by Caleb Rand
‘There you go boss. Quicker’n ol’ John Butterfield,’ he said, grinning wickedly. Without waiting for a response, and with his back still to Mower, the man turned on his heel, closing the door firmly behind him.
‘Mower! Why didn’t I think. . . .’
Ogden saw the incredulity in Mollie’s eyes as she looked around her. He watched the sudden uneasiness twist Mower’s features, the sag of the jowls.
‘Remember,’ he said. ‘We’re starting the gather in the morning.’
Mower’s face darkened as he stared back at Ogden. ‘I’ve said all I’m goin’ to on that score,’ he ground out. He levelled a finger at Mollie, his other hand stretching for the door behind him. ‘Now you’ll have to get rid of her.’
‘Hah. I’ll let you do that.’ Ogden’s voice was spiky. ‘A task maybe easier than the others. I’m thinking of her father, and Turner Foote, and Ben Shoeville, even. Hell Mower, you’re a real paladin. But I wonder if any of those unfortunate folk were facing you.’
Before anyone could stop her, Mollie shoved herself up from the chair. She reached for the desk in one swift movement, grabbed at Ogden’s Colt.
Mower wrenched the door open. He took the veranda steps in a stride, fled into the darkness pursued by Ogden’s jeers. Out on the trail, trying to make sense of his predicament, working on his next action, he didn’t know that Bruno Ogden was standing with his foot placed firmly between Mollie’s shoulder blades. She was being held down, her face lying sideways in the rain-wet slicker she had tripped over.
Mower kept up a hectic pace back to White Mesa. He’d sensed the fear that drove Turner Foote to call time, was now gripped with real worry. And Ogden was in a mood to spill the story to Marge Highgate. Mower cursed long and hard when he considered the consequences of her learning the truth of Elmer Broad’s death. He understood her antipathy for Mollie and everything Bluestem, and that she wouldn’t hesitate in seeking an appropriate end for the murderer of Mollie’s father.
Mower left his tired horse ground-hitched outside the mercantile and rushed inside. The accumulated dust of varied dry goods lifted from the puncheons as he stomped huffily across the floor.
‘First thing in the mornin’ hitch up the springboard,’ he told the sleep-in sales help. He headed for his office, stopped in his tracks as the door opened before him.
In the wedge of yellow lamplight, stood Marge Highgate. ‘Where’ve you been at this hour,’ she demanded roughly.
Mower coughed, braced his legs and straightened his back, carried on through into his living quarters. ‘Bolas, to see Ogden . . . thought night-time was best. There’s a lot of stuff to get cleared before I take Shoeville on that Whiterod stage.’
Marge Highgate glanced quickly around the room before settling on Mower. Her instinct suggested immediately that he was still in the throes of a big scare. ‘Tell me, Preston,’ she said less harshly, ‘How’d you know who it was killed our sheriff?’
The three men had made camp in the concealment of a scrub thicket a half mile above the White Mesa-Whiterod stage road. A steep-sided hogback lifted to where timber provided cover for a man to covertly watch a long stretch of road. Beyond that, a slope ran down steeply to the Cholla, now moving fast and muddy.
By inclination, Latch was up early. He brewed a pot of coffee and put together a spare breakfast, stamped out the last spark of fire.
Lying in his saddle blanket, Will peered up at the fading glimmer of stars, the appearance of a false dawn across the San Andreas Mountains. He propped himself on an elbow to take the steaming can of coffee.
‘You reckon Henri’ll make it?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I’m damn sure he will,’ Latch replied. ‘All them Red River bloods are made o’ jerked meat.’
‘We can’t afford to get trailed,’ Will said after a mouthful of warm biscuit. ‘We’ll lose ourselves in the big timber . . . surprise ’em. That’s our edge.’
Latch was thoughtful. He hunkered down, half watching the trail. ‘For a one-time lawman, you’re mighty relaxed at carryin’ out an armed hold-up,’ he said.
‘Justifying the means, Latch. On the other hand, some say the difference between banditry and the law’s only paper thin.’ Despite his sharp reckoning, Will was troubled, but it was more about Mollie Broad and Bolas. He rolled from his blanket, stood up and smiled reassuringly as Henri came through the trees.
‘My worry about the hold-up is that Mower’s filled the coach with deputies . . . a passenger posse,’ he said.
‘If he has, they ain’t goin’ to be much more’n saloon swills,’ Latch replied. ‘No. No honest citizen’s doin’ squat for Preston Mower. Let’s go rob a stage.’
Full daylight broke through Condor Pass. Will was on a track he had worked out with the others after smashing up the dam. He had estimated they would get the first glimpse of the stage when it splashed from the creek, headed towards the hills.
They pressed on through the trees until they came to a high point directly over a turn in the mountain road. In front of them, a big overhang of rock with a petrified juniper attached, perched on the edge of the barranca.
Henri impatiently kicked away loose stones and clumps of weathered twig. Latch picked up a sturdy branch, jammed it into a wide split and started to lever upwards. A wedge section of the boulder shifted a little, teetered forward then levelled itself back again. ‘Should’ve kept one o’ those thunder tubes,’ he said.
‘It’s not the rock. It’s the roots of the old tree,’ Will replied. ‘Been dead fifty years and still won’t let go. Be careful. We don’t want to be going down with it,’ he grinned earnestly, helped twist the branch further into the crevice.
The slab of boulder didn’t move until sweat streamed down the faces of Will and Latch. Then, and still in the clutch of the tree’s carcass, it shed grit and stones, angled over the rim of the barranca to the road below.
Latch gulped. ‘Jeez, if that big passel o’ dirt actually hits the coach there’ll be nothing left for us,’ he rasped.
‘That won’t happen,’ Will said. ‘Just get yourselves down there and see the coach doesn’t drive around it. I’ll take care of what happens next.’
Will waited until Latch and Henri were in position either side of the wagon road, then he, too, backed off to watch from cover. Minutes later he heard the crack of the driver’s whip, the urgent shout as he drove the horses up the gradient.
When the Concord coach appeared around the bend in the road, Will heard the screech of its brake blocks. Immediately, he walked to the nearside rear wheel and stepped up on to the hub.
The driver grunted displeasure, leaned over and called to his passengers. ‘We’ve got trouble. I’ll need a hand out here.’
Latch walked into the road, his rifle aimed up at the driver. ‘I come with the landslide,’ he said clear and loud. ‘Climb down nice an’ easy.’
Inside the coach, Mower eased back the roller blind, fumbled at his belt and drew his Colt. ‘You stay put,’ he told Shoeville. ‘It makes no difference to me how you get delivered . . . alive or dead.’
‘It matters one hell of a lot to us.’ Henri was standing on the off-side step. He smiled tightly at Shoeville, saw the handcuffs and pushed the barrel of his big Army Colt hard into Mower’s back. ‘Just drop the gun, monger man,’ he commanded. ‘Or I shoot out your spine . . . supposin’ you got one.’
Mower opened his hand, let the gun drop. He was looking out the door of the coach, more or less facing the gun of Will Chalk.
‘You,’ he ground out, his eyes ablaze with threat. ‘Hell, do I rue the day you walked into my store, Chalk. But now I’m puttin’ a price on your head. I’ll deputize every man in White Mesa . . . Bolas if I need to.’
‘Oh, you’ll have to, Mower,’ Will replied. ‘I’ve heard about the quality of your proposed deputies.’
‘You best scuttle home,’ Ben Shoeville spoke up. ‘An’ stay behind the counter. I’m goin’ to look into Sheriff Foote’s death, an’ when I find out
who did pull the trigger, you’ll be first to know . . . I promise.’ He held out his hands, shook the handcuffs. ‘Now unlock these, you son-of-a-bitch.’
The mercantile owner-town sheriff, smiled coldly. ‘You’re clear out o’ luck there, mister. I ain’t carryin’ the key. Since leavin’ White Mesa, it’s only the marshal in Whiterod can take ’em off. Reckon you can see why.’
Will reached out. He bunched the front of Mower’s shirt in his hand, twisted and dragged the man from the coach, down to the roadside. ‘Empty your pockets and take off your boots,’ he rasped.
Mower got to his feet, pointed a thick finger at the driver. ‘You knew this was goin’ to happen,’ he accused throatily. ‘You’ll pay dear.’
The driver climbed down from the box, stepped straight up to Mower. ‘Payin’ dear’s sure somethin’ you’d know about,’ he said thoughtfully before smacking him hard across the mouth. ‘An’ that’s on behalf o’ the townsfolk who have.’
Will held back an approving smirk and held out his hand. ‘The key, or I’ll be having my say,’ he threatened.
Mower drew the handcuffs’ key from his trousers ticket pocket, handed it to Will, who handed it to Henri.
Shoeville stepped down to the roadway. He massaged his wrists, backed off as Will pushed Mower back up into the coach. Henri nodded, held out the cuffs and clamped them on Mower. He grinned, and threw the key out into the roadside manzanita.
‘Not to worry . . . we know where there’s another,’ he said quietly. ‘Look forward to seein’ you in court.’
‘Take him back to White Mesa. And don’t stop,’ Will told the driver. Then he helped uncouple the horses to turn the coach.
Will, Latch and Henri waited until the coach was on its way back, out of sight around the bend, then they re-tracked the barranca, gathered their horses and rode towards Bolas.
Chapter 20
They rode through the heat of the day. Henri’s neck and back were stiff but there wasn’t much pain. His eyes were keen and he continually quartered the hills for some sign of Bolas guards. Will and Shoeville rode together, Latch zigzagged the backtrail. To the east and west of Condor Pass, the country lay flat and shimmering in the bright sunlight, mesquite thickets stretched away in every direction.
Shoeville rode easily, but occasionally turned back, offering Latch a curious, uncomfortable stare. Tired lines etched his face, his eyes were restless.
‘I know it’s uneasy me watchin’ out for you, Ben,’ Latch eventually called out. ‘But when a man’s distracted, he’ll maybe miss somethin’.’
‘I’m not goin’ to miss anythin’ . . . like Ogden’s gunmen, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Shoeville returned quickly. ‘I didn’t think I’d have to tell you that.’
‘You didn’t. I was just tellin’ you.’
They all rode a while in brooding silence, then Will spoke up. ‘So, who does what then?’ he asked.
Shoeville stared ahead to the rising trail. ‘If anythin’s to be done, it’s more my place to do it. Perhaps that’s what I was thinkin’ about,’ he replied. ‘But I can’t bring myself to kill if it’s the wrong man.’
‘I’d like to think that of us all,’ Will said. ‘As sheriff, Mower can arrest Ogden, but he won’t. He’s already warned us he’ll pin badges on all the Bolas riders.’
For a few minutes there was more quiet time, disturbed only by the dull clip of hoofs, the jingle of bridles, creaking leather.
‘Right now, I’m as close to bein’ an old man as I’m ever likely to get,’ Latch said. ‘With less at the end than anyone else, why not leave it to me? Hell, after all this, I’m near one o’ the Bluestem family.’
‘An’ have the folks in Hog Flats think the ramrod’s gutless?’ Ben Shoeville’s eyes narrowed, the muscles along his jaw line twitched. ‘If Ogden does manage to stay alive, we might as well find another state to live in.’
Will flashed a meaningful look at Latch. ‘Looks like judgment time,’ he said. ‘Bluestem or Bolas. There’s no room for both.’
Ogden’s valley headquarters was the low-lying ranch house, surrounded by buffalo berry fencing and arching willows. Corrals, barns and outbuildings rambled across the broad slope behind the house. The Condor Peaks rose majestically from a rangeland mix of snake bunny, daisy and lush grass.
The Bluestem riders dismounted in the trees. It was where the canyon plunged, almost a sheer drop to the floor of the valley. They tied in their horses, approaching on foot until they got within rifle range of the ranch house. The windows and doors of the house were already open, wood smoke curled lazily skywards. Nearby, a juniper railed corral contained the restless movement of seven saddle horses.
Will pulled his rifle from its scabbard, walked slowly towards the lip of the canyon. He sat cross-legged, pulled the brim of his hat down, rested the rifle across his hips.
A man appeared on the surrounding gallery of the house, picked up a bucket and walked to the near empty creek. Behind him, the early sun lifted like a flame from the hills, pierced the trees and heated Will’s shoulders. His mouth was dry from tension, and gently and quietly he levered a cartridge into the chamber.
Bruno Ogden came out. He stopped on the porch and raised his head, observant for danger, a difference. As he scanned the surrounding hills, he looked directly to where Latch and Henri were hunkered, then he turned away.
While Ogden quartered the land, Shoeville lifted his rifle and took slow, careful aim. With the butt squeezed hard against his shoulder, he nuzzled his cheek to the stock. The rifle felt cold and hard in spite of the rising warmth of the day, and he took a breath. He squeezed the trigger back, taking up the slack, lined up the front and rear sights.
Sweat now leaked from every pore, his eyes smarting in the brightness of the light. His hands started to tremble and it spread to the rifle and then back to his whole body. He knew he could still fire and hit Ogden high in his chest . . . couldn’t miss. But he held the final pressure on the trigger. ‘You’ll never know it, Ogden,’ he whispered. ‘Whatever time you’ve got left’s down to me.’ Slowly he lowered the carbine, felt Will’s eyes on him.
‘I can’t kill him like this. That’s for others,’ he murmured. ‘I want him to know it’s me.’
‘Sometimes it matters,’ Will agreed. ‘Later. We’ll wait till he’s in the open.’
Ogden walked into one of his clinkered barns, reappeared a couple of minutes later leading a chestnut mare out towards the trough.
‘Christ, that’s Mollie’s horse!’ Shoeville got to his feet as he spoke, but Latch made a grab for him, pulled him back down to the ground.
‘Keep down, else none of us’ll see the day out,’ he rasped.
‘There’ll be bad killin’ here if they’ve harmed a single hair of her head,’ Shoeville warned with palpable emotion, and Latch shared a discerning look with Will.
Mollie Broad sat silently watching Ogden, who in turn was indifferently listening to the sound of voices from the corral. She had been like this for a long time, refusing to acknowledge the man being there or to answer his questions. Occasionally, Ogden stared back, the shadows dark across his troubled face.
Sometime between first and full dark, a man entered the room from the kitchen. He walked with the uneven gait of a horse breaker, ignored Mollie, spoke straight to Ogden.
‘Help’s in from Bluestem. Thought you’d want to know,’ he said.
Ogden turned his head, stared absent-mindedly. ‘Right,’ he replied with delayed comprehension.
The stove-up wrangler’s glance passed over Mollie, then he turned away, left the room the way he’d entered.
Still preoccupied, Ogden paced the room until he heard Mal Deavis calling for him.
‘Beef’s gathered,’ his man said, as he stepped down from the saddle. He looked at the open window, indicated that Ogden move away, and lowered his voice. ‘The stage never made it to Whiterod. It came back . . . empty ’cept for Mower.’
Ogden cursed, thinking that Mo
wer was selling him out. He calculated that while the Bolas crew were waiting for Bluestem to come and get Mollie, Mower had gone to Marge Highgate. ‘Lickpenny trader,’ he muttered. ‘OK, I want that beef in the pens by daylight. Give the son-of-a-bitch a herd of blotted brands to explain away.’
‘An’ what about the girl?’
‘What about her?’
Back in the house, Ogden unlocked his gun rack. He selected a Colt revolving shotgun, loaded it and put four extra cartridges into his pocket. Feeling the burn of Mollie’s scorn, he turned to face her.
‘Leave Mower. He’s for me to deal with,’ she seethed. Mollie’s attitude was unexpected, but Ogden didn’t listen. He went to the front door and shouted.
‘Deavis. Find some help and get in here.’
Minutes later, Ogden spoke to Deavis and his crippled hostler. ‘Secure her and keep her quiet,’ he instructed. ‘I’ll be back soon as I can.’
He led his sorrel from the corral and saddled it, slid the shotgun into the scabbard and mounted. He rode north, splashing through water that was coursing in from Cholla Creek.
Darkness came and still Will had no plan. He saw Mal Deavis leave the house several times for a walk around the yard, but all he and his partners could do was lie unmoving in the brush, watching the house like opportune foxes. Oil lamps were lit and weak shadows fell across the home yard. Will knew that if they waited much longer, the initiative, their surprise, would be lost.
‘Bring in the horses, Latch,’ he said. ‘We’ll walk them down, off the rim.’
From the deep, shadowy gloom of the trees, Shoeville took the reins from Latch. He flinched when a night owl decided to screech its alarm, cursed as a distant coyote started its moonlight howl. ‘Goddamn critters know there’s somethin’ up,’ he muttered.
‘Yeah. Gives me the jitters. I always think it’s personal,’ Henri said uneasily as the porch lamps at the ranch house went out and silence smothered the brush.