Something pulled his head round to the line of hills to the east, where a sparse run of trees caught the redness of the sun. He wasn’t the only one watching the herd.
Even at that distance he could tell it was Bonney Fredericks. Her white blouse signaled to him across a half a mile of grass that rose and fell with the contours of the land.
She knew that he had spotted her and turned in her saddle to face him, but gave no further sign. For a moment Hart thought of riding across to where she was but a shout from below shook the idea from his mind. The cattle at the head of the drive had picked up the scent of fresh water strong and clear and they weren’t going to be denied.
With curved, lowered horns and stomping hoofs they broke into a charge, the expert riders at the point keeping up with them, swinging their ropes and hollering all the way.
The urgency ran through the herd like a tidal wave. Hart saw the driver of the chuck wagon move it wide; the wranglers rode around the remuda, keeping the riderless horses clear. The man he had guessed to be Griffiths galloped his mount towards the head, waving his hat side to side over his horse’s neck, calling orders.
The leading steers raced from sight and the rest were swallowed up in a huge, moving swirl of dust and a thunderous crescendo of sound. Hart watched the C Circle men handling the charging herd and knew what they were doing was difficult as all hell. One false move, one lapse of concentration and a man could be out of his horse’s saddle and being trampled to death under hundreds of hoofs.
He’d tried it for a while and pulled back fast.
Thirty a month and found.
He didn’t like the pay and he didn’t like being just one of a crew. Even when he’d spent his years with the Rangers, the discipline of riding and working in a group had driven him real sore. Alone was how Hart worked best – how he lived best.
He turned his mount round with a pull at the reins: it was how he had to live best.
Little Joe, the wrangler, was called out with the rest; Though the kid had scarce reached the herd When the cattle stampeded, like a hailstorm they fled, And left us all a-riding for the lead
Hart rode Clay round the edge of the cattle at a slow walk, listening to the voice of the night herder drift lazily through the air. The moon was three-parts full and bright in the sky, The horns and backs of some of the steers shone eerily, strangely, with an almost glow.
Next morning at day break we found where his horse fell, Down in a washout twenty feet below; Beneath his horse, mashed to a pulp, his spur rung the knell Of the little Texas stray, poor Wrangling Joe
A cowhand wearing a slicker and a tied-down Stetson looked suspiciously at Hart from the back of his horse, letting his hand rest on the butt of the carbine in its saddle scabbard. Hart nodded in his direction and carried on past, moving towards the glow of the campfire.
Another herder was whistling, the first man’s song having died away. The tune wavered and cracked and broke; a few moments later it set off again, softer than before. Hart pulled at his Indian blanket which was draped across his body; the night air was cold and would get colder as the hours wore on.
The light from the fire had separated out into three different fires, three different lights. Figures leaning back against their saddles turned and watched, weighing the stranger up.
Hart rode between groups of men and over to the central fire, before the chuck wagon. Two men rose and stood beyond the flames – one was Merv Griffiths, the other his father.
Wes Hart got down from the saddle slow.
‘You’re Fredericks’ regulator — that it?’
‘That’s right. An’ you’re Griffiths.’
‘Yeah.’
He was an inch or so taller than his son, and heavily built. He still had on worn leather chaps and, despite the cold, only a leather vest over his shirt. A high-peaked Stetson was pushed back on his head and what hair was visible was mostly steel gray. A Colt Frontier was tied down low on his right leg.
‘Told your boy I’d be comin’ out.’
Griffiths looked at him keenly.
‘So you’re here.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Behind him, Hart was aware of men shifting quietly; maybe to get a better view, but maybe to ease a pistol out from underneath their saddlebags.
‘How long you an’ your men figurin’ on stayin’ around?’
‘No longer’n we need to. I’ll come by tomorrow an’ get things settled with Fredericks, then we’ll be headin’ back. How many hands he got now?’
‘Four. Takin’ on some more in a few days.’
Griffiths nodded.
‘You payin’ your boys soon as you’ve dealt with Fredericks?’ asked Hart.
‘That’s what I’ve said.’
‘Not too many places for ’em to spend it out here.’
‘Some of ’em’ll ride by one of the stage stations an’ get drunk fast. Buffalo or Baker’s. Some’ll ride on down to Fort Reno. They’ll all drift back to Texas in their own time.’
‘When they’re broke.’
‘I don’t see what damn business it is of yours.’ Merv Griffiths came a pace closer to the fire. The light from the flames reflected in his eyes, showed the scar on his face clearly. His hand was by his hip, not far from his pistol butt.
‘Merv, take it steady,’ said his father.
‘Boy,’ said Hart, turning to him, ‘I’ve seen cowhands when they get paid at the end of a long drive. If there’s a town around they go roarin’ in and whoop it up for a couple of days until they’re so drunk and drained they can’t but think of ridin’ home. But out here in the Territories it ain’t like that. There ain’t no big saloons, no whorehouses. These men are likely to be chompin’ on the bit like broncs that’ve been roped in the corral too long.’
‘I still don’t see how that’s your business.’
‘Anyone steps too far out of line, it’s my business.’
‘So what you sayin’?’
‘Boy, I said it. You keep your ass in line like the rest of your pa’s hands or I’ll bust you for it.’
‘You...!’
Merv Griffiths stepped back again and curved his right arm outwards. Hart dropped into a slight crouch, hand covering the butt of his Colt. Griffiths moved faster than he looked able. He was between the two of them, his face set hard and staring at his son, gripping him by both arms.
‘What the hell you doin’? You want to get your fool self killed?’
‘I’m not goin’ to be talked down to like I was some snot-nose kid.’
‘Boy, while you’re behaving like that, a snot-nose kid is all you are.’
Merv winced as though his father had slapped him in the face; he pulled himself clear and moved away from the fire fast. Half a dozen paces on he stopped suddenly, turned fast.
Hart was still watching him and his hand was still inches above his Colt.
Merv Griffiths pointed his finger, jabbing the night air. ‘You ain’t gettin’ away with treatin’ me like that. You just ain’t!’
He turned again and hurried beyond sight. Hart relaxed and straightened. Griffiths sighed.
‘You want some coffee?’
‘Sure.’
Hart came round the fire and sat cross-legged, slackening the knot on the blanket and warming his hands in front of the flames. The cook handed him a tin cup, full to the brim, and gave another to Griffiths. The hot, black coffee spilled over on to Hart’s fingers and near burnt them. When he drank some it did the same to his mouth.
‘Got pinto beans an’ bacon,’ said the cook. ‘You want some?’
‘They as hot as this?’ asked Hart, looking at the man’s grizzled face.
The cook chuckled and rubbed his hands together. ‘Hotter.’
‘I’ll pass.’
‘I’ll take some more,’ said Griffiths.
‘Okay.’ The cook went back to the big cooking pots, blackened and greased with use. The Little Mary, a boy who looked twelve but was likely nearer fourteen, rattled a larg
e spoon and began to pile beans on to a tin plate.
‘You ain’t got a trail boss?’ asked Hart.
‘Started off with one. Rattler bit him south of the Red River. Right in the neck. Tried to suck it out, couldn’t cut it, not where it was. He was dead in a couple of hours. Since then I’ve been doin’ the job myself. Tryin’ to teach Merv, only...’
He stopped and took the plate of food from the Little Mary with a nod of thanks.
‘Only he don’t learn too well. Don’t take to being told.’
‘What kids do?’
‘Yeah.’
Hart drank some more coffee. One of the night herders had started to sing again, high and plaintive.
‘You got any kids?’
Hart shook his head slowly. ‘No.’
‘Uh-huh. Sometimes I think it’s prob’ly as well.’
Hart nodded again but said nothing, poking at the edges of the fire with the heel of his boot.
‘Hope he’s got sense enough to keep out of your way,’ said Griffiths after a few moments.
Hart turned his head and looked at him. ‘So do I,’ he said. ‘So do I.’
Chapter Eight
At first Hart thought it was still night. When he stepped outside the mist was so thick that he could touch it; his hand pushed through it, like the wets of a million spiders. Cold. Wetness that slid and clung. Gradually, low to his left, light broke through: a silver disc that showed beyond the ribs of trees: that looked like the moon but was the sun.
Hart shivered. A rime of frost settled on his eyebrows. When Griffiths had ridden in the previous day to see Fredericks there had been signs of it – orange glow of sunlight through shifting, wavering swathes of mist. The night had been the first cold night of fall. And now...
Wes Hart wiped a hand across his face and turned towards the barn; he would see to his horse, then eat himself. A shot of whisky in his coffee. Nothing much would be happening a day like this.
He was wrong: it had already happened.
T.C rode in a couple of hours later, the silver mist clearing, his mount showing every sign of having been driven too hard for too long.
‘It’s Howie. The bastards shot him.’
He stood there and stared at them — Hart, Fredericks, Peters, Chavez — then pulled his red kerchief from his pocket and broke into a series of coughs which bent him in two, making his thin body shake.
When he looked at them again the red spots were clear on his cheekbones, clear and bright.
‘Put three slugs in him. Killed him deader’n a dog.’
Fredericks seized him by the arm. ‘Who?’
‘The C Circle. Five of ’em.’
‘The hell!’
‘Where?’ demanded Peters, angrily.
‘Up at Buffalo. The stage station.’
Hart had already moved away. The rifle lay across the chest in his room, the shotgun was resting on its butt against one side of it. Quickly, without flurry, he picked up each weapon and checked its load. He palmed his Colt and spun the chamber.
He was on his way back down stairs when Fredericks met him, face white with fury. ‘They went in to pick up supplies off the stage. Yesterday. Stage came in late and they decided to stop over, head back this morning. C Circle were there spending their money. Drinking. Picked a fight with Howie and T.C. and shot Howie down without a chance. T.C. made a run for it.’
Hart nodded, his face set firm, eyes narrowed.
‘The kid, he there?’
Fredericks looked at him. ‘Griffiths’ boy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He was there.’
Then likely he still is. He won’t have gone far in this. Not if he drunk himself stupid last night.’
Hart went to pass Fredericks and the older man grasped his shoulder. ‘It doesn’t just matter ’cause he was gunned down by five men. It matters ’cause he was workin’ for me. And they knew that.’
Hart looked back at him. ‘I know it,’ he said. ‘I know it, too.’
Peters had Hart’s horse saddled and ready and Chavez was sitting astride his own mount, a black gelding, toying with his throwing knife.
‘You don’t have to, you know,’ said Hart. ‘You ain’t paid for it an’ I am.’
‘I know,’ said the Mexican.
Hart turned and looked at Fredericks, who nodded okay.
T.C. sat back against the wall of the house, kerchief held in the three fingers of his left hand, occasionally saying to himself that he should have stayed, he shouldn’t have ducked out, Howie was his friend, Howie had been his friend...
Hart raised an arm in farewell and spurred the dapple-gray mare off into the tatters of mist, the Mexican following.
Buffalo Spring Stage Station was just north of the Unassigned Lands, into the Cherokee Outlet. The main way station building was shaped like a letter L, the longer section sleeping quarters for the Spenglers, who ran the place, and for coach passengers who needed to break the journey. The shorter section was a combination of general store, dining room and bar. The walls of the station were two logs thick and windows and doors shuttered with planking. Early on the Cheyenne had raided north time after time, mostly taking horses and supplies, once riding off with the Spengler’s eldest daughter, a thirteen year old with long fair hair named Martha. It had been after that that Spengler had worked on the fortifications. The Cheyenne had stopped their attacks and he hadn’t heard of or seen Martha from that day.
Back of the way station there was a feed barn and at an angle to that a high-fenced corral which held the horses for the stage changeover.
The sun had changed from yellowy-silver through to dull orange by the time Hart and Chavez rode towards the corral, taking their time and keeping their mounts quiet.
Four C Circle stock were in with the other horses.
Chavez and Hart exchanged glances.
‘T.C. said five,’ Chavez said, pointing.
‘I know. Maybe one of ’em slipped away to tell Griffiths.’
‘Maybe the son?’
Hart dismounted. ‘Maybe.’
They walked towards the door of the way station, Hart with the sawn-off Remington held under the flow of the blue, red and white blanket. His flat-brimmed Stetson was angled across the faded blue of his eyes. His right hand brushed the mother-of-pearl grip of his Colt Peacemaker as he moved.
Chavez came a pace behind, sombrero pushed back on his head, rowels of his spurs jingling a little at the back of his patterned leather boots. A Colt Frontier was tied down to his right leg; his long-bladed knife was in a sheath high on his belt, across the left hip.
They were a dozen feet off the door when it opened and a woman came out. Her head and shoulders came out. Hart figured she was Spengler’s wife. She stared at the two men for a moment and then her mouth opened in a wordless, warning shout.
Into the sound of her shrill voice came the rapid drum of hoof-beats on hard earth.
As Hart ran for the door he glanced over his shoulder and saw the indistinct shapes of riders approaching fast beyond the corral.
His left shoulder hit the heavy wooden door just as the woman leaned her weight against it, trying desperately to slam it closed For a second it held and then sprang back. Spengler’s wife was hurled back into the room, the door swung hard on its hinges and Hart leaped inside.
Chavez backed in behind him, pistol drawn, watching the approaching men.
Two cowboys, startled awake by the woman’s shout, had pushed themselves up from the long table they had been slumped over.
‘What the...?’
‘Hell! Who...?’
Hart’s right arm blurred and stopped, rock steady. The men choked off their sentences, staring down the barrel of a Colt .45.
Spengler’s wife picked herself up from the floor, holding her bruised shoulder and grimacing with discomfort. She began to back off towards the side wall, never taking her eyes from the tall figure in the Stetson and Indian blanket.
When she reached the door that led
through the wall to the other section of the building, Hart motioned her to stay still. The horses were close now, still coming fast, maybe half a dozen of them.
‘It’s C Circle!’ called Chavez.
One of the cowhands smiled and started to move; Hart stopped him with a glance. Alongside the woman the door opened from the other side and Spengler was standing there, wire-framed spectacles perched on his nose, anxiety in his eyes. Behind him, Hart could see two more men – one of them was Merv Griffiths.
‘What shall I do?’ called Chavez.
Hart answered without turning his head. ‘Shuttin’ that damn door might be a good thing.’
Chavez moved inside fast and slammed it shut, slipping the bolts into place and sliding across a wooden beam for extra support.
‘You ain’t got a chance,’ called Merv Griffiths. ‘You walked right into it.’
‘Shut up!’
Hart jerked the gun towards Spengler. ‘Get out of the way.’
The station operator, hesitated, looking at his wife.
‘I said get the hell out of the way!’
He moved inside and went to where his wife stood, slipping an arm around her shoulders. Hart could now see that Merv Griffiths had a rifle held low across his body, finger inside the guard and tight against the trigger.
‘There’s a difference,’ said Hart loudly.
‘Yeah? What’s that?’
‘I ain’t gettin’ caught like Howie.’
Griffiths laughed and started to bring up the rifle; Hart thumbed back the hammer and shot him through the right arm, high and close to the shoulder. The .45 slug screamed through the flesh, gouging an exit wound at the back of the arm. Blood splattered against the wall close by Griffiths and he was hurled after it, the rifle falling from his hands and bouncing along the floor.
One of the C Circle men in the room went for his pistol and Hart flicked aside the blanket and revealed the sawn-off Remington, the twin barrels angled upwards. Both men knew that if Hart fired they would be torn to pieces from such close range.
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