Dead Man st Snake's Creek

by Rob Hill

  Dead Man at Snake’s Creek

  Credence, Texas, is a one-horse town. Dying on its feet since the closure of the Shawnee Trail, the place is divided by bitterness, resentment and feuds that have smouldered on for years.

  This is what Johnny Hartford finds when he returns home for his brother’s wedding. Ten years before, he left the town in a blaze of glory to travel to Chicago to become a Pinkerton Agent. But that was before the war. Now everything has changed: his dying father will barely speak to him, his brother is running wild and longhorn rustling is rife. Determined to make amends with his family and catch the cattle thieves, Hartford turns to old Sheriff Milton for help. But the day after he arrives, a prominent local rancher is shot in the back and Hartford discovers that almost everyone in the town has a reason for wanting him dead.

  By the same author

  Rangeland Justice

  Hope’s Last Chance

  Ace High in Wilderness

  Sheriff of Vengeance

  Three Days to Angel Pass

  Judgement Trail

  Tom Rider’s Reckoning

  Midnight Showdown

  The High Trail

  Hanging Day

  Dead Man at Snake’s Creek

  Rob Hill

  ROBERT HALE

  © Rob Hill 2017

  First published in Great Britain 2017

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2578-1

  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 Rob Hill 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.

  For Val

  INTRODUCTION

  The moment the shot echoed against the limestone walls of Snake’s Creek, startled vermilion flycatchers erupted upwards from the cypresses along the river like sparks out of a wood fire. The cicadas were shocked into silence. The hot afternoon air was still. Even the river gurgling over its stony bed seemed to pause. The rider who had just turned his horse back along the riverside track swayed in his saddle. As he toppled sideways, the reins slipped from his hands, his feet flipped themselves out of his stirrups and he crashed down into the reeds at the water’s edge.

  The back of the man’s jacket was as torn and bloody as if he had been flayed and a dark red stain soiled the front of his shirt. His eyes were open, cold blue and stared at nothing. His cheeks were clean-shaven and his sideburns were grey. But the moment after he had been shot his face showed only empty surprise. There was no expression to suggest what kind of man he had been. Kind or cruel? Generous or mean? Loving or hateful? He had died rich though. His jacket was well cut, his silk vest was embroidered and his boots were new. He wore a gold signet ring on his finger, embossed with a letter D in italic script, and on his hip was a .45 in a tooled leather holster.

  The dead man’s horse was at a loss. She stood over him for a while, then leaned down and nuzzled him as if she was trying to wake him up. A well-groomed mare, her glossy black coat shone like silk. Her ears pointed forward, stiff and sharp. She knew.

  Then another man hurried along the path, running awkwardly, short of breath. He knelt down beside the body and stared at the pale face. His hand shook as he rested his fingers on the neck to be certain there was no pulse. It only took a second. A trickle of blood had emerged from the side of the mouth. He brushed his palm over the eyelids and pushed himself to his feet.

  Grabbing the reins of the mare, he pulled her away and slapped her rump to send her home. Then he retrieved a fishing pole that had got lodged in the reeds and made his way back along the path to where the others were waiting.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The previous day

  At eight in the morning, the heat which would soon dominate the day was already bending the prairie air. The far horizon was corrugated, liquid almost, and a primrose sun burst against the pale sky. From the top of a rise, a lone rider paused to take in the view of Credence, the little cottonwood town down on the empty plain, built as a stopover for riders on the Shawnee Trail in the years before the war.

  The rider’s hat was pulled down low and his jacket and pants were coated in white caliche dust. Square-shouldered and sparely built, he sat tall in the saddle. He ignored the rivulets of sweat on his cheeks and the taste of dust on his lips. His chiselled face had a stoic look as if he was used to shrugging off hardship and as he stared out across the landscape, his gaze was unflinching. His thoughts raced, though – he hadn’t been home for ten years and didn’t anticipate an easy reception. As he sat there, he unfastened the steel badge from the front of his jacket and carefully pinned it out of sight on the inside.

  Reaching down to unhitch his canteen, he instinctively leaned forward, gently patted the neck of his horse, a fine appaloosa, and whispered some encouragement in her ear. The horse nickered affectionately in reply. Clearly, the two of them had shared this conversation many times before.

  An hour later, the rider made his way up the town’s main street. The sun-bleached storefronts had seen better days; the blistered paintwork had gone unretouched, shingles were missing from roofs, and the hitching rail outside the grocery had come off its posts and lay in the dirt. The door to the sheriff’s office was closed against the heat. There was no one about.

  As the rider approached the saloon, an old timer who had been dozing in a wicker chair on the porch was jolted awake by the sound of the approaching hoof beats. He jumped up, screwed his eyes tight to try to make out who was coming then scuttled inside. Red and white paper streamers were looped along the porch rail between bright home-made rosettes. Above the door hung a faded old sign which proclaimed ‘Pearl of the West’.

  Stepping in from the harsh sunlight, the rider stood in the doorway and waited for his eyes to accustom to the shadows.

  ‘Well, look who it ain’t.’ A woman’s voice sing-songed out to him. ‘Johnny Hartford home at last. Thought you’d left us for good.’

  The saloon was a barn of a place built to hold a hundred drinkers and card players and still have room to spare. A thin carpet of trail dust lay inside the door. Wooden tables and chairs, which had been repaired and re-repaired, lined the walls and between the roof beams someone had looped more paper streamers. High in the pitch of the roof some shingles must have shifted as lines of bright sunlight fell through and allowed golden dust motes to spiral like fireflies. Above the bar, which was also draped with bunting and rosettes, hung the saloon clock and a pair of mighty longhorns, a reminder of better days.

  Hartford’s eyes settled on the woman at the bar. Obviously delighted to see him, her eyes sparkled. Her long dark hair was tied back and she wore a man’s work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, pants and boots. Thirty years old maybe, there was shrewd intelligence in her face. A twelve-gauge scattergun rested across her knees.

  ‘Pearl . . .’ Hartford began, but before he could continue, the woman interrupted.

  ‘Gun at the door, Hart.’ This time her voice was firm. ‘Peg’s right there.’

  Hartford
was about to say something but noticed the woman’s hand move towards the twelve-gauge. He shrugged and started to unbuckle his gun belt. There were two Colts in their belts already hanging there.

  As his hands went to his gun belt, nobody spoke. The old timer who had perched himself on a bar stool beside Pearl stared at him; a man sitting alone at a table looked up from his solitaire game; two trail hands at a table with a bottle and a deck of cards between them turned towards him. When Hartford hung his gun beside the others, everyone in the room breathed. The men went back to their cards, the old timer edged round Hartford on his way to his chair on the porch, Pearl put the shotgun down on the bar and beckoned Hartford over to a corner table.

  ‘Back for the wedding?’

  The question was innocent enough, but Hartford heard concern in her voice.

  ‘Ain’t every day your brother gets hitched,’ Hartford said.

  ‘Doing the right thing like always.’ Pearl looked him in the eye. ‘You just tread careful now you’re back here, then you won’t step on nobody’s toes.’

  ‘You never used to keep a scattergun in here.’ Hart was aware that everyone in the room was listening.

  ‘Trouble a few weeks back. Didn’t amount to much.’ Pearl didn’t want to be drawn and changed tack. ‘They plan on holding the wedding breakfast here – not that your brother’s come up with the down payment he promised.’

  She indicated the bunting.

  ‘Looks good.’ Hartford glanced round at the decorations. ‘You got any rooms free?’

  ‘Not heading out to your pa’s place?’ Pearl studied his face. ‘It’s Friday morning now, wedding ain’t till one o’clock Sunday. That should give you plenty of time to make up.’

  ‘I jus’ . . .’ Hartford hesitated. ‘Don’t reckon I’ll be staying out there, that’s all.’

  ‘Got all the rooms you want.’ Pearl didn’t ask him to explain. ‘Can’t remember when we last had a visitor. Surprised you’ve come back, that’s all.’

  Hartford waited for her to go on.

  ‘Shawnee Trail’s dead and buried. Town’s a shadow of what it was when my pa opened this place.’

  Hart remembered a time when the saloon had been crowded with cowboys with pay in their pockets on their way back from Missouri. But the Shawnee only lasted for a single season after the war ended, four years ago now. Missouri farmers claimed the longhorns brought fever that infected their herds. Angry vigilantes set up blockades and a local law was passed to prevent Texas beeves from crossing the state line. Since then, drives from this part of Texas headed up the Chisolm Trail to the new railhead at Abilene.

  ‘If I could find a buyer, I’d sell this place and move to Dallas.’ Pearl cast her eye round the saloon. Apart from the whisper of cards being dealt, the place was silent. ‘Usually I just got Pops Wardell and Bill Greely in here. Pops is the old guy out on the porch.’

  Greely looked up from his solitaire hand when he heard his name. His face was thin, with pasty, bloodhound features. A three-day growth of grey stubble clung to his cheeks. Being tall, he was used to stooping so as not to draw attention to himself and, even sitting at a table, his narrow shoulders seemed to hunch over his cards.

  ‘I run the livery, if you need your horse taking care of.’ His friendly smile showed blackened teeth.

  ‘The other two,’ Pearl lowered her voice and indicated the trail hands on the other side of the saloon. ‘They’re here because they just got fired from the Lazy D.’

  ‘Dunmore’s place?’ Hart said.

  ‘Someone’s been cutting the herd. They caught one guy and he’s in jail.

  ‘Dunmore accused these two but didn’t have any proof, so he fired them anyway.’

  The two men didn’t look up from their poker game. Hartford couldn’t tell whether they had heard. Pearl lowered her voice to a whisper.

  ‘You’ve got to be careful.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m telling you, Hart. Dunmore is used to getting what he wants. He ain’t at all keen on this wedding and you know what a hothead your brother is.’

  Pearl searched his face. Had he heeded her warning?

  ‘Talking about that son-of-a-bitch Dunmore?’ One of the trail hands put down his cards and called across to Pearl.

  His dark eyes were stone-hard and a raspberry-coloured blush worked its way up his neck at the mention of the name of his old boss. He was clean-shaven with a clipped moustache, powerfully built with strong arms and shoulders. He wore a black Stetson hat, which he kept brushed free of trail dust, and his shirt was pressed, the collar folded and the cuffs buttoned. A small moustache comb peeped out of the pocket of his shirt. He knew that taking pride in his appearance set him apart from the other ranch hands.

  ‘We’ve worked three seasons out at the Lazy D and he comes up with all kinds of accusations, calls in the sheriff and we end up fired.’ As he spoke, he balled his hands into fists. ‘Accused us without a spit of proof. Sheriff takes his word and slings Jake Nudd in jail just because he couldn’t remember where he was the night a few head went missing.’

  The man was angry and he didn’t care who heard. His lips were tight as if his words tasted sour.

  ‘What Logan says is right. Dunmore wouldn’t even listen to us.’ The second man, Clyde Shorter, spoke up in support of his friend and placed his cards down on the table in exactly the same way, as if he was copying him.

  Heavily built for a cowboy, he was older than Logan, with thin hair and the wisp of a beard over doughy cheeks. His voice was high and nasal-sounding, a whine to Logan’s drawl. Logan speaking out first gave him the confidence to chime in. He wanted Logan to know that he was backing him up.

  ‘I’ve drove chuck wagons back and forth to Missouri for years,’ he added indignantly. ‘Never been treated like this.’

  ‘One day somebody’s going to put a bullet in Dunmore.’ Logan glared contemptuously at his friend. ‘Might just be me.’

  ‘Another thing is,’ the second man wanted to make sure he impressed Logan. ‘He ain’t even paid us what he owes. We’ve worked three weeks this month, lived out there in that rat hole bunkhouse in this heat and then he fires us.’ He searched for a way of showing Logan just how profound his resentment was. ‘Only let me buy the worst beans, the ones that stay hard even when you soak ’em for days. One time there was so many weevils in the flour sacks he gave me, damn things practically walked along by themselves. Point is who do the men blame when they get gut ache? Me, ain’t it?’ The man shook his head. ‘Dunmore’s got Tom McInnon’s boy doing the cooking now, sixteen years old and never rustled up a plate of chow in his life. Kicks me out and replaces me with a kid. If Logan ain’t the one to put a bullet in Dunmore, then it’ll be me.’

  Clyde Shorter made sure he caught Logan’s eye.

  ‘Overheard what you’ve been saying.’ Pops Wardell stood in the doorway, eager to put in his two cents worth. ‘Dunmore threw me off his land last year. I was up at Snake’s Creek. They’ve got shovel heads and fork tails up there, fat ones.

  ‘Been fishing there since I don’t know when. Used to go up there with your pa until he took sick.’ Pops looked to Hartford hoping he would back him up. Hartford nodded politely. ‘Anyhow, there I was with my pole and along comes Dunmore, all high and mighty, and tells me to get the hell off his land.’

  Logan picked up his cards and studied them. Clyde Shorter did the same.

  ‘Told him I’d been coming up there for years, but it didn’t make no difference. Still said I had to get the hell out. Said he didn’t want anyone up there on account of rustlers. What kind of rustling did he think I was doing with a fishing pole?’ Pops laughed and waited for the others to share his joke.

  Logan ignored him and gestured with his cards to show that the game should begin again.

  ‘I’d put a bullet in him, yes sir.’ Pops made one more bid for recognition by the others. He wanted to show Logan that he had a beef with Dunmore too. When no one took any notice of him, he fell back on repetition and hollow threats.
‘Been going up there since I don’t know when and he treats me like that. If he thinks he’s going to stop me fishing out at Snake’s, he’s got another think coming.’

  ‘Hardly the same, is it?’ Logan didn’t look up from his cards. ‘Jake Nudd is locked in a jail cell, me and Clyde get canned and you’re worried about going fishing.’

  Pops fell silent, trying to think of a way of getting back to his chair on the porch without losing face or aggravating Logan further.

  ‘Did you catch any, Pops?’ Pearl came to his rescue.

  ‘Yeah, flathead catfish.’ Pops held his hands apart to show how big.

  ‘Tell you one thing.’ Not wanting to be left out, Greely looked up from his solitaire. ‘Dunmore is the only rancher round here who never gives me a tip. I take care of his horse every time he comes into town.’

  ‘Heard you say that before.’ Pops offered his support to Greely as he turned and headed out to the porch again. ‘Never come across anyone so mean. One of these days Dunmore will get what’s coming. You mark my words.’

  Pearl had had enough of listening to the men griping. She stood up.

  ‘Room overlooks the street.’ She turned to Hartford. ‘I’ll find you a blanket. It gets cold at night.’

  Hartford left the men to their cards and followed Pearl up the wooden stairs. The room contained a brass bedstead with a horsehair mattress, a marble-topped washstand holding a china bowl and jug, and a wooden chair. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust.

  ‘Thanks.’ Hartford’s boot heels clacked on the bare boards. ‘Weeks since I slept in a bed.’

  ‘I sold the sheets.’ Pearl came in holding a blanket and a thin pillow. ‘Trader came through and made me an offer. No one stays here now, so I thought why not.’

  Hartford looked out of the window at the empty street. Bill Greely was leading his horse past the sheriff’s office on the way to the livery.