Snake Vengeance

by Philip Harbottle

  Snake Vengeance

  Philip Harbottle

  © Philip Harbottle 2004

  Philip Harbottle has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2004 by Robert Hale

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Frontier, an imprint of Endeavour Media Ltd.

  To Claire, Richard and Eleanor

  Table of Contents

  1.The Stolen Ranch

  2.Poker Magic

  3. Retribution

  4. Death At The Bar-6

  5. Desert Law

  6. Duel Of Death

  7. Death In The Night

  8. Snake Vengeance

  The Stolen Ranch

  Suitcase in hand, Larry Ashfield stepped from the train. He paused, watching the one or two men in cowboy garb and the women in cotton dresses who, like himself, had alighted at Buzzard’s Bend; then his gaze moved to the train as it continued on its way. The clanging of its bell sounded mournfully amidst the clouds of steam belching into the shimmering Arizona spring air.

  Larry began walking. He was fairly tall, but thin about the shoulders, and twenty-seven years of age. Black, well-brushed hair showed under the grey soft hat he had pushed to the back of his head. His features were regular without being handsome. His pale complexion contrasted sharply with the deeply tanned features of his fellow-passengers, and his grey, well-cut London suit looked out of place here in Arizona. Narrowing his eyes in the glaring sunlight, he caught up with an elderly man in dirt-smothered trousers, and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  The man gave a slight start, then relaxed as he decided this stranger was harmless. He looked at him quizzically, chewing steadily.

  ‘Where do I find the Double-L ranch?’ Larry asked him.

  ‘Double-L?’ The old man spat casually and went on chewing. ‘I guess it’s about three mile yonder — straight that-away.’ And he jerked his grey head to one side.

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to walk it?’

  ‘Reckon so. Unless you mebbe hire a horse when we get into town. That is,’ he added dubiously, ‘if you can ride one. You’ll be from England, I guess?’

  ‘Yes to both questions,’ Larry smiled, as he fell into step alongside the man. ‘I’m from London. I’m here to take over my uncle’s ranch — the Double-L. You’ll probably know of him — Brian Ashfield. Came out here some years ago. Owns a gold mine, too, quite near his ranch.’ Larry shrugged his lean shoulders. ‘I’m talking as if he were still alive. He died three months back and left everything to me in his will.’

  ‘Yeah, he sure died,’ the old man agreed. ‘Fell off his horse in front of a steer and it near kicked his brains out. You may be his nephew, son, but you’re nothin’ like him. He was big and tough — and one of the fastest shooters hereabouts.’

  ‘I’ve never had cause to be like that,’ Larry answered. ‘Anyway, thanks — I’ll be on my way. I won’t follow you into town just for a horse. I don’t suppose a three-mile walk will hurt me.’

  He began moving away, but the old man’s voice called him back.

  ‘Hold on there, son! Who d’you figure you’re goin’ to meet when you get to the Double-L? Simon Galt’s runnin’ the spread now. Took possession about a month back.’

  ‘He what ?’ Larry frowned and returned to the old man’s side. ‘But he can’t have done! I’m the rightful owner, as my uncle’s next of kin.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anythin’ about that, son. Just tellin’ you how things stand. I reckon you’d mebbe best see Cliff Makin before you go trailin off to the Double-L. Makin’s the lawyer who runs things around here — and I happen to know he was your uncle’s legal adviser.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘In the main street of town — half a mile or so down the road yonder. His office has a big sign — you can’t miss it.’

  Larry grunted his thanks, deeply puzzled. In a moment or two he had so quickened his pace that he had left the old man far behind and had arrived at the start of a dusty trail stretching ahead rather like the cart-track to a farm back in England.

  Larry mopped his face now and again as the merciless sun continued to beat down. It was hanging just clear of the mountains. In the opposite direction pastureland extended into an expanse of yellow brittle-bush. He winced when he mentally compared its rural primitiveness with the Kensington from which he had come.

  He was even more surprised when he saw the town of Buzzard’s Bend for the first time as he turned a corner. It reminded him somewhat of an ancient village back home, except that the buildings were of white, sun-blistered wood instead of bricks or cobbles.

  The trail he was tramping along ran straight through the centre of the agglomeration of dwellings. They were all shapes and sizes, many of them ramshackle. In front of them ran a boardwalk, overhung by a wooden veranda. In the rutted mass of the ‘main street’ itself men and women moved, oblivious to buckboards and horses bustling back and forth. The town at least seemed busy enough, even if it was preposterously behind the times compared to London.

  At length Larry gained the extreme end of the main street. Wonderingly, he looked about him, dodging the buck-boards and teams that occasionally bore down upon him. He realized that he was liable to meet with an accident, so he took to the nearest boardwalk, grateful for the shade the wooden veranda afforded.

  Completely preoccupied, he failed to notice the curious looks cast in his direction as townsfolk passed him. Most of the women smiled as though they wanted to be neighbourly, but the men — seasoned veterans of this sun-fried dump — winked at each other or spat meaningfully over the boardwalk rail. A white-faced young man with narrow shoulders didn’t impress them. The men of Buzzard’s Bend lived the hard way, and had no time for anybody who didn’t.

  Larry was checking out the buildings as he passed them. There was the Lucky Dollar saloon across the street, and next to it a general stores. Elsewhere he spotted a livery stable, a stage halt, an assayer’s office, the sheriffs headquarters, the mayor’s office — and then, on his own side of the boardwalk, he came suddenly upon a window with gilt letters upon it — CLIFFORD MAKIN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Gauze netting reached half-way up the window, hiding the interior.

  The office was small and littered from floor to ceiling with various documents. Dusty maps hung on the walls. Filing cabinets and a big safe were in one corner. A powerfully built man in shirtsleeves and open waistcoat sat at a roll-top desk, busy with his pen. He turned as Larry entered, swinging round in his swivel chair and putting big hands on the tops of his muscular thighs.

  ‘Howdy, stranger,’ he greeted. ‘Something I can do for you?’

  Larry made no immediate reply. He stood looking rather like a schoolboy before the headmaster — except that there was nothing scholarly about Cliff Makin. He was the kind of man from whom bluff exuded as freely as the perspiration staining his shirt. In a cumbersome kind of way, with his dark eyes and thick and wavy black hair, he was handsome. He was in his early thirties but developed physically by ten more years. At one hip, Larry noticed, sat a pearl-handled .45. Evidently his lawyer’s business was liable to sudden challenges from the tougher members of the community.

  ‘I’m Larry Ashfield.’ Larry put down his suitcase. ‘I suppose you are Mr Makin?’

  ‘Sure I am.’ Makin rose, a good six-foot-two, and gripped Larry’s hand firmly. ‘Glad to know you, son. Mr Ashfield’s nephew, presumably?’

  Larry frowned at being addressed again as ‘son’ by a man little more than five years his senior.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve just spoken to a local man who told me somebody called Simon Galt is running t
he Double-L. That’s not right, surely?’

  ‘Well, now I’m afraid it is.’ Makin’s dark eyes glinted for a moment, and he grinned dubiously. ‘Have a seat whilst I explain. Try a cigarette?’

  Larry accepted both and waited, considering Makin’s heavy features through the blue tobacco haze as he resumed his swivel chair and latched his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets.

  ‘It’s this way, son,’ he said. ‘There was some trouble over the deeds when your uncle died. You may have thought you were entitled to his ranch and gold mine … ’

  ‘I know I am,’ Larry replied quietly. ‘He wrote and told me he was leaving it to me. I still have the letter.’

  ‘Yeah, mebbe. Anyway, it didn’t work out that way legally. You see, this Simon Galt is a big cattleman. Your uncle was in debt to him to the tune of some thousands of dollars. There just wasn’t enough in your uncle’s account to pay off, so all that could be done was transfer the Double-L to Galt in payment. He accepted the deal and bought in the sole working rights on the gold mine at the same time.’

  ‘Sounds like legal chicanery to me,’ Larry said bluntly; and an ugly look crossed the lawyer’s face.

  ‘You calling me a crook, son?’ he demanded.

  ‘There’s certainly something very queer about the ethics of the business. As the next of kin of my uncle, I should have been informed of whatever debts there were. I could either have paid them or given permission for the ranch to be sold up. You’ve apparently taken the law into your own hands.’

  ‘The whole thing’s legal and tied up! Ask the mayor if you’ve got your doubts. He’s the be-all and end-all around here.’

  ‘Evidently,’ Larry said, ‘Buzzard’s Bend has its own queer laws. If this were England I could have you locked up in five minutes for pulling a trick of this sort. It means you’ve cheated me out of the ranch and the gold mine.’

  Cliff Makin stubbed his cigarette down in the brass ashtray and got to his feet, his heavy face menacing. Suddenly he shot down a big hand and yanked Larry from his chair.

  ‘Listen, son,’ he breathed, ‘don’t you go round calling people crooks or you’ll end up at the wrong end of a six. My action was legal, and if you don’t like it you can go back to England, and stop there. Now get outa here — and quick!’

  He released his grip suddenly and Larry stumbled over his suitcase and went sprawling. He lay where he had fallen, his heart beating fiercely. He had been taken completely by surprise. No lawyer in England would ever have reacted in this fashion.

  ‘Mebbe I can help you on your way,’ Makin said drily.

  Striding forward, he seized Larry by coat collar and seat of his pants, bundled him through the office doorway and then out into the street, tossing his suitcase after him. The door slammed. People went back and forth, unconcerned, as if accustomed to seeing clients thrown out of the lawyer’s office.

  Slowly Larry got to his feet and dusted himself down. He was looking more puzzled than hurt. Then he turned as a deep voice spoke beside him.

  ‘Anything I can do, son?’

  The speaker was a big, red-faced man, silvery hair showing at the sides of his black sombrero. He was dressed in a black suit with a string-tie dangling down his white shirt front. Kindly blue eyes and a generous chin restored some of Larry’s confidence.

  ‘I — I don’t think so,’ Larry replied, raising his suitcase. ‘I just got involved in an argument.’

  ‘And Makin threw you out? Mebbe he’ll do it once too often to somebody. You shouldn’t take it, son. Here, take my gun and go right back in there and make him dance a minuet.’

  Larry looked blankly at the enormous black-butted .45 the elderly stranger held out. He shook his head slowly.

  ‘No, thanks, sir. I haven’t the nerve to try anything like that.’

  ‘You haven’t?’ The stranger looked surprised. He put the gun back in its holster, a twin to the gun on his opposite hip, then he said, ‘Mebbe I should go in and tell him a thing or two — Nope, maybe I’d better not. There’s a reason I have to be careful about Makin.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well — er — it’s sorta private.’ The big fellow rubbed his chin, then changed the subject. ‘I’m Richard King, of the Bar-6,’ and he held out his huge hand warmly.

  Larry shook it, introduced himself, and then looked about him. ‘Know anywhere in this crazy place where I can get lodgings and not be rooked of everything I’ve got?’

  ‘Sure thing. You could try Ma Doyle’s, across the street there, only I’ve a better idea. Come back with me to the Bar-6 and make yourself at home. You look to me like the sort of youngster who needs a friend.’

  From a man of King’s age Larry did not resent the terms ‘son’ and ‘youngster,’ but he would have preferred not to have heard them.

  ‘I can’t put you to all that trouble — ’ he began.

  ‘No trouble at all. I’m quite well fixed down at the spread. My daughter runs the household, and we have a couple of servants. Just walk along with me. I’ve a call to make in the general stores, and then I can drive you back in the buckboard.’ King was moving with generous strides along the boardwalk as he talked. ‘I guess you’re a relative of old Brian Ashfield, who died recently? I heard some talk about his having a nephew.’

  ‘Yes, I’m his nephew,’ Larry responded. ‘I came here to take over the Double-L but Makin’s fixed it so that I can’t. I’ve lost a gold mine, too.’

  ‘Cliff Makin is a shyster, son. He knows every darned trick in the legal book. But I daren’t speak out about him too much, because he’s liable to become my son-in-law at any time.’

  ‘Your daughter wants to marry him?’

  ‘Not from choice — necessity.’ King’s face was grim. ‘It’s sort of involved — and private, like I said. Just wait here a moment.’

  Larry waited, pondering events and looking about him as King went into the general store. At length he emerged with his purchase, and then led the way from the boardwalk to a buckboard and team reined to the rails nearby.

  Larry tossed his suitcase into the rear section of the buckboard, and then clambered up beside King. The older man jerked the reins and sent the wagon bouncing and rattling along the uneven ruts of the main street. Their journey continued as they reached the extension of the trail beyond the town.

  Evening was settling, and the furious heat of the day was abating. Beyond the pastures lay the mountain foothills, covered with red and yellow lichens, peeping out from amidst the purple penstemon. The mountainsides themselves were garbed in junipers, cedars, and oaks. In the opposite direction, facing the mountains, the pasturelands merged into the purple mesa, but before they did so there were acres of golden brittle-bush that was catching the diagonal rays of the sun.

  Larry was impressed by the sense of spaciousness and unspoiled nature. It was hard to imagine that people like Cliff Makin flourished in its midst.

  ‘Pretty sight, son, ain’t it?’ King asked, watching Larry’s scrutiny.

  ‘I never saw anything like it in my life,’ Larry said frankly. ‘I’m city-bred. I suppose you’re used to it?’

  ‘You never get used to it entirely. It changes all the time, and is even beautiful in the winter when the snow and rains come. That’s my spread over there,’ King broke off, nodding into the distance.

  Larry saw the ranch clearly as they rounded a bend in the trail. It was fairly large, surrounded by pasture land and corrals wired into neat enclosures. There seemed to be several hundred cattle, and Larry could see the small figures of men going back and forth busily as they roped them in for the night.

  At length King had halted the buckboard in the yard outside the ranch house steps. Pausing only to yank his suitcase from the back of the wagon, Larry followed the big rancher up the steps. He found himself in a wide, cool hall.

  ‘Dump your bag,’ King said, smiling. ‘Come and meet my daughter.’

  He led the way into a big, log-walled living room, the chinks stopped with red clay.
The floor was partially covered by mats, and most of the furniture was obviously cedar wood. The fireplace was already smoking before the intense cold of the night shut down. In front of the fireplace was a large skin rug.

  So much Larry took in before his gaze swung to the girl who had risen from the desk in the far corner of the room. She had apparently been sorting correspondence. Larry noticed that she was of medium height, blonde, with a good-humoured face and rather high cheekbones.

  As she came closer Larry noticed that her eyes were blue-grey and extremely frank.

  ‘My daughter, Val,’ King introduced. ‘This is Larry Ashfield, Val — nephew of our late lamented neighbour, Brian Ashfield of the Double-L.’

  ‘Really?’ Val shook hands and smiled. ‘Well, this is quite a pleasurable surprise, Mr Ashfield. You’ll be taking over the Double-L, I suppose?’

  ‘I wish it were that easy,’ Larry sighed. ‘As I’ve been telling your father, I’m afraid I’ve been cheated out of my inheritance.’

  ‘Gypped,’ King said grimly. ‘And by that no-account Cliff Makin … ’

  He detailed the circumstances in which he had met Larry, and the girl frowned.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear of this, Mr Ashfield,’ she said, ‘though, knowing Cliff as I do, it doesn’t come as much of a surprise.’

  ‘I believe you’re engaged to him?’

  Val King turned away slightly. ‘Not yet. I haven’t committed myself.’

  ‘You’ll be wanting a meal, son,’ King interrupted, ‘and then a rest. You’ve had a long journey and a tough disappointment at the end of it. Come with me, and I’ll show you where you can freshen up. After we’ve had supper, maybe you’d care to tell us a thing or two about yourself.’

  Poker Magic

  By the time supper was over — prepared and served by two extremely uncommunicative Indians, an Aztec and his squaw, the night had fully come. Within the big ranch living room, however, twin oil-lamps were burning brightly. In the immense grate two logs crackled warmly. To Larry, seated opposite the girl and her father on the other side of the fire, it seemed queer that such blazing heat could change to cold within a few hours.