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

by Neil Hunter

  Time dragged as the miles passed by. Jim eased his watch out of the folds of his slicker. He saw that it was after midday, and he realized he must be close to town. Shortly he came onto the main trail and a while later he was passing the first of Garnett’s buildings. He was unable to raise any comfort from the fact that he had arrived — each minute that elapsed only brought his confrontation with Olsen that much closer.

  He turned his horse in at the livery, riding through the big double-doors.

  The large barnlike place was gloomy, deep-shadowed, but it was warm and smelled of leather and horses. Jim dismounted and led his horse into an empty stall. He off-saddled and gave his animal a brisk rub down, then covered it with a handy blanket. He was sweating under the clinging slicker by the time he’d done. Collecting his rifle Jim made for the door, wondering idly where the liveryman was.

  At the door he stood for a moment, staring out at the rain-lashed town. He was almost reluctant to go out into the rain again but he knew he had to. Holding his rifle beneath his slicker he stepped out into the downpour and headed for the hotel.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sometime earlier the rig carrying Philip Olsen and his wife had moved slowly along Garnett’s main street, coming to a halt before the hotel.

  Releasing the waterproof side-hoods, Olsen climbed out and deposited two large handgrips on the boardwalk. He turned back to the rig and gave Victorene a hand down. She walked straight into the hotel, leaving Olsen to follow her, carrying the bags.

  Half-angry he dumped her bags by the desk. He was wearing a bright yellow slicker and he was sweat-sticky beneath it.

  Behind the desk the clerk straightened his collar and put on a fawning smile as he moved forward. ‘Good morning, Mr. Olsen. Mrs. Olsen. You require a room?’

  ‘My wife does,’ Olsen said, his tone indicating that he was in no mood for trivial niceties.

  ‘Of course.’ The clerk made a quick check of his vacancy book. ‘Number 38, on the top floor. It has a large bedroom and an adjoining sitting-room.’

  ‘That will do.’

  ‘How long will Mrs. Olsen require the room?’

  Olsen stiffened, but Victorene smiled gently. ‘For some time I think,’ she said pleasantly.

  ‘A pleasure to have you with us, Mrs. Olsen.’ The clerk turned the book for her to sign.

  Pen in hand Victorene leaned towards the book. Then her breath caught in her throat, her heart pounded suddenly. She forced calmness on herself and quickly signed her name in the empty space below the book’s last entry. An entry which read: Room 35, and was signed Frank Spode. Victorene replaced the pen on the desk and smiled at the clerk. She hoped her feelings were not showing, for despite herself her face felt hot and her heart was hammering wildly. She turned away from the desk and made her way upstairs, Olsen close behind her.

  He saw her settled in her room, and it was obvious that he was impatient to leave. Victorene realized quite calmly that her marriage to him was over. She found no sorrow in her heart, for herself or for him. It was as if they were complete strangers, as if they never had been married.

  ‘I’ll have the rest of your stuff brought into town first chance I get,’ Olsen told her.

  Victorene nodded. ‘Very well, Philip.’ She crossed to the window and watched the rain falling.

  ‘You’ll take things from here, then?’ he said, and she thought, he even does this like a business deal.

  ‘Yes,’ she told him, and her voice had an edge to it that she was unable to conceal. ‘Now if you don’t mind . . .’

  Olsen opened the door, almost eager to be gone. He glanced at her as if to speak, then changed his mind. He stepped outside and pulled the door shut.

  Victorene went to the bed and took off her coat, then returned to the window and watched until Olsen came out of the hotel and climbed into the rig. She watched him turn the rig and drive on up the street to the bank. He got out of the rig and went into the bank.

  Once he was out of her sight Victorene put him out of her mind. She went across to the dressing-table and tidied her hair, then left her room and walked down the corridor to the door that carried the number 35. She hesitated for only a moment before she knocked lightly on the door. She was about to knock again when the door opened.

  ‘Hello, Frank,’ she said, and, surprised at her own boldness, she stepped into the room.

  Frank Spode closed the door. ‘How did you . . . ?’ he began, but Victorene gave him no more time to talk. She came against him eagerly, her arms going round him and her lips seeking his. Spode pushed his questions aside, gave himself over to the emotions that demanded satisfaction. For a time they held close until their held-back desires could be checked no longer. Words were not needed now, and they gave themselves wholly to each other until they were spent and utterly drained. And then they lay together, bodies close, enclosed in their own world of togetherness. Victorene told him then what had happened, that she was parted from Olsen for good, and for a time it was a hard thing for Spode to realize, but when he did he held her warm, naked body tightly in his arms and made her the promise that he would never leave her alone. Never, he promised, and made the vow that he would kill any man who tried to take her from him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Leaving the bank Philip Olsen drove the rig down to the livery. He had lingered for a talk and a glass of brandy with the bank’s manager, but it was still a little way off noon. Knowing Howser and Jarrett though, he thought, they would likely be there in plenty of time.

  He drove the rig around to the rear of the livery, parking under the slope-roofed lean-to that was there for the purpose of sheltering rigs and light wagons. He unhitched the horse and led it inside the livery.

  The liveryman, an old-timer who seemed to have been in charge of the place for as long as anyone could remember, was raking the hard-packed floor with slow, measured strokes. He glanced up as Olsen led his horse inside.

  ‘Morning, Mr. Olsen. One hell of a day, huh?’

  ‘Depends on which way you look at it.’

  The old man stopped his raking and leaned on his tool. ‘Yeah, I guess so. Course this is what you want, ain’t it, water and lots of it, I mean.’ He paused to scratch at his thin neck. ‘Now me, I could do without it. This kind of weather keeps everybody indoors. Nobody wants to come out in this kind of downpour.’ He sighed. ‘Just ain’t good for business,’ he muttered.

  ‘Rain won’t last forever.’

  The old man nodded. ‘Guess you’re right.’ He leaned his rake against a stall. ‘Anyhow, I figure I’ll get me some lunch while things are quiet. Just see to your horse first.’

  Olsen forced a smile. ‘You go ahead. I’ll see to it.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Well, if you say so. Thanks, Mr. Olsen.’ The liveryman shuffled off to his pokey office and dragged on a slicker that practically overwhelmed his skinny frame in its folds. He raised a hand to Olsen as he went out of the door and started up the street.

  Olsen put the horse in a stall and gave it a rubdown. As he worked his mind was mulling over numerous problems. At the top of his list was Jim Talman and Rocking-T. He felt a little more satisfied after last night’s raid. The running of Rocking-T’s herd would keep things on the boil. Olsen had other schemes afoot to pursue his harassment against Jim Talman. With Curly Browning as foreman now, Olsen was anticipating a rapid forward movement of his takeover. Curly was eager to show his paces, willing to execute all the orders he was given. He had led Boxed-O last night, scattering Talman’s herd to hell and gone. The shooting of Andy Jacobs hadn’t been part of Olsen’s plan but he wasn’t complaining. It was another prop knocked from under Jim Talman, another weak spot in the structure of Rocking-T. It would be things like those that would win him Rocking-T. Bit by bit, but it had to be done quickly. And if it were not moving quickly enough there was always his final weapon — and the reason he was here today.

  The killing of Jim Talman had to b
e something apart from anything else he was involved in. He would tell no one. The fewer who knew the better, he had decided. His use of Howser and Jarrett would be known to himself and the two men he was hiring. Maybe he wouldn’t need them. If he did he would use them without hesitation.

  Olsen heard movement behind him. He straightened, turned. Howser and Jarrett stood watching him. A faint smile touched Howser’s lips.

  ‘I figured you for a man who paid others to do his work for him,’ Howser said, and Olsen sensed the meaning behind his words.

  Olsen finished the rubdown. He stepped out of the stall, wiping his damp hands on his kerchief. ‘I started out as a stable boy,’ he said. ‘I know what it means to have dirty hands.’

  ‘Easier to pay to have it done though, huh?’ Howser questioned.

  Olsen ignored the needling and took a white envelope from his coat. ‘Half the agreed sum.’ He held back as Howser reached out a hand. ‘Understand me clearly,’ he told the pair. ‘You behave as usual until I give the word. You don’t contact me, I’ll come to you.’

  ‘Sure. Don’t you worry, Mr. Olsen.’ Howser’s eyes were gleaming. ‘Hell, we won’t foul up.’

  ‘You’d better not. Do this right and maybe I’ll be able to use you again.’ He handed over the envelope. ‘Don’t start throwing this around. We don’t want anyone starting to wonder where you suddenly got rich.’

  Olsen watched with distaste as Howser and Jarrett hungrily divided the money. ‘Stay in town and keep handy,’ he told them. ‘And remember what I’ve told you.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ Howser grinned. He touched the brim of his hat, then turned, with Jarrett following close, and left the stable by the rear door, leaving Olsen alone with his thoughts.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Olsen was not at the hotel. According to the clerk Olsen had left after he had seen his wife settled in. Later, the clerk added, he had seen Olsen make his way down to the saloon.

  Crossing the muddy street Jim stepped up onto the boardwalk and walked along until he reached the saloon. He paused long enough to remove his slicker. He hung it from one of the hooks provided, then he went inside.

  The saloon was fairly busy. Cigarette smoke and the murmur of talk filled the air. It was noticeably warmer than outside. Jim saw a few men he knew and he spoke to a number of them as he passed. They were for the most part ranchers like himself, and they all knew the problem he had. Although none of them actually mentioned it, Jim could tell they were acutely aware of what was happening. Jim could appreciate how they felt. They understood his trouble and they plainly sympathized, but they would not want to get involved. Every man there had problems enough. Getting caught up in another man’s range trouble was something none of them needed — or wanted.

  Jim would have liked to have stayed to talk with them longer, but he had no time now. He had spotted Philip Olsen. The Boxed-O owner was sitting alone at the far end of the saloon on the raised, railed-off section that was the closest anyone could get to privacy in the saloon. A near-empty bottle stood on the table before him and a glass was in his big fist.

  Jim made his way over to where Olsen sat. It had been some time since he had actually seen Olsen in the flesh. From what he saw now Olsen had changed. The man had put on weight, mainly in the face. But Jim didn’t let himself be deceived into believing that Olsen had gone soft. Olsen looked as hard and tough as his reputation had painted him.

  Stepping up to Olsen’s table Jim pulled out a chair and sat down. For a moment it seemed as though Olsen might ignore him. Then he glanced at Jim, his face taut, somewhat flushed by the whisky he had consumed. A faint smile played across his lips at some silent, inner thought.

  ‘You come to say you’ve had enough?’ he asked.

  ‘I came to see if we can work this out before there’s any more trouble,’ Jim told him.

  Olsen drained his glass. ‘I don’t see anything to work out.’

  ‘Quit playing, Olsen. Just what is it you want?’

  ‘Nothing more or less than Rocking-T. Lock, stock, and barrel.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  Olsen smiled coldly. ‘I believe in facts, Talman, hard facts. You got something I want, and I aim to have it. As simple as that.’

  ‘Not so simple,’ Jim said. ‘Rocking-T is mine and it stays mine. You expect me to give in just because you make loud noises?’

  ‘It could save you a lot of grief.’

  ‘Won’t work, Olsen. If you want Rocking-T, you’ll have to get it the hard way. Rocking-T will fight all the way, and play just as dirty as you. That’s a promise. I figured it was a waste of time talking to you, but I had to try.’

  Olsen sat up straight, his hands flat on the tabletop. ‘Look, Talman, why make things worse for yourself. Sell out now, while there’s still something left to sell. I’ll give you a damn good price, better than you could get anywhere else. Face facts, Talman. I need Rocking-T. My expansion has to be quick, and that means I have no time to play about. You can’t fight me. I can beat you in any way. Men or money. You figure it and you’ll see I’m right. So why bring trouble on yourself. I’ll take you in the end.’

  ‘Big talk,’ Jim said, ‘but are you man enough to make it come off?’

  Anger rose in Olsen. ‘That is what you’ll find out. You want it the hard way do you? All right, you’ll get it. All the way down the line.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Remember how Andy Jacobs ended up.’

  For the first time Jim let his emotions get the better of him. He came up out of his chair with such force that he turned it over. He towered over Olsen, the rifle gripped tight in his hands. He was close to breaking point and he knew it. And it scared him, because he wasn’t sure what he might do if he did let his control slip. Olsen must have sensed it too for he turned his face up to Jim, and for a fleeting moment fear showed in his eyes. It vanished just as quickly, and it was the Olsen of old who faced Jim, his broad face tight and totally defiant.

  ‘I won’t forget Andy,’ Jim said finally, ‘or Ben Nolan. By God I won’t. You’ve set the rules in this game, Olsen, so don’t cry when you get hurt, because I promise that’s one thing you will get.’

  Olsen, pouring himself another drink, appeared to ignore Jim’s threat. ‘You figuring on crying for help to Nolan?’

  ‘You know damn well that Ben Nolan was hurt bad last night. Hurt when he tried to help Andy Jacobs.’

  ‘Things do happen,’ Olsen said coolly. ‘The cattle business is rough — it’s a man’s life, but it’s rough. Dog eat dog.’

  Jim eased off now. He was in control again, able to take Olsen’s remarks without flaring up.

  ‘Just keep your riders off my range, mister. From now on any Boxed-O man is fair game for my crew. It’ll be shoot first and worry later, and I never meant anything so strong in my life.’

  He turned away then, before Olsen could reply. He could feel Olsen’s eyes on his back all the way to the door. Outside he retrieved his slicker. It was getting colder, but Jim was glad of the fresh air. He stood for a moment, undecided what to do. Then an impulse caught him and he turned along the boardwalk. His long strides ate up the distance and eventually brought him to John Dobbs’ store.

  He stepped inside and felt the calm, unhurried atmosphere of the place surround him. He put his slicker and rifle aside and moved deeper into the store, removing his sodden hat. He passed stacked goods and provisions, savoring the mixed aromas, and felt a calmness come over him.

  ‘Anyone to home?’ he called.

  Sound came to him from the back of the store, then he saw Melanie Dobbs as she emerged from the doorway that led to the living quarters at the rear of the building. A pleased smile touched her lips as she saw him.

  ‘Jim. What a nice surprise. Whatever brings you to town on a day like this?’

  He managed a wry smile. ‘Haven’t you heard what’s going on? Or are you just being polite?’

  ‘Oh, Jim, we were so sorry when we heard.’ The concern was clear in her tone.r />
  ‘Thanks for the thought,’ he said.

  ‘Come on through,’ Melanie said. ‘Dad’s in the back. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you.’

  Jim followed her through the door. A short passage led to the living-room, with bedrooms and kitchen on the other side. John Dobbs was seated before a roll top desk, busy at work over a thick ledger. He glanced up at Jim’s entrance and got up.

  ‘Hello, Jim.’ He took Jim’s hand for a moment. ‘Come and sit down.’

  He led Jim over to where a blazing fire roared in the big open hearth. Jim settled himself in one of the two big armchairs and Dobbs took the other.

  ‘Coffee, Jim?’ Melanie asked.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Jim said, glad that she had asked.

  Jim stared at the fire, letting the warmth of it seep into his tired body. Last night and today’s long ride were beginning to tell on him.

  ‘How bad is it, Jim?’ Dobbs asked, his voice coming to Jim as if it were a long way off.

  ‘Bad enough.’ Jim glanced at the storekeeper. ‘I don’t suppose I need to lay it out for you?’

  Dobbs smiled. ‘Storekeepers are like parsons. They hear every bit of news from miles around simply because most people come into a store at one time or another, just as they would a church.’

  ‘Then you’ll know how things stand right now?’

  ‘The tale is that your neighbor Olsen has made a try at taking over. Tried for your water first, then made a raid on your herd last night.’ Dobbs paused, as though reluctant to go further, then added, ‘Up to now each of you has lost one man, and the sheriff has been bad hurt.’

  ‘Man just can’t keep a thing to himself. Beats me how the word gets out.’ Jim leaned in closer to the fire. ‘You haven’t heard anything on how I can get this settled have you?’

  Dobbs smiled dryly.

  Melanie returned with a tray holding cups and a pot of hot coffee. Jim took his cup gratefully, tasting the sweet, black brew. It was good and as he drank he began to feel hunger touching his insides.