Talman's War (A Piccadilly Publishing Western #9)

by Neil Hunter

  Victorene stumbled away from him, the shock of pain in her eyes, on her face. The backs of her legs caught on the edge of the dressing-table and she sprawled across it, sending jars and bottles of cosmetics sliding over its polished surface. She remained where she was, her eyes challenging him to touch her again. Her face was blotched red where he had hit her and a thin line of blood dribbled across her lower lip.

  ‘Pig! You call me a pig.’ Olsen’s voice was hard, anger still very close to the surface. ‘Maybe to your refined way I am a pig. But remember what I own, what I’ve built. I might be an animal to you, but to everyone around here I’m a big man, a powerful man.’

  He turned for the door, jerking it open with near savagery. He spun on his heel, his back ramrod straight.

  ‘It appears, my dear,’ he said in mock civility, ‘that we have reached a turning-point in our relationship. Either we have been deceiving each other, or fooling each other all along. Whichever way it is things have come to a dead-end. Right now I have enough on my mind without adding this situation. Until I can make any decision affecting our future I suggest you stay out of my way.’

  He dragged the door hard shut behind him, standing outside for some time, trying to clear his head. Victorene’s outburst, the obvious distaste she held for him, had come as a shock and a revelation. It was clear to him now that whatever feelings he’d ever had for her had been purely physical; her beauty, her projected sensuality had been what he had been attracted to — and it came to him that in all the time he had known her, never once had he said that he loved her.

  As he began to descend the stairs he could hear Victorene’s muffled sobs from behind the closed bedroom door. It did nothing to him, and by the time he reached the foot of the stairs Victorene was out of his thoughts altogether.

  Chapter Eight

  From where he stood Jim Talman was able to see clear down Boxed-O’s side of the hill range. The vast sweep of land opened up below him, fanning out to all sides, an endless carpet of sun-browned grass.

  Behind him, at a higher level, Andy Jacobs and two of Rocking-T’s hands were setting up the chosen site where they would mount guard over the spring. Jim turned, glancing up to watch them for a minute. It gave him a cold, tight feeling seeing the preparations, for it was as near to war as any man could get short of joining the army. He had always known that a range war was possible, but this knowledge didn’t make the reality any less grim. This was what his father had fought to forestall ever since he had created Rocking-T; John Talman had succeeded, and Jim felt he had failed his father on that score. But he’d had no choice, and if he was going to hold on to Rocking-T then he was going to have to be prepared to fight for it. He was reluctant to do so — but if Olsen put his back to the wall there would be a fight, for Jim had no intention of being the loser.

  Moving off the rim Jim eased his way through fallen rock and scrubby undergrowth, then began the climb up the rocky facing of the outcropping that held the source of Rocking-T’s water, the spring. From here a man had an unobstructed view down to Boxed-O range. It also meant that a man with a rifle would have a clear shot at anyone coming up the slope.

  Jim slapped dust from his clothing as he completed his climb. It was late afternoon, but the heat still held, making the men who worked on the high rock listless, with nerves close to being rubbed raw. Jim realized it was a bad time for something like this to happen. Everyone would be jumpy enough and sun-frayed nerves were no help at all.

  ‘We’re about as set as we’ll ever be, Jim,’ Andy Jacobs told him.

  ‘Maybe.’ Jim cast his eyes around the improvised camp. ‘Figure it this way, Andy. If they can’t hit us here they can try somewhere else.’

  ‘The water’s what they want. What they need.’

  ‘Olsen wants all of Rocking-T,’ Jim said, and they all knew he was right.

  Jacobs made a sound of annoyance. He pulled his hat off and scrubbed his hand through his hair. ‘Why the hell don’t we ride down and finish this now. Burn Olsen out, shoot him out.’

  There was a heavy silence. Jacobs looked from face to face. His anger subsided as swiftly as it had risen. He shook his head, jamming his hat back on in frustration.

  ‘I guess I’ve done enough shooting just of late,’ he said.

  Jim punched at his arm. ‘You talk too much,’ he said. He turned to the two Rocking-T hands. ‘Now take it easy. Keep your eyes open. One of you on watch all the time. Work it out between you. Come morning I’ll have you relieved.’

  ‘Fair enough, Jim,’ a tall, thin puncher named Davies said.

  His partner, a lean, moustache-wearing man called Saintly Jones, spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dust. ‘Don’t you fret none, Jim-boy. Any of Olsen’s crew come anyways near here they’ll soon forget about water.’

  ‘Try not to push it, Saintly,’ Jim said.

  ‘Why, Jim-boy, as if I would,’ Saintly told him solemnly, his bony face reverently deadpan. ‘Now you go about your affairs an’ don’t worry.’

  Jim smiled at the man dryly. He knew he could trust them not to start anything without thinking about it first. They were as much a part of Rocking-T as anyone and would tolerate no thought or deed that might harm the spread in any way.

  A short time later Jim and Andy Jacobs were riding down the wooded slopes to the flatlands below. About midway to the bottom this section of hillside leveled out into a wide, oval-shaped meadow. There was grass here and a good growth of trees. The creek ran in from above, meandered across the meadow, then dropped beyond the far side to continue on its downward journey.

  Rocking-T beef was already here, though only in small numbers as yet. Jim hoped his decision to gather the entire herd up here was the right one. At least the herd would be in one place, a lot easier to control, here in the confines of this high meadow. Any strikes at Rocking-T could easily be aimed at its herds, and a stampede was a sure way of scattering or destroying a ranch’s stock. On the wide flatland the herd was openly vulnerable, but up here, penned in and guarded it might prove difficult for anyone to cause trouble. Jim knew that he could be just as wrong. Nothing was ever certain in life. He had learned that lesson a long time ago.

  A pair of riders converged on the spot where Jim and Andy Jacobs had reined in. They were Rocking-T’s new men, Rem Callender and Josh Keel. Dusty and sweating they were pitching in to the work as if they had been with Rocking-T for years.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Jim asked.

  Callender sleeved sweat from his face. ‘Fair. But it sure is hot. Man, I seen droughts and I seen droughts, but this is the daddy of ’em all.’

  ‘You said it, boy,’ Jacobs agreed. He was rolling a cigarette.

  ‘Still a few more hours before dark,’ Jim observed. ‘If we stick with it we should have well over half the beef up here for the night.’

  ‘Still leaves a hell of a lot down below,’ Jacobs told him.

  Jim nodded. ‘I know, Andy. All we can do is keep them bunched and ride herd on them.’ He eased himself in the saddle. ‘Let’s hope Olsen doesn’t decide on a night raid.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s hope he don’t,’ Jacobs remarked.

  ‘Jim,’ Callender asked, ‘you want me and Josh should stick up here tonight?’

  ‘Yes. You got grub?’

  Keel patted a bulging flour sack slung behind his saddle. ‘We got grub,’ he said.

  Jim smiled. ‘Ride easy then.’

  Callender raised a hand, then rode off with Keel close behind.

  ‘Ready, Andy?’ Jim asked and led the way across the meadow. They moved into the trees that marked the commencement of the downward fall of the hill. Dappled shadows crisscrossed men and horses as they entered the trees. Rough grass broke beneath the hooves of the horses. A stillness lay around them, but far below could be heard the sounds of bawling cattle and the yells of the men driving them.

  After a time they broke out of the trees onto a stretch of open hillside, an uneven, sun-dried lay of land. Just off to their left
the first of a large bunch of cattle came into sight from out of a steep sided gully that was part of the well-worn trail up to the high meadow. Dust billowed up around the jostling animals as they pushed and bawled their way out of the mouth of the gully. A half dozen of the long-horned beasts broke away from the main bunch and headed towards where Jim and Andy Jacobs were riding.

  Reining his horse around Jacobs took off after the breakaway bunch, gigging his mount into a hard gallop. The steers saw him coming and instantly took flight. Jim was about to go to his foreman’s aid when he heard his name being called. Twisting in the saddle he saw a rider approach, one of his own men who had been chasing cattle up the gully.

  ‘Glad I caught you, boss,’ he said, reining in his sweating horse. He was a stockily-built, pale-eyed Dutchman named Jan Dorn, who went by the nickname of Dutchy. He was a stolid, humorless man with more patience than Jim had ever seen in any ten men put together.

  ‘Anything wrong, Dutchy?’ Jim asked, and found he was almost dreading the answer.

  Dorn glanced across to where Andy Jacobs’ stocky figure appeared and disappeared in the swirling dust that boiled up around him and the bunch of steers he was chasing.

  ‘Down on the flat,’ he said. ‘We run into Sheriff Nolan. He is for the house he tell us.’

  Jim had forgotten his invitation to Garnett’s lawman. Nolan, never one to dally, must have decided to make his visit that very day. Maybe it was for the best, Jim thought. Nolan would have to know what was going on sooner or later and it might be better to talk to him out at Rocking-T, away from town.

  ‘How long ago, Dutchy?’

  ‘Not long. Maybe only a half hour, not less.’

  Jim watched Jacobs for a minute. His foreman had the runaway cattle on the way back to the main bunch.

  ‘Nobody say anything about our trouble, boss,’ Dorn said. ‘We think maybe is better you tell him. Is correct?’

  ‘Thanks, Dutchy. I’ll go after him. Tell Andy I’m riding on. He can stick with you boys and make a tally on how many head there are to be brought up.’

  Dorn nodded and rode out to meet Jacobs. Waiting until he caught Jacobs’ eye Jim raised a hand, then turned his horse down slope, making for the distant flatlands.

  It came to him as he rode that this was the second time in one day that he would be reporting trouble to Ben Nolan. This time, though, he realized, there would be no brushing it aside. Jim wished he could rid himself of it so easily, but he knew there was no chance of that. His conflict with Olsen would have to be faced and fought all the way down the line.

  Chapter Nine

  After collecting their guns from Sheriff Nolan, and also a hard-delivered warning from Garnett’s lawman, Dunc Howser and Cal Jarrett made their way down to the saloon. The pair were in need of consolation to their way of thinking. As with most of their kind they soon got to feeling sorry for themselves; it was the two of them against the world, and a hard world at that.

  Slouching into the saloon the pair found an empty table. Howser lowered himself into a chair while Jarrett went to the bar for a bottle and a couple of glasses. Returning with them Jarrett dropped into a chair across from his partner. Pouring whisky into the glasses he eyed Howser’s swollen lips.

  ‘Figure you’ll be able to drink all right?’ he asked.

  Howser scowled. He slammed his stained hat on to the tabletop. ‘You talk too much,’ he said, wincing at the pain he felt in speaking.

  ‘What did I say?’ Jarrett protested. ‘Huh? What’d I say?’

  Howser tossed off his drink, shuddering as the whisky burned his lips. ‘Goddam!’ He dabbed his mouth with a kerchief from his pocket.

  ‘My chest pains me somethin’ awful,’ Jarrett murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He drank his own whisky and watched Howser tackling his second glass.

  They were still nursing their wounds, and the whisky bottle, when the batwings swung open and two men came in. Howser glanced up and studied them. Eventually he recognized them. One was the cook’s louse from over at Olsen’s Boxed-O, the other was an old cowhand who was now relegated to general handyman around Olsen’s spread. Both men made their way to the bar and ordered drinks. Even in his drink-hazed state Howser was able to realize that the pair were more than a little agitated. There was, he decided, something in the wind.

  He soon found out what it was. The Boxed-O pair were plainly eager to tell the tale they were carrying, and after a couple of drinks they were giving it free rein to every ear in the place.

  Dunc Howser was one who received the news with more than a passing interest. The plain fact that Jim Talman was on the spot made him smile. That Talman was up against Philip Olsen’s Boxed-O added an extra twist. Boxed-O was the biggest spread in the territory, big enough and powerful enough to swamp Rocking-T and make it vanish from the face of the earth. Olsen had been after the Talman spread for a long time and now it looked as though he was making his grab. Howser could see a range war on the horizon, and it made for interesting thinking.

  Reaching for the bottle Howser emptied the remaining whisky into his glass. Jarrett was sitting watching him, his face morose, and Howser suddenly grinned.

  ‘With Talman and Olsen at each other’s throats this piece of country is going to liven up some.’

  Jarrett’s face soured even more. ‘Range wars make a lot of trouble. Hell, Dunc, best thing for us is to get out now, before the thing blows wild.’

  ‘Get out? Damn you, Cal, can’t you see we got us a chance to make us some money out of this.’

  ‘How?’

  Howser’s bloodshot eyes shone suddenly. ‘I got me an idea. Just come to me.’ He shoved to his feet suddenly, jamming his hat back on. ‘Come on, Cal, get your butt off ‘n that seat.’

  ‘Where we goin’?’ Jarrett stumbled as the searing heat struck him as they left the saloon.

  Howser grinned again. ‘Tell you all about it on the way,’ he said.

  They mounted up and Howser led the way out of town. Jarrett was silent for some time, then he asked again, ‘Dunc, where we goin’?’

  Howser spat into the dust. ‘Boxed-O, that’s where we’re goin’. We’re goin’ to see Olsen and he’s goin’ to give us a job.’

  Jarrett’s head jerked around, and his unshaven face was puzzled. ‘Job? What kind of a job?’

  ‘One you’ll enjoy, Cal. You and me are goin’ to get somebody out of Olsen’s hair for good and all.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Figure it, Cal. Just figure who’s standing between Olsen and Rocking-T. Somebody Olsen’ll pay to have removed.’

  Jarrett nodded in sudden understanding. He gave a low chuckle. ‘Jim Talman.’

  ‘You named it, boy.’

  ‘You mean a gun job, Dunc?’

  ‘Sure. Kill him.’ Howser eyed his partner. ‘You don’t like the idea?’

  Jarrett laughed. ‘Hell, sure I like it. Best damn idea you had in a coon’s age.’

  Shortly after leaving town the pair took the branch-trail that led towards Boxed-O, and they eventually rode past the stone marker that signified the beginning of Boxed-O rangeland.

  It was well into the afternoon when they sighted the buildings of the Boxed-O headquarters. The place looked deserted. There were horses in the large corral, restless in the dusty heat. Apart from the animals no other living thing moved in the sun-bright ranch yard.

  From where they sat their sweating mounts, Howser and Jarrett were able to see down onto the ranch complex and then beyond where, far to the north, a pall of dust filmed the air.

  ‘Somebody moving beef,’ Jarrett said, pointing towards the dust-cloud. He was sweating heavily about the face and neck, his dirty shirt clinging to him front and back.

  ‘Means there won’t be many folk home,’ Howser said. ‘If Olsen’s there that’s all we need.’

  They rode down slowly, crossing the yard to rein in before the huge house. Easing in the saddle they looked the place over.

  Howser tipped his hat back. ‘
It’s a hell of a place,’ he said.

  ‘You like to told the truth,’ Jarrett agreed. ‘Man, oh, man.’

  Howser was preparing to dismount when the house’s big main door opened and Philip Olsen stepped out. He came to the edge of the porch, his face hard and openly hostile.

  ‘What do you tramps want? A handout?’

  ‘Why no sir, Mr. Olsen,’ Howser said. ‘We heard about your trouble with Rocking-T, and we come to offer our services.’

  Olsen was amused. ‘Tell me, Howser, just what can you offer me that I couldn’t get done myself?’

  Lowering his voice Howser leaned forward. ‘If Jim Talman was out of the picture things might go easier for you. Huh?’

  Olsen was silent for a moment as he considered the statement. Howser winked at Jarrett. Abruptly Olsen stepped off the porch and indicated that Howser and Jarrett should follow him. He led them over to the big main corral where they could talk without being overheard. Howser’s intimation had interested Olsen strongly. He waited while they dismounted and tied their horses.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘spit it out.’

  Howser hunched his broad shoulders. ‘You want Rocking-T pretty bad don’t you, Mr. Olsen?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Jim Talman won’t let it go without one hell of a fight. You’ll probably win in the end, but I’d bet it’ll cost you one way and another. Am I right?’

  ‘So you’ve proved you can figure things out by yourself.’ Olsen’s voice became edged with impatience. ‘Get to the point, man, I haven’t got time to waste.’

  Howser let the cold words pass over him, smiling easily. ‘All right, Mr. Olsen. It’s this way. You give us the nod and we’ll have Jim Talman being measured for a pine box before you know it.’

  Jim Talman dead.

  The thought settled well with Philip Olsen. Without Talman Rocking-T would go under with much less fight than if he were at its head. It was Talman who held the spread together. He was the source of Rocking-T’s strength. Take him away and Rocking-T would fall apart in no time.