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

by BJ Holmes

  Laga didn’t speak but his tired, watery eyes said it all.

  ‘How do the messages reach you?’ Duval enquired.

  ‘The bastards put them through my own front door, would you believe.’

  ‘That means either they’ve got a confederate in town––in which case it’s a good thing you haven’t been seen talking to anyone–– or they’re paying some innocent party to deliver them, a young kid or some down-and-out hobo, maybe. Can I see the notes?’

  Laga, took the neatly folded missives from a small wooden box on the mantelpiece. Duval read them through. They conveyed only the information that Laga had said. With no clues regarding their source. Three days was specified for the next delivery. The prime concern of Duval was, if something wasn’t done, there was to be no game. Laga was a wealthy man, yes, but at the end of a series of $4000 payments he might not be left with enough spare cash to indulge his passion for cards. Besides, Duval had met Liv and she was a nice kid; the sort a guy might want to help––just out of the kindness of his heart..

  ‘Can you use a gun, m’sieur?’ Duval asked.

  Wrinkles of apprehension spread across Lava’s face like the shattering of a window pane. ‘Yeah, why?’ he asked with some hesitancy in his tone.

  ‘What about you an’ me riding out and seeing what we can do?’

  ‘Oh, no. They’d kill her. Damn, I wish I hadn’t told you.’

  Duval raised his hands in pacification. ‘OK,OK. I’ll lie low in the hotel, keep out of your hair. I’ll forget you’ve told me. I’ll come over in four days to see what’s happened.’

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ Laga implored him. ‘The law, nobody.’

  ‘No, no. You make the delivery. Who knows? They may not ask for any more.’ Like hell they won’t ask for any more, he thought, as he left.

  That afternoon Duval rode out to the rendezvous point as he’d remembered the brief description in the note. Naturally, he’d said nothing to Laga; and he rode in a casual meandering manner such that if he was spotted by the kidnappers he would give the appearance of a man taking harmless exercise with no objective. The place was easily recognizable by the crocodile-shaped rock formation over-looking the approach.

  There were mountains whichever way you turned. Timbered inclines topped with white peaks stretched to the horizon––all the way .to Canada. In other circumstances he might have been struck by the grandeur. As it was––the only word close to describing it was “desolate”. Needle in a haystack? To find where the kidnappers were hiding out would be like trying to find one particular pine needle out here.

  He dismounted, ground hitched his horse and strolled around the grass and rocks. If he was an Indian maybe he could read some signs. But he wasn’t. His home territory was a smoke-filled card room or lady’s withdrawing room––or bedroom when he was lucky. Outside the confines of such situations he could get easily lost. He scrutinized the flat ground near Crocodile Rock. After half an hour he found some scuffed rocks. That was most likely where Laga and the men had met but he couldn’t hope to find scuffed rocks all the way back to their hideout. He was just about to leave when he noticed some hardened mud. Only a few, small broken pieces but they caught his eye because they were colored differently to the surrounding soil. They had a definite red tinge.

  He checked no one was watching then put them into a handkerchief and then into his pocket.

  Jim Wilson was pouring over his drafting board the next morning when Duval entered the Land Survey Office. After pleasantries, Duval took out the handkerchief and showed the small pieces of clay to the geographer. ‘Any idea where these come from, Jim?’

  Jim’s face took on a quizzical aspect as he turned a piece over in the palm of his hand. ‘Nowhere from round these parts.’

  It was Duval’s turn to look quizzical. ‘Not at all?’

  ‘Leastways, not topsoil.’

  ‘That do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s known to appear as substrata in patches to the north.’

  ‘You mean––underground?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘A mine!’ Duval exclaimed.

  ‘Yeah. There have been enterprises attempting to extract copper in the state over the years––that red stuff you’ve got there has got oxide in it––but none of the exploratory exercises round here have come to much yet. Wait. Come to think of it there is an old disused one, quite a distance to the north of Cottonwood.’ He pointed to a map on the wall. ‘Here. The New Century I think it’s called.’

  The weather was clement and it was not difficult finding the New Century mine. It was clearly marked on the map and Duval had enough maps. Six in all. Big ones. He needed some kind of cover when he went investigating and Jim had lent him maps, some impressive-looking cases and a theodolite. The bulky cases and tripod for the theodolite also gave him an excuse for trailing a second horse. As he reined in near the mine he looked for all the world like a harmless scientist.

  The whole site nestled in a gigantic hollow cut away, many years ago. Cut away to such a depth that everywhere the reddish material was exposed. The entrance to the mine itself was halfway up a denuded rocky face. Access to crumbling sheds and twenty yards to the side of the hole stood a large shack which, Duval surmised, once served as the company’s main office.

  He could tell that the trail approaching the complex had recently been used. He made sure he was in full view of the building––acting out a role, to be furtive would have created suspicion––and he dismounted. He unloaded the encumbrances from the second horse and stacked them as though in preparation for some activity. He set up the tripod on a rise and with an exaggerated meticulousness fixed the theodolite. Without a clue to what he was doing, he hoped his actions were enough to fool any onlookers he was some kind of geographer.

  He looked along the instrument, occasionally arcing it around as though making some survey. He laid out his biggest map with stones at each corner and made frequent references to it. Feeling satisfied that he’d established his function for any spectators he picked up some papers and a map and walked casually to the mine. His long jacket was firmly buttoned to hide the weapons he always carried on his hips. As a professional gambler of longstanding he had to carry weapons––and know how to use them: a long-barreled Colt for accuracy on his left hip and a snub-nosed Le Mat for its ten shots on his right.

  As he walked he heard the faint snickering of horses coming from a shack but he ignored the sounds. If the kidnappers were here––and by now he felt sure they were––where would they hide the girl? The mine itself? As he neared the black hole, he reckoned not. He could see there had been some cave-in partway in, effectively sealing it off.

  There is often a case to made for facing a problem head on, he thought. So he walked straight to the main building. Mounting the steps he could hear movement inside. He sensed a face shifting from a window. From the corner of his eye he noticed two men coming from a distant shack. Ignoring them he knocked at the door. A tall man in his mid-thirties with rounded baby-like features appeared, holding the door firm so that it didn’t open any more than he intended.

  ‘What d’yuh want?’

  Duval indicated the paraphernalia in his hands. ‘I’m part of a Federal Land Survey team. We’re bringing our maps of the region up-to-date. I’m just checking whether or not the mine’s still used.’

  The man’s prematurely-balding head added to his baby-like appearance. ‘What d’yuh want to know for?’

  ‘When we find a mine’s been exhausted, we put a little symbol on the map to indicate it disuse. No big deal, that’s all.’

  ‘No, it ain’t used,’ the man grunted. ‘We’re just passing through. We happed upon it yesterday and decided to use it for the night.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Me and my sidekicks.’

  As he was speaking Duval heard a muffled noise from inside. It had all the characteristics of someone trying to speak with a gag in their mouth. That was all he wanted t
o know. He’d already reckoned that a kidnapping operation didn’t require many men––the less, the better for the split.

  There were two men several hundred yards away behind him. The man in front of him was probably the third and last.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Duval hissed. He threw the maps and papers in the man’s face, freeing his hand for the Colt. Baby-face went for his gun at the same time. Duval had no time to choose where to put the bullet, he just fired. At such close range the .45 caliber slug from his gun had enough impetus to knock the man backwards several feet. The tall man’s crashing body whammed the door open.

  Whether or not the bullet in the man’s chest had killed him, Duval didn’t know. The man was still, that was all that mattered. He stepped over the figure. The place had all the evidence of being lived in for some time––bottles, cans, greasy platters and stench. An occupation that was meant to go unnoticed, judging by the thick matting nailed and rolled above the windows. There was a mound of burlap sacking at the end of the room. It was moving. Duval pulled the top layers away to reveal a bound and gagged girl. He recognized Laga’s daughter despite her disheveled appearance. He took a fat-laden knife from a tin platter of bacon scraps and cut the bonds.

  ‘You’re gonna be all right,’ he said as he pulled the gag down. ‘There’s a spare horse over yonder. Get your pretty ass on it and head for home. Take this. It’s cocked.’ He handed her his Colt.

  ‘What about you?’ she said agitatedly. ‘There are two more men.’

  ‘I know. I can handle them.’ He hefted the Le Mat into his right hand. ‘Don’t worry about me. You concentrate on saving your comely hide.’

  The two men opened up from about a hundred yards away as Duval and Liv came down the steps.

  ‘Run for it,’ Duval shouted pushing the girl’s soft rump. I’ll cover you.’ The two men dived for cover as Duval placed shots in their direction. By the time the girl was astride the horse and away, one of the men had headed towards the remaining horse under cover of overturned, rusting trucks to cut off Duval’s escape.

  OK, Duval thought, I can’t go right––I go left.’ Bent double he ran up the ramp to the mine entrance. But there wasn’t as much cover as he’d expected. Little by little his two opponents edged nearer till he was pinned down. And there was no way back as the mine had been blocked. Duval left off a couple of shots to keep them busy while he thought. He was in a spot. They could move closer and closer at their leisure and rush him when he ran out of ammunition––if they didn’t get him with a slug in the meantime.

  He locked around. Broken pick handles and strangely shaped pieces of metal––once fitting exactly into some machine or piece of apparatus, now useless, puzzling oddities––littered the entrance. A little truck sat partway off the track, its working life long over.

  Duval clicked his fingers. He holstered the Le Mat and put his shoulders to the truck. It was heavy and clanged as it juddered with his efforts. Its noise worried him because it indicated to his trappers that he was occupied in some activity, other than vigilance. But he managed to dislodge it to the extent that its wheels clattered into place on the rails. He checked that it rolled free. Then he pushed it from behind till it moved under its own momentum and he jumped into it. It went over the top and rattled down the incline picking up speed. He had to get out fast because he’d noticed that the tracks were broken towards the bottom. Above the clanging and rattling he heard bullets pinging against the sides.

  Within seconds of sensing the change in angle he rose and leapt from the descending vehicle. Demon-colored with red dust he skittered on loose gravel then rolled towards the bottom. A blurred image told him he was heading for one of his assailants. He spread-eagled himself to slow his fall and pulled out his gun once more. Maybe because he was still a moving target, his assailant missed with his shots. But, through skill or luck, Duval’s slug went home. The man dropped holding his arm. ‘He’s got me, Chuck.’

  Sore from his downward buffeting, Duval jumped to his feet anal whirled round. The one called Chuck appeared at the top of the ramp.

  ‘You’ve had six shots, my friend, and you’ve only got one gun,’ he grinned. ‘So––goodbye, you interfering bastard!’

  Duval dived again to the floor, the seventh load from his multi-shot Le Mat taking Chuck in the knee.

  ‘What the f––?’ the surprised man grunted just before he pitched forward and ended up whimpering in agony at Duval’s feet.

  Using their own horses, Duval took the kidnappers––one dead, two wounded–– back to Cottonwood. A search of the hut had turned up a bundle of money: most of the original $4000.

  ‘If I’d known you were going out there,’ Laga was saying outside the marshal’s office when all the necessaries had been taken care of, ‘I’d have done everything in my power to stop you. Yet––look––it’s all worked out. I got my girl back in one piece.’

  He hugged his daughter, now washed and hair combed but still bearing traces of her ordeal. ‘What do I owe you, Duval ? Name it.’

  ‘Simply the thing I came for, m’sieur: you owe me a game of cards.’ Then he grinned and added, ‘That is if you ain’t got some other matter up your sleeve that could delay our game and you want me to sort out first!’

  Duval was philosophic. You had to be when you’ve just lost $10,000. To take part in the biggest game of his life it had taken him six months to raise the ante, a journey halfway across a continent and a shootout with three desperadoes. Then he’d blown it.

  The game––piquet starting at a $10 a point––had been played in the saloon before a permanent, growing audience and had lasted three and a half days. Now it was all over and he was a day’s ride out of Cottwood, heading he knew not where. He hadn’t even got a good stake for his next game, wherever that would be.

  While his ground-hitched mount grazed behind him the man from Crescent City munched on sandwiches prepared by Liv; and he pondered on which direction he’d take. At least Laga had wined and dined him on the last day. And Liv had packed a saddlebag with food. It was some consolation that he wouldn’t starve even though he had no money. Finishing off one packet of sandwiches he went to the saddlebag to get some more. He rooted through the bundles. Hello, at the bottom was a hard parcel. What kind of food could that be? He pulled it out from the depths of the bag and unwrapped it.

  It was a wad of ‘C’ bills. He laughed out loud and hit his forehead.

  ‘Sacre bleu!’ He tended to lapse into his parents’ French when his emotions got the upper hand. He thumbed through the bills; there must have been a hundred. A hundred times 100––wow!

  He read the little note tucked in the top. ‘I forgot to mention. I reckon the reward for rescuing my dearest Liv at ten grand. All the best.’ It was signed ‘Sven’ with a ‘P.S: If you ever fancy another game, you know where I live.’

  Duval grinned as he wrapped up the money. Oh, yes, Mr. Laga. He’d be back!

  (The card-playing Duval debuted in my book The Avenging Four)

  Blood on the Snow

  ‘Can’t we settle here, Seth ?’

  Two figures were standing on the shoreline. The settlement behind them had been known as Dwampish but it had recently been renamed Seattle by the white man. The bay-village’s timbered houses straggled from the shoreline right into the forest. From their vantage point the couple could see the evening glory of the Olympic Mountains across Puget Sound. Lambent tendrils of mist were feeling their way inland from the islands.

  ‘It looks so beautiful,’ she murmured.

  ‘Aye, it’s got charm right enough.’ Seth Langton pulled his wife close. ‘But, Kate, it’s deceiving. This place is going to grow rapidly. The trickle of settlers coming in is going to become a tide. It won’t be so pretty in a year’s time.’

  ‘What’s wrong with being among people, anyway?’

  ‘Nothing, dear. But we want room to expand and grow, don’t we? Room for our kids to breathe and run about. That’s why we came west. And, what’s mo
re, because there are people here already you can’t just settle anywhere. All the land round here’s spoke for. You’ve gotta buy it if you want it. And it’s damned expensive. See, many settlers arrive here exhausted and didn’t go any further inland. It’s that that has put such a premium on land and accommodation in Seattle. With our recent unforeseen outlays we’ve only got enough cash now to buy ourselves a wagon and provisions. It would take me years working here in the timber mills to save enough to buy just a little piece of realty.’

  It had been a costly and exhausting passage for them. Two months ago they’d started out from Boston by ship. What was intended as a three day crossing of the Isthmus became three weeks in an expensive Panama hotel when Kate went down with some unidentified illness, a not uncommon occurrence in that humid, parasite- infested region. Then, after recuperating, up to San Francisco by steamer and from there a long trip to Fort Vancouver. They’d made the last stretch by canoe.

  ‘Things are going to get real congested around here,’ he continued, ‘now treaties are being signed by the Indians. Land’s still free for the taking further west. We got to get out there so we can grab ourselves a piece of the wilderness while we still have the chance.’

  Time was running out for the Langtons. They’d married in their thirties and Kate’s first child had been stillborn. They’d needed a second chance. But for them, with all their precious savings now gone, setting up house somewhere out there in Washington Territory was effectively their last chance.

  Sandpipers were busy around the water’s edge. She snuggled into her husband to protect herself from the chill wind coming across the Sound. ‘It’s true what you say, Seth, but the problems we talked about before we set out are getting bigger in my mind.’