ‘But a wife.’

  Then he saw how stupid that line of thought was, and smiled to himself. He ran through the candidates around Broken Man: the woman at the store was too tedious; the girl at the stables was far too young. There was only really one woman he counted as right, and that was Perdy Candle, at The False Start. She was pure-hearted and that stood out like a bullet-hole in the temple.

  Yep, decision: he would see the Doc and get put right, and then maybe have an exploratory conversation with Perdy, just to test the ground. The woman could play the piano, he reflected, and she could surely cook. On top of that, well, there was love, if you could tell where it really was. Hell, he just wanted a female around the place, if only to look at. A woman somehow homed a place. You put a female in a square of dust and insects and she’d home it.