Sweetwater

by Dorothy Garlock

  The fire was small and built with dry sticks. It gave off almost no smoke; and with the direction of the wind, whatever smoke there was would be drawn down the canyon of the Sweetwater River.

  Sitting with his back to a boulder, Hartog sipped his coffee and gazed off down the river valley. He had come out of the fight with McCall worse off than he let on. When he hit the floor he had injured his lower back. He had ridden to Forest City in a fog of pain. Now, the wound from the gunshot was almost healed, but because of the chronic pain in his lower back and his suddenly loose bowels, he was as grumpy as a cow with her tail tied in a knot.

  Hartog heard a whistle and lifted his head. He returned the signal and waited for the Mexican to ride into camp. Jesus Mendosa was a follower, a hanger-on, who was happy to take orders and bask in the attention a man like Hartog generated. He was small and wiry in dirty buckskin-fringed britches.

  Mendosa slid from his horse and headed for the coffeepot.

  “Take care of yore horse. Ya want him shittin’ where we eat?”

  The Mexican turned on his heel and led his horse behind a screen of scrub and brush. When he returned he filled a tin cup with coffee. He sat back on his heels and waited for Hartog to speak.

  “Well, are ya goin’ to sit there like a dumb-ass, or are ya tellin’ me what ya found out at Stoney Creek.”

  “Si, Señor. McCall headed for Sweetwater this afternoon.”

  “Yeah? We got plenty a time to get him.”

  “Only womenfolk and old Ike at Stoney Creek.”

  “That nosey kid from the agency still hangin’ around?”

  “Not at Stoney Creek, Señor.”

  “Not at Stoney Creek, Señor,” Hartog mocked. “Where is he hangin’ ’round?”

  “At Agency store.”

  “I told ya to watch Stoney Creek and not be seen,” Hartog said angrily. “What in hell were ya doin’ at the Agency store?”

  “Gettin’ tobacco.” Mendosa lowered his head. More than anything, he feared Hartog’s anger. “Linus was there … and the fat woman. Pud was there, too.”

  “I don’t give a shit who was at the store. What’d ya see at Stoney Creek, dumb-ass?”

  “Saw black-haired girl cuttin’ grass. Saw the teacher at the school. Shoshoni set up lodge in woods for brats goin’ to teacher’s school. Old Ike dressin’ out a deer—”

  “Can ya get in close without bein’ seen?”

  “Not close, Señor.”

  “It makes no never mind. Ya’ll ride in there tomorrow and give ’er a sad tale ’bout yore woman havin’ a brat and needin’ a woman’s help. She’ll follow ya to the edge of the woods and we’ll get ’er. If she don’t come, we’ll ride in there shootin’ and get her anyway. One way or the other she’ll pay for shootin’ me in the back.”

  “Si, Señor.” The Mexican’s grin was wolfish.

  Hartog watched the man with narrowed eyes. He knew what he was thinking. Stupid fool was thinkin’ ’bout his promise to let him plow the gal. When a man’s pecker got hard, his brain got soft. The Mexican was dumb enough to think that he’d live after he saw what Hartog was goin’ to do to the Murphy bitch.

  Hartog shook his head wearily and closed his eyes. He’d not rest until he had his revenge on the girl and on McCall.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Mud Pie was a good horse and took to the rough country as if he were born to it. Travor had followed the trail across the meadow, then turned off it and headed toward Sweetwater through the scrub oak, avoiding the regularly traveled road to town.

  From time to time he drew up to study the country. He would stop his horse among the brush and look back across at the fine sweep of land that comprised Stoney Creek Ranch. It was not only beautiful country, but good grazing land where several thousand head of extra cattle would go unnoticed. No wonder Havelshell wanted it.

  In the brief half-light between day and night Travor rode into Sweetwater. He had chosen the time when most folks had had their supper, and the eateries would be nearly empty.

  He was being cautious. He had a lot more to live for than when he was here last.

  Walking his horse slowly up the street, he took special notice of the horses tied to the rails in front of the saloons. He looked the town over carefully. There wasn’t enough of it to take more than a minute or two.

  He stopped at the eatery across from the blacksmith. An unshaved man in shirtsleeves was washing dishes back of the counter. The two long tables, flanked by backless benches, were empty.

  “Am I too late for grub?”

  “Howdy, McCall. Ain’t seen ya in a while. Have a seat. I’ve always got somethin’ in the pot. Can ya go for venison stew?” He winked. “Leastways that’s what I call it. Some folks get mighty touchy when they lose a cow or two, and I aim to keep my hide and bones together.”

  “I never heard of anybody recognizin’ their cow from stew meat.”

  “Yo’re right ’bout that.” He chuckled as he dished up a bowl of the bubbly stew and brought it to the table. “Yo’re in kinda late. Spendin’ the night?”

  “Thinkin’ of it.”

  “Need to get yore rocks knocked off? Huh?”

  “Thinkin’ on it,” Travor said again and forced a grin. “This really is fine stew. Ya musta cooked in a cow camp. I remember eatin’ beef ever’ day for three months. Would’ve give a month’s pay for a hunk of somethin’ else.”

  “Yeah, I done it. Went with the big herds to Dodge and Ogallala,” he said proudly. “What runs did ya make?”

  “Wrangled horses one time. Another time I was with a bunch that brought longhorns up from Texas. That was enough for me. Them cockeyed steers is crazy as a bunch a drunk hoot owls. They don’t get too old or too weak to try to kill ya.”

  The cook felt that because Travor had ridden the cow trails he was an old friend. Travor turned sideways on the bench, watched the street and listened to the man talk.

  “This is a dead, flea-bitten town.” Travor had to wait for the man to take a breath to make the remark. “Someday it’ll dry up and blow away.”

  “We have a little excitement once in a while.”

  “Somebody drop dead in the middle of the street at high noon?” Travor asked with a blank face.

  “Nothin’ that excitin’. Couple a fellers come in sayin’ they saw a body floatin’ downriver. Wondered if anybody’d found it.”

  “Yeah. Anybody round here missin’?”

  “Not that I’m knowin’ about.”

  “Heard a feller over at Forest City hadn’t been seen for a spell. Could’ve been him. The fellers still around?”

  “Come to think on it, I saw ’em this mornin’. They et here a few times. They were in the saloon the other night. Don’t say much. Sit around listenin’ to talk.” The cook threw the dishwater out the door. “I ain’t worryin’ ’bout this town none. It’ll be a big cattle town what with the big herd comin’ in. Longfellow’s bringin’ in pert nigh three thousand head when the army brin’s in the herd for the reservation. He’s hirin’ men to cut out his. He’s somethin’, that preacher is. Straight as a string. He don’t put up with any cussin’ and carousin’. He can stir a crowd with his preachin’—” The man’s voice droned on.

  Yeah, Longfellow is somethin’, all right. He’s a damn crook! Three thousand head, my hind leg. Five thousand are comin’ for the reservation. The old sonofabitch is goin’ to take more than half.

  “Better get movin’.” Travor got to his feet and placed a coin on the counter.

  “If yo’re goin’ to the Pleasure Place, McCall, try Flossie.” He winked again. “It’ll cost ya a dollar and four bits, but ya’ll get yore money’s worth.”

  “Thanks.” Travor forced another grin and left the eatery.

  It was dark. There were few people and only a team and wagon and four or five horses on the streets. Lamps were lighted in the stores. Travor led his horse to the watering tank, then walked him behind the buildings to the livery. When he pounded on the door, an o
ld man came out of the shed attached to the barn.

  “Howdy, McCall. Yo’re in kinda late.”

  “Not so late. My belly button was dancing up and down my backbone. Stopped to eat a bite.” Travor unsaddled his horse. “Where you want him?”

  “Take him on down to that end stall. I ain’t wantin’ him to be kickin’ the guts out of a horse he don’t take a likin’ to.”

  “Anybody ride outta here today. Heard some shots comin’ in. Sounded like a forty-five.”

  “Some rowdies been hangin’ ’round. Ain’t here now. Nobody what left their horses here rode south today.”

  Travor stood in the dark after he left the livery and checked the gun in his holster. The only information he got from the liveryman was that Crocker and his man hadn’t ridden south. They could be here or gone north to report to Ashley.

  He thought of checking at the hotel. Crocker would stay at the best place in town. Then he remembered Trell telling him it was rumored that the woman who ran the hotel was Havelshell’s. He didn’t think Crocker had had time to tie up with the agent. If he had, Havelshell, mistaking him for Trell, might decide to have him ambushed and blame it on Crocker.

  Travor headed for the Pleasure Palace. A man waiting around would get bored and might pass the time with the ladies. A bell jingled when he opened the door, stepped into the parlor and removed his hat.

  A woman came out of a back room. She was stout, not fat, with broad shoulders. Her enormous breasts were pushed up by a stiff corset and bulged above her heavy satin dress. A green feather was stuck in her high-piled henna-colored hair. She was almost as tall as Travor and old enough to be his mother.

  “Hi, honey. I’ve seen you around town. You’ve not been here before. You’re name is—” She snapped her fingers as if it would help her remember, and gave him a gap-toothed smile.

  “—McCall.”

  “Oh, sure. You got a horse ranch south of here.”

  “Yo’re right as rain, sweetie.” Travor gave her his best smile. “Flossie busy?”

  “She is right now, honey. Would one of the other girls do?”

  “How about you, sugar?” He winked, letting her know that he knew she was not available.

  “Come on, now.” She reached out and pinched his cheek so hard he was almost sure she had broken a blood vessel. “I’d a showed you a high old time in my younger days, you handsome devil.”

  “I’m not doubtin’ that.” He stroked the top of her breast with a forefinger and smiled into her eyes even though his cheek was numb. “I was to meet a friend here. I think I’ll look him up and we’ll be back.”

  “A feller was in here last night. When he left, he asked if ya ever come in.”

  “Quiet feller? Thin hair?”

  “Older’n you? Flossie said he didn’t waste words. He was all business.”

  “That’s him. He told me about Flossie. I’m early and was trying to beat his time with her. I’ll find him and we’ll be back.” Travor pinched her gently on the cheek, then touched the end of her nose with his forefinger.

  Outside, he stepped off the porch and moved into the shadows. He was reasonably sure now that Crocker was here waiting to see whether Trell’s body had washed up on the riverbank, or if someone would find him caught in a snag. Sonofabitchin’ cold-blooded bastard!

  Travor walked up onto the porch fronting the first of the two saloons in town. He stood in the doorway and scanned the dimly lit room. A few men stood at the bar. Crocker was not at the one table of card players in the center of the room. Travor decided not to waste any more time there and backed out the door.

  The saloon where he had fought Hartog was larger and well lighted. Travor stepped up to the double swinging doors and peered over the top. There were no men at the bar and, as far as he could see, four tables were occupied, two of them with card players. He was unable to see the faces of any of them.

  As soon as he shoved open the door and stepped inside, the bellowing voice of the bartender greeted him.

  “Howdy, McCall.”

  In the quiet that followed, a hoarse voice said, “It’s him!”

  A chair scraped on the floor drawing Travor’s eyes to the corner of the room. There, staring as if transfixed, was Crocker. Beside him was a younger man with blond facial hair. Travor’s eyes horned in on Crocker.

  “Hello, Crocker. I hear ya’ve been lookin’ for me.”

  Crocker’s mouth opened then closed, his eyes remained on Travor. He was slow in responding, but his companion sprang to his feet.

  “Draw, ya sonofabitch!”

  The boy was fast, but not as fast as Travor. He put a bullet in the boy’s heart as he was bringing his gun up. A surprised look came over the young face before he backed up and sat down hard on the floor. Travor had dropped into a crouch when he drew his gun. When Crocker fired, the bullet went over the top of his shoulder and into the backbar behind the counter.

  Travor fired one shot at Crocker. The hired killer backtracked to the wall and hung there. Then his legs refused to hold him and he crumpled to the floor, his hand still holding the gun, but without the strength to lift it.

  The three shots fired had come in rapid succession. Most of the men in the room had not had time to do more than fall out of their chairs to the floor, not knowing what would come next. One of the men kicked the gun out of Crocker’s hand. Travor holstered his and went to where Crocker lay against the wall. The bartender, with his buffalo gun in his hand, was beside him.

  Crocker was still alive.

  “Here’s one scalp ya’ll not collect on, you back-shootin’ bastard!”

  “Thought we’d … got ya, McCall, when … ya went in the river.” A froth of blood came from his mouth. “Was … waitin’ ’round to find your … stinkin’ hide … to take back to Ashley.”

  “Yeah, I figured he sent ya. Ya shot my brother, Trell, you son of a bitch, and knocked him in the river! He came out of it alive, or I’d take ya out now and string ya up for the buzzards to pick your bones clean.”

  “Brother? Hell—I’d a swore it was you. I’d a got him, but let the kid—” His eyes began to glaze over. “He’d a not made a … hunter … nohow—”

  “Ya got the kid killed, Crocker. You’ll meet him in hell.”

  “He’s dead, McCall. Yo’re talkin’ to a dead man.” The bartender spoke from beside him.

  Travor stood and looked at the men crowding around the dead men. There was no sympathy on their faces.

  A commotion at the door drew Travor’s attention. Two men had entered. One was the man who had warned him about Hartog the last time he was here. The other was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and a black string tie.

  “What happened here, Oscar?” The man who spoke had a tin star pinned to his chest.

  “What’a ya think?” Oscar went back to place his gun on the bar. “I got me a mess to clean up.”

  “Who shot first.” The sheriff knelt and looked into the faces of the men on the floor.

  “One drew first and didn’t get off a shot. The other’n missed. McCall nailed both of them.”

  “This one is a hired killer named Crocker.” Travor nudged Crocker with the toe of his boot. “The other was in trainin’ to be a hired killer.”

  “Arrest him.” The man in the suit spoke for the first time. All eyes turned to him. The sheriff frowned.

  “Why, Mr. Havelshell? ’Pears to me it was a fair fight.”

  “Arrest him. A judge will decide.”

  “Now see here, Alvin.” The booming voice of the bartender filled the room. “Ever’ man jack in this room saw what happened. The kid drew first—”

  “Ain’t so, Mr. Havelshell.” Travor noticed Frank Wilson for the first time. “He drew and shot ’em down.”

  “Godamighty, Frank!” Oscar exclaimed. “Ya know that ain’t what happened.”

  “I was closer than you, Oscar.”

  Frank’s mouth was still swollen from the brutal meeting with Travor’s fist. He leaned against
the bar and glowered at him.

  “We have a witness.” Havelshell spoke in a tone of authority. “Arrest him, Armstrong, and hold him for trial.”

  The sheriff frowned at Havelshell, then turned to the more than a dozen men who stood beside the tables.

  “How many of you saw McCall draw first and shoot these men down?” No one moved. “Show of hands if you saw what Frank said he saw,” he urged, then waited, looking into the face of each man. Still no one moved.

  “All right. Who saw what Oscar saw?”

  All hands went up.

  “Oscar saw it right, Sheriff.” The merchant, a gunsmith, spoke up.

  “You got a stake in this?” Alvin asked curtly.

  “No. But what’s right is right. The boy drew on McCall. The other man drew, shot and missed. McCall’s got a right to defend himself.”

  “We’ve got a witness that says otherwise. Do your duty, Sheriff. Arrest him and hold him for the circuit judge.”

  “I’m not goin’ to arrest a man for defendin’ himself.”

  “Goddamn you!” Alvin’s face turned ugly. “I gave you that star and I can take it away.”

  “No, you can’t, Alvin.” The gunsmith spoke again. “Armstrong has done a good job keeping drunks off the street and controlling fights. We’ve formed a town council. It will take two-thirds of a vote from the council to fire him.”

  “Town council? Why wasn’t I told of it?”

  “We sent word to your office three times. You chose to ignore it. We proceeded without you. Armstrong stays on. We plan to elect a sheriff and a mayor in the fall. I hope he runs for the job.”

  “You been going behind my back.” Alvin turned on Armstrong. “I should have listened to Hartog. You got no guts!”

  “I’ve no taste for arrestin’ a man for defendin’ hisself, if that’s what ya mean.” Armstrong unpinned the star from his vest and shoved it into Havelshell’s hand. “Here’s yore star. If the council wants me to stay on, I’ll take one from them.”

  “I’ll call a meeting in the morning,” the gunsmith said. “Meanwhile, I’d be obliged if you’d finish out the night.”