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

by Neil Hunter

  Nolan himself was still unconscious. He’d suffered a broken leg and a number of broken ribs, plus a mass of cuts and bruises that had left him in a bad way. Garnett’s lawman was going to be out of action for some time. What law there had been was now out of the way. If full-scale war broke out now there was no law to stop it — unless it was gun law.

  For Jim this was one more problem to add to the many he already carried. He was deeply concerned about Nolan’s health; Ben Nolan was tough, but he’d been hurt badly. Someone would pay for what had happened last night. He’d lost one close friend in Andy Jacobs, and that burned like a raw, fresh brand. Above the hurt he felt Jim had another reason for wanting vengeance. Doc Baily had come to Jim the night before, after he had completed his examination on Andy Jacobs. The doctor had placed two small objects in Jim’s hand, and had said softly, ‘I dug them out of Andy just now, Jim.’

  Long seconds had passed as Jim had stared at the two .44-40 caliber lead slugs in his hand. A knot of coldness filled his stomach as realization of what they meant grew on him. Doc Baily had made a low sound in his throat. He had removed the glasses he wore to clean the lens. ‘They were in his back, Jim,’ he’d said.

  The words were still strong in Jim’s thoughts as he put the Bible away in the old roll top desk. For a moment he stood there, momentarily at a loss. Events had taken turns that had left him a little stunned. He knew he had to snap out of it, but for the moment he was feeling the full weight of it all.

  ‘Jim, come and have a cup of coffee.’ Ruth’s voice, behind him, was gentle but firm.

  He turned and took the coffee she offered. It was hot and sweet and tasted like coffee had never tasted before.

  ‘Are you going over to talk to Olsen?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘I’ve got to,’ he told her. ‘I don’t know if it’ll do any good but I’ve got to try.’

  Ruth came to him and he held her close.

  ‘Jim, I don’t want you to end up like Ben — or Andy.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen to me,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Jim, why do things like this have to happen?’

  ‘Because some men are never content with what they’ve got. They always figure the next man’s grass is greener than their own.’

  ‘But it just isn’t fair, Jim. Too much has gone into Rocking-T. Olsen has no right to it.’

  Jim smiled gently. Women never complicated things, he thought. To them life was all black and white, with no intermediate shades.

  ‘I agree, honey, and anyway he isn’t going to get Rocking-T. And don’t you let yourself forget it.’

  From the back of the house Jim heard Doc Baily calling him. With Ruth close behind he went through to the bedroom where they’d put Ben Nolan. Doc Baily met them at the door, a tired smile on his face.

  ‘He’s awake,’ he told them, ‘and he wants to see you.’

  ‘How is he?’

  Baily straightened his drooping glasses.

  ‘He’s hurt bad, but he’ll mend. It’s going to take some time though. He’ll need tending, and watching.’

  ‘He’ll be looked after,’ Ruth said. ‘I’ll see to that, dad.’

  Jim glanced at her, seeing the determined gleam in her eyes. She’d set her mind and he knew how stubborn she could be. Not that he had any arguments on this subject. If Ruth hadn’t made the suggestion he would have made it himself.

  They went into the bedroom and saw with relief that Nolan was not only awake, he was sitting up. Bandages swathed his body from the waist up and his broken leg was braced in wood splints. Even his face, though it was not bandaged, showed the marks of his injuries. Nolan, realizing he had visitors, raised his head and managed a painful smile.

  ‘How you feeling, Ben? Jim asked.

  ‘Like I never want to feel again,’ Nolan said. He glanced at Ruth. ‘I said I’d be visiting again soon.’

  Ruth sat on the edge of the bed. She tried to smile, but too much had happened and people she loved had been hurt. Tears flooded her eyes and she lowered her head.

  ‘Lord, Jim, I’m sorry about Andy,’ Nolan said.

  ‘It’s hit us all pretty hard.’ Jim hesitated. ‘Ben, did you see who did it to Andy?’

  ‘I saw it up to where the herd hit us. After that things got rough. We’d got halfway across the meadow when all hell broke loose. Guns started going off, then the herd started to run. Andy and me figured it was another Boxed-O raid and we decided to see what we could do. Trouble was, we were right in the middle of it all. Andy said best thing we could do was to get to high ground. I remember we reined about, then I heard a yell and a couple of shots. I turned and saw Andy keel over and fall. I got down to help him, but the herd was too close. It hit us before we could move. I got a clout on the head and passed out.’

  An awkward silence lay over them for a time. Jim knew what was going through all their minds, and he had a question that couldn’t wait.

  ‘Ben, did you see who shot Andy?’

  Nolan raised his eyes from Ruth’s motionless figure. He passed a weary hand over his face. ‘When I heard the shots and turned I saw a rider heading away from us. He had a gun in his hand.’

  ‘Who, Ben?’

  ‘Curly Browning.’

  ‘It figures,’ Jim said. ‘It was Curly who had words at the spring when Andy shot Olsen’s rider. He said he’d settle with Andy.’

  ‘But in the back, Jim?’ Baily protested.

  ‘We all live by different rules, doc,’ Jim told him. ‘Back shooters figure their way is the surest, and the safest — for them. If you’re out to kill a man why do it in a way that gives him a chance to kill you?’

  ‘Jim, what are you figuring to do about Curly?’ Nolan’s voice was friendly, but it was Garnett’s law that was asking the question.

  ‘I’m not going gunning for him if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, boy, ’cause I wouldn’t want to have to arrest you.’

  Ruth’s head came up, her eyes flashing. For a moment it seemed she was about to let go at Nolan. Then she calmed and her taut body relaxed. She knew as well as Jim that there was only one set of laws, and a man was either on one side or the other.

  ‘I think that’s all for now,’ Baily told them. ‘Ben, here, needs rest. Plenty of rest. You two move out of here. Go on.’

  ‘Jim,’ Nolan said, ‘you watch yourself. Olsen’s got the bit in his teeth now. He’s going to keep kicking.’

  ‘He may get a surprise when Rocking-T kicks back.’

  Nolan smiled and lay back.

  Before he left the house Jim made sure he was carrying fully-loaded weapons. He was hoping to keep his visit to Boxed-O a peaceful one, but there was no guarantee that was how it would turn out.

  Ruth’s goodbye was light, but it was strained.

  Crossing the yard, ankle-deep in mud now, a far cry from yesterday’s dust, Jim went into the bunkhouse. The big iron stove had been lit and the place was warm and steamy from drying clothing. Jan Dorn joined him, his square face set and expressionless.

  ‘What is to be done for today, Jim?’ he asked.

  ‘Just gather the herd and make a tally. See how many we lost last night.’ Dorn nodded, and Jim, watching him, knew he’d been right in giving him the job of foreman. Dorn had been with Rocking-T for a long time. He was tough, solid, dependable. He would take orders without question, but Jim knew that he could use his head if the need arose. ‘Jan,’ he added, ‘just keep the boys on their toes. Olsen might strike again, anywhere. I don’t want any more Rocking-T casualties.’

  ‘I understand, Jim.’ Dorn reached for his coat. ‘How is sheriff?’

  ‘Awake. He’ll be in bed for some time, but he’ll mend.’

  ‘Is nasty this, Jim,’ Dorn said. He began to pull on his coat. ‘What happens about Andy?’

  ‘It gets settled, Jan, but the right way. No shot in the back.’

  Dorn fastened his coat tight. ‘I tell the boys. They will understand. You ride with us today?’r />
  ‘No, I’m going to Boxed-O for a talk with Olsen.’

  ‘Is wise?’

  ‘Hell, Jan, what’s wise and what isn’t just now? I’ve got to give it a try.’

  ‘Sure, Jim, is right way.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Jim told him. He fastened his slicker across his throat as he left the bunkhouse, made his way to the stable. Clinging mud made his boots heavy. The rain continued to fall from a lead gray sky. Swollen cloudbanks warned that the rain was settling in for a seemingly long stay. Jim wondered just how long it would last. The drought was over and now it seemed as if the next problem would be an over-abundance of water.

  Jim saddled up and rode out of the yard, turning his horse across country. He would cross the hills that separated his range from that of Olsen’s, and then make his way across Boxed-O to the opposing headquarters.

  He rode at a steady pace, keeping his horse away from soft ground as much as possible. The rain had turned the land sodden and water had gathered in every hollow. The grass would start to grow through soon, Jim realized, as long as the rain didn’t wash the very roots out of the soil.

  He saw odd bunches of Rocking-T beef here and there as he rode. The beasts were crowding together in collective misery as the rain sluiced down on their glistening hides. Twice he reined in and dismounted as he came across steers that lay motionless on the ground. Both times he found dead beef. Each steer bore extensive wounds, obviously received during the stampede of the previous night. The question in his mind was how many Rocking-T beeves were there like this?

  Reaching the foothills he urged his horse up the wet slopes. The creek lay close on his right, the stream full to overflowing, water surging and roiling its way across the land.

  The higher he got the rougher the ride became. Jim tired of dismounting in the end and eventually stayed on foot, leading his horse. Once he reached the tree-line the way became a little easier. Beneath the trees the ground was somewhat firmer. The overhead tangle of branches held back some of the rain. Here it was dim and shadowy, the air heavy with the damp smell of the trees, the musk of tree-mold and wood rot.

  Breaking out from the trees Jim came upon the place where Callender and Keel were keeping their vigil over the spring. He was below them yet, but he could see the jutting rock-formation that concealed their camp.

  ‘Hello the camp,’ he called, warning them of his approach.

  Off to his left he heard movement. Rem Callender stepped out of the brush. He wore a dull, mud-colored slicker and held a rifle. Beneath his dripping hat brim his face was dark with beard-stubble.

  ‘Heard you coming,’ he said.

  ‘Glad I’m a friend,’ Jim smiled. ‘I figured I’d crept up without you noticing.’

  Callender grinned briefly, and Jim realized just how good the man was.

  They moved on up to the campsite. Jim put his horse with the two already there. Callender was on his heels by a small fire built under a jutting overhang. Jim saw bedrolls and personal gear spread out on the dry rock. He joined Callender and gratefully shucked his slicker.

  ‘You want coffee?’

  Jim nodded and Callender handed him a steaming tin mug of black brew.

  ‘Where’s Josh?’

  Callender gave a vague wave of his hand. ‘He’s out there somewhere. You won’t see him less he wants you to.’

  Drinking his coffee Jim accepted the thin cigar Callender offered him and lit up.

  Callender tipped his hat back. ‘Damn shame about Andy. Man like him shouldn’t go that way. Not shot in the back.’

  ‘It won’t be forgotten.’

  ‘You know who done it?’

  ‘Ben was able to talk this morning. Just after Andy was downed, Ben says he saw a feller called Curly Browning riding off with a gun in his hand. He didn’t see him do it, but it fits the picture. Curly said he’d get Andy for the killing of Red.’

  Callender studied his coffee mug. ‘Curly Browning. Hell, I know him. He’s a bad hombre. Had him in my sights once during a war way over at Kittyhawk. My hammer hit a dud shell.’

  ‘Sounds like Olsen has hired himself a bunch of professionals.’

  ‘If they’re all like Curly Browning, then he has.’ Callender watched the rain for a while. ‘Jim, can I give you a word of advice?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Don’t let yourself be suckered into anything. Men like Curly earn their pay ’cause there ain’t much they won’t do for money. Ain’t one of ’em you can trust further than the thickness of a dollar bill. I figure you’ll be pretty hot on doing something about Curly before long. Fair enough. But don’t let him know. Keep it to yourself until you want to make your play. Then go and do it and don’t do any hesitating. He won’t take much prompting to back shoot you.’

  ‘I’ll remember,’ Jim said. ‘Thanks, Rem.’

  ‘No thanks needed. I’m just protecting my own interests. Remember you’re the feller who pays the wages round here.’

  Jim grinned. He finished his coffee and prepared to go.

  ‘You heading for Olsen’s place?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jim shrugged into his slicker. ‘Nobody has much faith in the idea. I don’t exactly either, but I’ve got to try and talk with Olsen. I might get him to see sense. Anyhow he’ll know that Rocking-T isn’t about to sit back and let him take over without a fight.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Once he had negotiated the downward fall of the hills and was on Boxed-O range Jim rode with extreme caution, his awareness of his situation fully realized.

  There was no way of anticipating the reactions of any Boxed-O riders he might meet. If possible he intended to avoid any contact at all. To this end he kept close to any cover he saw, riding in amongst any trees or stretches of brush. The dullness of the day and the falling curtain of rain aided his camouflage. Nevertheless he rode uneasily, his eyes searching constantly. Beneath his slicker his handgun was loose in its holster and his saddle-gun was close at hand.

  Once, some distance to the north he saw riders plainly outlined against the skyline. Jim pulled his horse close in to a stand of high trees and watched the riders as they moved slowly along the crest of the distant ridge. For a while it appeared as if they might ride his way, but they eventually turned away and went over the ridge out of sight. Jim sat for a while longer, then moved on through the unceasing downpour.

  He saw no more riders. In fact he saw no more signs of life throughout the remainder of his long ride to Boxed-O headquarters. Olsen’s vast herds were obviously being kept on some other section of the huge, sprawling range.

  The complex of corrals, outbuildings, and the huge main house appeared deserted, abandoned almost, to Jim as he crested a rim at the sloping approach to the Boxed-O ranch. He set his horse down the muddy trail which brought him in by way of the maze of corrals and cattle-pens. He passed a large feed-store and stables large enough to hold a herd of horses. A number of wagons were stored beneath a lean-to alongside the stables. It was an impressive setup, Jim admitted. Big, ambitious, built from the dreams of a man who saw everything in a big way.

  The rise of smoke from the cook-shack told Jim that someone was at home. He turned his horse that way, dismounting into ankle-deep mud. The cook shack door opened before Jim reached it and a balding, scarlet-faced man with flour-white hands eyed him suspiciously. A cloud of steam billowed out from behind him and the odors of hot food and coffee reached Jim.

  The cook eyed Jim for a few seconds. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ he asked.

  ‘You maybe heard of me. Jim Talman’s the name.’

  The grin on the cook’s face was paler than the flour on his hands. ‘All I do is make the meals.’

  Jim realized that the man was more than a little scared. Trouble of this kind touched everybody involved, from the top right down to the bottom. But he wondered just what sort of a monster he represented to some people.

  ‘Take it easy, friend, I haven’t come to shoot holes in your coffee pot.’

  A s
udden breeze caught the rain and sent it scudding across the puddled yard in a silvery curtain. It struck at Jim, stinging his face and he hunched his shoulders against it.

  ‘Is Olsen at home?’ he asked.

  The cook shook his bald head. Rain had caught it and it shone wetly. ‘You missed him by a couple of hours. Him and the missus. They took the rig and headed for town.’

  ‘Coming back today?’

  ‘Bossman is. I heard he’s leaving the missus in town. I figure he wants her out of the way while all this trouble . . . ‘ The cook’s voice faltered and he stared at Jim as though he expected to be leaped upon by a raving maniac.

  ‘I’ll try and catch him in town,’ Jim said, turning his back on the cold wind that was blowing up.

  ‘You going to stop this mess?’ the cook asked.

  In his saddle Jim looked down at the man. ‘I’m going to try,’ he said.

  The cook smiled without humor. ‘How?’

  Jim gathered his reins. ‘That’s the only part that’s giving me trouble.’

  ‘I could get me fired for saying this, but I hope you find a way, Mr. Talman, before we all lose more’n we can afford. You know what I mean?’

  Jim nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’ He pulled his horse’s head around and urged the animal forward across the yard. Behind him the cook retreated into his warm haven, closing the door against the wind and rain, and the cold, unfriendly world.

  Beyond the yard Jim found himself on a regular trail, plainly Boxed-O’s road to town. He set himself for another long ride and wished he had taken time to beg a cup of coffee from the bald-headed cook.

  Settling himself in the saddle as comfortably as possible, Jim resigned himself to the journey ahead. He was cold and wet, for even the best slicker couldn’t keep out every drop of rain; water had somehow got in under his collar and had drawn a chilly finger down his back. The flesh of his face was sore from the constant sting of sweeping rain, his eyes were aching from having to squint and peer through the driving downpour.

  He allowed his horse to pick its own way, depending on the animal’s instinct to take it on the safest route.