by Neil Hunter
‘Ballard. Step out here. We got business that won’t wait.’
Ballard turned slow and easy. He saw the figure stepping off the boardwalk outside The Golden Lady saloon.
Tall. Boney face. A pair of holstered pistols on his hips. Hands already hovering over them.
Ash Boynton.
‘Ballard, you don’t have your friends to back you now. So no walking away this time,’ Boynton said. ‘I told you your time was coming. We do this here and now.’
Ray Bellingham, who had exited the jail behind Ballard, stepped to the edge of the boardwalk, his hand close to his holstered Colt.
‘This is not happening,’ he said.
He picked up the movement behind him too late. Felt the twin muzzles of a shotgun press against his spine.
‘Stay out of this, lawdog,’ Rafe Kershaw said. ‘You let those two have their time. ‘
Ballard took his time turning fully around. He let his right hand hang over his gun as he faced Ash Boynton. Boynton was on the street, facing Ballard. The Texan paced off to confront the man.
‘Didn’t expect you to face me,’ Boynton said.
‘I suspect that. Way I figure having your man facing away is more your style,’ Ballard said. ‘Heard it told more’n once. Makes me remember how Harry Conway died.’
Boynton’s nostrils flared as he heard that.
‘You work that out all by yourself?’
‘I don’t hear you deny it.’
‘I don’t need to. See, Ballard, you need proof.’
Ballard let his gaze drop to the man’s feet. Small. Encased in boots with pointed toes.
‘You can tell a lot about a man from his tracks,’ he said. ‘Odd things. Like the size of his feet and the shape of his boots. Like the ones I saw where Harry Conway was killed. Or should say murdered. Shot in the back by a coward …’
Ballard knew then that was right right. The expression on Boynton’s lean face confirmed his thoughts. He was facing Harry Conway’s killer. Boynton still displayed the arrogance that was as much a part of him as the air he breathed but there was a trace of fear in his eyes as he faced the Texan.
‘Boynton, you just gave me the answer I needed,’ Ballard said
Boynton edged forward. There was a thin film of sweat on his face.
‘So?’
‘I just wanted you to know I got your cut. And backshooter about covers it.’
Boynton stiffened. His shoulders hunched slightly forward as he set himself.
‘Conway was a cinch. You’re making it too easy for me,’ he said. ‘And I ain’t forgetting Brookner either.’
Ballard smiled easily. Said, ‘There you go then. Two of a kind. We going to talk all day, or get it done?’
The Texan’s easy manner threw Boynton off for a thin second, but he was committed now and there was no stepping back.
His hands moved, fingers curling around the butts of the holstered Colts, doing what he had done so many times before, and he began to slide the revolvers free. Fast and smooth as always.
Even Ray Bellingham, watching close, failed to catch Ballard’s move.
He heard the heavy thunder of the shot and saw Boynton step back, a dark hole showing above his left eye. When he switched his gaze to Ballard he was barely in time to see the Texan’s gun drop back into his holster.
A burst of red erupted from Boynton’s skull as he slumped to his knees, then toppled face down in the street. The back of his head was split open and bloody where the .45 slug had exited.
Bellingham heard Kershaw gasp, thrown by the suddenness of the event. The shotgun barrels withdrew from Bellingham’s spine. The Marshal made his own fast draw, pivoted, and before Kershaw could react he whipped the cold steel across the side of Kershaw’s head. The Diamond-M hardcase went down, sprawling across the boardwalk. Bellingham took the shotgun and Kershaw’s handgun, then stepped back.
Figures were moving on the street, their curiosity peaking as they viewed Boynton’s bloody corpse.
‘He went for his guns first,’ Bellingham said. ‘You still outdrew him. I never knew you were that fast.’
‘Not something it’s wise to brag about,’ Ballard said.
‘How …?’
Ballard held up his right hand. It shook slightly. He flexed his fingers a few timed and the trembling eased off.
‘Comes down to you or the other feller,’ he said. ‘I guess wanting to be the one to walk away makes all the difference. And remembering what happened to Harry…’
‘You near enough got him to admit he killed Harry.’
‘Boynton’s kind like to talk.’
Cyrus Makin, Bellingham’s part time deputy appeared, his face pale. He was carrying a Greener, held close to his chest. The deputy could barely take his eyes off Ballard.
‘I never seen anything like that afore,’ he said.
‘With luck you’ll never see it again,’ Bellingham said. ‘Cyrus, you go fetch Doc and tell the undertaker to come as well. Now just you go and do that.’
Makin lumbered off along the street.
‘Boynton was bound and determined to call this down,’ Bellingham said. ‘It was a justified shooting, Chet, I’ll be witness to that.’
Ballard swept his hat off and ran a hand through his hair.
‘Justified, or no,’ he said, ‘it don’t make it any easier. You want my gun, Ray?’
Bellingham gave a shaky laugh. ‘Wouldn’t feel right even asking for it.’
‘What about Kershaw?’ Ballard asked.
Bellingham glanced down at the stunned figure sprawled on the boardwalk.
‘He’s got a stretch in a cell coming. Armed assault against an officer of the law.’
‘He got off light,’ Ballard said, glancing at Boynton’s body. ‘You need me to sign any paperwork, ’cause if not I believe I’ll go get me a drink over to the Quarter Horse Saloon.’
Chapter Seven
McCall had ridden for a few hours. A steady pace that covered the miles and drew him away from Beecher’s Crossing and Lazy-C. He rode empty land. For the most part wide and untouched. Not exactly barren, but showing no signs of habitation, or even a suggestion of it. Ahead, hazy in the heat, he made out a range of low hills that crossed his path. It took him another hour before he saw the wide, rocky cut in the hills. A way through the hills. Drawing closer he saw the cut was around sixty feet wide and as far as he could see it extended deep into the slopes. McCall guessed it would extend all the way through the hills to the far side. When he rode in, the rocky walls rising on either side, the sound of his horse’s hooves echoed around him. He rode for at least two miles before the cut ended and he emerged on the far side to yet another open landscape. A gentle slope lay ahead, flattening out after a hundred feet where it met the open flatland.
Open but not empty. A half-mile further on were men and machinery. Activity that confirmed the thoughts that had been crowding McCall’s mind and brought him all the way out here to confirm his suspicions.
He was looking at a railhead camp. McCall drew rein and sat studying the site. It didn’t take him long to realize what he was looking at. It was a track-laying outfit. A gang of workers, piles of steel rails and wooden ties. Equipment. A number of tents and an open kitchen with a fire under cooking pots. Behind the camp, on rails that had already been laid was a steaming locomotive, with a couple of box cars attached. He didn’t need Conway’s maps to tell him where the track was intended to be laid.
It was heading for Beecher’s Crossing.
And Lazy-C lay directly ahead of the track.
McCall sighed. Things were really starting to make some kind of sense. The pressure being put on Henry Conway. Anything and everything to get him to relinquish his ownership of the land. It looked to McCall that it was because Lazy-C would lie in the direct path of the line. If it had to go around Lazy-C the costs and the circumstances of rerouting the track would put up the overall expenses and also add to the time it would take. McCall was no expert on the comple
xities of the business, but he was pretty certain he’d heard of penalty clauses attached to contracts. If the track laying was held up the investors would face heavy charges.
He could understood now why Merrick might be in such a hurry to gain control of Lazy-C. It was plain to see he was connected to the building of the rail line. McCall ventured a guess that Merrick was involved up to his neck. Had most likely made a deal with the rail company that involved getting Lazy-C out of the way so the construction could go ahead without delay.
McCall put his horse down the slope, heading for the camp site. He made no attempt to hide his presence, though as he rode he eased the Winchester in the saddle boot and slipped the hammer loop free on his holstered Colt. No harm in being prepared. As he neared the camp McCall couldn’t fail to notice a small number of loitering men who were by no stretch rail workers. They were gunhands. He could see that from the way they were dressed, wearing their holstered handguns openly tied down. He saw a number of them turn and watch him close. That didn’t bother him. Jess McCall had quit being worried about hard stares and scowls a long time ago. He simply eased his horse into camp and reined in near the cook fires.
‘Was wondering if a man could get a cup of coffee seeing as how you got a hell of a pot there,’ he said, an amiable expression on his face.
‘This ain’t no Church Social handout,’ a hulking man said. ‘I don’t see no sign saying we pass out free coffee to every saddle tramp who rides by.’
‘Well forgive me to all get out,’ McCall said. ‘I was just passing by and saw your camp. Thought maybe I’d ask polite like. Been a long day. Now I might not be dressed in my Sunday best but saddle tramp is kind of harsh.’
The man moved a little closer, hooking thick thumbs in his belt. He wore his strapped down revolver like it was a banner showing itself to the world in general. McCall had to admit the man was big. In every direction. Muscle showed. Not fat. He stared at McCall, screwing up his unshaven face as the sun hit it. McCall decided he didn’t really care for the fellow, him being all impolite.
‘You look like a tramp to me.’
‘Hell, son, I ain’t about to argue with a man of your intellect.’
This time the man made a sound deep in his throat.
‘See, mister, I don’t know you and that worries me.’
McCall considered that. ‘Hell, son, I don’t know you either – so I guess we’re sort of even.’
The big man’s scowl stretched across his face. McCall saw his shoulder muscles tense as if he was about to do something.
Then a voice broke through the strained silence.
‘Ease off there, fellers. We don’t want any hassle.’
The speaker planted himself between the big man and McCall’s horse. He was tall and blonde, his face browned from a life in the outdoors. Ladies would have called him handsome. His pants were expensive and well cut, his shirt tailored, sleeves rolled up and the collar unbuttoned. The half-boots he wore were custom made
‘I’m Bruce Collhurst. I ramrod this outfit. Heard you were looking for a cup of coffee. Step down.’ Collhurst waved a hand at a man wearing a cook’s apron. ‘Jenks, fetch this man a mug.’
He smiled and the expression was reflected in his gray eyes. He held out a strong hand and took McCall’s as he dismounted.
McCall stretched the kinks out of his back and took the enamel mug that was handed to him.
‘Jess McCall,’ he said.
‘Pay no heed to Mr Bell,’ Collhurst said. ‘He’s naturally suspicious of anyone who doesn’t work for the company. Can’t blame him, though. It’s part of his job to make sure we don’t have unwelcome visitors.’
McCall tasted the strong, hot coffee, watching Mr Bell as he did, and receiving a continued dark look from the man. He judged Bell to be a shade over six-foot-six, which made him McCall’s height. Bell was also extremely broad across his shoulders and chest. McCall made a mental note of that just in case matters became unfriendly.
‘He earns his pay then,’ McCall said.
Collhurst gave a low chuckle. ‘He does that all right.’
‘Believe it, bucko,’ Bell muttered as he moved away. ‘And don’t doubt I’ll not forget you.’
McCall made a point of ignoring the man.
‘You from these parts?’ Collhurst asked.
McCall decided that playing the innocent might work in his favor. Took his time, swallowing more coffee before he spoke.
‘I’m passing through. Heard there might be jobs on offer at a big spread along the ways. Diamond-M I was told. Figured to go check it out. You heard of it?’
‘Only by name,’ Collhurst said.
‘You’re long way from the main line.’
‘Spurline. Going to lay track the town along the way. Country around here is growing. There’s a need to open things up. Get people connected.’
‘I heard laying track can be a tough job.’
‘All part of the business. Rain, shine, hard or soft, we get through one way or the other. We don’t turn aside for anything.’ He paused. ‘Or anyone.’
McCall emptied his coffee. Ran a big hand over his face.
‘Hope I never have to stand in your way,’ he said. ‘Get the feeling you’d ride straight over me. This town, it got a name?
‘Beecher’s Crossing. Line may go on further if things work out. Mind we still got a long way to go. Going to be a couple of months before we get as far as Beecher’s Crossing.’
McCall handed his mug to the cook. ‘Obliged, friend.
He went to mount up. Saw Bell still eyeing him from a distance.
‘Tell Mr Bell I said goodbye.’
‘I’ll do that. You ride easy, McCall.’
‘I always do.’ He settled in his saddle. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
‘I make my own luck,’ Collhurst said, smiling, but this time the smile failed to reach his eyes.
He stood watching McCall ride away. He sensed movement close by. It was Bell. The big man folded his powerful arms across his chest.
‘Something on your mind, Cleve?’
‘I don’t trust that hombre. More to him than just a passing cowboy. Could be he’s doing some snooping with a mind to put out the word on us.’
‘Had to happen sooner or later,’ Collhurst said. ‘I believe you could be right. So let’s keep our eyes open. Have your boys ride a wide loop. In case Mr McCall is more than he pretends to be.’
Bell grunted an acknowledgement and walked over to where his men were gathered.
~*~
McCall knew he was being watched as he left. He made a point of not looking back. Calling on the camp had told him what he needed to know.
The rails were being laid in the direction of town. Lazy-C lay between the tracks and Beecher’s Crossing. Collhurst had made it clear he was not going to deviate from the plans. Which meant he was going to cross Conway’s land. That was not a good sign for Lazy-C. Railroad companies had a reputation for forging their way regardless. It had happened before as expansionism bulldozed across the country. There was power behind the railroads. Power that could include political clout and high finance. The line intended to open up Beecher’s Crossing might not stand tall compared to the transcontinental lines, but it would still create wealth and offer opportunities to those who were determined to push it through. The ninety odd miles from the main line to Beecher’s Crossing would bring in more investment. Open up the town and consolidate the businesses and the building of stockyards would give the ranches the chance to ship out their beef rather than have to undergo the long drives that took time and a great deal of manpower.
He had been riding for close on an hour when he caught a glimpse of a rider in the distance, off to his left, moving parallel to his line of travel. McCall didn’t make a definite show of noticing the rider. He kept going. Ahead of him the way merged with a stretch of timbered and rocky terrain. The land stretched across his path in both directions and there was no way around it.
‘Seems to m
e, hoss,’ he said quietly, ‘we likely rattled someone back there. Enough so they want to take a closer look at us.’
He took his horse into the timber, letting it find its way. Once he was in the shadowed closeness McCall slid his Winchester free and laid it across his thighs. A lattice-work of shadow from the sun lancing through the trees made it harder to spot the trailing rider, but McCall did catch a glimpse of the man, still following and now angling in towards McCall.
‘This could go on all damn day,’ McCall said.
~*~
He was becoming restless. Having someone dogging his trail did not sit well with the Texan. So he decided to push the game forward. He spotted a mass of tumbled rocks ahead, moss covered along one side, and large enough to hide him as he passed. The second his horse took him alongside the rocks McCall slid his feet from the stirrups and stepped from the saddle and onto the lower rocks, quickly moving up the rising slope of higher boulders. As he cleared the uppermost rocks he dropped to a crouch, the Winchester in both hands. Looking over the curve McCall was able to look down the far side.
The rider trailing him was partway along the rock formation, leaning forward in his saddle. The man held a long-barreled revolver in his right hand as he guided his mount with his left.
‘Let the gun go,’ McCall said, leveling the Winchester. ‘I won’t ask a second time. And you can take that as read.’
The rider picked up where the voice was coming from and jerked his head up. McCall recognized him as one of the men Bell had been talking with at the railhead camp.
The man stared at McCall’s rifle, weighing his chances. Then he muttered under his breath and let the Remington drop from his hand.
‘And the long gun.’
The man slid his rifle from the saddle boot and dropped it.
‘Bell couldn’t let it go,’ McCall said.
‘He has a suspicious nature.’
