Dead Man st Snake's Creek

by Rob Hill

  CHAPTER TEN

  The saloon was empty. The tables and chairs were neatly arranged down the centre of the room, paper streamers looped between the rafters and white paper rosettes were hung at intervals along the walls. The oak top of the bar was polished to a shine and the shelves behind it were stacked with clean glasses. Even Pearl’s twelve-gauge which lay on top of the bar had been given a once over. Hartford hung his gun behind the door.

  ‘Saloon’s closed until tomorrow.’ Pearl was excited. ‘Want to get everything right. It ain’t every day we have a wedding breakfast in here.’

  ‘All prepared with a scattergun on the bar?’ Hartford teased her.

  ‘Never know what kind of mood everyone will be in.’ There was a serious look in her eyes.

  ‘Seen Boone?’ Hartford said.

  ‘Not for a few days.’ Pearl reached under the bar for a bottle of red eye and a glass. ‘He called in last weekend with Mary May.’

  ‘Mary May is out at the McGreggor place,’ Hartford said. ‘No sign of Boone.’

  Pearl poured the whiskey and pushed the glass over to Hartford.

  ‘Done the place up real nice,’ Hartford could see the effort she had put in.

  ‘You think this wedding will be going ahead?’ Pearl came straight out with it. ‘In view of ...’ Her voice trailed as she cast her eye over the line of rosettes along the walls and the streamers overhead. All that work. ‘There was always fireworks between Mary May and her pa,’ Pearl went on. ‘When she came in to town, she used to sneak in here through the back way in case someone saw her. She was always full of stories about how Dunmore wouldn’t let her go anywhere, just wanted her to keep in the ranch house all the time and how sick she was of it. She said the Lazy D was a prison, she’d do anything to escape if she could think of a way. I felt sorry for her. She’s a sweet kid.’ Pearl reached under the bar, brought out a glass and poured a slug of red eye for herself. ‘Then along came Boone.’

  ‘The more Dunmore tried to prise Mary May and Boone apart, the more they stuck together,’ Hartford said. ‘He came out to the farm yesterday to try to take her home.’

  ‘Worked out why we’ve got the no gun rule in here?’ Pearl didn’t wait for him to answer. ‘Couple of months ago, Boone rolls in all liquored up, demanding a bottle of red eye. I suggested to him that he should just relax and head home. He pulls out his .45 and starts shooting the place up. See those holes up there?’ Pearl pointed to a line of six unevenly spaced bullet holes in the pitch of the roof which Hartford hadn’t noticed before. ‘Sheriff took Boone’s gun away and slung him in a cell till he sobered up.’

  Hartford sipped his red eye and felt his throat burn. Boone was born with a scowl on his face, their ma used to say. If things were as he wanted, everything was fine. Any problems, he got angry. If anyone stood in his way, there was trouble.

  ‘Boone went to Dunmore, trying to do the right thing, just like Charlie Nudd had. Pretty much got the same reaction. Only this time, Mary May joined in too. Told her pa that she had been courting Boone in secret and they were planning to get hitched whether he agreed or not. Well, that was too much for old man Dunmore. He got Charlie to fling Boone off the Lazy D, which Charlie was only too happy to do. Dunmore said if Boone showed his face on Lazy D land again, he’d shoot him himself.’

  Pearl shook her head sadly.

  ‘The more Mary May pleaded with old man Dunmore, the more he took against Boone. Said it was bad enough Boone being a sodbuster’s son, but no daughter of his was going to marry a good-for-nothing who had abandoned his pa’s farm to work on a construction site in Dallas.’

  Pearl looked quickly at Hartford. Talking about his family like this, maybe she had said too much.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Hartford saw the concern in her eyes. ‘Boone is Boone.’

  ‘Must earn good money up in Dallas,’ Pearl said. ‘Drinks all round every time he comes in here.’

  Hartford pictured Annie in her threadbare house dress, the broken fences and the termite dust on the porch.

  The saloon doors opened and made them both look up. A slim figure stood there, a woman, hesitating on whether or not to come in.

  ‘We’re closed,’ Pearl called before she realized who it was.

  The woman stood just inside the door, unable to take another step as if some kind of exhaustion locked her limbs. A cloud of misery shrouded her. Her eyes pleaded with them, but she was silent; no words would form in her mouth. She swayed slightly and for a moment it looked as if she might topple over where she stood. Hartford jumped down off his barstool and ran towards her, arms outstretched.

  ‘Annie,’ Hartford’s voice came from somewhere in his chest, hoarse and breathless. In his haste, he knocked over his stool with a crash and his footsteps clattered on the wooden floor. He flung his arms round his sister’s slim shoulders and held her tight. Tears bathed her face. Apart from her livid eyelids, her face was bone white. After a second, she summoned her strength. ‘It’s Pa. I just left him on the porch and went inside for a moment. I was going to get him something to eat. I heard him coughing, like he always does. I didn’t think anything of it, I mean. . . .’

  She broke off from talking, a sob rose in her chest and knocked the breath out of her. Hartford reached out to take her arm but she shook him off, determined to deliver her terrible message.

  ‘Pa’s dead, Hart.’

  As Hartford held his sister, his legs felt weak and pain twisted in his gut. In his head, images of his pa from their meeting yesterday blurred with memories from years ago, the two of them fishing up on the Blue River, him helping his pa to hoe weeds in the vegetable patch and his pa laughing because the hoe was taller than he was, the old man bent almost double in his rocking chair, breath clawing in his chest, hating the world and everyone in it.

  Hartford felt Pearl’s arm across his shoulders. She embraced them both and for some immeasurable length of time they all stood locked together in the empty saloon. Golden dust motes danced around them in the thin beams of sunlight that fell through the holes in the roof.

  Eventually, though none of them could have said how long they stood there, Pearl let go. Making her way back to the bar, her hand touched the backs of the chairs she passed as if she needed the fleeting support of each one to help her walk the length of the saloon. She righted the stool Hartford had kicked over and poured a red eye for Annie.

  ‘Where’s Boone?’ Annie looked around at the empty chairs as if she was expecting to see him.

  ‘Ain’t here.’

  ‘I thought he would be with you.’ Pearl and Hartford answered at the same time, their words criss-crossing.

  ‘I reckoned, tonight being the last night before his wedding. . . .’ Annie looked from one to the other.

  Pearl pushed the red eye along the bar towards Annie, but she shook her head.

  ‘Well, where is he?’ She stared round the place again and for the first time seemed to notice the streamers which ran the length of the room.

  Hartford didn’t know what to say. Had Boone run off somewhere? What had he done? Was he hiding out? When Pearl caught his eye, he changed the subject.

  ‘I should take you back to the farm.’ Hartford looked at Annie, her dishevelled hair, bleached face. Her strength, her ability to cope, even her capacity to think in her usual practical way, had all deserted her. She had become a version of herself he had never seen before, helpless and lost.

  ‘Maybe he’s with Mary May.’ Annie struggled to put her thoughts into some kind of order.

  ‘Mary May’s out at the McGreggor place,’ Hartford said gently. ‘Boone ain’t there.’

  Annie nodded, but Hartford wasn’t sure that she had taken in what he said.

  ‘I’ll tell Bill Greely.’ Pearl wanted to do something practical. ‘He’ll take care of . . .’ Her words were lost as she hurried out of the saloon.

  Outside, there was no breeze to relieve the remains of the stifling afternoon heat which weighed in the air. Colour sank back int
o everything. The dirt underfoot was no longer white, the grain was visible in the planks of the wooden buildings, the arching sky, which had been pale for hours, was a dusty blue. As usual, the street outside the saloon was empty. Hartford insisted on helping Annie up into her saddle and climbed up on to his appaloosa.

  Beside the saloon, a covered wagon was parked up. From inside came the gentle, rhythmic sound of someone snoring. The back board was down and they could see the two upturned soles of a man’s boots as he lay stretched out. Hartford noticed a smile touch the corner of Annie’s mouth.

  ‘The preacher,’ Hartford explained. ‘For tomorrow.’

  Sheriff Milton emerged from his office and strode across the street towards them. Each step made him wince with pain, but he refused to slow his pace.

  ‘Pearl just told me.’ Not knowing what else to do, he took off his hat and turned the brim nervously in his hands. ‘Your pa and me, we go way back. Last few years were hard on him, but it wasn’t always like that.’ He reached up and squeezed Annie’s hand. ‘You did everything you could and he loved you for it.’

  ‘Thank you, Sheriff,’ Annie managed a tight smile.

  At the far end of the street, the sight of Bill Greely emerging from the livery made Annie catch her breath. She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he made his way towards them.

  ‘Do you know where Boone is, Sheriff?’ Annie sounded helpless again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Annie.’ The sheriff shook his head. ‘We’ll find him for you.’

  The sheriff read the disappointment in Annie’s face. He didn’t want to leave her with some empty platitude.

  ‘You know what Boone’s like, Annie. He goes where he wants to go. But I’d lay good money he’ll be here tomorrow.’ The sheriff nodded towards the saloon.

  A streamer which Pearl had fastened to the front of the porch had come adrift and trailed on the ground. A white paper rosette lay in the dirt by the saloon steps.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dog eat dog. That was life in this part of Texas since the first wagon rolled in.

  As he rode back into town early the following morning, Hartford was in a black mood. The state of the family farm depressed him. He reflected on the number of people who came out here with hopes sky-high only to have them dashed. Some fell prey to saloon card sharps and lost their fortunes before they had made them; others managed to buy land but became victims of drought, or their stock became diseased and died; still more simply never turned a profit before the banks called in their loans. Hartford had seen families abandon their farms, sell them at a loss and flee. He had seen stores open in town, trade for a while and then shut down. And this was even before barriers went up on the Shawnee Trail.

  There were always vultures circling. When a business closed in town, a buyer would appear just at the right time and snap it up at a bargain price. When word got around that the bank was about to foreclose on a farm, a neighbour would put in a derisory offer and because the vendor had nowhere else to turn, it would be accepted. According to Sheriff Milton, cattle rustling was almost a local sport. If you managed to seize hold of something in this unforgiving land, there would be someone ready to snatch it out of your grasp the first chance they got.

  Even before Hartford had packed his bag and headed off for Chicago, life here was hard. But back then there was a spirit in the place; it was a wide open land and everyone had a chance. Now, the town was in a sorry state. Pearl was guarding what was left of her pa’s once thriving saloon with a twelve-gauge. The sheriff was about to retire and no one had come forward to take his place. The most activity Hartford had seen on the main street was Bill Greely building a coffin.

  Hartford’s thoughts continued to wander. The town might be dying, but the ranches were still doing well. The Lazy D was thriving despite whatever rustling had been going on until Dunmore got shot. Instincts for a bargain still sharp, Dunmore had even put in a sly offer for the Hartford farm when he saw what condition it was in. Even his pa had managed to keep the farm going until he got sick. But the real winner was McGreggor. Hartford couldn’t get the image of the whitewashed walls and the luxurious green lawn out of his head. He had never seen a place like it.

  Sheriff Milton was sitting on a chair on the porch outside his office when Hartford reached town.

  ‘Didn’t bring Annie with you?’

  ‘Wanted time on her own before she rode into town for all this.’ Hartford gestured towards the bunting which decorated the saloon.

  ‘One of a kind, your sister.’ The sheriff shook his head. ‘Living with your pa ain’t been easy.’

  Hartford dismounted and tethered his horse to the rail.

  ‘Boone show up?’ the sheriff went on.

  Hartford shook his head.

  ‘By the way, a rider brought a message from Fort Worth. The Pinkerton Office in Chicago wired to say you’ll be arriving any day.’ Sheriff Milton smiled at his own joke. ‘They put up two thousand miles of wire to tell you something you already know. Modern world makes me feel old.’ The sheriff grimaced as he straightened his legs in front of him. ‘Damn knees. You think Boone might have headed back to Dallas?’ The sheriff slipped the question in quickly while Hartford was still amused at the idea of the out-of-date wire arriving.

  It was something which had occurred to Hartford, but he had dismissed it out of hand. Now, the sheriff coming up with the same idea made him think.

  ‘Supposed to be his wedding day, why would he do that?’

  Hartford could read Sheriff Milton well enough by now to know that he had something on his mind, which for the moment he intended to keep to himself.

  ‘All we can do is wait for him to turn up.’

  Hartford had agreed with Annie that he would settle up with Bill Greely. When he got down to the livery, Greely was sweeping up. A new pine coffin lay across a pair of saw horses and lengths of pine were cut ready for another. Wood shavings littered the floor and the air smelled of sawdust.

  ‘Your pa was a good man, always looked out for his own. I knew him a long time.’ Bill Greely leaned on his yard broom. A kindly smile showed his black teeth. ‘Won’t be no charge for his pine box.’

  Hartford turned to go. It was at this point that people usually started to tell him stories about good times they had spent with his pa in the past. But right now, he wasn’t in the mood. Everything weighed on him. He was worried about Annie, on her own at the farm; if she hadn’t been adamant, he would never have left her alone this morning. He still couldn’t figure out what Mary May was doing with McGreggor. He was no closer to catching Dunmore’s killer. The wedding was due to take place in a few hours and Boone was God knows where.

  ‘Lucky there’s a preacher in town,’ Greely called after him. ‘Burials are always better if you’ve got a preacher.’

  Hartford started down the street towards the saloon. After a few paces he stopped abruptly, little clouds of dust exploding round his boots.

  ‘Any idea where Boone is?’ He turned back to Greely who had started sweeping again. ‘You keep his horse in there, don’t you?’

  ‘Dallas.’ Greely looked up from his broom. ‘Took his horse Friday afternoon. Flew in here like the devil was on his tail. Said something about business he had to finish and he’d be back in time to get hitched.’

  On his way up the street, the thought echoed in Hartford’s head. What was so urgent Boone had to abandon his fiancée and high-tail it to a construction site in Dallas two days before he was due to get wed?

  The atmosphere in the saloon was rich with the smell of fresh ground coffee. Hartford found the preacher having breakfast alone. He was sitting at a table with a coffee pot and a plate of beans in front of him.

  ‘Good morning, friend.’ He waved Hartford over as soon as he entered.

  The preacher was short and round-faced with straw-coloured hair.

  There were dark pouches under his eyes, his eyelids looked sore and his face carried a few days growth of yellow stubble. His waistcoat was tig
ht over his stomach and a battered black hat was planted firmly on his head.

  ‘Care to join me? I’m sure Miss Pearl will provide us with a second cup,’ he grinned broadly. There was something in his manner which said that no matter what, he always woke up with a smile on his face.

  Pearl came out from behind the bar and slammed a second cup down on the preacher’s table.

  ‘I’ve taken the Reverend’s bottle away from him,’ she declared loudly. ‘Told him no red eye until after the ceremony.’

  ‘You see, Miss Pearl has all our best interests at heart.’ Determined to see the good in every situation, the preacher beamed.

  ‘This is Hart, brother to the groom,’ Pearl said curtly. ‘Now drink that coffee and eat something.’

  The preacher poured a cup of oily coffee for Hart.

  ‘Miss Pearl makes her coffee mighty strong,’ he confided after Pearl had retreated behind the bar. As he picked up a fork and started to attack the beans, the smile slid from his face.

  Between mouthfuls, the preacher recommended a certain pick-me-up which often came in useful in the mornings. He happened to have a case in his wagon, he said, and could let Hartford have a bottle cut-price. It operated as a cure-all. Not only did it give you a lift first thing in the morning, it kept out the cold and was good for rheumatism, arthritis, gout and all manner of stomach complaints. When he looked up and discovered Pearl was still watching him, he lifted his coffee cup in her direction and let her see him take a slug.

  Hartford told the preacher about his pa.

  ‘Another funeral?’ He gave Hartford a professional beam. ‘I should be happy to say a few words.’

  The wedding ceremony was to take place on the empty ground beside the saloon where the preacher’s wagon was parked. The guests would be a tempting captive audience and Hartford wondered how soon it would be before the Reverend began a sales pitch for his cure-all. He knocked back his coffee, firmly declined to purchase a bottle of the preacher’s elixir and set off across the street to the sheriff’s office.