by Abe Dancer
‘That’s my thinking too,’ Houston replied.
‘Not as if there’s a reward dodger out on Billy,’ Harve continued.
‘No. I’m just as interested as you are, Harve. Believe me.’
A few minutes later Houston was moving from the cover of the line of timber. He dodged and weaved between clumps of sagebrush, hugging all the cover he could, working his way around in a wide, half circle.
Besieged by the hand guns of Harve and the old man, the assailants didn’t have much choice. They could retreat or stay put, trading shot for shot with the men hidden in the trees. Even if – as Gramps Carrick suspected – they did have a plentiful supply of bullets, their quarry could well have themselves a virtual ammunition wagon. For the time being they were staying on slightly higher ground. Moreover, Savotta had seen his victim fall, wanted to be certain he was dead.
Beyond sandstone rocks, Houston made another turn. He went to his hands and knees through taller grass and shadscale. There was actually little concealment, no resistance against lead from a brace of rifles. He crawled cautiously, silently prepared until he was within fifty feet of Savotta and Carboys at their vantage point. He rose to one knee, gripped the butt of his Colt in both hands.
‘Stop firing. Stop right now.’ His command was loud and clear.
Savotta froze a moment, but Carboys rolled over and away fast. He let go his rifle, clutched for his holstered Colt. He slewed around and swung his gun up towards Houston.
But Houston maintained the edge, was ahead of the game. He fired, and as the shot crashed out, Carboys gasped and shuddered, his Colt falling from his already lifeless fingers.
‘I said to stop your firing,’ Houston yelled. But Savotta thrust his rifle out in front of him and cracked off a shot. The bullet was way high and allowed Houston to fire once again. He hit Savotta in the top of the leg, thought it might end there. But it didn’t and Savotta levered another round into the breech and raised the barrel to fire.
‘Stupid. I got no goddamn choice,’ Houston said, and in the interest of self-preservation, fired again.
Savotta’s upper chest erupted into a dark-red bloom. With little further movement he slumped forward, lay motionless amid the sandy dirt and thin black-brush.
Houston set himself straight, walked slowly towards the two bodies until it was obvious there was no further need for caution. Savotta had died with what appeared to be a curse warping his mouth. Carboys’ eyes were wide open with hopelessness.
The bounty hunter eyed the massive sky. ‘We’re sort of in the same line of business,’ he muttered to the distant vultures. ‘And I’m not the burying type.’ He looked down towards the trees, raised a hand high in the air.
Harve Carrick, who was considering a speculative shot, lowered his scattergun. ‘That’s Houston,’ he said. ‘He’s on our side.’
‘Yeah,’ Gramps grunted. ‘I reckon he’ll have finished ’em.’
On his way back to the ribbon of gnarled pine, Houston reloaded his Colt with a full cylinder. ‘You can go and take a look,’ he said as Harve came running towards him. ‘There’s nothing to be done, except perhaps put a name to them. But your Billy’s got a bullet needs digging out.’
‘We don’t have medical stuff,’ Harve fretted. ‘Just more o’ Gramps’ firewater.’
‘Then it’ll hurt some,’ Houston replied. ‘Get a fire going and I’ll need a sharp knife. Ask the ladies for some strips of bandage. We’ll manage.’
‘Are them bush-whackers dead?’ Gramps asked, earnestly gripping his big Patterson Colt.
‘Yeah. You were right about being two of them, and they didn’t give me any choice. Now I’ve got to do some doctoring.’
CHAPTER 12
There was no panic, no shows of emotion during Houston’s basic, bloody removal of the bullet from Billy’s shoulder. Ma Carrick waved away the flies and generally remained stoic. Mimsy stood beside Houston, ready to hand him the items he needed, such as they were. Gramps kept the fire going and Harve honed the long blade of their skinner on a flat stone.
An examination of the wound revealed a rifle slug lodged in the top flesh of Billy’s right shoulder. For probing, Houston used the tip of the slim-bladed knife, having sterilized it in a can of boiling water. The slug came out, and Houston had a close look at it before tossing it aside. For ten minutes, Billy endured unquestionable suffering with quieter reserve than Houston had expected.
When the basic surgical treatment was finished, the wound was soused with more of Gramps’ moonshine, bound securely with strips torn from clean under-linen.
‘Where’d you learn to do that?’ Gramps asked.
‘Knoxville ’63,’ Houston said. ‘General Newton’s horse caught a grey-back bullet and someone had to save it. I had the steadiest hands.’
Mimsy attended to a coffee brew while Gramps held his jug up to his ear and shook it. ‘Soon be down to my last twenty or so jugs,’ he muttered mischievously. ‘Reckon we’ve all earned ourselves a likkerin’.’
‘Count me in, Gramps. Don’t want to waste it on any goddamn shoulder,’ Billy spoke with a subdued voice. ‘I hurt like hell an’ you’re responsible,’ he added, staring up at Houston.
‘Yeah, but it’s not half as bad as I could have made it,’ Houston replied. ‘You’ll be weak for a while from losing blood and you’ll carry a memorable scar. Such is life, eh kid?’
Ma Carrick gave Houston a friendly grin. ‘You sure take good care o’ your captives, I’ll say that for you,’ she said.
‘Thank you, ma’am. I’ll wager what you’re really thinking is, it’s someone looking to their assets.’ Houston looked at Harve. ‘You recognize any of that bad meat?’ he asked.
‘Maybe,’ Harve replied. ‘Maybe I’ve seen ’em in town. No reason to keep ’em in mind.’
‘Yellow-bellied scum suckers could be a name for ’em,’ Billy seethed.
‘Stay quiet, son . . . don’t want the blood to start runnin’,’ his ma chided.
‘Yeah, do as your ma says,’ Houston furthered. ‘I’m going to take a look at the scum, before the vultures get to ’em. I’ll be back for coffee.’
Unhurriedly, Houston made his way back to the rising rock. Before looking at the bodies of the two riflemen, he looked for and found their hobbled horses. In the saddle pouches he found cheap whiskey and basic foodstuff but nothing to identify their owners. He led the animals back, then spent a few moments looking down at the stiff faces of the dead men. Glim Savotta he remembered. He had seen him arriving with Myron Games’ deputy at the Land Hotel bar on the night of his tussle with the belligerent blacksmith. He couldn’t place Jack Carboys, but recognizing Savotta was enough to piqué his concern.
Neither man was carrying much money. Savotta had some coin, fifteen dollars in notes. The other man’s fund was similarly thin. There were the other usual items of tobacco sacks, matches, pocketknife etc. But then Houston found the small, waxed-paper packets, one in Savotta’s shirt pocket, the other in Carboys’ coat pocket. If he hadn’t been searching so thoroughly, he might easily have overlooked them. He unfolded one of the packages and contemplated the broken pills. But, hearing someone approach he flipped the packets closed and tucked them in his pants pocket.
Without taking his eyes off Savotta and Carboys, Harve Carrick walked straight up to Houston. ‘What do we do with ’em . . . Billy’s scum?’ he asked. ‘Should we take ’em to town. Sheriff’s got to be told.’
‘You inform the sheriff every time you find a couple of dead men, do you?’ Houston asked. ‘Don’t answer that. Just help me tie them to their horses. I want Billy to take a look at them.’
‘You think he knew ’em?’
‘He’s spent more time in Bullhead than any other one of you, apparently . . . hasn’t he? So he might.’
‘OK,’ Harve said. ‘Have you figured out why they ambushed us?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Houston looked to where fresh campfire smoke drifted upwards. ‘There’s a few things I haven
’t figured out yet.’
‘Well I’ll tell you somethin’ I have,’ Harve started. ‘Robbin’ a bank’s one thing, pistol whippin’ Chester Jarrow to death’s somethin’ else. My Billy couldn’t do it, drunk or sober.’
‘I agree,’ Houston said. ‘But proving it’s going to be a problem.’
The corpses were folded across the horses’ backs. They were lashed securely and Harve led them to the edge of the line of timber.
Ignoring the worried protests of his mother and sister, Billy was struggling to his feet. He made it, but was unsteady when Houston reached him.
‘Well done, kid . . . in a state you’re probably more used to,’ Houston jibed. ‘It’ll be the Carrick grog that’s giving you trouble. The shoulder’s just pain, but you’re a tough bumpkin. Can you walk aways?’
‘Just point to where,’ Billy replied. ‘Take more’n one bullet to lay me up.’
‘We all know what does that, Billy,’ Mimsy contributed, a bit stingingly.
‘They’re a real laugh, ain’t they?’ Gramps added.
‘I want these bodies looked at,’ Houston said. ‘Could be they’re not total strangers.’
‘Well they sure ain’t friends,’ Billy said as they set off slowly through the gnarled pines.
Minutes later, Harve scowled with disgust, cursed under his breath as Houston grabbed hold of a shirt collar and lifted a dead face. Leaning in slightly, Billy studied the ashen features of Savotta and Carboys, but without any immediate response.
‘Well, unless they got more than one face apiece, that’s it,’ Houston said. ‘Do you recognize them?’
‘The stocky one. His name’s Savotta . . . Glim Savotta,’ Billy said. ‘He ran a stump farm a few miles out from Bullhead. I don’t know the other one, but he worked for Savotta.’
‘Was this Savotta a friend of the deputy . . . Levitch?’
‘I seen ’em drinkin’ together. I guess he knew him well enough,’ Billy mused.
‘All right,’ Houston said. ‘Let’s go get some of that coffee.’
By the time they got back to the campfire, Billy was regretting his eagerness to recover. Pallid and spent, he sagged to his knees while his ma draped a blanket across his shoulders. Mimsy poured coffee and Gramps poured his raw whiskey into four of the cans.
To the dismay of his family, Billy proposed a bleak toast. ‘Here’s to a short, happy life . . . mine,’ he muttered.
‘You shouldn’t talk that way, Billy,’ his sister said.
‘Why not? You think I should pretend we’re goin’ to my majority stomp?’
‘You don’t want to give up hope just yet,’ Houston contributed.
The Carricks became silent. They eyed him in anticipation of something further, and Billy picked up on it.
‘Are you still sayin’ there’s a chance?’ he asked.
‘I’m saying there’s one or two things cropped up could possibly prove you’re not guilty,’ Houston replied. ‘But it means me figuring them out.’
‘What things?’ Harve prodded.
‘When I started out to find Billy, someone tried to kill me. Why? What was it to them?’
‘You said one or two things. What else?’ Gramps wanted to know.
‘Why did we get bush-whacked by that brace of turkeys? Are the two connected?’
‘Well, they ain’t ever goin’ to tell you,’ Billy said.
‘No. That’s for them to have known, and me to find out,’ Houston muttered. He took a few sips at his laced coffee, stared hard at Billy. ‘The night it happened, you went to that saloon, had two short drinks . . . just two, and started to lose your grip . . . went dopey?’
‘Yeah. That’s about what happened,’ Billy frowned.
‘And I’m thinking I know why,’ Houston said, more to himself than anyone else. ‘Were Savotta and the other one there . . . anywhere near you?’
‘Yeah. There was the three of ’em.’
‘Three?’
‘Fats Denvy. Funny thing, I never had him pegged as a ranchin’ man. He’s supposed to be one though.’
Houston thought for a moment. ‘Did you sit at a table or were you standing at the bar?’
‘Delano’s ain’t the sort o’ place you want to sit down. Besides, an’ like I said, I weren’t for stayin’ long.’
‘So they were close by?’
‘Yeah. You’re always up close to someone in that place.’ Billy scratched his head. ‘Denvy had a curious, clean kind o’ whiff about him, I remember.’
‘That’s about the time your head started to spin? Whether you knew it or not, you went into a back room, passed out and didn’t wake till you were in jail?’
‘I already told you. Why do I have to keep sayin’ it over an’ over?’
Houston lowered his head, raised his eyes and gave Billy a meaningful look. ‘Because, now it means something different to when you first said it. It could be real important.’
Everyone sat quietly for a while, mostly wondering what it was that might be important. Houston did some figuring while the Carrick family continued to watch and wait. He recalled the night of his run-in with the blacksmith, how soon afterwards the posse returned and Deputy Levitch gave his account to Myron Games of the wild goose chase they’d been on. And Glim Savotta – the man who thought little of ambushing an unarmed man – had been with him.
‘This Savotta must have been real wound-up . . . desperate about something,’ he suggested.
‘What the hell about?’ Harve protested. ‘He could see Billy was your prisoner an’ that you were ridin’ to Bullhead. Why’d he want to kill him?’
‘Interesting question,’ Houston said. He moved away from the fire, sat with his back against the gnarled bole of a pine. ‘Tell me again,’ he directed at Billy. ‘Tell me about your escape . . . how it happened. Don’t leave out anything, and start from where Levitch came into the cell and talked to you.’
‘What’s the use?’
‘Listen, it’s small peas to me whether you’re guilty or innocent,’ Houston snorted back. ‘I’m being paid to bring you in. Any feeling I’ve got for justice is getting more to do with your folk than you. That’s the goddamn use of it. So, tell me again.’
Billy scowled ineffectively, started to recount the story of his break from the Bullhead jail. Now and again, Houston interrupted to clarify and picture elements of the incident.
‘Levitch actually turned away from you? You got to his gun by just reaching through the bars?’ he questioned. ‘Hell, there’s a sign in most law offices saying no guns be taken into the cells.’
‘Yeah, well there’s probably one there too. Didn’t seem to trouble the deputy.’
‘And what was it you heard in the back yard?’
Billy considered thoughtfully. ‘It was more o’ a feelin’ that somethin’ was out there. Somethin’ in the darkness.’
‘So you backed off . . . stole Levitch’s hat and coat and horse?’
‘That’s about the order of it. I wasn’t goin’ to stay, an’ you know the rest.’
‘It’s like understanding the bits of a jigsaw. We’ve got them all, just got to fit them together. Keep talking anyway,’ Houston said.
Billy continued, describing best he could, his journey into and across the scorched wasteland, why he had to kill the deputy’s bay mare. ‘It fell . . . threw me when we were movin’ down the bench an’ broke its leg. Only thing I could do was put it out of its misery.’
‘I wondered why you didn’t shoot it,’ Houston said. ‘You weren’t to know I was close behind you, and you had a gun . . . Levitch’s. It wouldn’t have been so up close and personal.’
‘I did . . . or tried to. The goddamn Colt wouldn’t work . . . was just a pretty fake. But he had a sheath-knife as well. Huh. Hell of a thing to do.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine. Why didn’t Levitch’s gun fire?’
‘It just wouldn’t. I checked it . . . reloaded it from the belt. Useless as tits on a bull.’
Slowly, Houston
got to his feet. Harve and Gramps growled out some questions, but he didn’t answer. From his saddlebag he produced the holstered Colt he had taken from Billy. He checked the cylinder, actioned it, pointed the barrel to the sky and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened, and he repeated the action.
‘Take my word for it,’ Billy said, ‘Levitch had himself a fancy-dress piece.’
‘I don’t think he did,’ Houston said, turning to Gramps. ‘You seen a few things in your time,’ he continued, ‘so take a look at this.’
The Carrick elder removed the cylinder from Levitch’s Colt, took a quick look and worked the action. ‘Nothin’ here that a decent chamber of ammo won’t take care of,’ he said. ‘Fancy, don’t mean no good.’
Houston agreed. ‘Somebody was making sure Billy didn’t shoot somebody else,’ he said. ‘If the Colt had been empty, he would have noticed immediately . . . maybe on a single cartridge. So, every cartridge had to have been tampered with.’
‘Lookin’ like Levitch wanted Billy to make a run for it,’ Gramps wryly suggested.
‘Yeah, straight into who or whatever was out there in the dark waitin’,’ Billy speculated eagerly. ‘I was right.’
‘You were a prisoner being held on a murder charge, not tinhorn pilfering,’ Houston pointed out, sharply. ‘It could have been Games’ legit set-up. But I doubt it.’
‘Levitch said I’d never make it,’ Billy recalled.
‘He was warning you off,’ Houston reasoned. ‘He meant you to head out the back way . . . get cut down with a useless gun in your hand. Shot while trying to escape’s always been a favourite of bad lawmen.’
‘Why the hell would a deputy sheriff do that?’ Harve wondered. ‘They were all so goddamn sure Billy was guilty . . . so sure he’d hang. Why’d they want to push it like that?’
‘There’s probably a reason why Levitch wanted the affair closed down. The storm wiped out tracks of the other men, and Billy was the only one taken in. Evidence said it was him did the killing while the safe was emptied. A convenient ending was Billy getting shot dead. There’d have been no need for further investigation.’