by Rob Hill
‘Bought him off?’ Pearl hesitated. The possibility had never occurred to her. ‘Even if he did, it wouldn’t have made much difference. Mary May is of a mind to do exactly what she wants to, with or without her Pa’s blessing.’
Shadows massed round the pool of yellow lamplight where Pearl and Hartford sat. The air had cooled now and it was hard to recall what the heat of the day had felt like. Outside the window, a peach coloured moon hung in a cobalt sky and swathes of glittering stars were scattered across the night.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A hand on his shoulder shook Hartford awake. Amongst the shadows, he could just make out the outline of a bulky figure standing over him. Outside the window, moonlight covered the town like a silver shawl and grey, pre-dawn light softened the edge of the sky. Somewhere a rooster screeched to warn that day was coming. Instinctively, Hartford’s hand slipped under his pillow and felt for his Navy Colt.
‘Pearl’s made coffee.’ It was Sheriff Milton’s voice. ‘If we leave now, we should reach McGreggor’s spread by mid-morning.’
Downstairs, the saloon was rich with the smell of fresh coffee. Pearl had lit the oil lamp on the bar and a coffee pot, two tin cups and a sourdough loaf waited for them. The men tore off pieces of bread and dipped them. The coffee was bitter and as thick as oil.
Hartford’s head was bursting with questions about his pa, Boone, Mary May, Dunmore, McGreggor, all of them. They all boiled down to a single one, he realized: how could things have got so bad? Since the war, everything had got shaken up and tipped on its head. No one got along any more: Dunmore and Joe Hartford were at each other’s throats, Mary May hated her pa, Boone was still flying in the face of everybody. The Nudd brothers had once been stalwarts of the Lazy D and now Charlie was bitter and Jake had been thrown in jail. Then there was McGreggor: the truce between him and Dunmore which had lasted for years had broken down. Boone and Mary May had run off somewhere and now Dunmore was dead.
Hartford watched the sheriff blow on his coffee. In the old days, folks brought their disputes to him, respected his impartiality and stuck by his judgement. Now it was different. McGreggor would hardly give him the time of day, Mary May Dunmore hadn’t turned to him for help and two cattle hands had had the brass nerve to bust their friend out of jail.
‘Pearl’s gone to wake up Bill Greely.’ The sheriff concentrated on wiping the inside of his coffee cup with a crust of bread. ‘He’ll bring the horses down from the livery.’
Hartford knew this was to save the sheriff the effort of walking the length of the street on his aching knees.
As they left town, Hartford pulled his jacket tight. Even with hot coffee inside him, the morning cold drove through his clothes. In the east along the horizon, watery dawn light began to prise open the darkness. The horses picked their way between the beehive cactus and Jerusalem thorns that loomed at them out of the shadows.
‘Reckon McGreggor could have had Dunmore killed?’ It was the one thing Hartford wanted to know above all else.
‘If someone wants to do something, he’ll always find a reason.’ The sheriff sighed wearily. ‘Always find a way to make sure his actions are justified. Then he can hold his head up and live with himself and his neighbours.’
‘You mean McGreggor believed he had a reason for killing Dunmore?’ Hartford was impatient for an answer. The sheriff’s roundabout way was too slow him.
Light was coming up fast now. The eastern sky split open and revealed primrose clouds painted with crimson scars. All around them, stones and cactus plants cast black shadows. The dull thud of their horses’ hoofs accompanied the jingle of their bridles. But night cold was still in the air, held each of the men in a tight embrace, slipped inside their shirts and froze their bones.
‘Another thing you should know,’ the sheriff turned to Hartford. ‘Jake Nudd, Logan and Clyde Shorter too, all worked on the McGreggor ranch a while back. McGreggor reckoned they was cutting the herd and selling his beeves to Dunmore so he fired them.’
Hartford knew what was coming next. Sheriff Milton’s laconic way of telling a story made him smile.
‘So Dunmore took them on. From what he told me, they’ve been cutting his herd and selling the beeves back to McGreggor.’
‘That why you threw Jake Nudd in jail?’ Hartford said. ‘Is he going to take the fall for all this?’
‘Jake ain’t got the brains to cut a herd and negotiate the sale of beeves with anyone. I locked him up for his own good. Thought it might take the heat out of the situation. Dunmore was raging mad.’ The sheriff paused. ‘Anyhow, chances are Dunmore would have given them their jobs back eventually. Why shouldn’t he? He didn’t have proof against any of them. Then that fool Logan gets it into his head that Dunmore has stitched him up. He decides to bust Jake out to get back at Dunmore, me and anyone else he can think of.’
‘Reckon Logan had been cutting Dunmore’s herd?’ Hartford knew what the sheriff’s answer was going to be.
‘Put money on it,’ the sheriff laughed. ‘No one will ever prove it. It would take days to ride out and inspect all the brands on McGreggor’s beeves, weeks even. He’d know you were coming before you could get to them. Then you’d find the herd was scattered or suddenly there were strays all over and no one knew where they were. At the very least he’d have had time to change the brands.’
The same morning Dunmore’s plea for help had come through to Washington Street, Allan Pinkerton gave the order that an agent should be dispatched. Dunmore complained that rustlers were stealing his livelihood from under him and he had no one to help him. Hartford knew the lie of the land so he was sent.
A case that had seemed as transparent as spring water in the Pinkerton office, down here was like staring into a muddy pool. Everyone wanted something someone else had. Dunmore wanted the Hartford farm. McGreggor wanted Dunmore’s spread. Mary May wanted Boone to help her escape from her pa. Charlie Nudd wanted Mary May. The ranch hands were stealing cattle. The list went on.
The boundary between the Lazy D and McGreggor’s property came into view sooner than Hartford and the sheriff expected. From a mile away, they could see the posts of a new wire fence stretching out into the distance. A freshly painted sign hung over the gates bearing the legend ‘McGreggor’ in black capitals. Three horses were tethered to the fence and their riders leaned against the gate. Two of them were smoking cigarettes and the third held a Winchester loosely under his arm.
It was mid morning. The heat was building as usual, in a few hours the place would be a furnace. Wakened by the vibration of the horses’ hoofs, a nest of confused and angry scorpions careered about in the dirt, darting this way and that, their stings arched above them ready to strike. The sand-coloured young were almost transparent in the sunlight while the hard-backed adults, no less quick in their movements, tumbled over each other, slaves to their abiding instinct to search out a victim and strike.
‘McGreggor move his boundary?’ Hartford indicated the new fence.
The men at the gate noticed them. One raised his arm and pointed, a second climbed up the gate rungs to get a better view.
As they drew closer, the sheriff raised his arm and gave a broad wave, a friendly salute. One of the men untied his horse and set off at a gallop back towards the ranch house.
Some time before Hartford and the sheriff reached the two remaining men, they recognized them. Logan held the Winchester and Clyde Shorter stood a couple of feet behind him. The sheriff raised his hand and waved again. Logan shifted the position of the Winchester and held it ready to swing up to his shoulder.
‘Far enough, Sheriff,’ Logan called out when they were well within range.
Sheriff Milton ignored him and carried on riding until he was up close. Hartford followed. Logan cradled the Winchester under his arm, the barrel levelled at the sheriff’s chest.
‘Was hoping I’d run into you, Logan.’ Sheriff Milton sounded as if he had just dropped by to pass the time.
The more friendly the sheriff
sounded, the more the blood beat in Logan’s face. He glowered at them. His clothes were immaculate as usual, collar and cuffs perfectly turned, pants pressed and his hat brushed free of dust. His index finger was poised on the trigger guard of the Winchester.
Clyde Shorter looked panicked. His eyes darted from the sheriff to Hartford and back again. He wore a battered old straw hat and rivulets of sweat ran down the side of his face. Damp patches discoloured his baggy cotton shirt. His hand rested on the .45 which was tucked under his stomach in the belt of his pants.
‘What do you want, Sheriff?’ Logan snapped.
Although Logan was angry, Hartford could see that their presence threw him off balance. Not knowing what to do, he had sent the third man back to the ranch for instructions.
‘Was that Charlie Nudd’s brother you just sent back to the house?’ the sheriff carried on innocently. ‘’Cause if it was, I heard you did me a favour.’
Logan’s stare switched to Hartford as if he could explain what the sheriff was going on about.
‘A favour?’ Logan echoed. The Winchester wavered in the crook of his arm.
‘You help him, Clyde?’ The sheriff turned his attention to Clyde Shorter.
‘Me?’ Shorter’s voice came out as a squeak. ‘What’s he saying, Logan?’
‘I said what do you want?’ Logan mustered his anger again in an attempt to shift the sheriff’s disarming smile.
‘Let me ask you fellas something.’ Still smiling, the sheriff leaned forward in his saddle and lowered his voice as if he was letting them into a secret. ‘Was that Jake Nudd who was standing here with you just now?’
‘So what if it was?’ Logan growled.
‘Then you did me a service.’ The sheriff’s friendly manner was unshakable. ‘Unlocked my jail cell and left the keys on the desk.’
Logan raised the Winchester. He couldn’t make sense of anything.
In the far distance beyond the gate, Hartford noticed the dust kicked up by a rider at the gallop. Clyde Shorter turned round to look. Even though the drum of hoof beats was clearly audible, the sheriff didn’t take his eyes off Logan.
‘Saved me doing the exact same thing. I was heading back to my office to let old Jake out after he’d cooled off after a night on the red eye and what do you know?’ The sheriff’s eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘He was gone.’
‘Logan,’ Clyde Shorter pulled at Logan’s sleeve. The rider would be with them any minute. Shorter looked terrified.
‘Asked around in the saloon. They said you and Clyde had high-tailed it, so I put two and two together.’
The rider reached them and reined in his horse, kicking up a cloud of dust.
‘Well lookee,’ the sheriff crowed. ‘Here he is. How are you doing, Jake?’
Jake Nudd looked just as nonplussed as Logan had.
‘None the worse for cooling off in my jail?’
‘Boss says bring ’em up to the house,’ Nudd said to Logan.
Logan nodded sharply to Clyde Shorter to indicate that he should open the gate.
On the way up to the ranch house, the sheriff kept up a stream of friendly banter. He enquired how the guys had been keeping, said how pleased he was to have run into them and emphasised how good it was to see that Jake had suffered no ill effects from his night in the cell. The men replied in gruff monosyllables. As none of them were used to friendly treatment or anyone showing concern for them, they were taken in by the sheriff’s repartee. But every time he touched on how grateful he was for them freeing Jake from the jail cell, they exchanged nervous glances.
A quarter mile inside the gate, the ground lifted. When they reached the top of the rise they had their first view of the ranch house and its outbuildings. The house itself was an old Mexican army fort that dated back to the Mexican War. It was a single-storey adobe construction, built round what had once been a parade ground. The lime-washed walls shone in the late morning sun. There were lookout towers at each of the four corners, ramparts running round the tops of the walls and the parade ground was now an emerald green lawn.
Further on, beyond the house stood the usual collection of ranch buildings, workshops, a forge, stables, barn and a wooden bunkhouse for the men. In the distance were cattle pens and way beyond them, a couple of miles out towards the horizon, a cloud of dust hung in the air showing the movement of the herd.
Logan and the others escorted Hartford and the sheriff under the adobe arch. Once inside, the walls provided shade and the scent of the newly watered grass hung in the air. There were flowers too. A mantle of crimson bougainvillea draped over one wall, a triangular bed of yellow, pink and white roses had been made in a corner of the lawn while in the exact centre stood a lemon tree. The simple beauty of the place was breathtaking.
Logan led the way up one side of the lawn to where an orange-tiled roof shaded a flagstone porch. In awe of the place, none of the men spoke. As they approached the porch, they became aware of two figures, a man and a woman, standing back in the shadows.
‘Leave your horses here.’ Logan nodded towards a hitching rail.
While Hartford and the sheriff dismounted, Logan and the other men disappeared back towards the main gate. The sheriff turned away from the porch to hide the pain in his face as he eased himself down from his stirrup.
The two figures stepped forward to greet them. Judging by his expensive clothes, Hartford guessed the man was McGreggor. The woman was Mary May.
CHAPTER EIGHT
McGreggor was tall, powerfully built with steel-grey hair combed straight back and a heavy grey moustache. He wore a black jacket, pressed white shirt open at the neck, black pants and black boots with pointed steel toecaps. From where he stood on the porch, he looked down on Hartford and the sheriff as they dismounted. The stern expression on his face showed they were unwelcome.
Mary May was the picture of misery. Hartford remembered her laughter as Boone snatched her away from her father the previous afternoon, a mixture of the delight of a bride-to-be and the over-excitement of a child who has misbehaved. Now her face was tearstained and her hair was a mess. She looked frail and stooped; the effort of holding herself upright took all her strength. She kept close to McGreggor, as if his commanding presence provided her with shelter.
‘Mr McGreggor, Miss.’ Sheriff Milton touched the brim of his hat.
McGreggor said nothing. Sullen anger sat in his face as though the arrival of the two men was impertinence.
‘Glad to have found you, Miss Dunmore,’ the sheriff went on. ‘We looked for you out at the Lazy D yesterday.’
‘I was at the store.’ Mary May looked dazed – merely recalling where she had been the previous afternoon was a struggle. ‘Everyone was talking about . . .’
McGreggor took her arm to steady her while she summoned the strength to continue. ‘They said some old guy from the saloon had been out at Snake’s Creek. He’d seen. . . .’ She caught the sheriff’s eye and then Hartford’s, desperate for them to tell her it wasn’t true. ‘I headed out to Annie’s to get her to ride out there with me, but her pa was so sick, she couldn’t leave him.’ Mary May hesitated and looked up at McGreggor who still held her arm. ‘I didn’t know where else to turn.’
‘I think you should go inside and rest, my dear.’ McGreggor’s kindly advice sounded like a command. ‘I shall see what Sheriff Milton wants.’
As Mary May obediently withdrew, McGreggor turned coldly to the sheriff. What he really wanted to do was to order him off his property but, with Mary May within earshot, he maintained steely politeness.
‘Miss Dunmore is lucky to have you to turn to.’ The sheriff’s compliment fell on deaf ears. Milton’s easygoing manner may have distracted the men at the gate, but McGreggor was more difficult. He looked thunderous.
‘Noticed you’ve been putting up fences,’ the sheriff continued as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Good strong posts. Those boys who let us in, did they do that?’
‘Fences?’ McGreggor didn’t f
ollow.
‘Did a good job.’ The sheriff smiled at him. ‘Couldn’t help noticing, that’s all.’
‘What are you talking about?’ McGreggor prided himself on not suffering fools. He must have misjudged Sheriff Milton – the man was babbling like an idiot.
‘Those boys who used to work for Dunmore,’ the Sheriff continued cheerfully. ‘He had some notion that they’d been cutting his herd. Now they’re working for you.’
‘What are you saying?’ McGreggor was beginning to see where this could lead.
‘Had Jake Nudd locked in a cell. The other two let him out without my say-so. Must have headed straight out here.’ The sheriff sounded innocently surprised as if the idea had just occurred to him.
‘What exactly do you want?’ McGreggor looked pained.
‘You tell those guys to move the boundary into the Dunmore property?’ The sheriff lowered his voice so McGreggor had to strain to hear him. ‘Those guys, who cut Dunmore’s herd, they offer to sell Dunmore’s beeves to you?’
‘What?’ The sheriff had bundled his questions together so McGreggor couldn’t disentangle one from another. He glanced over the sheriff’s shoulder to where Logan and the other had passed under the arch.
‘Those guys.’ The sheriff seemed to weigh his words. ‘You can’t trust any of them.’ He caught McGreggor’s eye, letting him in on something for his own good. ‘Cutting herds, putting up fences in the wrong place, busting out of jail, I mean . . .’ The sheriff’s words tumbled out. ‘And what about Mary May. Her pa’s dead. She’s here. Where’s the guy she’s supposed to be marrying tomorrow?’
Just as McGreggor opened his mouth to answer, the sheriff turned to Hartford.
‘We should ask her that? I mean, he’s your brother after all.’
Hartford went to say something, but the sheriff wasn’t interested. His eye was on McGreggor. The ranch boss was struggling for words on his own luxurious porch. He had the feeling that whatever answer he gave, he was going to incriminate himself and he couldn’t figure out why.
