Snake Vengeance

by Philip Harbottle

  ‘Better go easy on killin’ him, boss,’ one of the punchers warned. ‘Be difficult to cover up now everyone in town knows him — ’

  ‘I’m not wastin’ no good slugs on this critter: I’m just going to make him too big a laughing-stock to stay around. Hank, you’ll find a pot of yellow paint in the cupboard there, and a brush. Get them.’

  Hank did as he was told. He set them on the desk and waited for the next move. Makin grinned widely; then he suddenly snatched Larry’s .45 from him and threw it aside. Next he delivered a smashing uppercut that banged Larry’s head violently against the metal cabinet. His senses swimming, Larry was helpless to prevent Makin from tearing his coat off and the shirt from his back, leaving him only in trousers and singlet.

  Held tightly by the two punchers, he had to submit as Makin very deliberately painted a huge Y in yellow paint across the front of his singlet; then he did the same with the back before tossing the brush back in the pot.

  ‘Around here all the folks know that means yellow,’ Makin said coldly. ‘If you can stay here and live this down you’re better than I thought. OK, Hank — throw him out!’

  Larry was grabbed again and then flung savagely through the open doorway. He crashed down the three steps from the boardwalk to the street and lay in the dust for a moment. It was the sound of raucous laughter that made him finally scramble to his feet.

  Punchers lining the boardwalk had noticed the clean yellow Y on his back and the dirt-caked one on his chest. Larry reeled in the direction of his horse, and then paused as a bullet blew the dust from his feet an inch or so in front of him.

  ‘Keep going, son,’ Makin called to him, leaning over the rail. ‘That’s why you’re all nicely painted up. Go on — start dancing !’

  He fired again, and Larry jumped back quickly. After that he had to keep moving, and fast, as another bullet exploded inches from his heels. Then the loud rattle of a buckboard made him lunge desperately to one side — straight into the path of another one coming from the opposite direction.

  Larry felt a tearing pain in his head and side, then he was flung over and over in the dust, the wagon wheels bouncing sickeningly over his writhing body. Then came merciful oblivion.

  The first person to react was Makin, dodging back quickly into his office when he saw the accident. He had no wish to be indicted as the man who had caused Larry to be knocked over. Not that the sheriff would ever dare to bring such a charge, but the townsfolk might.

  Most of them were too concerned over Larry’s inert body to bother about the cause of the trouble, however. He was lifted gently and carried into the general stores; then the rider of the buckboard came in, carrying a small bag. The fact that he was Doc Barnes, the one medico Buzzard’s Bend possessed, was at least fortunate for Larry.

  *

  For Larry himself things did not begin to make sense until he realized that he was in a room with half-drawn shades, lying in a cool, comfortable bed and looking at the profile of Val as she bent her head over some needlework. He stirred very slowly, then winced.

  ‘Hello, Val,’ he whispered.

  Immediately she put down her needlework and her eyes brightened in sudden joy. Getting up she rushed to the door and opened it.

  ‘Dad!’ she called. ‘Dad — he’s recovered consciousness. Come on — quickly!’

  Returning to Larry’s side she caught at his hand as it lay on the coverlet. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Like I’ve been kicked by a mule,’ Larry muttered, and realized that his head and ribs were bandaged. ‘I remember being run over by a wagon … what happened after that?’

  ‘Plenty, Larry. But don’t talk now. You’ve been very ill.’

  ‘I want to talk,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve no idea what’s been going on, and … ’

  He stopped as Richard King came into the bedroom, carrying a bowl of steaming soup on a tray. He sat down at the bedside, lowered a spoon in the soup, and held it forth for Larry to drink.

  ‘All kept ready for when you recovered,’ he explained. ‘Come on, son — drink it.’

  It was hot and tasted of beef. By the time Larry had consumed the contents of the bowl he was feeling a good deal stronger, though every movement made him wince.

  ‘You’ve been in a bad way,’ King said, somewhat tactlessly. ‘You got a wallop on the skull, two broken ribs, bruising and lacerations. Blow on the head was worst.’

  Larry was silent, frowning in perplexity at his apparent memory loss.

  ‘It sure was providential that the wagon that ran you down was being driven by Doc Barnes. You might easily have died without his immediate ministrations. But he reckons that, in time, you’ll be back to your old self.’

  A strange expression seemed to cross Larry’s face at these words. Val interpreted it as tiredness.

  ‘That’s enough for now, Dad.’ She looked at Larry as he lay in the bed. ‘You need to rest … ’

  But Larry was already asleep.

  Two hours later he awoke; then he went to sleep again after more nourishment. The pattern was repeated over the following days, but gradually broken tissues began to heal themselves; slowly his sleeping-periods became less and less. A month after his accident, he was on the ranch house veranda in a chair, a rug round his knees, the blaze of the Arizona summer sun filling him with new life. Beside him, as always, sat Val King.

  ‘I can’t tell you, Val, how grateful I am for all you’ve done for me,’ he said quietly, reaching out his hand and grasping her shoulder. ‘Especially as I was a stranger.’

  ‘Hardly a stranger, Larry.’Val smiled. ‘You ceased to be that from the moment you recovered the ranch for us. The main thing now is that you’ve pulled through. You’re getting stronger every day, putting on weight. You’ll soon be around with the best of us.’

  ‘I guess so,’ he agreed, looking into the sunny expanse, his hand still about the girl’s shoulder.

  Val studied him covertly. She was trying to resolve what there was that was different about him. He looked drawn from his ordeal. But there was something there that had not been apparent before. A firmness about his mouth and chin, a curious light in his eyes as though … Val dropped her gaze as he turned suddenly.

  ‘Makin been round in the interval?’ he asked.

  ‘Briefly — once or twice. I think he only came to find out if you were alive or not. He caused your accident, didn’t he? We heard that from some of the townsfolk.’

  ‘He caused it, yes,’ Larry assented, a curious tightness about his lips. ‘How did he treat you?’

  ‘Roughly — as usual. He only left me alone when Dad threatened to pump lead into him. Seems as though he doesn’t mean to be shaken off.’

  Larry did not say any more. He relaxed and gave himself up to thought. He came out of a deep reverie to find Val had brought him coffee and sandwiches.

  ‘You’re an angel,’ he said, smiling. ‘Sit down a minute, Val. I want to tell you something … ’

  She promptly did so, holding the sandwich plate for him.

  ‘I’ve had plenty of time to think things through, since the accident. Because of Makin, I very nearly died. And if I had died, then Makin would have found a way to blight your life, and that of your father. In fact, he may yet try to do just that.’

  ‘But you didn’t die,’ Val pointed out, puzzled as to where the conversation was leading.

  ‘It would have been my own fault if I had,’ Larry said frankly. ‘I came here as an Englishman, completely ignorant of the ways of the West. A fish out of water. I failed to adapt, and because of that I nearly died.’ Throwing the rug from his knees, he got to his feet and walked slowly to the porch rail. Gripping it, he stood, looking out over the pasturelands, drenched in the fierce heat of the summer sun. Val drifted to his side, quite unable to analyse his mood.

  ‘Something the matter, Larry?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes … ’ He turned and gave her such a direct look she was startled for a moment. ‘You’re look
ing at a new Larry Ashfield, Val. Not the man who got thrown into a horsetrough and accepted insults; not the one who was afraid to draw his gun; not the one who had yellow paint on his chest and back. I’ve found something I never knew I had, and I owe it to you and your dad to put it to use.’

  Val shrugged, still puzzled at his meaning.

  ‘We only did what anybody would do.’

  ‘Do you suppose,’ Larry asked slowly, ‘that if I can get my ranch and gold mine back from Makin, you might consider marrying me?’

  Val only smiled. She did not need to give an answer.

  ‘I can’t ask you until then,’ Larry said. ‘I’ve nothing to offer. But the Double-L and the gold mine are worth a fortune combined. Until I’ve got them I wouldn’t dream of asking you to take on a load of trouble.’

  ‘Isn’t a wife supposed to share her husband’s troubles?’

  ‘Normal ones, perhaps — not bullets and fists and death.’ Larry gazed fixedly into the sunlight. ‘That’s what my affairs may come to before I’ve settled them. I have so much to deal with, so many accounts to square.’

  *

  The passing of the blazing days finally convinced Val — and in a less personal way her father — that Larry Ashfield was definitely a new man. The hours he spent in the sunlight, gradually doing heavier jobs as his strength increased, turned his grey, drab skin to a deep brick-red, and then to nut brown. His shoulders, which had always been fairly broad even if fleshless, began to thicken. He began to gain weight rapidly.

  There came a day when Larry realized he was two stones heavier than he had been on his arrival in Buzzard’s Bend, and he was feeling fitter than he had ever done in his life. He was attuned to the blazing climate, self-confident, nursing only one burning desire — to avenge the insults and abuse that had been heaped upon him.

  Just over two months after his accident he rode into town one evening, and dismounted at the Lucky Dollar.

  None of the lounging cowpunchers recognized him in his riding-pants, half-boots, check shirt, orange kerchief, and Stetson hat. He looked like a tall, broad-shouldered man of the trail who had blown into town for a drink.

  He pushed open the batwings of the saloon and looked about him upon the usual men and women at the tables, the haze of tobacco smoke, the distant gambling habitués. He received one or two glances; nothing more. So, his hand resting lightly on the butt of the new .45 he had bought — from the $5,000 he had won from Makin — he strolled across to the bar-counter and ordered whiskey.

  The bartender gave it to him and looked as though he were trying to remember something. For that matter Cliff Makin, seated with his chief henchman, Hank, at a distant table, was also trying to remember something. When the truth dawned on him he nearly dropped his whiskey glass.

  ‘Sweet hell,’ he breathed, staring.

  ‘Hank, that guy at the bar over there! It’s our little playmate come back! Larry Ashfield.’

  Hank stared fixedly, took a quick drink, and stared again.

  ‘What in heck’s happened to the critter? He looks as big as a house.’

  ‘Been lazing around and stuffing himself after that fall he took,’ Makin decided sourly. ‘He’s filled out a little, but I guess a leopard can’t change its spots. I wonder what his game is?’

  Hank grinned. ‘Mebbe he’d like another walk around town with a yellow Y on his belly?’

  ‘Get over there pronto and sound him out. Let him know he ain’t welcome.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’ Hank got to his feet, hitched up his gun belt, then strolled over to where Larry was leaning one elbow on the bar.

  ‘Howdy,’ Hank said briefly, grinning. ‘Remember me?’

  ‘Yes, I remember you,’ Larry said, fixing the man with a discomfiting stare.

  ‘You were the one who threw me out of Makin’s office the day he painted a Y on my singlet. After that I got run over.’

  ‘We didn’t figure on that happenin’,’ Hank explained. ‘Have a drink?’

  ‘I’ve got one. What is it you really want?’ Larry’s tone was hard and uncompromising, and instinctively his hand strayed to the comforting butt of his gun.

  ‘The boss told me to tell you that you’re not wanted. If you don’t quit town and stop crampin’ his style, you’ll be thrown out.’

  Larry said nothing. Slowly he finished his drink, then he held out his empty hand towards Hank. As he watched, Larry clenched his fist, and then opened it again. In his palm lay a large-sized duck’s egg.

  ‘Mighty neat,’ Hank said, sensing this was not a good time to start making trouble.

  ‘Very,’ Larry agreed calmly. ‘Take it home with you. Might make a pancake.’

  Hank took it in his hand, then Larry suddenly reached out and crushed Hank’s fingers. The egg squashed instantly, the yolk running gummily round his hand and on to his trousers. Somebody laughed, and it was not long before half a dozen others joined him. Scowling, Hank stared at his messy hand.

  ‘And another,’ Larry said, taking another huge duck egg from the back of Hank’s dirty old hat.

  Hank looked at it in fascination, then he suddenly found his hat whipped from his head and the egg crashed on the top of his skull. He swore thickly and clutched at his gun.

  ‘Yellow,’ Larry explained. ‘Like the paint I had daubed on me. Now get back to that swaggering boss of yours and tell him that if he’s anything to say to me he can say it himself. You might add I’ll have plenty to say to him before I leave this saloon. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘You cheap, lily-white tenderfoot!’ Hank howled, pulling out his gun, yolk running down his hair and face. ‘You can’t do — ’

  His words were jolted clean back into his throat as a smashing right-hander took him under the jaw. His gun went flying. Half-lifted from his feet, he collided with the table behind him, overturning it. Dazedly, he collapsed in a smother of broken glass and flowing liquor.

  ‘On your way,’ Larry said coldly, his own gun at the ready.

  Sticky, furious, his jaw throbbing, Hank got slowly on his feet. He recovered his gun and pushed it in its holster; then, with a startled glance over his shoulder, he returned to the table where Makin had been watching the proceedings in blank astonishment, along with most of the saloon customers.

  ‘Boss, the guy’s loco,’ Hank panted. ‘He brought some rotten eggs from some place and smashed ’em on me! Look at me — ’

  ‘I don’t need to; you stink a mile off.’

  Makin got to his feet, kicking his chair out of the way. He strode across the saloon to where Larry was pouring out another drink.

  As he neared the bar, he noted the filled-out shoulders, the brown skin, the obvious ripple of muscle beneath the shirtsleeves.

  ‘This has gone far enough, Ashfield,’ Makin growled.

  ‘I don’t think it has.’ Larry smiled icily. ‘I intend to stick around town until I’ve made you hand over the property you’ve stolen from me.’

  Makin narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t think that even you are idiot enough to try conclusions with me, feller!’

  ‘I intend doing just that, Makin. But first, there’s the matter of your upsetting Val King’s peace of mind … ’

  Makin saw the danger light in Larry’s grey eyes, even if he could not understand it. His hand blurred down to his own gun — then he stopped in mid-action, spluttering and cursing as the contents of Larry’s whiskey glass landed right in his face.

  He was temporarily blinded as the spirit burned his eyes — then a hammer blow on the nose sent him sprawling along the bar counter. Dazedly, he was aware of a trickle of blood warm his upper lip. It spurred him to sudden, desperate retaliatory action. He forgot all about his gun and lashed out his fist. It missed Larry’s ear by a fraction, and a split second later Larry’s left fist came up with all the power of his arm. It smacked into Makin’s jaw. With a gasp he clutched at the counter, missed, and landed on his face in the sawdust. Before he could get up a knee was in the centre of his spine and a
forearm under his aching chin.

  ‘All right, Makin,’ Larry said, his voice unhurried. ‘We’ll have the apology for Miss King first, shall we? I know she isn’t present, but the rest of these good people are witness to your statements.’

  ‘You blasted skunk!’ Makin panted, striving to free himself. ‘I’m not apologizing to anybody! Val was my girl before you showed up, and still is — ’

  ‘No she isn’t,’ Larry said, and began to increase his arm lock. He only stopped when Makin, his face streaming with tears and perspiration, screamed from the pain in his back.

  ‘Say it!’ Larry snapped. ‘You’ve molested her for the last time. Say you’re sorry for it, and that you’ll never go near her again.’

  Makin breathed hard, his hands clawing in the sawdust, spots of blood falling from his battered nose. Then he found his chin rising again and his back bending.

  ‘ All right !’ he shrieked abruptly. ‘I apologize! I moved outa turn … I’ll not go near Val any more.’

  ‘Good,’ Larry said. ‘Break your promise and I’ll break your neck. Now get up.’

  Slowly and painfully, Makin got to his feet. Grinning faces on all sides did not improve his temper. And he was baffled — completely so. Larry Ashfield had either got a twin brother of unexpected toughness, or else must have been soft-pedalling himself in the first instance …

  ‘There’s something else,’ Larry said, hooking his thumbs on his gun-belt. ‘I mean my ranch and that gold mine.’

  ‘That’s all legally fixed up,’ Makin retorted, snatching up his fallen hat. ‘I told you about the debts your uncle contracted.’

  Larry’s hand shot out suddenly and gripped the front of Makin’s shirt.

  ‘I know I’ve been cheated, Makin — or gypped, as you call it around here — and I’m going to straighten it out if I have to tear you in pieces to do it. Now, tell me what really happened when you handed things over to this Simon Galt, who’s taken my place.’

  Makin’s only response was a cynical grin. He turned his back in contempt — then he suddenly found himself advancing at tremendous speed, a hand at his collar and pants. He was bundled through the batwings and out into the street, followed by the interested customers from the saloon. Cursing and struggling, he was forced onwards, until he reached the horse trough. Realizing what was coming, he dug in his heels, and forced himself to turn.