Flame Across the Land

by Colin Bainbridge

  Seaton acknowledged his words with a wave of his arm. After the oldster had settled down, he rolled another cigarette and sat by himself, trying not to think. The sounds of the sheep had become familiar to him already so that he was barely conscious of their presence. The dogs were sleeping too, and the night was peaceful till Utah began to snore. The fire had burned low and, finishing his smoke, Seaton first checked that the chestnut was secure before turning in himself for the rest of the night.

  Although he was feeling dog-tired after the day’s activities, he couldn’t find sleep for a long time. When it finally came it must have been deeper than usual because he didn’t hear the horsemen arrive until they were almost upon the camp and had begun to open fire with their guns. In an instant he was on his feet and, seizing his rifle, he turned to face the attack. It was still dark but there was enough light for him to see three riders. The noise from their guns was deafening but even above it he heard a cry from the oldster.

  ‘Watch out! Those sheep are on the move!’

  The sheep were milling about and Red’s words were barely out of his mouth before they began to run. Utah made to stand in their way and whistled to the dogs to come to him, but it was too late to take effective action. The frightened sheep were in a state of panic as the booming guns grew louder and, bleating pitiably, they started scattering in all directions.

  ‘Leave ’em!’ Seaton yelled. ‘Take cover!’

  He spun round and as the first riders came within range, opened fire. The effect was instantaneous. The nearest horse reared and unshipped its rider and the others came to a stop. The horse galloped clear but one of the other riders reached out a hand and hauled the fallen man up on his own mount. Seaton couldn’t tell whether the man had been shot or simply unseated. He couldn’t tell, either, whether any of the riders had a clear view of him or not, but it was obvious they were taken by surprise. They had imagined they had an easy target in the old man and hadn’t anticipated any opposition. As he continued to fire, they began to ride away, following in the tracks of the fleeing sheep. He turned back to the oldster, who was standing behind him and looking bemused.

  ‘Wait here!’ he snapped. ‘Maybe I can catch the varmints.’

  He sprang to his horse and, climbing into leather, set off in pursuit. The chestnut was fast and he began to gain ground when suddenly the horse put its hoof into a gopher hole and Seaton was catapulted over its head. He landed with a thud, but the soft ground cushioned his fall. He lay there dazed, vaguely conscious of the sound of gunfire further down the valley. It went on for some time before it ceased. The sudden quiet seemed to restore him to his senses and, scrambling to his feet, he made his way to the horse, which had got back to its feet and was standing nearby.

  ‘Are you OK, old girl?’ he muttered.

  A brief examination of the mare convinced him she was unhurt and he was beginning to congratulate himself on the fact that neither of them seemed to have come out of the accident too badly when the realization of what the gunfire portended suddenly broke on him. The two riders had been engaged in systematically shooting Utah’s sheep.

  He quickly hoisted himself back into the saddle and began to ride in the direction from which the shooting had come. He was too concerned about what he would find to care about his own safety, even when he heard further shots coming from somewhere in the distance. It didn’t take him any time to find what he had dreaded. The bodies of dead and dying sheep lay all around. They had been callously massacred and not many had escaped. As he rode, the bleating of injured sheep rose into the air like a plaintive call for succour. He turned the horse and started to ride back when he saw, among the white and black corpses, first one brown object and then another. They were Utah’s dogs. The first was obviously dead but when he looked more closely at the second, he noticed that its flanks were still heaving. He rode up to it and dismounted. The dog looked at him through glazed eyes and gave a faint whimper as he kneeled down beside it. He stroked it gently, observing the gaping hole where a bullet had ripped through its chest. He took its head in his hands and it made one feeble attempt to lick his hand before its eyes closed in death. Seaton got back to his feet and stood for a moment while his own eyes brimmed with tears. Then he got back into the saddle and carried on riding to where he had left the oldster.

  He didn’t need to tell the old man what had happened; he knew well enough for himself. Once he had ascertained that Utah was uninjured, he turned and went in search of the loose horse. He soon came up to it and, quieting it with a few whispered words, bent down to see if there was an identifying mark. It carried a brand; the horizontal interconnected lines of the Lazy Ladder. At first the name meant nothing to him. It was just a piece of information, maybe crucial information, but it was no more than that. And then the image of the girl he had spoken to back in Lindenberg flashed across his mind. What was it the older woman had said? That her father was the owner of the Lazy Ladder. He remained standing, deep in thought, before taking the horse’s reins and leading it back to where Utah was sitting by the ashes of the campfire. The pinto was standing nearby.

  ‘We’ll bury these ones too,’ Seaton said. ‘Every last one of ’em.’

  The oldster looked up at him and shook his head. ‘There’s no point,’ he said. ‘There’s too many of ’em. Let the buzzards do their job.’

  Seaton went over to the chestnut and fetched a flask from his saddle-bags. ‘Here,’ he said, handing it to the oldster. ‘It might help ease things a little.’

  He sat down beside him and they remained silent, passing the flask between them, while the sky gradually lightened and daylight spread across the valley. Presently Utah wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  ‘Those bastards,’ he muttered. ‘They ain’t gonna get away with this. I aim to get even.’

  Seaton took a swig. ‘That goes without sayin’,’ he said.

  The oldster looked at him. ‘This is my problem,’ he replied. ‘I appreciate everythin’ you’ve done for me, but there’s nothin’ else you can do now.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Seaton replied. ‘The way I see it, the fact that those varmints threw lead in my direction makes it my problem too.’

  Utah seemed to consider his words before replying. ‘Maybe it does at that,’ he said.

  ‘What’s more,’ Seaton continued, ‘I figure I know where to start settin’ about makin’ the scores even.’

  Utah looked at him questioningly and Seaton nodded in the direction of the gunnie’s horse.

  ‘That hoss is carryin’ a Lazy Ladder brand,’ he said. He paused for a moment to let Utah reflect on his words, before asking, ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

  The oldster hesitated for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘I might have heard of it,’ he said, ‘but that’s all it is – just a name.’

  ‘You can’t think of a reason why the Lazy Ladder would hold some sort of grudge against you?’

  Utah shrugged. ‘You said it yourself,’ he replied. ‘Seems like cattlemen just don’t like sheep.’

  ‘There are a number of ranches around these parts,’ Seaton replied. ‘They didn’t all come lookin’ for you.’ He looked at the old man. Despite his talk of revenge, he looked bowed and Seaton was seeking for some word of hope that might help to restore something of his spirits.

  ‘Those varmints can’t have killed all those sheep,’ he said. ‘How many of them did you say there were?’

  ‘Six hundred,’ the oldster replied.

  ‘Right. Let’s start packin’ things away here and then see if we can’t find any live ones. We can round ’em up and leave ’em somewhere they’ll be safe till we can get in touch with whoever is runnin’ the show and get ’em to send someone else out. Unless you’ve still got some notion of stayin’ out here yourself till September?’

  The oldster didn’t seem inclined to argue. It was plain he had other ideas which at least were not in conflict with Seaton’s notions.

  ‘There’s only
one thing I got in mind to do now,’ he said. ‘Whatever it takes, I’m aimin’ to gain revenge for what those murderin’ coyotes have done.’

  When they had finished slaughtering Utah’s sheep, Cooley Held and his three companions rode as hard for the Mill Iron as they could, allowing for the fact that they were one horse short. Things hadn’t turned out quite as they had intended and they realized that Nash Brandon was likely to take a dim view of the way they had handled the situation, even though it hadn’t really been their fault. How were they to know that the oldster wouldn’t be alone? As it was, they were quite lucky to have come out of it without serious injury. However, Held was sufficiently realistic to know that Brandon wouldn’t see it that way or be likely to accept any excuses. As he reflected on the matter, however, he began to feel differently. After all, they had more or less carried out their task. The sheep were either killed or scattered. Did it matter if the old man himself still survived? By the time they were approaching the ranch-house, his worries had virtually disappeared.

  Once he was reassured, he signalled to the others to halt and they dismounted in order to rest the overburdened horse with its extra rider. Keeping his words to a minimum, he outlined the situation to them. When he had finished, the man whose mount had reared and unseated him raised an objection.

  ‘What about the horse?’ he said. ‘Isn’t it gonna be kind of hard to explain why it’s missin’?’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Held replied. ‘Anythin’ could have happened to it. Besides, how many horses does Brandon own? He wouldn’t be able to tell you himself. He ain’t likely to notice if there’s one less.’

  ‘It’s the old man worries me,’ one of the other two said. ‘We were ordered to kill him. What if Brandon was to find out he’s still alive?’

  ‘He don’t need to find out. How would he? In any case, how do we know the oldster ain’t dead? We loosed a lot of lead. It’s a fair bet he didn’t escape gettin’ cut down.’

  ‘What’s it matter anyway?’ the first man said. ‘What’s it to Brandon whether he’s dead or alive?’

  The others considered his answer and after a moment the third man spoke.

  ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘why are we worryin’ at all? Why don’t we just tell Brandon the truth? We weren’t to know the oldster would have company.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinkin’,’ Held replied, ‘but I got a feelin’ it would be better not to mention the stranger. Brandon would probably expect us to have dealt with him too. No, I figure the best thing is just to say we carried out the job.’

  ‘We didn’t leave any clues like Brandon told us to.’

  ‘So what? Anyway, we left the horse behind. That’s a big enough clue, I reckon.’

  The others exchanged glances. ‘I reckon Held is right,’ the first man said. ‘The only thing we have to do is make sure no one sees the two of us ridin’ in on one horse.’

  ‘That’s easily done,’ Held responded. He looked at the others as they nodded in agreement. ‘Fine; then that’s settled. Let’s get goin’.’

  They remounted, the first man swinging up behind the man in the saddle, and carried on towards the Mill Iron. Held was satisfied with the outcome of their little parley, but something else which he hadn’t given any thought to till now began to nag at him, and that was the identity of the stranger who had come to the oldster’s assistance. He had got a decent look at him, but he didn’t recognize him. Who was he? It was of no significance, but he couldn’t help asking himself the question.

  That night, as he lay on his bunk, the question came afresh to his mind and he found it difficult to find sleep. Despite the fact that there had been no problem with Brandon, he no longer felt as confident as he had earlier. Following from the issue of the stranger’s identity, new questions began to arise. Assuming he was still alive and hadn’t fallen to a stray bullet, what would the old man be likely to do next? Would he remain with the stranger? And would the stranger be likely to let the matter rest? The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that the answer to those questions wasn’t likely to favour his peace of mind. He wasn’t concerned that he and his fellow gunnies might have been recognized. There was little chance of that. There was no question either that the Mill Iron could be implicated. The finger of blame pointed directly to the Lazy Ladder. The horse they had left behind was branded with a Lazy Ladder emblem; stolen, just like the cattle Brandon had secreted away. There didn’t seem to be too much to worry about, but all the same he felt uneasy. What if Brandon should come to learn the truth of what had happened? Was it possible he could? The oldster could turn up in Lindenberg and he could get to know about it. In fact, it was logical to expect that both the oldster and the stranger would turn up in Lindenberg. Where else would they go? The only way he would feel really safe was if they were both removed. The best chance of finding and dealing with them would be by keeping a watch on Lindenberg. The identity of the stranger was a problem, but he could be readily identified whether he showed up with or without the old man. He had a sudden thought. There was the horse. It wasn’t likely the stranger would let it go; after all, it was his evidence that the Lazy Ladder was responsible. If he returned to Lindenberg, in all likelihood he would put the horse up at the livery stable. As he continued to think the matter over, his worries began to dissipate. Between them, he and his henchmen should be able to keep a close eye on events in Lindenberg. Then, once they had located the stranger and the old man, it would be easy to eliminate them. He would talk with the others tomorrow.

  It took longer than either Seaton or the oldster had reckoned to round up the few sheep that remained and herd them to a sheltered part of the valley. On the following day they set off for Lindenberg. It was a slow journey since they had the extra horse in tow. Utah’s whole demeanour had changed. He was quiet and withdrawn and showed little of his previous concern for the flock. They rode in silence until they approached the site of Seaton’s old camp, when the oldster finally spoke.

  ‘I’ve been thinkin’,’ he said, ‘and the fact of the matter is, I don’t want to go back to Lindenberg.’

  ‘Why not? What’ll you do?’

  The oldster stroked his grizzled chin. ‘I was kinda thinkin’ I might take up that offer you made. If it still stands, that is.’

  ‘What offer?’ Seaton replied.

  ‘About takin’ over your claim. I ain’t cut out for town life. I guess I’m too used to bein’ on my own.’

  ‘I thought you said you were too old for prospectin’.’

  ‘Maybe I am. But it’s a nice spot. I reckon I could make myself comfortable here.’

  Seaton didn’t take much time to think about it. There wasn’t much point in arguing with the oldster. If that was what he wanted, he could have it. At least he would be a lot safer than he would have been if he had remained where he was.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  They dismounted and he led the oldster to the stream where he had left his equipment. It was still there and he hauled it up on to the bank.

  ‘This is my gear if you want it. I’ll show you a good place to set up the tent. I’ll come back with supplies when you’ll be needin’ ’em.’

  Utah muttered his thanks and Seaton climbed back into leather. ‘Sure you’ll be OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure. You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Seaton leaned down and they shook hands. ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘If you find any gold, it’s all yours.’

  He spurred the chestnut and rode away, leading the gunman’s roan. He didn’t have too many concerns for the oldster this time. He was pretty sure that Utah just wanted to be alone. That was the way he chose to live. He doubted very much that Utah would even attempt to pan for gold. He knew, too, that the old timer was grieving.

  When Seaton arrived in town, he had a feeling of déjà vu as he arranged for the chestnut and the roan to be placed at the livery stables and booked himself once more into the Exchange H
otel. When he had done so, he began to wander down the main street of the town, looking for the offices of the Sheepmen’s Association. Utah had been more than a little vague about it, but there had to be such an organization in Lindenberg. He needed to arrange for someone to go out and tend the remnant of the sheep. There was also a little matter of Utah’s wages and the absence of supplies to be dealt with. It didn’t take him long to see the imposing office of the Cattle Ranch And Land Company which the barber had mentioned. He paused for a moment, wondering whether there would be any point in going inside and asking a few questions, but decided against it. He might need to do so at some point but it could wait. It might be a good idea to find out more about the Lazy Ladder first, and he intended riding over there the next day.

  As he moved slowly along, his eyes couldn’t help but look for Maisie Montgomery or a gig that might indicate that she was in town. He had a feeling that her connection with the Lazy Ladder was unfortunate, but he couldn’t have said why. He arrived at an intersection and turned down it. It opened into a dusty square shaded by a few trees at the back of which stood a two-storey building with a number of windows, across one of which was written the words ‘Marshal’s Office’. It struck Seaton that the marshal would be likely to know the whereabouts of a Sheepmen’s Association and made his way across to it, suddenly remembering as he did so the older lady’s words accusing the marshal of not being around when he was needed. He stepped up to the door and knocked firmly. There was no response and after trying it again, he opened it and went through.

  A lanky man sitting at a table drinking a cup of coffee looked up but otherwise showed little interest. Behind him, in a corner, a pot stood on an oil stove, but the aroma of coffee was fighting a losing battle with a stale, fetid smell which pervaded the room.