Dead Man st Snake's Creek

by Rob Hill

  ‘No one’s taken care of the farm for years, looks like,’ Hartford said. ‘Annie says he helps out with money when he can.’

  ‘Reckon that’s where he’s headed now?’ The sheriff dangled the question like bait. Hartford could see him thinking Boone’s your brother, you sure you don’t know?

  ‘Raising a posse?’ Hartford wanted to show he was on the sheriff’s side.

  ‘Take too long.’ The sheriff dismissed the suggestion. ‘You and me best head straight out to the Lazy D. Mary May might have gone there.’

  The Lazy D bordered Joe Hartford’s farm. When Joe, Henry Milton, their wives and a handful of other settlers arrived to stake their claims and build a town, they found Dunmore already there. Having arrived a few years before, being ambitious enough for ten men and because there was no competition at that time, he had persuaded the Government Land Agents to part with a generous allocation, miles of prime longhorn country. When they were reluctant to part with a particular land package, he annexed it anyway.

  There was no crossbreeding with Herefords back then, the Goodnight-Loving and the Chisholm trails were not yet open, the rail road had not reached Abilene and the farmers across the state line had not taken against them. It was all longhorns, rough riding and the Shawnee trail to Missouri.

  After a few short years accumulating his spread, Dunmore’s credit was extended to breaking point. The banks which had been pleased to offer mortgages to this hard driving young cattleman now lost their nerve. They began to realize that Dunmore was playing off one mortgage lender against another, robbing Peter to pay Paul. They called in some of his unsecured loans and, when he ignored them, threatened foreclosure. Dunmore was livid. He could see his dream of reigning over a cattle empire disappear before his eyes.

  Then a young man named Joe Hartford who had recently arrived in the area made him an offer for a patch of land. At first Dunmore was suspicious. It had taken a lot of effort by fair means and foul in order to get his hands on his spread and he didn’t want anyone worming their way in. But Joe Hartford seemed a dogged kind of guy, the right sort of personality for a sodbuster, Dunmore thought. His offer showed he wasn’t prepared to go above the overdraft his bank had set, which proved to Dunmore that Joe Hartford’s ambition was limited to establishing a small farm. He would never be a threat to the Lazy D. So Dunmore sold him the acres he wanted, a patch of land in the north of his property a few miles from Credence. By this time, the Lazy D extended for so many square miles that it didn’t matter to Dunmore which part of the property Hartford made an offer on.

  True to his cautious nature, Joe Hartford had spent many days out on the Lazy D looking for just the right place to site his farm. On the face of it, the property was open prairie except for the strip of fertile land that bordered the Blue River, which carried enough water for the whole spread even in dry years. He knew there was no point in making Dunmore an offer for any land which bordered the river, so he looked elsewhere.

  Under pressure from the banks, Dunmore was wholly concerned with negotiating extensions to his loans and trying to turn his longhorns into profit. He got to the point where he just wanted Joe Hartford to pick out a patch of land, make him a decent offer which would allow him to fend off the banks for the rest of the season and have done with it.

  Eventually, Joe Hartford settled on a hundred and fifty acres on the northern boundary of the Lazy D. With the banks on his back, Dunmore was so relieved to close the deal, he didn’t bother to enquire why Joe had settled on this particular acreage rather than any other part of his spread. Privately, he believed that no part of the Lazy D was suitable for farming apart from the area close to the Blue River and that Joe’s farm would fail within a year or two. In fact, he was so confident of this he insisted on a buy-back clause in the sale agreement and believed Joe was even more gullible than he had first thought when he did not object.

  Joe Hartford studied the landscape around the northern part of the property. He noticed the dry river bed, gullies, layers of sedimentary rock and patterns of erosion. He took particular account of the groups of bald cypresses and rusty blackhaws and where patches of dried-up sage gave way to swathes of turkey foot and buffalo grass. He was convinced this was a good place to sink wells and believed he might even find an underground stream. He kept quiet about this during his discussions with Dunmore and was non-committal about his reasons for settling on this particular spot. It was only months later, when Joe Hartford had successfully sunk wells, started to dig irrigation ditches and sure enough uncovered a stream that Dunmore saw that he had underestimated his new neighbour. No matter. The sale had pacified the banks, got the Lazy D out of a jam and allowed Dunmore to concentrate on building his empire.

  Once they were out of town, Milton rode up alongside Hartford.

  ‘Still with the Agency?’

  ‘They should have let you know I was coming.’ Hartford pulled open his jacket and showed him the Pinkerton badge. ‘Chicago office received a request for help from Mr Dunmore at the Lazy D Ranch. I’m supposed to make contact with you and meet Dunmore on Monday. Came down a couple of days early for the wedding.’

  ‘Let me guess.’ The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s complaining that someone has been cutting his herd. The way things usually go, a rider will arrive from Fort Worth tomorrow to tell me you’ll be arriving today.’

  Hartford smiled.

  ‘Do well to keep that thing hidden.’ The sheriff indicated his badge. ‘Lot of guys round here were in the 8th Cavalry under General Johnston. Saw action at Woodsonville, Shiloh, Chattanooga, all over. Most of them never came back.’

  ‘War’s not over then?’ Talk of the war irritated Hartford. It had been at the back of every conversation he had since he arrived.

  ‘It’s over,’ Sheriff Milton said firmly. ‘Folks just don’t like to be reminded, that’s all.’

  ‘What about you, Sheriff?’ Hartford wasn’t prepared to let it lie. If he was to work with Milton, he didn’t want any barriers between them.

  ‘Joined Hood’s brigade with your pa. Took a bullet at Antietam.’ The sheriff answered the question matter-of-factly, no resentment in his voice. ‘Did you know Dunmore made your pa an offer for the farm?’ The sheriff changed the subject. Hartford noticed he hadn’t asked about his own war service.

  ‘Recently?’ Hartford tried to figure out what this meant. Why hadn’t his pa mentioned it?

  ‘If he didn’t tell you about it, I guess that means he turned it down.’

  The land was dead flat here. Wind lifted a veil of dust out of the sage and toyed with it, covering the clothes, hands and faces of the two men, dried their lips and stung their eyes. The late afternoon sun hammered down on their shoulders. They pulled their hats down low and squinted into the distance where the heat tricked their vision, the air barrelled and spiralled and nothing seemed like it was.

  What kind of offer had Dunmore made his pa? The question gnawed at Hartford. Dunmore was the kind of guy who didn’t stop until he got what he wanted. What the hell was he doing, leaning on a sick man to sell his life’s work? Did this have something to do with the wedding? Was it some kind of ploy to kick Joe Hartford off his land so his Boone wouldn’t have a home to come to and his headstrong daughter’s wedding plans would fade away?

  ‘Farm’s falling apart. Your pa can’t work no more. Good land is going to waste.’ The sheriff seemed to read Hartford’s mind. ‘You’re gone. Boone’s gone now. That only leaves Annie.’

  ‘This offer anything to do with the wedding?’ Hartford came out with it.

  ‘Boone and Mary May?’ The sheriff concentrated on a spot on the horizon.

  ‘They first ran in to each other as soon as Boone came back from the army. ’Course, there was no one back here then. Your pa was away, Dunmore was away. Your ma was sick with Annie looking after her. Mary May was living out at the Lazy D on her own with the maid. There was Pearl at the saloon holding the town together. If it hadn’t been for her, I reckon the wh
ole place would have starved to death.

  ‘She’s the one who turned the saloon into a convalescent home for the wounded and made sure everyone had enough to eat. Salt of the earth, that girl. If I had call for a deputy, I’d have her.’ The Sheriff’s face darkened as he went on with his story. ‘Boone got hit in the shoulder at Gaines. Wasn’t more than a flesh wound, I saw it myself. Anyhow, he took it on himself to head for home to recuperate.’

  ‘Deserted?’ Hartford heard something behind the sheriff’s words.

  ‘Let’s just say that wound must have taken a long time to heal because he never rejoined the line.’ The sheriff’s meaning was clear.

  ‘Pearl’s pa never came back, did he?’ Whenever Hartford thought about the war, his head filled with the nightmare of all the bloodshed. As Credence was untouched by the fighting, he never considered what it must have been like back here.

  ‘Dunmore managed to get himself back here before the President’s Proclamation,’ the sheriff went on. ‘Herd was scattered. He spent weeks rounding them up. ’Course, who was to say if a few of his neighbours’ beeves got mixed in amongst them.’ Once again, the sheriff spoke in his roundabout way. ‘Heard he turned a fine profit that first season after the war.’

  Underfoot, ragged sagebrush gave way to thin buffalo grass. Woken by the vibration of their hoofbeats, yellow-backed scorpions buried themselves under stones and a grey-green prairie rattler uncoiled itself and slid off the trail.

  As they drew near to the Lazy D, Hartford noticed the sheriff search the horizon for a sign of approaching riders and turn in his saddle to check the trail behind them. No one there, but he was making sure.

  ‘Who’s running things out here now?’ Hartford said.

  ‘Foreman’s called Charlie Nudd, Jake’s brother. Don’t expect him to be pleased to see us. Sure will be glad to find Mary May,’ the sheriff added. ‘Can’t stand the thought of her running round somewhere without knowing about her pa.’

  Up ahead, they could see a high gateway decorated with pairs of longhorns. Beyond it stood a collection of buildings, a single-storey ranch house with a porch running all the way round it. No cottonwood construction like Joe Hartford’s farm house, this was built of expensive pine brought in from the east. Seasoned and treated, the wood glowed like polished leather in the late afternoon sun. Beyond the ranch house were barns, a forge and an acre of cattle pens, all in good repair. There was smoke rising from the forge chimney and the regular clank of a blacksmith’s hammer. A couple of men were working on extending the cattle pens, but they were too far away to hear Hartford and the sheriff approach. Hartford looked for Boone’s horse at the hitching rail outside the house, but it wasn’t there.

  ‘When we find the foreman, let me do the talking.’ The sheriff slowed his horse as he approached the gate. ‘Charlie Nudd is a good cattleman, but he’s got a temper. Worked out here since before the war. He’s loyal to Dunmore, joined the regiment with him and came back here afterwards. He won’t be regarding me as his best buddy right now.’

  A rider was heading towards them from the cattle pens. He approached at an unnecessary gallop and reined his horse in hard. He looked as though he was just back from the herd. His work shirt, hat and pants were covered in dust. He scowled at Hartford and the sheriff as though they had interrupted him in the middle of something and he couldn’t wait to get rid of them.

  ‘Come to see Miss Dunmore,’ Sheriff Milton announced firmly.

  ‘Rode out this morning, ain’t been back all day.’ The man sized up Hartford, noticed the Colt on his hip.

  ‘I want to talk to Charlie Nudd then,’ Milton said.

  ‘Really, Sheriff?’ The man turned his glare back to Milton. ‘What makes you think Charlie wants to talk to you?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hartford and Sheriff Milton stayed outside the gate while the ranch hand walked his horse back to the Lazy D buildings in search of the foreman. Deliberately slow, it seemed to Hartford.

  ‘We should just ride in there,’ Hartford snapped.

  ‘No point in riling them from the get-go.’ The sheriff sat back in his saddle.

  A breeze carried the shouts of the men building the new cattle pens and the monotonous clang of the blacksmith’s hammer in the forge. The sun burned their shoulders and the sky was as pale as porcelain. A pair of vultures wheeled patiently overhead.

  A man trotted his horse up from the cattle pens. He was short and powerfully built, with muscular shoulders and a chest like a barrel. His work clothes were dirty, and the brim of his old hat was curled where he was in the habit of grabbing it to urge on the beeves when he was out with the herd. He was a grafter. His work was everything to him and now the sour look on his face reminded Hartford and the sheriff that they were calling him away from it.

  ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt you, Charlie.’ Sheriff Milton was at his most diplomatic.

  ‘What do you want, Sheriff?’ He looked at Milton with unqualified loathing.

  ‘Come out to talk to Miss Mary May,’ Milton said. ‘Got something real important to tell her.’

  ‘Billy told you she ain’t here.’ Charlie’s gaze hardened. ‘What did you call me over for?’

  ‘Going to let us in, Charlie?’ Milton asked.

  ‘Let you in, hell.’ Charlie’s grip tightened on his reins. ‘You threw Jake in jail for no reason at all.’

  ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Charlie,’ Milton said softly. ‘Dunmore’s dead and your brother’s busted out of jail. I want you to let us in so we can see for ourselves that Miss Mary May ain’t here.’

  A guillotine seemed to fall behind Charlie’s eyes and cut off his power of speech. He looked panicked and turned from the sheriff to Hartford and back again.

  ‘Where have you been all day, Charlie?’ The sheriff’s voice was not much more than a whisper but there was steel in it.

  Hartford got down off his horse, opened the gate and let the sheriff ride in. Charlie didn’t protest.

  ‘Where have you been, Charlie?’ Milton repeated.

  ‘Me? Here. Why? What are you saying?’ There was some terrible implication in the question but Charlie couldn’t figure what it was.

  ‘All day?’ The sheriff drew his horse up alongside Charlie’s.

  ‘Rode out to gather up a couple of strays. Apart from that I’ve been here.’ Charlie looked winded. ‘You say Dunmore’s dead?’

  ‘Take us up to the house, Charlie. Got to see Mary May ain’t there with my own eyes.’

  Charlie wheeled his horse. The sheriff and Hartford rode alongside.

  ‘Where did you find the strays?’ Hartford asked.

  ‘Snake’s Creek. Why?’ Charlie seemed to see Hartford for the first time. ‘Who the hell are you anyway?’

  ‘Hartford.’

  ‘Joe Hartford’s son?’ Charlie puzzled something out. ‘The one who ran off and joined the Pinkertons?’ He wheeled round and faced the sheriff. ‘You brought the Pinkertons in on this?’ Charlie put two and two together and made five. ‘You think Jake busted out of jail, killed Dunmore and you brought in the Pinkertons?’

  ‘Dunmore was killed up at Snake’s Creek,’ Hartford said simply.

  Charlie stared first at him, then at the sheriff.

  ‘What the hell are you saying?’ Charlie went on the attack. He leaned forward and crooked his arms slightly, fists clenched like a boxer closing on his opponent. ‘First you accuse Jake, now you’re accusing me? You know Dunmore had enemies all over. No one had a good word for him. Ask any of the guys here, they’ll tell you.’

  ‘Back up, Charlie. Nobody’s accusing anybody,’ Milton said quickly. Hartford saw that the sheriff was annoyed that he had rattled Charlie’s cage. It wasn’t his way. ‘And before you get all soured about it, I locked you brother up because Mr Dunmore told me he’d been cutting the herd. He was so hungover he couldn’t remember where he was, couldn’t even tell me what he’d been celebrating. Those other two clowns both said he was with them, trouble was
they were both in different places.’

  Charlie slipped easily out of his saddle as they reached the ranch house. The others followed and hitched their horses to the rail. The place was built like a rock. The porch floor was made with two-inch boards, the house walls were twelve-inch diameter pine trunks, neatly sawn with precisely cut joints. The men’s boot heels clacked on the solid steps.

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ Charlie said. ‘I don’t go in the house in my work clothes.’

  The main living room smelled of wood smoke and cigars. A wide, leather-topped desk strewn with papers faced windows which looked south over the full spread of the Lazy D. An oak arm chair stood a couple of feet back from the desk, as if someone had been sitting there and just got up. Over the fireplace hung a pair of prize longhorns, even bigger than the ones that decorated the main gate. There were a pair of balloon-backed chairs beside the hearth, each with an oil lamp on an occasional table. The stained wooden floor as well as the wooden vaulted ceiling made the room dark.

  The rest of the ranch house was deserted. Everything was neat, everywhere was swept, polished and clean and the beds were made. In what was obviously Mary May’s room, a beautiful new cotton dress lay on the bed ready for her to put on. In the kitchen, the stove was lit as if someone was expecting to cook a meal. Outside the back door in the yard, chickens pecked at the handfuls of grain which had been scattered for them. Hartford and the sheriff found Charlie Nudd perched on the front step, nervously turning his hat in his hands.

  ‘Told you no one was there, didn’t I?’

  ‘Who looks after the place?’ Hartford said.

  ‘Blacksmith’s wife does the cooking and cleaning.’ Charlie stared out across the yard.

  ‘What’s Mary May like, Charlie?’ Sheriff Milton sat down on the step beside him. He made it sound as if he was asking the question in confidence. ‘You’ve been here a long time. You know everybody.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Charlie’s face turned puce.