by Caleb Rand
Will’s hands were raw by the time he’d made a hole for the dynamite box. He knelt in the muddy soil, feeling the cold eat into him. The canyon was dark and gloomy, and looking up he could almost feel the press of low, heavy rainclouds. Grabbing handfuls of the mud, he pounded out an adobe mix, plastered it around the box and drew out the fuse. After what seemed like a full day, he laboured back to the high wall of the creek, stood breathing heavy and thoughtful with a vesta in his hand.
If Henri had miscalculated, there’d be no easy escape from the Cholla. Lighting the fuse could be Will’s last hurrah, depending on how fast Latch could pull him up. If the rope remained intact, Will knew he’d be well battered and brusied long before being hauled over the rim of the dam.
He cast a quick look around, look upwards as he jerked twice on the rope. He struck the vesta and held it down to the fuse. For a second nothing happened, then the glow of the wick brightened, fizzed as the black powder caught, starting its relentless journey towards the mudbank at the foot of the dam.
There was still slackness in the rope and Will tugged impatiently, at the same time wondering if he could stamp out the fuse. He cursed, took two paces towards the fizzing light, then the rope tightened and jerked him off his feet.
Within moments the world was spinning, his mouth filled with thick, salty blood. He was bouncing against the logged wall, going skyward. He was still dangling in mid-air when he heard the roar of the explosion, felt the dam tremble and burst against his body. Clumps of earth, shards of rock and timber sprayed him, and then the water struck.
It seemed like he went under all at once, swallowed whole in the thunderous, roiling mass of water. Can’t see, can’t feel, he thought, tossed around like a dead sprat. He wanted to breathe, knowing the one thing to finish him would be a lungful of cold water. Drag the goddamn rope in, he was thinking when the uprooted bole of a tree struck his leg. Involuntarily, he gasped at the pain, then he was half out of the water, cursing, his eyes, nose and mouth full of the onrushing current.
On the bank, the rope turned into the trees and Henri watched and waited, tracing Will’s movements with his skinner. ‘I’ve got you feller,’ he rasped, the long blade of his knife slashing down through the rope.
Will reached out, with both hands, pulled himself on to the soggy mire of the bank. He rolled on to his side, breathed deep, bringing control back, easing the shivers.
The two men sat side by side, nursing their own immediate thoughts. Both Will’s hands were clawed with tension, his face was bruised, one eye was half closed, fluttering with a taut nerve. Henri’s neck and shoulders were fiery with pain, but he was also feeling guilt.
‘I guess three minutes weren’t long enough,’ he offered uncertainly.
‘No,’ Will agreed. ‘Not by half a goddamn lifetime.’
Will didn’t move until Latch came stumbling through the timber. He clambered to his knees, coughed and shoved himself upright, stood shakily staring at the Cholla. Now it was in seething, white-capped flood, rushing down the fissure towards the flats and Bluestem rangeland.
Different movements and noises made them take a step back from bankside. They looked up in time to see the two Bolas guards pushing their horses away through the trees.
Will cursed and smiled wearily. ‘You made a good job of tying their hands, Latch. Shame you forgot their feet,’ he said. ‘But it don’t matter,’ he added with a shake of his head. ‘They won’t be giving us any more trouble. A couple of hours from now they’ll be swimming the Rio Grande. Hell, with you and Henri’s skills we’ve got nothing more to fear.’
‘Yeah, sorry Will,’ Latch replied. ‘Somehow we’ve got out of our usual territory,’ he added with a touch of irony. ‘So where are we headed next?’
‘Well, the line shack’s off limits, and Ogden’s certain to have sent someone to Bluestem to wait for us. And Ben Shoeville’s on his way to a hanging.’
‘Looks like there’s options, then.’ Latch picked up a pair of burlap sacks and swung them over his saddle. ‘While you were down there playin’ mud pies, I got us a grub pile,’ he said and swung into his saddle.
‘We’re goin’ for Ben?’ Henri asked.
‘Yeah. We stay away from Ogden and his men for a couple of days, then we rob the Whiterod stage.’
Chapter 17
Ogden’s voice was sour as he surveyed the wreck of the dam. ‘That’ll be the end of the drought for Bluestem. Those new men she hired have fooled us real good.’ He turned on Mal Deavis, face darkening with anger. ‘You should have got them. You had the chances.’
‘Everythin’s easier lookin’ back, boss. You know that.’ Deavis nodded across the river. ‘An’ what were the guards over there doin’?’
‘I’ll goddamn find out.’ Ogden turned upstream until he could make a crossing. The creek was running out of its collected mass, and long sandbars were getting exposed. He held a tight rein, encouraging his sorrel across the sand and gravel. The other riders rode behind, horses’ hoofs noisy as they slurped from the grasp of the water.
They came to the camp, sat in thoughtful silence looking at the trampled mess of the old Sibley tent. The fire and Dutch oven had been kicked over, good-riddance style, and the horses’ picket pins were gone. All plenty evidence of the guards’ hurried departure.
Ogden sat unmoving. His angry eyes stared into the middle distance as Deavis and his men searched around the camp. When they didn’t find anything, Ogden rode to the edge of the dam, looked at the mass of foaming water as it raced towards its irrigating of Hog Flats.
Deavis rode back to the camp site, pointed up into the hills. ‘That’s the way they’re headed,’ he said.
‘Do you know who they were?’
‘I think so, yeah.’ Deavis consulted with the others for a moment. ‘Koons an’ Lippet . . . your latest hirelings.’
Ogden lifted his chin and stared at Deavis. ‘If you were aiming to get out of the territory, disappear by using some lonesome trail, where’d you go?’ he asked.
‘If I was desperate enough, I’d ride to Smokin’ Snow,’ Deavis answered. ‘No reason to go there by choice. It ain’t nothin’ but coons an’ wildcats. One saloon, one store an’ no law.’
Ogden grunted. ‘Good. But I’d like to know what’s going on here. First, Sheriff Foote, then Mower starts throwing his weight around, now this.’
‘Don’t ask me, boss. Could be it’s somethin’ personal. But why don’t we just get goin’? Them boys’ll probably run till they drop, whichever direction.’
‘Yeah, and do their goddamn blabber when they get there.’ Ogden jiggled his reins. ‘OK, the rest of you head back to Bolas. Deavis, you come with me.’ He heeled the sorrel towards the trail of the fleeing guards. ‘I want those two silenced. Let’s go visit the wolves.’
An hour later, Ogden reined in. He turned in the saddle, with a hand on the sorrel’s rump, looked back towards the Bolas ranch below him. Most of Hog Flats reached out in unbroken, ochre-coloured reaches as far as the horizon. He had a moment of anger because the Cholla was now in flood, adding salt to the wounding of his pride.
They rode in silence, cutting across stony basins, climbing to the rising foothills of the San Andreas mountains. It was where the snow lay deep in winter, pine-oak grew thickly, its needles soft and mushy underfoot. It seemed every branch flicked and trembled, alive with small, disturbed critters.
At first dark, with the horses stale and tiring, they picked out the blink of a few yellow lights ahead.
‘Smokin’ Snow,’ Deavis said.
It seemed a long time before they actually approached the small, plain township, and when they did, Ogden remained in the lee of the trees, studied the collection of ramshackle buildings. He fleetingly pondered on how the place got its name, noticed a handful of trails branching from a single through street.
‘One of each, you said.’ Ogden laughed harshly. ‘Well, it’s a town that ain’t prospered.’
Deavis was watching the Bolas boss
peer through the branches of a pine. They were both mindful, melding with the darkness of the hills, estimating, listening.
Halfway along what passed for the town’s street, someone walked from the shadows of one of the buildings, led two horses to a crude water trough. At the same time, a man appeared on the raised deck of the saloon. He took a long, sweeping look around then stepped back through the swing doors.
‘That was one of ’em, an’ that’s their horses,’ Deavis said quietly.
Ogden considered for a moment. ‘You come into town from the far side,’ he said. ‘Give me time to get into that saloon – dog hole, whatever they call it.’
‘Sure.’ Deavis pulled his mount’s head around. ‘Then what?’
‘You know what. I’ll be inside. And bring your carbine.’
Ogden watched Deavis ride from sight before he walked his sorrel into the town. He looped the reins to the wheel of a broken-down cart, checked his shoulder rig and ambled to the deck of the saloon. He paused, checked on Deavis’s position, took a deep breath and went inside.
The two men saw Ogden’s reflection in the hanging mirror and for the shortest moment their world stopped. Koons attempted to suggest an indifference that didn’t escape Lippet. Both men turned slowly, a calculated move away from each other, towards either end of the short bartop.
Ogden’s glance flickered down to their empty holsters, and he had the confidence to smile. It was an acceptance of the sarcasm in Deavis’s remark regarding his employment of them.
‘I’ve seen the Cholla dam . . . had to guess at what happened,’ he said with restrained challenge.
‘An’ that’s what brought you up here?’ Lippet asked defiantly.
‘Not exactly, no. I came to ask why you didn’t report back to me. I am the person who’s paying you.’
‘We didn’t have time, an’ we ain’t takin’ what we ain’t owed. We’re leavin’,’ Koons said.
Ogden shook his head long-sufferingly. ‘You might have to rethink that.’
In the immediate silence, Ogden remained standing in the doorway. There was the faintest of draughts, the pungent smell of horses and sweat emanating in waves from Koons and Lippet. Their clothes were stained dark, scrubs of beard covered their faces. But Ogden knew they were as cunning as coyotes and their pups.
‘A bottle and cigaritos, over here.’ Ogden watched the barkeep push his order across the counter. ‘Now we can talk,’ he said nodding to the two men. He led the way to a table, pulled out a chair and sat with his back to the door. He coolly watched them pour their own drinks and light up the smokes. ‘So where were you heading?’ he asked. ‘West, presumably.’
‘Yeah. A long way west o’ the big river, anyways.’ Koons spoke for both of them. ‘It’s got to be one hell of a lot safer than workin’ in this neck o’ the woods.’
Ogden stretched his legs and listened. Lippet leaned back, relaxed his shoulders at the more comfortable manner of his erstwhile boss. He was thinking that, played carefully, there was still the chance of a getaway. Koons apparently was of the same mind. He stood up, but was too anxious and kicked over his chair. ‘Reckon we’ll just continue on our way,’ he said tentatively. ‘Arizona’s a long ways off.’
‘Like I just suggested, feller. You ain’t going anywhere yet.’ Ogden held the man with a chilling glare. ‘Finish drinking.’
‘What did you come here for?’ Lippet asked, a hint of worry just beginning to show.
Only Ogden’s distrustful eyes moved. ‘Those two Johnny Newcomers you ran into, and the metis ’breed? Well, they’re big trouble, and I still need good men.’
Lippet moved the bottle in circles on the table top, watching the shapes it made in the dried grime. ‘I accepted fightin’ wages Mr Ogden, but not for goin’ up against any kind o’ dynamite.’
Cutting through the weighty, explicable silence in the saloon, a booted footfall sounded out on the front deck outside. The barkeep looked up, dropped his wiping towel, his face taut as he backed off along the bar. Koons looked briefly at Ogden, then reached for the whiskey bottle. Lippet drew in his legs, more defensive than readiness for attack.
Ogden moved for his gun at the same time Koons reacted. Koons held the bottle, waved it in a short, sharp arc to spew the whiskey into Ogden’s face. The Bolas boss gasped, and Lippet shoved the table hard, sending Ogden crashing over backwards in his chair.
Koons saw the chance and leapt. He jabbed his knee into Ogden’s throat and reached for the Colt, clawed it from Ogden’s grasp as it left its shoulder holster. Koons used it to shoot out the big oil lamp, then he emptied the cylinder into the doorway as the doors swung open.
Lippet made his move towards the bar. He held out his hand. ‘Get me your shotgun,’ he shouted at the barkeep, holding out his arm, stretching his fingers. ‘Now, for Chris’sake. Give it to me.’
But Mal Deavis was in the room and he fired his carbine. The first bullet hit Lippet between the shoulders, the second lower, shattering his spinal cord. The stricken man collapsed, face down in the dirt that had already accumulated in tiny drifts across the saloon floor.
Koons saw the shape of Deavis framed against the front window. He stepped up against the side wall, peering into the gloom near to where Ogden had fallen. He sensed rather than saw the man come to his feet, heard the whoosh of the chair as it was hurled from the floor to smash into the big hanging mirror. Ogden’s shadow crossed the doorway, then suddenly stopped, still and resolute.
‘I don’t have a gun.’ Ogden’s voice broke across the claustrophobic room. Koons made a run for bar cover, the shotgun he knew must be still there, somewhere.
‘Take this.’ Deavis lobbed his Colt through the hang of burnt cordite towards Ogden. Before it fell to the floor, Ogden caught it, and using both hands, levelled up and fired.
Koons took the bullet high in his chest. He spun around, slowly sank to the ground, his fingers releasing their life’s grip on the apron of the terrified barkeep.
‘You still alive, son-of-a-bitch?’ Ogden spoke sharply from near the door.
‘He’s here . . . dead.’
At the sound of the barkeep’s troubled voice, Ogden shot a warning bullet into the low ceiling. ‘Stay where you are. Don’t move a muscle,’ he ordered.
Deavis struck a vesta, lit a pair of happy jack lamps on a side wall. Ogden turned to the barkeep, waved him away from near Koons’s body. ‘Take a look,’ he said to Deavis.
Ogden heard the sound of broken glass, and when Deavis nodded he looked back to the barkeep. ‘From now on, choose your customers more carefully,’ he advised. ‘If you don’t like their look, shoot ’em . . . feed ’em to the pigs. It could save you a lot of time. Worse still, having me return to burn you all down.’
Without another word, and Deavis close behind, Ogden picked up his Colt and hurried out to his horse.
Chapter 18
It was full dark when the two men reached Bolas. Ogden heaved himself into his den, sullen faced and tetchy. He stood for a moment in the dark, head lowered, watching rainwater trickle down his slicker. Then he sensed the strange vulnerability of his back, became aware that he wasn’t alone.
He let his hat fall from his left hand, slid his right into his Colt. He drew back the hammer, was drawing the gun from its holster when Preston’s Mower’s voice cut the gloom.
‘Did you find them? Did they find you?’ There was clear anxiety in the trader’s tone, a catch of fear.
‘No. We didn’t find one another.’ Ogden was brusque, ignoring Mower as he laid his nickel-plated Colt on his desk, peeled off his slicker. He sat down heavily, pulling irritably at one of his boots.
Mower lit the wick of a decoratively glassed oil lamp, flicked the vesta into the fire duff.
‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ Ogden muttered, unlocking the drawer of his desk. He pulled out a bottle of bonded whiskey and a glass, poured a big measure and downed it in a single swallow.
‘You want to lay off drinkin’ it like
that,’ Mower nagged. ‘Wouldn’t be so bad if it was donkey piss.’
Ogden fought back the gnawing retch of an empty stomach. ‘It’s more profit for you, goddamnit.’ He slammed the glass on to the table, stared at Mower with tired but hostile eyes.
‘It’s only ’cause I care for the liquor,’ Mower twisted a smile.
‘Wit don’t suit you, Mower.’ Ogden stood up and walked around the room. ‘So get serious and figure out how the hell you’re going to water the beef next year.’ He waited a moment. ‘Our log jam’s been blown to Texas,’ he said, when no response came.
‘We can build another one.’
‘You can build another one,’ Ogden rasped. He slammed a bunched fist down on the table, grasping the whiskey bottle as it toppled. ‘Far Creek and Bluestem won’t need it. But you will . . . Bolas will.’
‘You sayin’ they’re dead?’ Expectation suddenly flared in Mower’s eyes, died again when Ogden shook his head negatively.
‘Hell. You’re movin’ out. Is that what you’re sayin’?’
‘Not entirely. I’ll move off Bolas, and on to Bluestem.’ Ogden gave a humourless grin. ‘And that reminds me. Get your stock pens ready. I’m sending you a tally of beef that needs getting rid of.’
‘No,’ Mower stated bluntly.
‘You can sell it on the reservations. You’ve done it before.’
‘That’s as maybe. But no more,’ Mower repeated, sweat glistening across his forehead. He grabbed his hat and took a step towards the door. ‘I’ve got enough to handle with Ben Shoeville.’
‘Shoeville?’ Ogden repeated and picked up the bottle. He tipped it towards his glass, stopped short when he heard an angry murmur of voices rising from the yard. ‘Wait up,’ he said.
The two men stood facing each other, listening to the force of Copper John’s voice, the sound of boots scudding on the veranda. There was a sharp battering against the door and the Bolas gunman entered. He didn’t see Mower as he pushed Mollie Broad into the room ahead of him, to Ogden’s chair.