by Neil Hunter
‘What did he want you to do?’
‘It wasn’t to hand you an invite to supper.’
‘Glad to hear that ’cause I’m particular who I eat with.’
‘And you got something against the railroads?’
‘Hell, son, I rode on many a train in my time. I just don’t like the way things tend to get tetchy once you fellers start laying down those rails.’
The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s the way it is. You buck Collhurst you bring trouble down on your head. He’s the kind who doesn’t back down.’
‘At least we have that in common.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘You turn that pony around and go back the way you came.’
‘What about my guns?’
‘I’ll leave them with Marshal Bellingham in town. You can pick them up from there if you ever get that far.’ McCall could see the man was having a problem, but he didn’t give a damn about that. ‘Son, my patience is wearing thin. Just get out of my sight.’
The man snatched up his reins and pulled his horse around. McCall watched him go, waiting until the man had cleared the timber and was out in the open where he could keep an eye on him. He slid down off the rocks and picked up the discarded weapons, went and fetched his own horse where it had stopped and waited for him. He jammed the Remington in his saddlebag and the rifle in his own boot, keeping his Winchester in his hands. Back in the saddle McCall sat and watched the distant rider until he vanished behind a ridge, then turned about and continued his journey back to Lazy-C.
Chapter Eight
In the ranch kitchen Henry Conway sat at the head of the big table, his hands spread flat on the scrubbed wood. Helen busied herself with making fresh coffee, while Chris put hot biscuits on a plate.
McCall stood at the far end of the table, hat in hand. Laney Chancery sat to one side.
‘So now we know,’ Conway said. ‘Merrick wants Lazy-C so they can push this spurline across to reach town.’
‘Seems to me he wants the spread and the right of way,’ Chancery said.
Chris banged a plate down on the table, her young face flushed with anger.
‘Well, he won’t get either,’ she said fiercely. ‘Not without a fight.’
Helen Conway placed mugs of coffee in front of everyone. McCall couldn’t help noticing the way her hands trembled as she carried the mugs. He took one from her.
‘Go sit down, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Jess.’
Chancery fiddled with his mug.
‘Henry, he can’t just walk in and lay his tracks across Lazy-C.’
Conway’s face gave away his thoughts and he gave a slight shake of his head.
‘Man staked his claim by building his house and settin’ down roots. He held his land by working it. By taking up arms against anyone who tried to steal it from him. That’s what I did. Same as any man around here.’
‘Merrick will use the strength of the railroad company. He’ll turn every trick in the book,’ McCall said.
‘I need to talk with George Sutton,’ Conway said. ‘Make sure our legal standing holds firm.’
‘Dad, Lazy-C has title to this land,’ Chris said. ‘Merrick, or the rail company, can’t just steal from us.’
‘Henry, whatever you decide, the crew will stand behind you,’ Chancery said. ‘This ain’t no time to let ourselves be caught off guard.’
‘Jess, will you ride with me to town? Let’s get this sorted.’
When Conway had made his way from the kitchen, with Chancery on his heels, Helen said, ‘Stay with him, Jess. He’ll work himself into a stubborn mood and when he does…’
‘I won’t let him do himself any harm.’
‘This isn’t going to go away quietly,’ Chris said. ‘It’s already gone too far.’
‘You ladies stay close to home,’ McCall said. ‘You’ve got the Lazy-C crew to watch over you. I’ll keep Henry safe.’
~*~
‘How did I let this happen?’ Conway said.
He and McCall were on the way to Beecher’s Crossing. They had left the ranch well behind them but not the tense mood that had settled over the outfit. McCall had always seen Conway as a solid, resistant men. To build a brand like Lazy-C took strength and purpose. Much of that had been knocked out of Conway with the death of his son. He seemed to lacking some of that inner strength right now.
‘You didn’t let it happen,’ McCall said. ‘Merrick and his partners forced it. Figured they could deal their hand without anyone knowing. Now we do know we make sure they can’t win.’
It was late afternoon when McCall and Conway reached town. While Conway went to speak with lawyer Sutton, McCall tied his horse outside Bellingham’s office. He took the rifle and pistol and went inside. The Marshal was behind his desk, busy with paperwork. The moment McCall appeared he pushed back from the desk, obviously glad for an excuse to take a break.
‘Jess.’
He watched as McCall placed the rifle and handgun on his desk.
‘You’ll might have the owner coming in to collect these.’
‘You take them away from him?’
‘Didn’t want to leave him the temptation to use them.’
McCall told the story of his visit to the rail camp and his discussion with Bruce Collhurst and Cleve Bell. He finished by telling about the man who had trailed him from the camp.
‘Rail camp? Damnation,’ Bellingham said. ‘I can see this boiling up into a big mess.’
‘Henry is over to his lawyer’s office right now looking into the legal side of things. Ray, he doesn’t want trouble, but he also isn’t going to stand by and watch Merrick and the railroad move in.’
‘He could have a fight on his hands like it or not. I’ve heard of Collhurst. Hard as they come. He’s railroad all the way through. And the man uses the law as well. Railroad has its own lawyers to stand behind anything Collhurst does. And they’ll be siding with Merrick.’
‘So Collhurst and Merrick are both playing their hands.’
Bellingham nodded. ‘Had Merrick’s local lawyer in yesterday. Standing bail for Rafe Kershaw.’ When McCall registered interest Bellingham said, ‘Won’t have heard I guess? Ash Boynton called Chet out. They went at it and Boynton ended up with one of Chet’s bullets in him. Clear case of self defense. When it kicked off Kershaw stuck a shotgun in my back to keep me out of it. Had to buffalo him when it was over. Tossed him in a cell to wait on Judge Henshaw’s convenience. Only thing the Judge is out of town and I figured Kershaw out of jail takes the pressure off. Last thing I need is a bunch of Merrick’s yahoos making more trouble.’
‘What about our friend with the arsenic?’
‘He ain’t talking. I took a sneaky look after I locked Kershaw up. Now that pair were pretending awful hard they didn’t know each other. Pretending too hard. Interesting thought, when I went through the gear those three were carrying. They each had a hefty roll of cash in their saddlebags. For greasy sackers they were well heeled. Don’t make much sense they were supposed to be dirt poor but holding big money behind their saddles.’
‘Interesting,’ McCall said.
‘Ain’t it just.’
‘Where’s Chet?’
‘Haven’t seen him today. Last I spoke to him he was heading for the Quarter Horse for a drink. Come to think it’s unusual for Chet to get himself lost.’
‘He wasn’t at the Lazy-C. That’s where I rode in from. And didn’t see him on the road either.’
The news concerned McCall. It wasn’t in Ballard to simply up and disappear.
‘So where is he?’
Chapter Nine
Ballard was trying to figure that out himself. It didn’t help that he had a sullen headache from having a gun barrel bent over his skull. When he gingerly touched the back of his skull he felt the raised welt there, with crusted blood that told him he had been unconscious for some time. He was stretched out on a dirty floor. He took a look at his surroundings. He was in som
e kind of storehouse. A dusty, untidy place that smelled of leather and old sacking. He also realized he was not tied up. His arms and legs were free. He heard movement. It came from the other side of the storehouse door. Ballard could see light shining through the gaps in the door and when he checked he saw dusty sunbeams angling in through the walls.
The bitter part was him walking into it with both eyes wide open. The shootout with Boynton had soured Ballard’s mood. The pure fact that Boynton had pushed the matter made no difference. He left Ballard with little choice. And the near admission that Boynton had bushwhacked Harry Conway only added to the situation. Caught out Boynton had let himself slip. Yet even with the revelation the gunman had been unable to fully conceal his guilt. Like all men who lived by the gun Ash Boynton had to crow. It was the mark of a killer. The admission of what he felt was something to brag about. And once he had let slip his involvement, there was no way back for him. Boynton’s reputation as a fast and deadly shootist meant he had to maintain that persona.
After the confrontation Ballard, feeling subdued, had taken himself off to the saloon and had downed a couple of drinks. Not exactly feeling sorry for himself, but reflecting on how the situation centered around Lazy-C seemed to be escalating. Later, realizing he was not doing anything to resolve matters, he had walked out of the saloon. His mind was still occupied when he reached the livery stable and went out back to catch up his horse.
He recalled sensing movement close by. Shadowed figures closing in. He had turned to see who it was. Too slow and too late. The figures came at him in a rush. Hands reaching out to grasp at his clothing. Pulling. Tugging him off balance.
And then the unexpected slam of something hard crashing down across the back of his skull. The blow darkened his world and Ballard had no strength or will to fight it. He went down … into a terrible silence, devoid of light and of awareness …
Ballard knew without having to look that his handgun was gone, leaving an empty holster. With that discovery he knew his knife would be gone as well.
No gun. No knife. Whoever had taken him had made sure he wouldn’t have any weapons to be able to fight with. They had left him defenseless. Or so they thought. It was their first mistake and if Ballard had any say in the matter it would turn out to be their last.
He was curious as to why he’d been pistol whipped and dragged off somewhere. He might not have any details but he was certain sure it had to do with the Lazy-C problem. Unless it was something personal. His shootout with Boynton? Maybe Boynton’s friends looking for payback? He didn’t dismiss the possibility. That reminded Ballard of Rafe Kershaw. He had ridden with Boynton. Was he out to avenge the man? If that was the case why hadn’t Kershaw simply killed him once he had Ballard at a disadvantage?
Ballard stopped right there. Too much thinking was making his head ache even worse. He slowly climbed to his feet, careful not to make too many hasty movements. Crossing to the door Ballard peered through the gaps in the planks. He could see a section of an empty yard. No sound, no movement. Squinting his eyes sideways he made out the corner of a larger building and a run down, empty corral. What he saw offered him no more information. On impulse Ballard tried the door. It creaked but refused to open.
He took another look around. There was nothing he could use as a weapon. Ballard squeezed his fists together, hearing his knuckles pop. At least he still had the use of his hands.
He paced back and forth. Restless. Trying to figure how long he’d been in the shed. From the brightness of the day he guessed it must be close to, or just past, noon. By now someone must be wondering where he was. A man just didn’t go missing without it being noticed.
He knew that once McCall realized he was gone he would start looking. And being McCall that could amount to a lot of grief if he didn’t get the answers he wanted. McCall wasn’t a man who had patience for unanswered questions.
And when Jess McCall became dissatisfied life could turn hectic.
That was often more than most people could handle.
Chapter Ten
Jess McCall stood outside the jail, fingers hooked in his belt, staring along main street. He was working on the information he’d learned about his partner. The final piece told him the last place Ballard had mentioned was the saloon halfway along the street.
The Quarter Horse.
That was what Bellingham had heard.
McCall decided it was as good a place to start as any. He sensed someone moving alongside. It was Ray Bellingham. The Marshal had followed McCall’s gaze.
‘You thinking about calling in there?’
‘Might be able to find out where Chet went when he walked out. Can’t hurt to ask.’
‘Ask for Milt Lander. He owns the place. Milt’s a good man. You’ll get the truth from him. Jess, I’ll be around.’
McCall nodded and stepped off the boardwalk, taking a slow walk up the street. As he neared the saloon he saw Henry Conway on the far side of the street, passing the time of day with people he knew. That, McCall decided was how Beecher’s Crossing seemed. A nice town going about it business, with most folk having no idea what was going on around them – or what was heading their way. McCall just had feeling the inhabitants of Beecher’s Crossing were close to having problems explode in their faces.
He reached the boardwalk and went in through the swing doors. Inside it was shady and a few degrees cooler out of the sun. McCall took off his hat and took a moment to look around.
He counted around a dozen patrons. Half at the long, polished bar, the rest scattered around the tables. He crossed to the bar and leaned his elbows on the surface. There were two men behind the bar. A tall, skinny man with a long face and hardly any hair on his head. Closer was a man in his forties. Solid, his graying hair thick, with long sideburns and a heavy mustache. He glanced in McCall’s direction and nodded.
‘Get you anything?’
‘A beer would be nice,’ McCall said.
The man went to work filling a thick glass and placed it in front of McCall.
‘You’d be Milt Lander?’
‘Owner operator,’ the man said.
‘Got your name from Ray Bellingham.’
‘I get the feeling there’s a question on its way.’
‘You know my partner Chet Ballard?’
‘Yeah. He was in here.’ Lander took a slow look at McCall. ‘There a problem?’
‘Looks to have disappeared. He here on his own?’
‘I heard about the shootout with Ash Boynton. Soon after Chet came in looking to have himself a drink and a quiet time by himself.’
McCall took a long swallow of beer.
‘He talk to anyone?’
Lander shook his head. ‘Not helping much, huh?
‘You can only tell what you know,’ McCall said.
‘Now I understand the problems Henry is having, what with his boy being killed and all. I’m no friend of Yancey Merrick, or the bunch who hang around with him …’
McCall sensed there was more to come. ‘Anything, Milt.’
‘Couple of Merrick’s boys showed their faces while Chet was sitting with his drink. Lucas Connor and Bob Yost. When they saw Chet they turned about and left. Now I ain’t sayin’ that means anything. But what made them skedaddle the minute they set eyes on Chet?’
McCall drained his glass. Dropped some coins on the bar.
‘Maybe I’ll go and ask them.’
‘You walk easy around that pair,’ Milt said. ‘And don’t show ’em your back.’
‘Like that, huh?’
‘Like that.’
‘Where would I find them?’
‘They frequent The Golden Lady. Merrick’s base when he’s in town since he bought it.’
‘Thanks, Milt.’
‘Careful if you go in there,’ Lander said. ‘That place doesn’t treat strangers too well.’
‘I’ll remember that, Milt.’
Lander watched the tall Texan leave and wished him well.
~*~
/>
McCall eased his Colt in the holster, making sure the hammer-loop was clear. He checked the street. Watched a freight wagon rattle its way past, heading for the warehouse section of town. A few riders made their way back and forth. Nothing out of the ordinary. He made his way towards The Golden Lady.
The big saloon had a gaudy frontage. A bright painted sign. Windows with large lettering. It advertised what it was. A place where men could drink and gamble. Find the company of a friendly girl. McCall had nothing against that, except in this case the saloon had become Yancey Merrick’s base in town. As he stepped across the boardwalk McCall picked up the tinny sound of a badly tuned piano.
When he pushed his way through the door and into the saloon McCall’s eyes took in the layout. Long bar to his left. It ran the length of the room. A mirror filled the back wall, sleeves holding bottles and cigar cases. There must have been near a couple of dozen tables spread around. Along the opposite side of the saloon were gambling tables. The piano was there as well, a tubby man in shirt sleeves held up by suspenders banging away at the keys.
McCall counted no more than a half-dozen customers spread around the room. A light haze of tobacco smoke drifted overhead. Lamps had been lit against the oncoming dusk.
He made his way to the bar where the lone man on duty watched his progress. He was a large man, dark hair slicked back and shiny, his big hands laid flat on the bar top.
‘Lookin’ for couple of fellers,’ McCall said conversationally. ‘Lucas Connor and Bob Yost.’
McCall was looking across the bartender’s shoulder as he spoke, watching for any reaction from the customers reflected in the mirror.
‘Never heard of ’em,’ the bartender said too quickly, his gaze flicking nervously.
McCall saw movement at one of the tables behind him and to his left. There were two men seated there and McCall saw one of them push back his chair and lunge to his feet, left hand reaching for the pistol holstered on his hip. His partner slid awkwardly from his seat, dropping to a crouch, a yell forming on his lips.
McCall turned, clearing his Colt and leveled it at the left-hand shooter. A pair of shots thundered loudly in the saloon. McCall felt the solid thump of the slug as it hit the bar on his right side. Then his own shot hit home, the lead .45 caliber bullet hammering into his target, high in the chest. The man gave a stunned grunt, twisting hallway round from the impact. He toppled face down across the table, sending bottle and glasses flying, before sliding to the floor. In the couple of seconds following McCall swiveled his body around and picked up on the second man. He was almost on his knees, his move hampering his chance to find a clear target. He was blocked by the table and his drawn gun was almost hidden. He fired in haste and his bullet flew well clear of its intended target, smashing into the mirror behind the bar. The glass shattered and fell with a crash. He fired a second time and failed to hit McCall, who pushed his gun forward and fired through the top of the table, then triggered twice more. Wood splinters exploded from the table as the heavy slugs burned through and found the crouching figure. The man gave a pained cry as already deformed slugs hit him. He took the shots in his shoulder, lurching upright, gun forgotten as he felt the shock of his wounds course through him. He fell back into the seat he had vacated and clutched at his badly bleeding shoulder.
