by Caleb Rand
He waded into Muncie, thumping blow after blow into his body and face. As he pitched forward a blow would shape him up, then, as he staggered away, another punch to his stomach or ribs would double him up again. The coordination was astonishing, seemingly the only thing that kept Muncie on his feet.
Mercilessly Frost hammered him towards the creek. Muncie staggered, raised his arms in defence. Then, right on the edge of the bank, Frost poised for a moment. He carefully took his measure before slamming a final uppercut. The blow lifted Muncie, scuttled him, rolled him down into the creek like a timbered log.
Frost stood watching the water. Muncie turned in the current, his head pitching in the bankside shallows. When his body swung with the water’s run, Frost stepped in. He got his fingers twisted in Muncie’s hair and dragged him out on to the bank.
Frost looked at Chad, nodded at Colman, who was still holding on to Muncie’s horse. ‘I’m guessin’ you were off to High Smoke,’ he said. ‘Best you ride, afore I get my breath back. An’ give our regards to the brigadier.’
Chad waited until Frost had pulled himself back on to his horse. He let go the reins, extended his hand and Frost gripped it. ‘Help some, did it?,’ he said.
Frost drew a long, rasping breath. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m better,’ he replied, and laughed painfully.
9
THE MUNCIE NOTE
Seething with fury, Brig Porton watched the destruction of his property. He was unable to take any effective measures to check the flames, watched helpless as the choking, blinding smoke swirled around him. He bellowed orders to the line of men carrying water from the creek, but knew full well they were wasting their time.
Then came the explosion he’d feared. All his new gunpowder had been stockpiled in the one store shed. The blast jarred him; a wood splinter struck him across the head, and he fell to his knees.
Biler Runcton, the High Smoke foreman, loomed out of the smoke. His face was sooted, his hair singed. He sank down on the grass, sweating and breathless. ‘If them lazy red men had been half-awake, they could o’ saved this,’ he wheezed.
Porton looked across at his house. It was only scorched, and he was thankful for its sturdy build. ‘Someone too careless with his smoke?’
‘Nah, it weren’t that, boss. The fire started from the barn. Some o’ the men saw it, but none of ’em’s been anywhere near the place.’
‘What are you sayin’?’
‘It was deliberate. Called arson, I believe.’
‘Yeah, arson. Who the hell’d do that, Biler?’
Runcton choked back a laugh. ‘You want an answer to that, boss?’
Porton’s chin dropped to his chest, but he looked up quickly, anxious as one of his ranch hands came hobbling towards them. The man was dragging his foot, shouting.
‘It’s Yellow Egger, boss. He just come in. Should see him. Got the side of his head bashed in and he’s trussed like a Thanksgivin’ turkey.’
‘So, what the hell happened to him?’ Porton demanded.
‘He says two fellers got the drop on him. They was up by the timber-line. They sent a message … them that fired the barn.’
‘What message?’ Porton asked.
‘Egger says they were Big Windy men. Reckons one of ’em was new to the valley.’
‘Is Egger’s mouth still workin’?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m askin’ again. What was the message?’ Porton hissed through his clenched jaw.
The ranch hand was uncertain of how to tell it. He looked from Porton to Runcton, muttered nervously. ‘This stranger, he said what was happenin’ was just the start. They got ’emselves ready. It was him – this stranger – that shot us up in Hooper.’
Porton was back shakily on his feet. ‘Sounds like them Bridge women got a gun hand.’
‘Egger’s over by the bunkhouse, boss.’ The ranch hand looked miserably at his injured foot. He knew too, he’d already met the stranger, couldn’t bring himself to mention the bit about Porton digging himself a boot hill plot.
Porton reeled. He walked unsteadily towards the bunkhouse and Biler Runcton followed on closely. The Montana Flathead called Yellow Egger was lying on the grass, away from drifting smoke. He got painfully to his feet as Porton approached.
‘You not blamin’ me for what happened here,’ he said quickly.
Porton could see the damage to the man’s head, heard the guarded distress.
‘One of ’em beat me … two maybe,’ Egger went on. ‘I saw the smoke, an’ they ride back … the two of ’em. They roughed me up some more, give me the message. That’s all.’
‘Where? Where’d this happen?’ Porton demanded.
Egger held up his arm, pointed east. ‘The ridge … that side o’ the trees.’
‘An’ you recognized one of ’em?’
‘Yeah. He’s at Big Windy. He’s the ramrod. Name o’ Frost, I think.’
‘Anythin’ else apart from that message?’
‘No, I already said. That new feller? He’s a worry … real trouble. He looks like trouble … carries it with him. He saw me up on Bridge land … say’s he’ll come out at night … next time.’
Porton could see that Egger had been more than hurt. He’d been spooked bad by what had happened. If he got talking to the other Indian bloods he’d spread irrational fears.
Porton looked to Runcton. ‘Change the riders,’ he said. Then he barked at Egger, ‘Keep your mouth shut tight. ’Specially ’bout them foolish threats.’
Biler Runcton, wise to Porton’s moods, made no further comment as they walked away. In his present mood Porton was liable to act as irrationally as any downhearted Montana Flathead.
Runcton was Porton’s foreman because it paid good, regular money and, as he was a wanted man in just about every town across the state, the protection afforded by High Smoke was a dividend.
It was only as the two men looked up at the timber-line, that Runcton started doubting that. Up until now Porton had muscled his way across the land without much opposition. But if the Bridges were taking on hired protection perhaps other ranchers would do likewise. For Runcton, being in the wrong was commonplace, outnumbered and outgunned wasn’t.
After a few minutes of brooding silence Porton turned to him. ‘We’ve got to do somethin’ about this, Biler,’ he said. ‘If those surveyors were to turn up now, the Border River boys would walk away from our deal.’
‘Yeah, I guess they would,’ Biler agreed, because it was his place to do so. ‘What you want we should do now, then?’
‘For a start, get everythin’ cleared up. Get ’em all movin’ faster. See to it, Biler.’
Relieved at the dismissal, Biler went off to chivvy the men who’d been carrying water.
Porton went back to see Egger, to question him again. But Egger had nothing more to tell him. Other than the look in his eyes, the stranger had appeared no different from any other rover or itinerant cowhand.
Porton thought of his man with the shattered foot, the two men who’d been shot dead in Hooper. One of them was said to have an efficient and capable reputation: not someone who could be put down easily in a street gunfight. So who was the stranger, Porton wondered?
He walked up the grassy slope, entered the ranch house where acrid smoke pervaded the rooms. In his library he poured himself a big whiskey, lifted the glass towards the west-facing window. It was in the direction of Big Windy ranch, and this was his sour tribute to losing the first round.
Shortly afterwards Runcton rattled his knuckles against the open library door. ‘The explosion caught a couple o’ the men, boss,’ he said. ‘We need the doc out here.’
‘Then go get him … send someone,’ Porton snapped, impatient but distant.
The foreman had just stepped out on to the veranda when Rindy Colman swerved his mount to a halt beside the bunkhouse. He slipped to the ground and ran for the ranch house.
‘A note from Jesse, Mr Porton.’
Porton almost pushed Runc
ton to one side as he made a grab for the note. He tore the paper apart, cursed as he held the two halves back together. He scanned the few lines, looked from Colman to Runcton.
‘Muncie reckons there’s a deputy in town who’s sendin’ messages to the marshal in Alamosa. Says there’s two surveyors there … in town. He wants to know what to do.’
‘Whatever that is, he’ll be doin’ it without me,’ Runcton said. ‘I’m in charge of a cleanin’ detail,’ he added caustically.
Thinking, not looking, Porton stared around the ranch. Then he turned to Colman. ‘What’s Muncie doin’ now?’ he asked him.
‘Well, he’s done with prizefightin’. He’s more’n likely keepin’ his head down for a while.’
Porton cursed again. ‘Let me guess. One o’ the Big Windy men? The stranger?’
‘Nearly. It was Marlow Frost, the ramrod. He was there though, the stranger. He had a big Patterson Colt on me … just sat and watched.’
Runcton knew that Porton would now instigate a ride into town. ‘I’ll take some men … go myself, later on tonight,’ he responded. ‘The surveyors can take full advantage o’ Waddy’s.’
Porton nodded. ‘All right, Biler, you do that,’ he said, doubtfully. Then he went to see Rindy Colman, who’d walked back to the bunkhouse. He questioned him about what had happened in Hooper. But Colman could only add that there was a stranger in town, and that he and Marlow Frost appeared to be friends of the coach driver. ‘This stranger’s a bit younger than Frost,’ he told Porton. ‘He carried a big Colt, but not paid gunny style. He rode a bay, got a Sharps carbine in a saddle scabbard. Ain’t certain, but there was somethin’ about him … authority … lawman. But can’t be sure.’
When Porton left the bunkhouse, Runcton was waiting. He could see the man was more disturbed than he’d ever admit. Porton pulled Muncie’s note from his pocket, read it again, scowling and pensive. Runcton watched him, wondered what was happening in the cunning, often treacherous mind.
‘Who’s the marshal in Alamosa?’ Porton asked.
‘Couldn’t tell you. The old coyote I knew will o’ been long retired by now. Why, what you thinkin’, boss?’ Runcton asked, and knowing the answer. Not for the first time, Brig Porton was wondering if he could pay off the law.
‘I’m thinkin’ there’s fresh noses in the trough,’ Porton rasped. ‘But I know one thing already. No goddamed law officer’s goin’ to cause trouble in these parts. If them surveyors are goin’ to pick up on anythin’ I’ll decide what it’s goin’ to be.’
‘Yeah, rightly so, boss. But it ain’t anyone from these parts you got to worry about,’ Runcton suggested.
‘Yeah, the Border River Company.’ Porton looked over at his ranch house, cracked his knuckles. ‘We’ve goin’ to have to damp down that Bridge family. If not goddam drown ’em. An’ if the law’s movin’ in, we got to get it done quick, Biler.’
‘Right again, boss,’ Runcton agreed. His thoughts went immediately to the gunfight in Hooper, the burned ranch around him. He wondered if Porton was aware of the way the cards were actually getting stacked.
‘We got to get some ammunition sorted,’ Porton said. ‘How much do you reckon we got left?’
‘Only what the men are carryin’. An’ that includes me. None of us been layin’ down for a seige.’
‘Go see Galt Sherman when you’re in town. He’ll have some, an’ he’ll know where there’s more stock. Make a requisition. I’ll get it picked up in the mornin’.’
Porton was grinding his teeth, but Runcton derived little satisfaction from the rancher’s mannerisms. His own livelihood was on the line and he felt the bearing down of trouble. Moreover, the days of army requisitioning were a long time gone.
As Runcton walked towards the corrals he looked around him, considered the further irony of Porton naming the ranch ‘High Smoke’. He thought of his immediate diate future, whether he’d be best off folding, or stepping out of the game. And riding for the border was a needless concern. His destiny was already settled.
10
THE DEAD LEAD
It was full dark when Chad and Marlow Frost met up again with Dexter Pruitt. Out back of Marvie Setter’s hardware store, the three men stood quietly by the creekside alder.
‘Smoke riders come into town a couple of hours ago,’ Pruitt said. ‘Biler Runcton’s with ’em. He’s Brig Porton’s top hand. He spoke with Setter, an’ they’re both in Waddy’s. But you’d better get goin’, just in case.’
Chad and Frost moved cautiously from the deep shadows of the trees. They stepped through small yards which were stacked with rubbish, then there was a low run of steps to the back entrance of Setter’s store. When Frost tried the latch, he found the door unlocked.
Inside, was a narrow, dark passage which led through the building. Light from the main street filtered through the dust of the front window to reveal stacked tables and shelves.
Like most storekeepers in Hooper, Marvie Setter had given up the hopeless task of keeping out range dust, but he attempted to be orderly. He had a mixed bag of ranch and frontier goods and most were stockpiled and priced.
It only took the two men a few minutes to locate the boxes of ammunition. They searched through the shelves and under the counter but, like Galt Sherman, Setter’s stock had run low.
They carried the few boxes out and stacked them on the rear steps. From the creek, Pruitt was watching the store and the surrounding area, listening to the sounds of crude revelry from further down the street.
Satisfied that the store carried no more ammunition, Chad and Frost gathered up the boxes and carried them back to the creek. They loaded the cases into a gunny sack which Pruitt roped across the flanks of a pack-mule.
While they rode through the shallow margins of the creek Pruitt limped along the bank. Hoping to leave no obvious trail, Chad and Frost stayed in the water until they drew close to the burned-out homesteaders shack.
‘You can make it on your own now, boys, there’s no one followin’,’ Pruitt called. ‘I’ll be back helpin’ Galt to break open them bullets.’ The old man swung on his crutch. ‘I’d like to see Porton’s men when they snatch triggers against the dead lead we’re preparin’,’ he cackled.
With Frost leading the mule Chad and Frost disappeared into the night. Following the course of Saguache Creek they made their way back to Big Windy.
Pruitt waited for a while, then made his way back along the bank. He was wary of any suspicious or furtive movement, flinched repeatedly at the mysterious sounds of nocturnal critters. But as far as he could tell the venture remained undisclosed to the more deadly beasts of Hooper.
When Pruitt reached Galt Sherman’s workshop, Duck Fewes was there. He was the town blacksmith, had arms the size of weaned hogs, a face like hide. It looked as though Sherman had already finished removing the explosive grain from the cartridges. On the table where they’d been working two oil-1amps had been moved away from their overhead hanging position.
‘Pleased to see them away from the table,’ Fewes said. ‘More’n a drip, an’ Dexter here would o’ been scrapin’ us off the ceilin’.
Sherman got up to greet Pruitt. ‘I’ve been talkin’ to Duck,’ he said. ‘He’s willin’ to take on Brig Porton. Can rouse up some others, too.’
Pruitt put out a hand, gave Fewes a warm grasp. Sitting down, grinning, he said; ‘It’d be easy for me to stay out o’ this, Duck. But I’m tired o’ men like Porton, bulldoggin’ their way around, ruinin’ other peoples lives. Hah. I guess I’m just too old for that sort o’ tiredness.’
‘If we know what we’re doin’ an’ there’s enough of us, we can take him on,’ Fewes said earnestly. ‘He’s a man hell-bent on somethin’. But sometimes that can swing you from the reality. We get to him while he’s still swayin’.’
Sherman agreed. ‘You brought in those city boys, Dexter. What you think they’re up to?’ he asked.
‘Ain’t sure. Could be measurin’. Minin’ ain’t likely … railroad maybe,
’ Pruitt replied. ‘They weren’t goin’ to spill beans in my lap.’
‘I been around here longer’n most,’ Fewes said, ‘An’ I don’t recall any gold or silver bein’ found this near to the valley.’
‘No, me neither,’ Chad concurred quietly, thoughtful of the miles between where they were standing and the Magdelana Ridge.
Sherman rolled a cartridge between his fingers. ‘Yeah,’ an’ as for the railroad, that must be Cheyenne … nearly three hundred miles north o’ here. No, it’s got to be somethin’ else. Somethin’ we ain’t thought of.’
‘Perhaps they’re layin’ one o’ them turnpikes up to Denver,’ Pruitt said. ‘From what I already seen o’ the man, Chad Miller could just go and ask ’em. I reckon they’d be up for tellin’ ’im.’
‘Why Chad Miller?’ Sherman asked. ‘What you seen that we ain’t?’
Pruitt tapped the side of his nose. ‘The way he handles himself in the street for one thing. A lastin’ impression. But you’ll find out soon enough.’
Sherman and Fewes looked at each other. Sherman half-smiled, Fewes nodded.
‘Yeah, he’s the stranger,’ he said. ‘Me an’ Galt already put two an’ two together.’ It was him that shot up Porton’s cowboys.’
Sherman looked enquiringly at Pruitt. ‘You saw it did you, Dexter … the gunfight?’
Pruitt leaned on his crutch, swung his hand up from the grip. He pointed at Fewes, then Sherman, jabbed double fingers around the workshop for emphasis. ‘Pyeeow pyeeow pyeeow. I was standin’ outside o’ Waddy’s. Yeah, thought for a moment he was goin’ to plug me,’ he exaggerated.
Fewes whistled through his teeth. ‘Fast, was he?’
Pruitt pursed his lips. ‘You wouldn’t get much livin’ done between shots.’
‘I would liked to have seen that.’