by Caleb Rand
Sitting behind Chad, Rose involuntarily shuddered. She sensed that behind the casual remark, there was a dire threat. She wondered who Chad Miller was, what he was doing in the San Luis Valley. He didn’t look or sound like an out-of-work cowhand, a grubline rider. But Rose knew that looks often deceived, knew better than to be too enquiring of strangers.
Big Windy ranch house overlooked Saguache Creek. There was a barn and sheds, a stable, two corrals, and a shacky bunkhouse for sleeping the extra hands. The main house was constructed of flat, square stone and split logs, with a broad porch, front and back. The shake roof was unburnable, laid upon two feet of sod. The outside doors were massive, and the windows had heavy shutters swung inside.
West of the house there was home pasture where a few dozen head of cattle grazed. They were pedigree Poll Durhams and represented the last of Big Windy capital.
As they approached the yard in front of the house a young man suddenly appeared from the rear of the building. In the crook of his arm he cradled a Winchester.
Cautious, Chad eased to a halt, but Rose called: ‘That’s Joe, my brother.’
Chad nudged the bay forward as Rose swung herself to the ground. As he got close Chad was somewhat surprised to see that Joe was little more than fourteen or fifteen. His bright features bore a marked resemblance to those of his sister.
‘I had some trouble,’ Rose started. ‘There was someone here at the ranch … one of Porton’s men. He must have been in hiding. This is Mr Miller. Luckily for me, he decided to intervene. I … we owe him for that, Joe.’
Joe nodded. ‘How much?’ The boy eyed Chad warily. He wasn’t yet prepared for anything more than raw distrust.
Chad slowly removed his Stetson, ran his fingers through his light-brown hair. ‘Coffee to begin with. Then later on, maybe a meal on a plate … ’taters an’ gravy. If you’d stretch to a cot in the bunkhouse, that’d be how much.’ Chad pushed his hat back on his head. ‘It’s also what your sister’s already agreed to.’
Rose’s gaze turned from Chad to her brother. ‘How’s Pa?’
Joe continued staring at Chad for a few seconds before he spoke. ‘Still in pain. He ain’t said much. He’s goin’ to die, Sis, if someone don’t get them bullets out of him soon.’
Chad rode up to the hitching-rail and dismounted. Rose indicated for him to follow her up the steps into the house.
As Chad tipped back his Stetson a figure stepped from the shadowy interior. She was tall and slim, with short, dark hair. Her pale-blue eyes regarded him with a scrupulous stare.
Chad saw that she was holding a .31 Pocket Colt. He thought it strange that a woman should walk about her own house toting a gun; then he remembered the man on the tall grey horse.
Rose introduced the woman as her big sister Perdi, and Chad took her hand. He was surprised at the confidence, the firmness of grasp, knew the surprise showed in his face.
Chad put her age in the late twenties, but there were already lines of strain at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She carried the physical resemblance of Rose, but that was all. She wore the vest and buckram pants of a working cowboy.
Perdi saw the consideration in Chad’s eyes. ‘There’s some things, of course, that I can’t compete with. But on most else I’ll wager I can best you or any other man,’ she challenged.
Chad was amused at Perdi’s sharpness, but didn’t doubt the message. ‘You might wager it, miss … I wouldn’t,’ he said, and smiled agreeably.
‘I’ll explain, Perdi,’ Rose said. ‘But for the moment, Mr Miller is here to help us. He’s not asking for much. Ain’t that so, Joe?’
‘So he says,’ Joe agreed.
‘Peg your hat if you’re staying, Mr Miller,’ Rose said, and moved towards the back of the big main room.
‘Is my little sister sparing with the truth, Mr Miller. Or are you a man who don’t normally ask for much?’ Perdi said.
Chad looked around the room. ‘Hah. I can tell you that what I’ve asked for right now seems like an awful lot.’
Joe sniggered and looked closely at Chad’s Patterson Colt. ‘You’re good with that, are you?’ he asked innocently.
‘Up to now it’s got me to where I’m goin’.’ Chad eyed the boy carefully and measured his words. ‘An’ more’n once it’s got me out o’ where I’ve been. How about you an’ that .44 Winchester?’
‘Sis taught me. Up to now it’s been crates an’ cans, sometimes a gopher or a chicken. But if I get a bead on any o’ them Portons …’ Joe bit his lip as his young mind explored the possibility. Then he suddenly lowered his head, his eyes flicked unsurely. ‘Can you have a look at our pa?’ he asked, laying his gun on a table, looking to his sister for confirmation.
Perdi thought for a second, saw that Chad had a doubt on his involvement. ‘At least you can see what Brig Porton’s all about,’ she said.
Chad followed Perdi into a room at the back of the ranch house. Rose was sitting beside a large, iron-framed bed. She was holding a damp cloth against her father’s forehead.
The man had the features of someone who was hurt bad. Another look that Chad had seen before.
Ashley Bridge’s pain-filled eyes met Chad’s. ‘I hear you want feedin’, mister.’ The man’s face tightened with the effort of talking. ‘Well, if you can just get me out o’ this bed, I’ll cut my last beef into a boggy-top for you.’
Chad nodded at the worth of the man’s offer. ‘Where do I find that doctor?’ he asked as a response.
Bridge gave an almost silent groan, and closed his eyes.
‘He won’t come. I’ve told you,’ Rose said dejectedly.
‘I asked where I’d find him. Not whether he’d come or not.’
‘I’ll take you to him,’ Joe said excitedly from the doorway. ‘This should be good.’
Bridge’s head rolled slowly on his pillow. ‘Findin’ Quinn ain’t the problem. It’s Porton’s men. They’ll be the ones decidin’ on him not clearin’ town limits.’
Chad winked at Rose, turned from the bedroom. In the main room he turned to Joe.
‘You take me … show me the way, that’s all. That’s understood?’
‘Yes sir. But I’ll bring the gopher-shooter.’
Chad glared at the youngster, but Perdi spoke up.
‘He’s just joshin’. But you got to know, Mr Miller, that if anythin’ happens to him, you’ll have more than Porton’s men lookin’ for you.’
Then Rose came from tending to her father. ‘He’s drifted off again … asleep,’ she said to no one in particular. She pulled a chair up to the table. ‘Mr Miller, if you’re going into town, you can go at first dark. I’ll get you fed, then cut you out a couple of good mounts.’
‘I’d prefer a couple o’ regular cow ponies. We ain’t ridin’ to a Kentucky fair. And while we’re about it, how about you callin’ me Chad?’
Rose gave a thin smile. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You been family long enough.’
Chad gave a thin smile at the irony. He walked over to the door and looked out across the yard. ‘Where’s that little buckskin you were ridin’ earlier?’
‘Back in the livery stable by now. Old Jawbone will be tending to her.’
Chad couldn’t understand Rose’s assurance. ‘How’d you know that?’ he asked.
‘Because it happens every goddam time I fall from the saddle,’ she joshed.
4
HOOPER
Joe Bridge and Chad rode along the wagon road out of Big Windy. Mounted on dun mares, they were openly heading west towards Hooper.
‘You ever been this way before?’ Joe asked.
‘Nope. I think I’d remember if I had,’ Chad answered the youngster.
‘Where you from then?’
‘A long way south o’ here. Las Cruces. Some call it Pecos Country. But I’m intendin’ to get East … one day. St Louis … Cincinnati … between the rivers … try somethin’ different.’
‘Reckon different means money … more’n a grubstake.’
Chad thought of his silver-ore, avoided the slanting question. He compassed the darkening land around them. ‘How about you, kid. You headed someplace?’
Joe grinned. ‘I got plans. Heard tell a lot of ex-army’s gettin’ into cattle-dealin’. They already got holdin’-pens outside o’ the gates o’ Fort Morgan. Rose says, they’ll need good saddle-horses … pay top dollar for ’em.’
Chad nodded with interest, thought he might bear it in mind.
For a while the two rode on in silence. Then, a mile out of town, Chad reined in. He sniffed the air and ran a thumb around the chamber of his Colt, checked the action of the Sharps carbine. A natural precaution when moving into an unknown town, before or after nightfall.
Hooper lay centered along the San Luis Valley – a straggling cow-town, fifty miles from New Mexico’s north border. To the west and east the jagged slabs of mountains broke dark against the night sky. The deep silence was spoiled only by breezes whisping through the grassland.
Joe was watching Chad. ‘You’ll be wantin’ me to ride in with you?’ he queried hopefully.
‘Yeah, you can ride in. Remember, silence is the friend who don’t betray you.’ Chad looked sternly at Joe. ‘An’ I can do without your sister’s kind o’ trouble.’
Joe muttered that he understood. ‘What you goin’ to do if there’s any trouble with Smoke men … after you’ve found the doc?’ he wanted to know.
‘Don’t know,’ Chad said. ‘But if anyone does try an’ stop me, then I guess I’ll have to think of somethin’ real quick.’
Chad nudged his horse on, and Joe rode close. He stretched out his hand, touched the stock-plate of Chad’s carbine. ‘What will I be doin’ then?’ he pleaded.
‘I’m hopin’ you’ll be watchin’ my back. You can do that without fuss, can’t you?’
On the outskirts of town they rode past the wreck of a fire-gutted log cabin. There were a few acres of ploughed land that had been left fallow.
Joe noticed Chad’s unease. ‘Perdi says it’s a goddam shame the way those people been treated by the cattlemen,’ he said. ‘They call ’em hay-shakers.’
‘Yeah, some folk got a name for just about everybody ‘cept ’emselves. In Kansas they call ’em churn-twisters,’ Chad said. ‘The size o’ this land, you’d think there was enough for anyone who wanted it … keep their prejudices at arm’s length.’
Joe’s mare was getting testy. It nudged its rump against Chad’s leg. Joe tugged the reins, held it off. ‘Perdi says it’s the law’s fault. She says there ain’t much to choose. Says guns is stay-alive factors.’
As Chad pondered on Perdi’s viewpoint they rode into the north end of town. Hanging lamps glared along the main street, made pools of lazy light between shadows of the alleyways. In the dirt street and along the narrow boardwalks, trail-herders and drovers from outlying ranches moved in ones and twos.
As Chad and Joe rode up the street they passed Welsh Peter’s saloon. The frenzied strains of a pianola mingled with raucous voices and stomping on bare boards. Further along, the noise of a drunk’s merriment matched the howling of a wedge-headed dog. The animal frightened the horses and Chad reached for the bridle of Joe’s mare. The dog scurried between their legs. It was deranged and half-crippled, had patches of bare skin where its fur was eaten by mange. There was a sickly-sweet cut to the air and Chad turned the horse’s heads away.
Inconspicuous on their dun mounts, they’d ridden the length of the street before Joe pointed. ‘Rose says that’s where he’ll be.’
The Waddy’s Halt Hotel stood at the corner of narrow, crossed streets. It was older, more solid than most of its surrounding buildings, but it had the usual saloon entrance of batwing doors off a close-planked veranda.
‘You know who owns this place?’ Joe asked.
‘No. Should I?’
‘It helps,’ Joe said. ‘It’s Porton’s missus. Got it bought for her to stop her leavin’. She couldn’t live with the valley’s low-borns. The beds upstairs are as lean an’ mean as she is, Pa says.’
Chad smiled at Joe. ‘Your pa’s done some memorable sayin’, kid. Now, take your horse back to the livery stable. Get it some water an’ a hatful of oats. I’ll be along soon. Keep your head down an’ just wait.’
Chad dismounted and tied his horse to a hitching-rail. He waited, watched a moment while Joe made his way slowly back along the main street.
Chad went up the steps and pushed open the doors, walked into a big room that was half-filled. There was a hot atmosphere, heavy with tobacco smoke and musky scents. The reek of raw spirits mingled with the pungent odours of cattle and dirty drovers. Some of them sat at games of chance, others stood at the one long bar. At the far end of the room, on the wall high up, was a big, rich painting of someone’s idea of sleeping Venus.
Chad hadn’t expected to see women among the clients. Hooper was a long way from any east-west route. Some were obviously from the northern territories, drifted south, east of the Rockies. Even in the low light, and from a distance, Chad could see weariness through showy face-colouring. Like a lot of the cowboys, they were disaffected, worked and played for the moment.
Chad edged his way to the bar and ordered a beer and whiskey chaser. One or two of the regular drinkers flicked a glance in his direction, but their curiosity quickly gave out.
Chad used the mirror of the back bar to survey the room. He couldn’t see anyone that fitted his idea of a doctor, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask. The whiskey made him blink, and he decided to stand outside, have a look along the street.
In the cool night air Chad took a deep breath. Beneath the hotel’s overhang was a long bench and he took a seat, reached for his cigarette makings.
Chad considered the deposit he’d made in Dodge City. But his thoughts were crowded by how long he could leave Joe Bridge alone. How much longer before the youngster’s natural wantonness got the better of him.
From across the street a man came towards the hotel and Chad lifted his eyes. The man was dressed in a light-coloured frock-coat, dark trousers and wore a close-brimmed hat. As he mounted the steps and pushed at the batwings Chad knew he’d found Tobias Quinn, the town doctor.
Chad was contemplating his next move when, from the north end of the main street, he heard the unmistakeable crash of a rifle shot. He got to his feet, and saw a man zigizagging awkwardly towards him. Another shot cracked and flared from the dark shadow of an alley, and Chad saw the man jerk, stumble and fall. The stricken man got to his feet and, choking, ran straight towards the hotel as a third gunshot slammed low into his back. In the cast of the hotel’s lamps Chad saw him clearly. He was a slight, middle-aged man in overalls and thick-soled boots, was within a few paces of the veranda steps when his knees gave way. His eyes met Chad’s as he crumpled into the hard-pounded dirt.
Chad vaulted the low railing of the veranda. He kneeled and looked along the street, then down at the dark blood which was already soaking into the ground. He turned the man over gently. Hurt eyes looked up at him and cracked lips moved in soundless words.
‘Doctor ain’t far away, friend,’ Chad told him. ‘He’s bound to come runnin’.’
The man coughed, his response a breathless whisper. ‘I felt two o’ them bullets hit me. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.’ He raised a scrawny hand, held on to Chad’s wrist. ‘If them trigger-men see you helpin’ the likes o’ me, they’ll do for you too. Don’t be a fool all evenin’. Get yourself out o’ here.’
The man’s eyes squeezed shut with pain. His jaw worked, then a long shudder racked him. A short gasp came from his throat as his body met its death.
Chad got slowly to his feet and stared around him. He looked north, wondering about young Joe, knew the gunfire would bring him running.
From the boardwalk someone cawed scornfully. ‘Looks like another ol’ farmer feedin’ off the dirt.’
A tall, lean man cackled, tossed the dregs of his beer into the street. The liquid splattered the ground. Chad moved to face him.
>
‘Don’t go wastin’ your temper on me, feller,’ the man said. ‘It’s these boys you got to worry about.’
Chad looked back up the street. Through the darkness, illuminated only by an occasional lamp, three figures were advancing. As he watched the gunmen spread, each of them selecting him as their next objective.
Chad swore. He stepped away from the dead homesteader to position himself along the edge of the boardwalk. He glanced at the group of figures outside the bar, at his horse getting huffy, then back at the street and swore again.
The men to his left and right had stopped walking. One was in deep shade but the other had made a bad move. He’d got beneath a boardwalk lantern and Chad caught the gleam of a polished gun barrel. The man in the middle stepped forward and Chad guessed he’d be the best of the three. He was the one who spoke, the one who’d have to be shot first.
‘That squatter a friend of yourn? Kin maybe?’ the man sneered.
‘No, neither,’ Chad said. ‘In fact, I never seen him before in my life.’
‘The way you was comfortin’ him there, I thought maybe you was kin.’
Chad listened, his emotions in control. ‘No. I was lookin’ for his gun,’ he replied calmly. ‘When a man gets shot two or three times in the back, he’s usually a big time gunman with a reputation.’ He moved the edge of his jacket away from his Colt. ‘But this here’s an unarmed farmer. Likely never even shook his hay in anger.’
Chad saw a twitch ripple the side of the man’s face, knew it wouldn’t be long before someone made a move. ‘Why’d you kill him? Frightened he might spit some barleycorn back at you?’ he said, the taunt suddenly cracking his voice.
The man’s eyes flicked to Chad’s holster. ‘Yeah, that must be somethin’ you’d be worryin’ on, right about now,’ he said.
Chad eased the tightness in his right hand. ‘Well here’s somethin’ for you to worry about. Bearin’ in mind I am armed, which of you gutless town garbage is goin’ to make it back down that street?’
As the man made the inevitable move, Chad never even doubted his own ability. It was what he was good at.