The cowboy let his gun slip back into its holster.
A shout came from outside: ‘What in hell’s name’s goin’ on in there?’
Chavez looked at Hart, who said nothing.
‘You want me to get their guns?’
‘Sure.’
The man back with Merv Griffiths didn’t take to handing over his pistol – until Chavez showed him the keen blade of his knife. Then he changed his mind. Reluctantly, but he changed it.
‘You don’t open up an’ let me in there, we’re goin’ to break our way in.’
Chavez stacked the guns on the table and stood close by them. Hart motioned with his Colt for Griffiths and the hand by him to come into the room. The sleeve of Merv Griffith’s shirt was stained deep with blood and as he walked drops flecked red across the floor. His face was white, the scar showing clearly, blue eyes burning bright as they stared at Hart with hate.
‘Get over against that wall!’
The C Circle men moved slowly, casting glances at one another.
Hart passed the shotgun to Chavez. ‘If any of ’em breathes too loud let ’em have both barrels. Ain’t one of ’em goin’ to walk away from that.’
Chavez nodded. ‘Where you going?’
‘Outside. Talk with that old bull that’s doin’ all the hollerin’.’
Hart holstered his Colt and went to the door; he called Spengler over. ‘Soon as I’m out you shut this behind me. Minute I holler you open it again fast. Don’t mess with me.’
Spengler pulled off his spectacles and nodded the air like an old hen pecking for grits. He slipped the wire frames back behind his ears and stood aside.
Hart went out to face the boss of the C Circle.
Griffiths was standing twenty feet away from the way station door. There were three men to his right, two on his left. All six were armed, though only three of them had weapons drawn. Griffiths himself had a pistol holstered high on his right side, the butt above the line of his waist. If he made a play for it, Hart thought, it’d take him an age to clear leather.
‘Your boy’s in there,’ Hart said right out. ‘I just put a bullet through his arm.’
For a moment, Griffiths looked as if the slug had gone through himself. The man to the far left levered his Winchester.
‘I’m going to finish you for that.’ Griffiths voice was grating with scarcely suppressed anger.
Hart shook his head slowly. ‘No you ain’t.’
‘I got enough men here to blast you to hell right now.’
‘That ain’t what I mean.’
Griffiths stared back at him, not understanding.
Hart took a couple of paces forward. Another shell was levered into another rifle.
‘You won’t do it ’cause you know he ain’t worth killin’ for. Not when he’s in the wrong like he is.’
Griffiths worked the muscles at the side of his face; his brow furrowed beneath his Stetson; the fingers of his right hand pressed against the tooled leather of his holster. Ideas seemed to be struggling behind his grim expression.
‘He’s my boy,’ he said finally, as if that was justification enough, all the cause he needed.
‘I know,’ said Hart. ‘All the more reason for thinkin’ what you’re doin’. You shoot his way out of this for him an’ he’s going to carry on down the same road. Every time he feels like actin’ mean or stupid he’d goin’ to carry on, knowing you’ll be by to get him out. That what you want?’
Griffiths looked at Hart a few moments longer, then down at the ground. On either side of him his men waited. No sound came from inside the building.
When Griffiths did speak again, he was quieter, more like a man who had been beaten down in spite of himself. ‘Your man died. I don’t know if it was Merv or any number of ’em. I’m not even too sure it matters. Only I guess somethin’s got to be done.’
‘Nothin’s goin’ to bring Howie back alive. If we hold your boy and anyone else here till a U.S. deputy rides through that might be months off. Even if we could, I don’t want to see no man stuck down in them cells at Fort Smith an’ not seein’ the light of day till he comes up to be stretched at the end of some damn rope.’
‘So what you sayin’?’
‘Couple of hundred dollars’d get Howie somethin’ solid to lie under the ground in. Keep the worms out a mite longer. There’d be plenty to send off to his kin, s’posin’ he’s got some.’
‘And Merv?’
Hart looked at him straight. ‘He’s your business. You handle him straight an’ strong. You don’t an’ he’s goin’ to end up with a bullet in him from some lucky drunk in a saloon somewhere between here and Texas.’
Griffiths nodded slowly: Hart stepped back.
‘I don’t want to kill him,’ Hart said. ‘Specially not in front of his father.’
Griffiths looked at his men, motioning for them to put up their weapons. ‘You want to get him out here?’ he asked Hart.
‘No. You get him.5
Griffiths sighed and hitched at his belt: ‘Okay.’
Hart stood aside and when the rancher was close to the door he yelled for Spengler to open it wide. Griffiths went in and told his men to get their guns and get out. Chavez moved back and watched them carefully, still ready with Hart’s shotgun resting on his left arm.
Merv Griffiths went through the door last, sliding his pistol left-handed down into his holster, the beginnings of a smirk playing round the edges of his mouth.
‘Thought you was in the saddle, then, didn’t you, mister regulator? Well, I knew you wasn’t goin’ to hold me. You ain’t got the balls to…’
His father swung his left arm at full stretch and crashed the knuckles of his hand into Merv Griffiths’ face. The boy went back on his heels, left leg buckling underneath him. He stared up at his father through an amazement of surprise and pain. Blood seeped between his closed lips.
Griffiths moved round in front of him and waited. When Merv was settled on one knee he looked hard into his face before slapping it again, this time with the flat of his right hand.
The crack echoed round the space in front of the way station.
As Merv went back his left hand swerved towards the butt of his gun. Watching, Hart dived for his own Colt, freeing it from the leather and thumbing back the hammer in a single, smooth movement.
It wasn’t necessary.
Griffiths closed fast, stomping his boot down on to his son’s left arm and trapping it between heel and sole. Merv stared up at his father, blue eyes flickering. Griffiths ground the edge of the heel hard, leaning his weight down. The boy let the pistol slip from his grasp, opening his mouth in a moan. More blood trickled from the cut corners of his lips.
Griffiths stood away and kicked the gun clear.
‘Get up.’
Merv swayed a little and shook his head.
‘Get up!’
He glanced up at his father’s angry face and pushed down on to the ground, levering himself upwards. Shame etched into his features; he was breathing heavily, audibly.
‘I should have done that a long time ago. I don’t know when, or why I didn’t, but I was wrong. If you put a bullet in that man it’s as much my fault as yours.’
Merv Griffiths looked away, past the watching men to the open range, the tops of hills that were still shrouded in mist. His father bent down and picked up the pistol and pushed it down into his own belt. ‘Come on,’ he said to the rest of his men. ‘We’re ridin’ out.’
Merv stood on the same spot while the C Circle hands mounted up and the first of them began to move away. Hart and Chavez watched him until finally he slowly walked over to his horse and climbed into the saddle, setting off reluctantly in his father’s wake.
Hart waited a while, then turned to Chavez. ‘Okay. We got us a body to collect. Let’s do it.’
Chapter Nine
The old man chewed on the quid of dark tobacco, pushing it with his tongue round his almost toothless mouth, letting the juices swell and thicken.
When his mouth was to the point of overflowing, he inclined his grizzled head to one side and spat a stream of near black spittle down on to the hard ground.
One of the mules shifted nervously, pricking back its ears. The old man eased himself forward from his place against the wagon wheel and pulled the Winchester over towards him.
A shape broke the skyline: horse and rider.
He levered a shell into the chamber and settled back, working the cud with a little more energy than before. So much of his time was passed alone, he was more than likely to welcome someone in the way of company. Thing was, out in the Territory there was no way of knowing who might ride in on you. What they might want.
The rider was coming in good and slow, taking his own time. The old man looked at him from under the bent brim of his hat, taking in the tall shape and the flat-crowned Stetson, the wash of color from the blanket draped about the rider as it swayed with the movements of the gray horse.
‘Howdy!’
Pulling in his mount, Wes Hart looped the reins round the saddle pommel and swung down to the ground.
‘You sure do travel some.’
The old man nodded: ‘Man has the need.’ He spat a squirt of tobacco juice out of the corner of his mouth, the ends of it dribbling down his chin and curling on to his neck. He ignored it, letting it run. ‘Some men,’ he added.
‘Uh-huh.’ Hart glanced at the wagon. ‘You got any whisky in there?’
‘For the right price I got most things.’
‘Whisky’ll do. Help keep back the cold.’
The old man got up slowly, his left leg making a noticeable creaking noise when he put pressure on it. He went slowly round to the back of the wagon, favoring his left side. The whisky was in a labeless bottle and looked the color of cat’s piss.
Hart pulled the cork free with his teeth and had a quick swallow; he jerked the bottle away from his face like it had bitten him.
‘Jesus! Where the hell you get this stuff?’
‘Down on the Texas border.’ He chuckled. ‘No one ever complained about it afore.’
‘Then that’s ’cause it ripped their tongues clear out.’
The old man chuckled some more, slavering at the mouth. ‘Take the weight of your legs for a while.’
Hart nodded and sat down, closing his eyes and grimacing as he gave himself another shot of the whisky. He offered the bottle to the trader, who shook his head and carried on chomping on his tobacco.
‘Hear you’re workin’ for Fredericks.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Regulator.’
‘Yeah.’
The old man spat out more juice, then broke into a fit of coughing.
‘How d’you like the job?’ he said when he recovered.
‘It pays.’
‘Uh–huh.’ The trader wiped the sleeve of his coat across his mouth.
‘An’ Fredericks?’
Hart hesitated. ‘He ain’t the kind of man I’d choose to ride with.’
The old timer reached out his hand. ‘P’raps I will take me a swig of that – seein’ as you’ve paid for it.’
Hart passed across the bottle.
‘Met a feller name of Probert. You know him?’
Hart nodded. ‘Indian agent up at the Cheyenne Nation. That him?’
‘That’s the one.’
The old man half-choked on the whisky and passed the bottle back.
Hart waited for the trader to come out with whatever he was leading up to; he sure wasn’t a man to fall over his words in a hurry.
‘Got speakin’ with him an’ he told me ‘bout a deal him an’ Fredericks cooked up with the Cheyenne for grazin’ rights. Didn’t come right out with it, but seems he an’ Fredericks worked it pretty close to their chests.’
‘I know that.’
‘Said somethin’ else you might not know. Fredericks asked Probert to let him see his government report. Wanted to add a few things of his own. Offered Probert enough money to make it worth his while.’
Hart sat forward. ‘What kind of things?’
‘Far as I could tell, stuff ‘bout Indian raids an’ such. Wanted Probert to play it up enough so’s he could holler for the army to come into the Territory.’
‘The army! What in hell’s name he want them in here for?’
The old man shrugged: ‘Search me. If Probert knew, he weren’t sayin’.’
Hart got up and pushed the cork down into his bottle. ‘Thanks, anyway. Maybe I’ll have words with Fredericks, see what he’s got to say.’
‘Suit yourself.’ The trader spat sideways. ‘Watch him, though. I reckon he’s slippery as a salmon in flood tide.’
Hart pushed the bottle down into his saddle bag and climbed aboard the gray. ‘I’ll do that. Be seein’ you.’
The old man raised a hand and leaned back against the wagon wheel to watch Hart ride away towards the north-west. Before long he was having difficulty in picking out the shapes of man and horse from the shifting grass and the encroaching hills.
The carbine shots came close together, three of them, breaking the cold stillness of the sky. Hart reined in and looked off to the right, in the direction from which the firing had come. The land rose up into a humped hill which seemed to split narrowly near its summit. ‘C’mon, Clay.’
Freeing his own rifle from its scabbard as he rode, Hart spurred his horse towards the hill, echoes of the three shots fading about him.
As he neared the head of the hill he could see that the ground split away into a jagged fissure which opened gradually as it descended. Midway down, a stream sprang out from the ground and ran down towards the valley. A sprawl of small cottonwoods littered either side of the water. To the right of these he could see Peters, his horse hobbled and grazing fifteen yards behind.
Peters was kneeling beside the body of a calf, his carbine resting against his leg. A small fire was smoldering close by.
Hart called out clear, making sure Peters knew who he was, then rode the gray mare carefully down, crossing and re-crossing the steep contours of the slope.
The calf was roped, its head moving in fear, damp brown eyes large and soft. The chestnut hide on its flank was singed by the C Circle brand.
‘They was fixin’ to alter the brand when I spotted ’em. Lit out down the valley.’ Peters pointed west.
‘One calf,’ said Hart. ‘Don’t make a lot of sense.’
‘I know it.’
Peters reached for the knife sheathed at the back of his belt and severed the rope. The animal held still a couple of seconds then scrambled up and ran unsteadily away. Fifteen yards on it stopped and pushed head and neck forward, letting out an anguished cry for its mother.
Peters straightened up, hefting the carbine across his chest. ‘Didn’t get too good a look, but they seemed like kids. Three of ’em.’
He shook his head and scratched at one side of his drooping moustache. ‘They’ll be comin’ in here an’ runnin’ off cattle like this all the time. I don’t know what the hell Fredericks reckoned you was goin’ to do about it. Not one man. However good you are with that fancy gun you tote round. Nothin’ ’cept a whole bunch of deputies goin’ to clear all the rustlers an’ damn renegade Indians off this range. Less’n it’s the goddamn army.’
Hart looked at the top hand keenly, trying to figure out if he knew anything more than he was likely to let on. But Peters turned away and began to walk over towards his horse. Hart kicked his boot through the ashes of the fire.
‘Which way you headed?’
Peters pushed his greasy Stetson forward on his head. ‘Got a couple of new hands comin’ in. Lazy J herd’s through in a couple of days. Want to show ’em the range.’
‘Okay. I’ll see what I can pick out followin’ this trail down the valley.’
Peters swung his horse away without another word and moved towards the northern slope. Hart clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shook the reins; the gray started into a walk. A way past the calf, it let
out another braying cry and broke into an uneven trot, following Hart between the cottonwoods.
The three rustlers had left a clear trail, one of their mounts without a shoe on his rear right side and beginning to limp. The trees thinned out to nothing and the valley broadened; the sun was pale and filtered through streaks of gray cloud; the wind blew strongly into Hart’s face. He pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and carried on.
Another couple of miles and he came upon the lame horse. They’d pulled the saddle clear and left it to hobble painfully until it fell and didn’t get up. By that time birds of prey would have begun to gather blackly in the sky, circling.
Hart pulled the Henry from its scabbard and lifted the stock towards his shoulder, guiding Clay with his knees and feet. For an instant the abandoned horse looked at him balefully; the shot cracked out like the sudden breaking of bone. Hart looked back the way he had come – in the distance he could see the shape of the calf, straggled and lost.
He pushed the barrel of the rifle back inside its sheath and let it slide home. Then, pulling on his horse’s reins, he started to canter along the trail.
The country became more broken, beginnings of hills that fell back to nothing, outbreaks of brush, bare-branched trees.
Hart dropped from his saddle and examined the tracks carefully. He guessed they knew he was following them now and were driving ahead as fast as they could. But with one horse being ridden double, they were in difficulties.
Hart nodded to himself, remounted and rode wide of the trail, circling to the south.
Kevin and Danny Caughie were cousins. Their folks had come out to Kansas when the boys were around ten and eleven and tried to make a go of it as farmers. By the time they were fourteen and fifteen it had been clear to them that their folks weren’t going to make it. They’d laid by a few supplies over a week or so and then one night they’d sneaked into the larder and taken as much as they could. Kevin’s pa had caught them midway between the house and the barn. In sheer fright Kevin had thrown a sack of flour at his father, hitting him in the face and knocking him down. Danny had jumped on him and started striking him about the head with the butt of an old pistol. He might even have fired it, except that he didn’t have any shells and the mechanism didn’t work any longer.
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