Head West (The Collected Western Stories of B.J. Holmes)

by BJ Holmes

  Tully hissed through his teeth. ‘Sweet Mother of Mary’s mules! A real goody-two-shoes: I didn’t know such critters existed outside of story books,’

  It was early afternoon when they passed a nameboard fronting a medium-sized settlement. Tully nodded at the board. ‘You knowed in this place?’

  ‘Nope.’ Brennan answered. ‘I ain’t travelled much.’

  ‘Anyone here got reason to know of you, you figure?’

  ‘No friends or relations hereabouts, An’ I got no reputation away from home.’

  Tully pondered. Then: ‘I’m ditching you here.’

  ‘What about the message to your brother? An’ your stopping him from carrying out the sanction?’

  ‘Don’t worry your righteous head about that, Brennan. You’ve played your part. You keep your trap shut till the deadline, by which time I should be well clear and, as long as I’m free, I’ll notify my brother and see action isn’t taken. Your itsy-bitsy family won’t be harmed.’

  ‘I’d like to ride with you––to ensure that you are free. I don’t want some accident to foul things up. Your freedom is my insurance policy,’

  ‘You’re right there––about my being free being your insurance––but no. I’m gettin’ myself a fresh hoss and then gonna get lost in the great US of A.’

  ‘Anything you say.’

  As they dragged their feet into town they saw a brick building labeled ‘Law Office’. Tully stopped, then smiled. ‘That would be a laugh, wouldn’t it? Seeing how close I can sail to the wind.’ He chuckled enigmatically. ‘Come on. Let’s see.’

  They hitched their horses and Tully mounted the sidewalk and pushed open the door. A sheriff and his deputy were playing cards at a desk. ‘Some guys have got good jobs,’ Tully bantered.

  The sheriff got to his feet. ‘Huh? What d’you want?’

  The fake lawman thumbed his badge. ‘Name’s Brennan.’

  ‘Never heard of you.’

  ‘Ever heard of Tully?’

  ‘Maybe,’

  ‘Got a paper on him.’ Tully took out his own wanted poster. ‘And this is him.’ He gestured towards the silent Brennan. The sheriff looked at the crumpled paper. It was a reproduced drawing of Tully’s features. Bad likeness. Like most of them. Fitted anyone with a light beard and hat. Brennan had both.

  ‘Yeah, I think we got one of them papers somewheres,’ the sheriff said as he perused the visage.

  ‘What’s the facilities like here for shipping out a prisoner?’ Tully went on.

  The sheriff motioned back to a corridor, cells on either site.

  ‘Already got a hardcase in there. Wagon’s coming in from Tucson Territorial Penitentiary to pick him up in a couple of days,’

  Tully nodded. ‘Could you hold my prisoner in storage and put him on the wagon?’ Tucson’ll take him. He’s wanted in half a dozen states. Murder, robbery. You name it. My part’s finished with catching him an’ I got urgent business back home. Tucson shouldn’t want me as a witness at his trial, I’m just the arresting officer. But if they do want me, they can get in touch with me here.’

  He scribbled Brennan’s name and home town on the back of the wanted poster. ‘I’d deem it a favor if’n you could take him into custody and off my hands.’

  The sheriff looked at his deputy. ‘Sure we can help out a brother officer, can’t we? Ain’t no trouble, Brennan,’

  Tully indicated for Brennan to step forward. The deputy took a key from the wall and ushered his new prisoner along the corridor of cages. ‘Come on, vermin. Get where you belong.’

  Brennan looked back at Tully once before being shoved into a cell. Tully restrained himself from smiling at his parting joke––putting a lawman in the slimmer. That’s gonna real touch off this tale when he tells it to his drinking buddies over the ensuing years.

  Tully opened the door back onto the sidewalk. ‘Where’s a feller get the civilized things of life around here? A wash, meal and new hoss.’

  The sheriff joined him at the doorway and pointed out the places he wanted. It was an ordinary little town. Folks doing ordinary things. Gazing in at store windows. A drunk slumped on the sidewalk outside the saloon. A young lad delivering newspapers. Couple of kids funning around in the horse trough.

  ‘Nice place you got here, sheriff,’ Tully observed. ‘Wish I could stay.’ He shook the man’s hand. ‘Again, much obliged.’

  Tully had enjoyed his meal. The first real cooked food he’d had for over a week. Coming in late, he was alone in the restaurant. The other customers had long since gone, the tables cleared. The owner and his wife were busy cleaning dishes in the kitchen. Tully picked up the coffee cup. It was small in the manner of high class restaurants.

  You couldn’t call this a high class joint but its owner had aspirations––delusions.

  He swigged its small content in one, clattered down the cup and wiped his mouth. It pleased him to think of the marshal locked up in a jail. Something he could brag about in the years to come. He’d enjoyed downing the lawman––the way he’d been downed all his life. Just ‘cos you take what don’t belong to you and kill a few awkward hombres on the way, these lawmen think you’re different––what was that word the deputy had used? Vermin! Huh, sanctimonious crap-holes.

  Huh, different. Not really. Everybody’s the same underneath. Doesn’t matter which side of the fence you’re on. Got the same wishes, desires; hopes. The only difference is you go about the pursuit of your goals in a different way, is all. The folks you rob only got their dough by getting the edge in dealing with other folk. Forcing situations their way. And, anyways, what lawman don’t take a bribe now and again? A whole mess of ‘em were corrupt to the gills. Politicians turning a blind eye, an’ all.

  He pondered on that thought. Well maybe he knew of just one that wasn’t like that, Brennan. By all accounts he was straight. Straight; As if there was any virtue in that; Seems like the guy didn’t know what it meant to cut legal corners. Or blow his cool. Took all the shit that Tully handed out to him when he’d got him hog-tied over his wife and kid. No heated argument. No threats. Yeah, he was straight––whatever that meant. Or dumb.

  He sat still, savoring the quietness, his full belly, the tang of good coffee on his palate. After the cool-hand stunt of putting a marshal in the slammer he shouldn’t push his luck much farther, Hell, he had time for a smoke, didn’t he? His fresh horse was waiting outside. All he had to do was put his ass across it. He took out a cigar, rolled it and looked down as he patted his pockets for matches.

  There was a noise at the door. He had nothing to worry about. All loose ends had been tied up. So he was off guard. In the time it took him to raise his eyes a man entered the eat house.

  Brennan!

  Tully didn’t know no fancy dictums about discretion being the better part of valor. All the same he didn’t go for his gun. It was not a matter of principle. It was that Brennan had a .45 leveled at him.

  ‘What the shit––’

  ‘Back to square one,’ Brennan whispered, heeling the door shut. He hadn’t been cleaned up. His clothes were still soiled and his chin unshaven. Of the two, he still looked the villain. Just as Tully had left him. Except for the gun.

  ‘You blowed your top, lawman?’

  ‘Nope, ‘

  ‘You know your wife an’ kid are as good as dead?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He held out his free hand, ‘First drop your gun, then I’ll take my badge.’

  Tully stood up. ‘You don’t know my brother,’ he rasped. ‘If he don’t see or hear from me, he’ll do as I’ve said.’

  Brennan was a slow talker at the best of times. ‘True, I don’t know much about him, ‘Cepting one little thing. And that’s good enough for me,’

  ‘Yeah?’ Tully snarled. ‘An’ what’s that?’

  ‘He’s dead,’

  Tully looked incredulous for a moment. Then acceptance of the fact registered on his features. ‘You got no reason to lie to me, have yuh?’ he said low,
>
  Brennan shook his head.

  Tully stared at him, ‘How’d you find this out?’

  ‘County paper just come in. A copy got slung through the bars. Sheriff wanted to show me what had happened to what he thought was my brother Joshua. It was a featured story. They were only too happy to show me. Turned out I was happier to read it than they were.’

  ‘My brother, how’d he go?’

  ‘Had half his head blowed away when he tried to heist a mine payroll.’

  Tully sat down. He’d never cried since he was a kid. Now he was the closest he ever came to it. His voice was low, slow. ‘The youngest, he was. God, did we have some times. Great kid. Hell though, he’d` got a mean streak in him. Mind, never turned it against his kin. Do anything I tell him, he would.’

  ‘Yeah, well. We all gotta go,’ Brennan said, interrupting the reminiscing. ‘Anyways, when I seed the story I kicked up ruckus till the sheriff’ listened to me. Explained the situation. The hold you had had on me. ‘Course he was suspicious at first. Had the touch of a far-fetched yarn. Anyway, threw a mess of questions at me. About the law. Then we found out that although we had no reason to know each other, we knew officers in common. Further questions of that kind clinched it. He and his deputy took to it I was genuine. So much so, that when they let me out, they asked if they could help. I says no, ‘cepting give me a gun. I’d started this hand by myself and I was finishing it the same way.’

  He nodded to the window, ‘Course they’re watching this place; and gonna make sure we leave together all right. So you don’t stand a chance. We’ll ride that Tucson Penitentiary wagon together.’ He emphasized his determination by jigging the gun barrel a little. ‘So whether you did send a message to your brother or not––don’t matter no more. Kinda academic as they says.’

  Tully stood up, his period of grief, short but genuine, over, Brennan looked awkward with the gun, as though he wasn’t used to it. But Tully wasn’t drawing on an unleathered iron. ‘If you take me in, Brennan, you’d better pray they hang me.’

  ‘There’s a good chance of that, Tully. But even if they don’t, I ain’t carping. I’m what they calls an executive. Just brings ‘em in. Justice Department does the trying job. If they decide to put you in the Tucson Pen for a spell, I won’t be agin their deciding. They knows best. That’s the system.’

  ‘System––zilch! Look, you still got it in your power to get me outta here––and then set me free. ‘Cos I’m tellin’ you, don’t matter how long they put me away I’ll remember. Then when I’m out––I’ll repay you for takin’ me in.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll do what I asked my kid brother to do.’

  Brennan took stock of the situation. He was a slow thinker. Then, ‘You mean you’d kill my family? Just ‘cos I took you in?’

  ‘You bet your sweet sanctimonious ass I will, tin star; Can you take the chance?’

  ‘Let me get this straight. You’re still gonna kill my missus and kid?’

  ‘But not you. Matter of making you suffer. Be more effective killing your family and not you.’

  Brennan kept on thinking. Sometimes he took a long time to reach a decision. Then he did something he’d never done before and was never to repeat in all his remaining years as a peace officer.

  In cold blood, with hardly a movement of the barrel, right through the heart. For a moment he observed the crimson patch cobwebbing out across the man’s shirt, then stepped out into the sunlight.

  Nobody ever questioned that his action wasn’t in the line of duty.

  Duval’s Big Game

  Alain Duval drummed his fingers impatiently on the windowsill. He breathed deeply and

  looked through the glass down the street. What a god-forsaken place it was! A saloon, Federal Land Survey Office, a Mercantile, Marshal’s office, half a dozen stores, most of them constructed out of roughly-hewn logs, and that was it––Cottonwood, Montana. And nothing for another fifty miles in any direction. Only a big game could have possibly enticed him to a place like this.

  Alain Duval was a professional gambler. Born in the Creole quarter of New Orleans thirty one years ago he had always been attracted to the paddle steamers of the Mississippi. Much to the chagrin of his middle-class parents, who had great career plans for their son, he had taken to the gaming tables––an omnipresent feature of any steamer’s deck. In an attempt to change his ways he had been sent to the university in Paris. This served mainly to extend his card-playing experience to include European games and practices.

  Returning home with a barely-scraped degree he made the decision to play cards for a living. Over the next decade he toured the eastern seaboard, playing high and low gradually moving inland. Sailors’ dives in New York, senators along Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, cattlemen in Abilene. With growing experience his standard of living rose. His fame had spread and had led to an invitation to a $10,000 game. It had come from Sven Laga, a retired cattleman in Montana, with a penchant for card-playing. Duval had accepted but it had taken him six months to accumulate the stake and another month to cross half the continent to reach Montana. And that was why he was impatient.

  At first Laga had been glad to see him; although they had not met before, they knew each other by reputation. They socialized, Laga introduced him to his daughter, Liv. They agreed to start their play after Duval had had a two-day rest. Following a long discussion, piquet became the mutually agreed game and they were to play until one of them lost his $10,000 stake.

  Then, the day the game was due to start Laga had asked for a postponement. He gave no details, mumbling something about a family problem. He looked a worried man and Duval complied without question. But it had now been three days since the game should have started and Duval was getting restless, particularly since he hadn’t seen Laga during that period. He’d spent his time mainly in the saloon. He’d gotten to know the barman, the marshal and the saloon regulars. He’d become especially friendly with a guy called Jim Wilson from the Survey Office.

  The Federal government had teams spread all over the country, their job being to draw detailed maps of their allocated area. Jim was one of a small group mapping out this area of Montana.

  Duval squinted through the dirty glass at the unbroken green backcloth of forested hills. God, in the journey out he’d seen enough goat, moose and elk to last him a lifetime. His eyes fell down again to the town and its people––log cabins and buckskin. He went over to the bed and sat down before a rough, chunky table. He took out a deck of cards and dealt himself a spread for a game of solitaire. Solitaire! God knows how many games he’d played it in the last three days. He mused on the notion that the British called it “Patience”––huh, the Limeys had a different name for everything, demonstrating their national characteristic of being downright awkward. Mind, in his present circumstances ‘Patience’ was the more appropriate description––succinctly expressing what was required of him.

  The next morning he braved the elements to ride out to Laga’s house, a two-storey building in a flower-filled alpine meadow. It was summer but for a Southerner like Duval, there was not enough warmth in the wind.

  He was shown into the study. At first he was glad to see Laga was home, sitting in a high-backed chair near the fire.

  ‘Good morning, Sven.’

  Laga looked up. ‘Oh Alain. ‘Morning.’ Despite the unusual Nordic lilt to the voice, its tone suggested he had forgotten about the Southerner.

  Duval dismissed the implications of the tone. ‘Can we get started today?’ he said, trying to rub some temperature into his hands.’ I got $10,000 burning a hole in my money belt.’

  The old man sighed. ‘No, I’m sorry. I can’t play yet. Got too many things on my mind. Don’t know what you must think of me––inviting you out this far and then procrastinating. A big-game deal like ours needs a penalty clause.’

  ‘A clause belongs to a written contract. We have gentleman’s agreement, Sven. That should enough for both side to a
ct honorably. You have need to delay, I’ll accept that without invoking some imaginary penalty clause.’

  The Norseman, shook his head in exasperation and Duval sat down opposite him. ‘What’s the trouble, Sven? Maybe I can help.’

  Laga smoothed his grey hair. ‘I wish you could. But, no. I ain’t supposed to tell anybody.’

  Duval pushed his chair nearer to encourage confidence. ‘Tell anybody about what?’ he said in a lowered voice.

  Laga puffed in resignation. ‘ I suppose I do owe you an explanation.’ He got up, closed the door and returned to his chair. ‘Liv, my daughter, went missing the day after you arrived. Then I got a note. She’d been kidnapped. Provided I told nobody I could have her back for $4000. The note gave me two days to find the cash.’

  Duval grimaced. ‘And have you told anybody, besides me?’

  Laga shook his head. ‘The note described a rendezvous point. Crocodile Rock, twenty miles up into the mountains. As you know I’ve got cash available and I took the money. There were two men waiting. I gave it to them and they said they would send Liv. I got angry that they had not brought her with them but they vamoosed––just laughing. I tried to follow them but they opened up with guns.

  I fell off my horse, I’m no horseman. It took me half an hour to catch it. Then there was no chance of me following them.’

  Duval guessed what was coming. ‘And?’

  ‘This morning I got another note. They want another $4000.’

  Duval nodded. ‘With the first demand they were just testing your resources by seeing how long it took to raise thousands of dollars. Standard method of professionals.’

  ‘Yeah. But all I can do is pay. I’m doing nothing to endanger Liv.’

  Duval cursed silently. The biggest game of his life. It had taken him half a year to raise the ante. And now his opponent had all the makings of being bled dry before the first cards had been dealt. If anyone was going bleed the big Scandinavian dry it was he; Duval had first dibs on any mazuma the man was going to throw away. ‘They’re gonna take you for every penny. You know that, don’t you, Sven?’