Houston's Story

by Abe Dancer

  ‘I guess he’ll be real pleased to get it back. An’ maybe he’s picked up his fancy buckskin jacket. I knew I wouldn’t need it where I was headed.’

  ‘From what I heard, you could just as easily have got away by the rear door of that jail,’ Houston suggested. ‘You had Levitch’s keys. What’s more, the main street wasn’t too quiet. It was packed with marauding neck-tie party goers. I’d hate to think what would have happened if you’d been spotted.’

  ‘But I wasn’t,’ Billy returned. ‘They saw the pretty hat an’ jacket an’ made a deputy sheriff out of it.’

  ‘So why take the risk?’

  Billy rubbed his chin, did some thinking. ‘Not real sure . . . difficult to remember right back. But there was somethin’ . . . somethin’ wrong.’

  ‘No surprise you can’t remember. Word was, you were more drunk than a skunk.’

  ‘What do they all know? I know I only had two shots at Delano’s,’ Billy claimed. ‘It’s all I had payment for, an’ they don’t exactly keep a runnin’ tab. How the hell did I get to feel so bad? There’s somethin’ wrong there, too. I’ll keep thinkin’ though . . . it’ll come to me.’

  By mid-afternoon they reached the town trail, pushed on eastward at a slightly faster pace. Under different circumstances, Houston might have travelled on through the night, but they still managed to cover ten miles before first dark. Harve advised them to make camp under the foliage cover of an aspen break, forty or fifty yards off the trail. After the horses had been fed and watered, rubbed down and staked out, Gramps helped Mimsy and her ma get a fire going, make ready for the evening meal.

  There was little in the way of conversation after supper, just personal doubts and uncertainties. To the consternation of her pa, Mimsy seemed eager to draw Houston into talking about his adventurous career.

  ‘You an’ your ma sleep in the wagon,’ Harve told her. ‘Mr Houston, do we post a guard?’

  Gramps didn’t wait to hear Houston’s reply. ‘Goddamn right we do,’ he gruffed. ‘How do we know we ain’t goin’ to run into one o’ them Bullhead posses? They were too blame scared to chase Billy across the wilderness, an’ it’s likely some of ’em guessed he’d head for home.’

  ‘Some people seemed sure Billy would never make that crossing,’ Houston recalled.

  ‘An’ some probably heard him braggin’ that he ain’t scared on account o’ there bein’ a couple o’ sink holes. They might remember that,’ Harve said.

  ‘So, they’d ride this here trail,’ Gramps insisted. ‘They’d be figurin’ to wait for him on the other side.’

  ‘It makes some sort of sense,’ Houston agreed. ‘But no sense in taking chances. I’ll take the first lookout until midnight. Reckon I can hold out that long.’

  ‘Yeah. Wake me up then,’ Harve offered. ‘I’ll be under the wagon.’ He eyed his son unhappily. ‘I guess you’ll want Billy close enough for you to see him . . . close to the fire?’

  Houston confirmed with a nod. ‘That would be best,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 10

  Harve and Gramps were rolled in blankets beneath the freighter. The two women remained inside, and Billy was hunkered by the fire, staring sullenly into the flames. Houston slid his Winchester from its sheath, and settled down opposite him. The wagon was out of earshot, but they spoke quietly.

  ‘Sort o’ weird . . . grisly, but every mile we travel takes me closer to bein’ human fruit,’ Billy reflected.

  ‘You aren’t the most hopeful man I ever took in, young feller,’ Houston replied. ‘There’s more than one way of looking ahead.’

  ‘How many ways is a judge an’ jury goin’ to look? Hell, there’s nobody left in Bullhead don’t want me hung.’

  ‘There you go again. Have you remembered, yet?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You said it would come to you . . . why you didn’t go out the back door of the jailhouse. Why you chose the front?’

  Billy raised his head after a moment’s thought. ‘Yeah, sort o’ a notion, nothin’ very real. I remember thinkin’ there was somethin’ goin’ on out there in the darkness. Nothin’ to see or hear . . . just a feelin’. Like someone waitin’ . . . a danger, you know?’

  ‘I can imagine, Billy. Welcome to my world. Tell me, did you ever threaten Chester Jarrow?’

  ‘Hell no. I was plenty mad at him, though. It wasn’t a big loan we asked for, just a couple o’ hundred dollars. It was me called him a tight-wad, said he probably didn’t chew baccy ’cause he’d have to spit. But it was no secret in town.’

  ‘So everybody knew you were angry with him?’

  ‘Me, yeah. The town an’ their dogs, I reckon.’

  The two men were silent for a while. Billy frowned across at Houston. ‘What you thinkin’ now?’ he asked.

  ‘A few things,’ Houston replied. ‘Like options.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘Options. Other men. Other motives. Reasons why someone else would want to kill a bank president.’

  Billy eyed Houston in puzzlement. ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s one thing you not killing him, Billy. It’s another pondering on who did. And why.’

  ‘Are you sayin’ you think maybe I didn’t do it?’

  ‘Not exactly. But maybe there’s time to consider it,’ Houston mused. ‘Jarrow’s deep in the bone-yard by now, I shouldn’t wonder. And if it wasn’t you, the real killer’s hitting town somewhere . . . pouches swollen with spending cash.’

  ‘Yeah, Cedar City most likely,’ Billy growled. ‘Leavin’ me to pay for what they all did.’

  ‘If they were strangers in Bullhead, how come they knew about your feelings for Jarrow . . . that you were a broke, irresponsible, swill-pot? How’d they know that, Billy?’

  ‘Accordin’ to Sheriff Games, most o’ the county knew it.’

  ‘Well, let’s start by assuming you’re not guilty,’ Houston said. ‘But your gun and a piece of your shirt were. They were there . . . found in the bank. Think hard now, Billy. You were sober when you arrived at Delano’s . . . the saloon you took to do your watering at?’

  ‘Cold sober. The only thing my gut was full o’ was dust. But I didn’t stay that way for long . . . that’s for sure. But two drinks was all I had, Houston. Two lousy fingers o’ cut-down corn.’

  ‘Presumably you didn’t go through the doors with an empty holster, and your shirt wasn’t torn?’

  ‘ ’Course not.’

  ‘You got to feeling weary, so you didn’t leave . . . couldn’t leave, and found your way to a back room and collapsed. How long do you reckon you were there before getting arrested?’

  ‘I dunno. I was out of it . . . didn’t wake till they stashed me in a cell.’

  ‘You went on sleeping while they dragged you away from the saloon?’ Huston asked incredulously.

  ‘Must have. I sure can’t recall anythin’.’

  ‘You normally go like that after a bender?’

  ‘Only when I’m drunk . . . if you know what I’m sayin’.’

  ‘I think so. There was a window in that room you were in?’ Houston asked.

  ‘Yeah, there was a window.’

  ‘And a back alley beyond?’

  ‘Yeah, one o’ them too.’

  ‘So, you’re saying you never woke, stirred even, when someone came off that alleyway, through the window and helped themselves to your Colt and a piece of shirt.’

  Billy shook his head and cursed knowingly. ‘Weren’t too difficult, I guess. It’s the only time it could’ve happened. But it ain’t goin’ to help any. Who’d believe you . . . with respect?’

  ‘I’m trying to be reasonable, Billy. Thinking out loud more than anything. Trying to find answers.’ Houston thought deeply for a long moment. ‘Would you know what kind of safe it was?’ he asked. ‘The bank safe.’

  ‘One for keepin’ piles o’ cash in, I suppose. I couldn’t tell the difference between one o’ them an’ a tumbleweed. Why?’

  ‘I
just wondered . . . thinking out loud, again.’

  Billy stared into the fire a while then lifted his head. ‘You really startin’ to believe I didn’t do it?’

  ‘Thinking about it and listening to you, it’s getting harder to believe you did.’

  ‘Much obliged. I’ll tell the hangman that.’ Billy spread his blanket and rolled into it. ‘You’re not really goin’ to wake Pa, are you?’ he added. ‘You’re goin’ to watch me all night . . . just in case.’

  ‘Whatever you’re using for a brain, Billy, you should’ve used it long before now.’

  Inside the wagon, Billy’s mother moved about fitfully for half an hour, then, like Mimsy, lapsed into deeper sleep. Under the wagon, it wasn’t long before Harve and Gramps broke the silence of night with their duet of snores.

  Houston sat quiet and contemplative, occasionally dropping a branch on the fire. In the first, early hours, he brewed and drank two cans of coffee. Throughout the long darkness he pondered every aspect of the case, thinking back over Billy’s story, looking for ambiguity, inconsistencies.

  He was still sitting there when Mimsy climbed down from the wagon and came over to the fire. At first light he had heard sounds, the clank of a tin jug, splashing of water in a bowl. Mimsy’s eyes were clear, her fair hair was pinned, coiled atop her head.

  ‘I’ll bet you’ve been awake all night,’ she gently accused as she sat beside him. ‘I’m not surprised, though. You didn’t feel like trustin’ Pa with Billy.’

  ‘I saw it as not throwing temptation at either of them.’

  ‘Hmm, you sure are the strangest man,’ she frowned. ‘An’ you don’t look at all tired for it.’

  ‘Well I’ve been called a few things in my time, Mimsy, but I don’t recall, strange and not looking tired, being among them. How about, looking hungry?’

  ‘Ma’s awake,’ she said. ‘Pa too. We’ll start fixin’ breakfast soon.’ Mimsy looked across to where her brother lay, and her eyes filled with sadness. ‘When he’s like that, all that stuff about him seems unlikely.’

  ‘Most of us look innocent enough when we’re asleep, Mimsy,’ Houston replied. ‘Billy always been a good brother, has he?’

  ‘Yes, mostly. Do you think he could have done such a terrible thing?’

  ‘It’s getting to seem more unlikely, I must admit. There’s strong evidence against him though, and even if the deputy Levitch ain’t up to much, he shouldn’t have broken jail. But maybe any youngster in his position would have done the same. For Billy, I think they’d call it extenuating circumstances . . . not that anyone actually will.’

  ‘But you’re goin’ to help him, Mr Houston?’

  ‘I’ve sort of agreed to do what I can.’ Houston gave the girl a reassuring grin, nodded towards Billy. ‘Go ahead and wake him.’

  Harve and Gramps were approaching the fire. They stopped to watch Mimsy kneel beside her brother and shake his shoulder.

  ‘Mornin’, Sis,’ Billy mumbled and opened his eyes. ‘Some things never change.’

  Harve looked to Houston. ‘You were supposed to wake me, feller. Give me a turn at lookin’ out.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I guess I must have dozed off,’ Houston replied. ‘Now we’ve all managed some shut-eye.’

  Billy sat up, rubbed his eyes and licked his lips. ‘Goddamn jawbone. Let’s eat an’ move on . . . get it over with,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 11

  At mid-morning, Glim Savotta and Jack Carboys were approaching from the east, less than a mile from George Houston and the westbound Carricks. But they’d been riding easy, working on the assumption that even if their fugitive managed to reach the foothills, he’d be forced to linger there.

  ‘Be as weak as a newborn,’ Savotta sneered. ‘If his legs hold him he’ll head for his ol’ man’s diggin’s.’

  ‘Yeah, but only if he makes it out of the desert,’ Carboys added. ‘And with only one canteen, it don’t seem likely.’

  ‘We’ll look over the west rim for a spell. Then we’ll know for sure,’ Savotta decided.

  The trail wound its way to a higher bench and the two men could see many miles to the west. Moments after reining in, Savotta cursed. ‘We’re goin’ back. Let’s move,’ he rasped angrily.

  Carboys glanced westward, then hastily wheeled his mount and scampered after Savotta. They retreated a few hundred yards, came to where hunks of lava edged the trail. Savotta swung down, with his big hands, dragged his rifle from its sheath.

  ‘Who are they?’ Carboys wanted to know. ‘You lit out like it was the boogerman himself.’

  ‘Just get these horses behind the rocks,’ Savotta snapped.

  Carboys led the horses beyond the rock-mounds to conceal them and quickly fashioned close-hobbles, then he doubled back to join Savotta. ‘Who the hell are they, Glim?’ he asked again. ‘Who the hell are we hidin’ from?’

  The stocky, erstwhile posse-man was prone beside one of the lava-mounds. ‘It’s one of ’em muleskinner wagons, but I don’t know who’s in it,’ he replied. ‘I don’t recognize who’s ridin’ up with ’em either. But I spotted the two out front. One of ’em’s Houston . . . the bounty hunter. Remember him . . . the one who sassed Dod at Land’s bar? The other one’s. . . .’

  ‘Carrick,’ Carboys gasped. ‘Jeez, don’t say it’s him . . . Billy Carrick.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s him.’ Savotta nodded. ‘I couldn’t be mistaken. He’s still wearin’ Dod’s bonnet an’ lookin’ very alive.’

  ‘No. It don’t make sense,’ Carboys protested.

  ‘He must’ve found somethin’ to drink,’ Savotta said.

  ‘How?’ Carboys argued. ‘Unless he did know of a couple of water holes.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’ Savotta nestled into a shooting position. ‘But as of now, him an’ the bounty hunter are headed right this way. Our job’s to see it’s as far as they get.’

  ‘I guess it’s got to be done . . . eh Glim?’ For the shortest moment, Carboys hesitated, almost as though he had qualms.

  ‘You remember what Dod said?’ Savotta reminded him. ‘If Billy Carrick’s allowed to spout off in court, someone might get curious. He also said a dead suspect was usually a guilty one.’

  ‘That was it, yeah. So what about the bounty hunter? We goin’ to knock him off too? And the other folk? What about them?’ Carboys fretted.

  ‘Houston won’t give up his fat payment without a fight. As for the others . . . that’s up to them.’

  ‘As long as they don’t see us . . . our faces, anyway,’ Carboys hoped.

  ‘They don’t have to get hurt if they keep out of it . . . whoever they are.’

  ‘And if they decide to buy in?’

  ‘We’ll have to silence ’em . . . permanent. There’s no choice. After takin’ care of Houston, it’ll be them or us. They’re on the risin’ ground now,’ Savotta observed. ‘We’ll let ’em get a bit closer.’

  If Savotta had had more time to set up his ambush, the outcomes might have been grave for Houston and Billy Carrick . . . maybe the whole Carrick family. After watching them descend the grade and move along a straggled line of stunt pine, Savotta judged his intended victims to be well within rifle range. He selected the unsuspecting Billy and levelled his sights, muttered a short command to Carboys, and two rifles barked in unison.

  Savotta was a better marksman, but his bullet failed to kill. It struck Billy’s right shoulder with such impact that he was jerked from the saddle, thrown to the ground over his mount’s rump. Jack Carboys’ bullet had buzzed more than a foot somewhere to the left of Houston. At the sound of the rifles’ reports, Houston had impulsively thrown himself from the saddle. But this time carefully landing on his feet, and instantly went into a crouch.

  ‘Christ, not again,’ he yelled. ‘Who the hell is this sumbitch?’ There was no time or need to warn Harve Carrick. The man had wheeled his mount, was shouting warnings to his father.

  Gramps shoved the women back into the interior of the rig. He turned the team, was startin
g them on a lumbering run through a gap in the gnarled pine.

  ‘Billy,’ Harve yelled anxiously.

  ‘Stay behind the trees and keep your heads down. I’ll take care of the boy,’ Houston shouted back.

  Harve and Gramps were breaking out their assortment of weapons from the foot locker. From the edge of the timber, were using scrubby cover to consider their retaliation.

  Taking advantage of Savotta and Carboys having played their hand, being momentarily indecisive, Houston dashed to where Billy lay. He gripped the wounded youngster under the arms, stumbled backwards towards the trees.

  ‘Shoulder wound,’ he called out. ‘We’ll get him into the wagon. He won’t die.’

  ‘I figure there’s a pair of ’em,’ Gramps said.

  ‘Yeah, two rifles. I’ve near spotted their position.’ Houston pulled Billy closer, cursing as more bullets whined through the air and smacked into the timber, between its low branches. Mimsy clambered from the wagon, helped him to lift and drag Billy onto the wagon-bed. Speaking softly, Ma Carrick immediately started to unfasten the bloodied shirt.

  ‘If you’ve got any kind of bug killer, pour some on the wound,’ Houston told her. ‘Don’t worry about the bullet just yet. It’s usually dirt from clothing that does the damage.’

  ‘We’ve got a jug o’ Gramps’ shine,’ Mimsy said.

  Houston nodded. ‘Yeah, that’ll do. Whatever it is, I don’t expect germs to like it too much.’

  He ducked as he walked hurriedly from the rear of the wagon to where the Carrick men were crouched. Gramps grimaced as a rifle bullet puffed up the sandy dirt, another gouged bark and splinters from a low, pine trunk.

  ‘They got plenty ammunition, goddamn ’em,’ he seethed. ‘That an’ a sense o’ purpose is a deadly combination.’

  ‘That’s right, Gramps, but we got honour an’ justice on our side,’ Houston mocked a reply. ‘While you two keep everyone busy, I’ll try to get round the back of them. I can’t think of a better way.’

  ‘Maybe you can take ’em alive,’ Harve suggested. ‘If Jarrow’s widow only offered bounty to you, I’m wonderin’ on their sense o’ purpose.’