Miller's Ride

by Caleb Rand

  Rose knuckled her tired eyes. ‘I’ve got Hork Basen looking out from the grain-gate. You must have met him earlier. In this light he can probably see her by now. She’s not entirely alone.’ Then she turned for her room. ‘I’m going to wrap myself in blankets for a while. And I shouldn’t worry too much, Chad,’ she said ‘Perdi knows how to take care of herself.’

  Chad walked a quarter-mile beyond the yard, near a bend in the creek. Perdi was sitting with her back against a willow. She looked up as he approached.

  ‘Seems to me you’re not getting the best of this deal,’ she said.

  ‘Huh, who is? Your pa certainly ain’t,’ Chad answered as he sat on the bank beside her.

  ‘Is he dying?’

  Chad took off his hat, held it in his hands. ‘Yeah, it looks like it.’

  They looked across the creek towards where the Poll Durhams were grazing. Chad was suddenly acutely aware of the closeness. He listened to the night sounds, the snuffling of the cattle, the swish and splash of a temporarily stranded catfish.

  Aware of the situation, Perdi turned to him and said: ‘Tell me something about you, Chad. You don’t fit the cast of a cowhand drifter.’

  ‘Well, that’s just about all I am, Perdi. Believe it or not.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’ Perdi’s response was almost impatient.

  They looked closely at each other and Perdi made a small noise in her throat.

  Chad stretched his legs out in front of him, considered the bones of his predicament, his situation. ‘I set out from the Pecos to ride the hills. You know … to see what’s over the next one. But all that uppin’ an’ downin’s a mite wearisome. There comes a time …’

  ‘… when you have to stop running. That’s what it is … what you’re doing, isn’t it?’ Perdi tentatively suggested.

  Chad laughed as he spoke. ‘Yeah, ’course it is. I’ll stop whenever I get to where it is I’m goin’. That makes sense, don’t it?’

  ‘Depends on where it is … one of those things that could go on for ever.’

  Chad waited a few seconds. ‘I had this idea about St Louis. There’s a big parcel o’ folk up there. What are people’s needs other than fixin’s’ an’ funerals?’

  ‘You’re going into the undertaking business?’

  ‘No, bread, the staff o’ life. Get myself a mill. A pretty spot in the Missouri Basin. It’s rich pickin’s … a venture that can’t fail.’

  Perdi remained silent for so long that Chad began to wish he’d kept the thought to himself.

  Then she said: ‘What do you know of baking, and cakes … the like?’

  ‘I don’t. I’ll learn. With my name it seemed like a good idea. You know, like Smiths an’ Coopers.’

  ‘Hmm. What happens if some of those hills get flattened in dealing with Porton and High Smoke?’

  Chad looked towards the east, built himself a smoke. Already dawn was heading out across the Colorado sky. ‘Well, that’s somethin’ else,’ he said, flaming a match. He was close to something. He thought there might even be two ventures for him.

  7

  HIGH SMOKE

  It was nearly eight o’clock, and Joe had spent the night in the bunkhouse. He was sprawled on a corner bunk, whittling a stout twig. Chad had managed a few hours’ sleep, was waiting for Marlow Frost to shake himself into the new day.

  When the man rolled from his sleep Chad was already holding out a mug of strong coffee.

  ‘We should be gettin’ a visit today,’ he said. ‘They were Brig Porton’s men I ran up against in Hooper. He’ll want to even the score … send some men.’

  Frost stamped his feet into his boots. ‘An’ you want me to help with that?’

  ‘Thought you might want to. You’ve reasons,’ Chad said flatly.

  Frost swallowed some coffee. ‘What do you know o’ that?’

  Chad raised his hands. ‘Nothin’. I just know you have ’em, not what they are.’

  Frost handed back the empty mug. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Reckon I owe you for bringin’ back the doc. Perhaps it’s somethin’ I should have done,’ he added openly.

  ‘You’ll get your chance fairly soon, Marlow.’

  ‘Yeah. If Smokers are comin’ out here, they’ll likely follow the creek. They won’t cross the range … too open.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard o’ Jack Meel. You for hittin’ ’em out there?’

  Frost buttoned up his vest. ‘That depends on how many there are. If we go for ’em close, they’ll finger you.’

  Chad tossed the man his hat. ‘Hah! Chance is, they done that already. I’ve never kept any allegiance o’ mine a secret. Besides, Porton will have had me an’ the kid trailed from town.’

  Frost looked over at Joe who was carving out the shape of a snake’s head.

  ‘Could you go get us some pie-wedges an’ some cold cuts, Joe?’ Frost asked the kid. Then he turned to Chad. ‘Don’t seem much of a breakfast, since it’s all the payment you’re gettin’.’

  Frost didn’t wait for a response, and Chad followed him out the door.

  ‘How’s the boss this mornin’?’ Frost asked, as they walked to the livery barn.

  Chad waited until Joe was out of earshot. ‘Quinn implied, it ain’t likely he’ll pull through.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘From what I saw, I agree with him.’

  ‘How’re the girls takin’ it?’

  ‘Rose’s got her hands full. As for her sister … well, she’s just takin’ it.’

  Chad’s bay snorted with anticipation as Frost pulled at the stable door.

  ‘You think the doc’ll make a run for it when we leave?’ Frost asked as Chad rubbed his horse’s nose.

  Chad slid a pole from the bay’s stall. ‘No. He knows what’ll happen to him. An’ if Bridge lives, there’s no need.’

  Frost was already leading his chestnut gelding from the barn. ‘We’ll go when the pie arrives,’ he said.

  As Chad and Marlow Frost rode Chad was looking favourably at the land. ‘This is good country,’ he said. ‘Should be enough for any man. A hard-working settler could grow rich here.’

  Frost gave him a sideways glance, considered his words. ‘You mean, a gun-totin’ settler. One who prefers kickin’ ass to kickin’ sods.’

  Chad didn’t respond further. He knew Frost was thinking back.

  Two miles from town the low-ridged foothills stretched almost to the creek. Where it swung south, there was flat, rugged ground between scree and water. The rock-strewn trail continued for about a mile before it opened out again into grassland.

  Under the high morning sun Hooper was a colourless string of irregular buildings. Smoke climbed in thin columns from several kitchen chimneys, and from somewhere a window glinted where the sun struck. Chad picked out Waddy’s Halt and the livery stable at the end of the main street. He chewed his lip thoughtfully, grimaced at the bleak, hostile town.

  ‘We’ll ride swing,’ Frost said, as if reading Chad’s thoughts. ‘High Smoke’s beyond the trees. We can cross the creek here.’

  In the middle of the creek, the water ran deep enough for the horses to swim. Chad’s bay thrust its dark head into the current. Its nostrils puffed, huge, dark eyes bulged. Chad felt the surge of the animal’s shoulder-muscles, the thrust and haul of its legs as cool water flowed around his own thighs.

  Frost was to one side, flicking the nape of his chestnut, as together they found the shale, then mud on the opposite bank. The men dismounted and let their mounts nose at rock moss and clover. Chad stretched himself on some soft ground, made a smoke, before pulling his boots back on.

  After ten minutes they rode west towards the spruce and pine that clothed the foothills ahead. They continued into the tall trees, their horses walking silent on the thick carpet of fallen needles. When they reached higher ground they reined in, looked west.

  ‘High Smoke’s yonder,’ said Frost. ‘From now on we’d best keep off the trail.’

  The pair rode slowly down the we
stern slope. They stayed off the trail, hidden deep in the trees, but they remained cautious and watchful. Eventually the timber straggled into sage and coarse hill-grasses. The land spread before them, an endless rolling grassland, green and lush in the warmth of summer.

  The creek was now several miles behind them, tiny gleaming strands between the willow and alder that lined itis banks. The rich, fertile soil swelled from either side of the water, but land capable of raising countless herds of cattle was empty.

  ‘One thing’s obvious,’ said Chad. ‘Brig Porton’s problem ain’t cattle or land. He can have … or take, as much as he likes.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s true,’ agreed Frost. ‘If it don’t move, he’ll seize it. If it does, he’ll shoot. I reckon the problem’s locked in his head. He ain’t ever got used to not givin’ orders … bein’ obeyed. The doc called it psychosis. But there’s more’n just the dashin’ bandit about him. Look around you, Chad. Think o’ the loggin’ rights to all that timber when Hooper gets itself stretched up to Saguache, then to Salida.’

  The country was new to Chad. ‘How come?’ he asked.

  ‘A small creek becomes an important route when it joins up with water as big as the Arkansas.’

  ‘The Arkansas? The Arkansas must be a good seventy miles north o’ here.’

  ‘Nearer fifty, actually. But I’m talkin’ about usin’ the creeks. From here to Saguache, then up to Salida. That’s where everythin’ joins the big, fat Arkansas. A hundred and fifty miles east, an’ you’re half-way to Kansas City. That means fast, floatin’ trade, an’ Brig Porton’s got the sniff of it.’

  Chad created a mighty wedge of land in his mind. ‘What sort o’ boats do you get floatin’ along Saguache Creek, then?’ he asked with a questioning grin.

  ‘You don’t, Chad. It’s logs all the way to Salida.’ Frost pointed to the foothills. ‘Logs from that pine,’ he said.

  Both men were sitting their horses thoughtfully when a distant movement caught their attention. They edged their mounts back into cover of the trees, waited until a rider came slowly into view. It was a man riding a long-legged grey. As they watched he reined in, stared around him wearily. Then he swung his horse away, began to climb the slope opposite them. In less than two minutes he was out of sight, hidden deep among the pine and spruce.

  ‘Looks like a boundary rider,’ said Chad, trying to recall where he’d seen the horse before.

  Frost nodded. ‘We’d best go around the trees. He’ll see us if we go across country.’ They walked their horses until they were well hidden, then rode, filing along a higher ridge that curved east. Frost, who was riding ahead, held up a warning hand and reined in.

  ‘Hold up,’ he said softly, as Chad pulled in his bay. ‘I’m goin’ on foot to have a look-see.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Chad nodded, taking the chestnut’s reins, raising an eyebrow as Frost pulled a shotgun from his saddle holster.

  Frost grunted as he dismounted. ‘Never was much good with pistols and such. Feel safer with a full ounce o’ buckshot.’

  He moved off, silent and sure-footed as the trees began to thin. It was only when he neared the very edge of the timber-line that he saw the grey. He held himself very still, then backed off, lest the animal scent him above the tang of resin.

  He waited for a minute or two, then cautiously moved forward again. The trees broke up on the crest of the ridge, and Frost looked out on another sweep of grassland. A couple of miles off he saw the main house of High Smoke ranch. The big house and its outbuildings, spread across a low rise, reached back as far as the tree-line.

  The sweet whiff of tobacco smoke carried in the clean, still air. Frost moved gently on the soft ground until he saw the man. He was leaning against a pine, drawing on a crumpled stogie. He was hatless and his skin was the colour of a rusted tin. Frost made a grim smile, immediately had him nailed as a Montana Flathead.

  Frost considered pulling his bandanna up around the lower part of his face, then silently chided himself. He tugged at the brim of his Stetson and stepped forward.

  When he spoke the man started violently, made an unsure grab for his rifle propped against the tree beside him. But he saw the shotgun in Frost’s hand, spat the stogie from his mouth and slowly raised his hands.

  ‘That’s a smart move, mister. Leave the gun,’ Frost said.

  Flathead grinned back at Frost. ‘You sure move quiet.’ Then he nodded towards his horse. ‘You deserve the grey. Take him, but leave me my rifle.’

  ‘I ain’t interested in either,’ Frost snarled. ‘Just tell me what the hell you’re doin’ up here.’

  ‘I ride for Mr Porton. An’ he’d want to know what the hell you’re doin’ here.’

  Frost moved a few paces towards Flathead. ‘What would Porton want to know that for? What’s he so scared of, that he posts guards around his land?’ he demanded.

  ‘Mr Porton don’t like strangers.’

  Frost stepped up close to Flathead. So close he felt the heavy, troubled breathing. He transferred the shotgun to his left hand. ‘Strangers ’emselves ain’t no trouble. It’s what they do that gets scary … an’ they’re here. So you go tell Porton that,’ he said forcefully. ‘Turn around and keep your hands safe.’

  As the man turned slowly and with foreboding, Frost whipped a pistol from a holster high on the man’s hip. He turned the stubby barrel into his wrist, then in a fast movement swung the butt solidly against the man’s head. Flathead jerked and grunted, went down quickly.

  ‘OK,’ Frost called. ‘Come take a look.’

  Chad led the horses from the trees. He looked down at the unconscious man, at the shattered ear. ‘Fell from natural causes, did he?’ he asked.

  Frost tossed aside Flathead’s pistol. ‘Well, hittin’ him came natural enough,’ he said.

  ‘What did he have to say?’ Chad wanted to know.

  ‘Told me, Porton don’t want no one pokin’ around. Sort o’ makes you wonder why, don’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Chad said. He stared at the man on the ground, thought he looked vaguely familiar.

  ‘He’ll stay quiet for a bit, but I’ll truss him anyway. You can see High Smoke from here,’ Frost said.

  ‘Yeah, I noticed. Significant, ain’t it.’

  Frost looked up from lashing Flathead’s feet. ‘See those barns? They go right up to the trees. The wind’s about right too.’

  Chad smiled thinly as he grasped Frost’s meaning. ‘I’ll make up a hobble for the grey,’ he said. ‘We don’t want it returnin’ home just yet.’

  The men rode until they were among the trees behind High Smoke, then they dismounted to tether their horses. Chad soothed the bay, then crawled forward on hands and knees.

  Brig Porton had a fine ranch house. It was stone- and timber-built with a painted, wrought-iron veranda. There was a large bunkhouse that stood off from the other buildings, barns, and the usual gather of wooden sheds. In the wide, fertile valley was a large herd of pedigree cattle. On the home grass to the east were corrals with cutting- and riding-horses.

  A small group of men were mending fences; a few more, stretched lazily against the bunkhouse wall, appeared to be dozing in the sunshine.

  ‘Porton’s labour force. Almost seems a shame to disturb ’em,’ Frost said. ‘But if it’s heat they enjoy … You ready, Chad?’

  Chad was counting the men. ‘I guess so,’ he said, grinning at Frost’s derring-do. ‘I’m wonderin’ if they ain’t all layin’ there just watchin’ us.’

  They snaked forward, taking advantage of bracken and fallen timber. Crawling on their stomachs they reached the nearest building, which was a long, clinker-built barn.

  Frost got to his feet and with a satisfied grunt pushed up the locking-bar. ‘We’re in,’ he whispered, easing the door open.

  They moved into the barn, the thin wedge of light cutting through the gloom and the drifting hay motes. Without exchanging words they worked fast, dragging and stacking bales of straw under the loft. Frost struck a match and
touched it to a pinch of tinder-dry straw. The dusty dryness exploded, and within seconds flames were licking hungrily at the bales, swirling across the littered floor.

  Chad heard a small scuffling sound behind him, turned to see two bushy-tailed racoon kits. They were crouched beside a toppled crate and he scooped them up in one hand. With Frost watching him he shrugged, pushed the soft bundles into a fold beneath his shirt.

  Bent low, they ran from the barn, back the way they’d come until they reached cover of the trees. They stood with their backs to some pine, breathing deep, shuddering with excitement. Chad tossed back his head, cursed with pain through grinding teeth.

  ‘What is it?’ Frost asked with real surprise.

  ‘Goddam claws,’ he snorted. ‘Should o’ let the critters burn.’

  The two men watched as smoke billowed, as flames licked through the half-open door. The breezes from the sweep of the timber-line would spread the fire across the western side of the home corrals. Without a sizable water supply or warning there would be little chance of saving any of the buildings.

  The corralled animals were safe from the blaze, but got irritable, noisy when they caught the drifting mix of hot air and smoke. Then the fire was seen by the dozing cowboys around the bunkhouse. Shouts of urgent alarm pierced the growl of the flames and the men ran for buckets and towards the blazing barn.

  ‘That’ll keep the brigadier occupied for a day or two … keep him snappin’,’ Frost said. ‘The last thing he expected was for us to come knockin’ at his front door.’ He looked at Chad. ‘Now, I think we’d better disappear.’

  Chad glanced at the Big Windy man, wondered about the things on his mind. Chad himself was thinking of the Dodge City bank, the Missouri Basin, Perdi Bridge.

  Flathead, who rode guard for High Smoke, had regained consciousness. He looked up at Frost, his eyes filled with fear and distrust.

  Chad dismounted and pulled open the top of his saddle-bag. He lifted out the coons, kneeled and shooed them into some arching grass. ‘Go find your ma,’ he advised. Then he retied the flap and walked over to Flathead. With Frost’s help he slung him across the saddle of his grey. Frost yanked the man’s belt around the horn to stop him falling.