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

by Neil Hunter

  As darkness approached they halted and unsaddled their horses. Each animal was rubbed down and blanketed, then fed and watered. Only after this was done did Keel build a small fire over which coffee was brewed and bacon fried. A pot of beans went on as well.

  Keel ate his meal almost as it cooked, then took a mug of coffee and his rifle as he moved off into the darkness to stand watch.

  Ladling beans onto a plate Jim handed it to Callender who helped himself to bacon. Filling his own plate Jim sat back on his heels.

  ‘He always so quiet?’

  Callender smiled. ‘Josh takes a little getting used to. You know though, Jim, I wouldn’t want any other man to partner me. No offence intended.’

  ‘How long you been together?’

  ‘About three years now. First met up down Sonora way. We was both in one of them Mex jails. Both about to get shot too, as I recall.’ Callender took more bacon. ‘Man, but we were in a mess. They get pretty rough on gringos down there. Anyhow, we figured we didn’t exactly favor the notion of being stood to a wall and shot so we made a try at bustin’ out.’

  ‘Appears you made it.’

  ‘Hell, yeah. We somehow worked well together. Damn near leveled that jailhouse to the ground. Got us a couple of fistfuls of guns and just shot our way out of there. Found us some horses and burned leather for the border before they knew what’d hit ’em. Since then we’ve sort of stuck.’

  ‘Sounds a good arrangement.’

  Callender exchanged his plate for a mug of coffee. ‘I guess it is. It suits our way. We like to move around some, take whatever comes.’ He grinned. ‘The rougher the better.’

  ‘You’ll probably get all the roughness you want when we hit that herd,’ Jim said.

  ‘This is going to make Olsen mad as the old maid who thought there was a man under her bed, then found there wasn’t.’

  ‘Rem, old maids just won’t be in it.’

  They rested for two hours then cleared the campsite and rode on. A pale moon came up, painting the land in stark shades of black and silvered grayness. They rode as fast as safety allowed. As the hours passed the air grew chill and they stopped long enough to pull on the thick short coats they had tied behind their saddles.

  The night passed slowly, without incident, and dawn, streaking the sky about them, found them climbing into stark, sparse-wooded hills. Once more they halted for a quick meal, washing it down with mugs of hot, black coffee.

  With full light on them they rode on, now with increased caution, for they were coming into the terrain where they would find the herd. It had to be in this general area, for this was the only way a herd could traverse these hills.

  ‘From here on in we’d better ride careful,’ Jim said. ‘We could run into them anywhere around here.’

  ‘I’ll find them before they find us,’ Keel said. He touched his heels to his horse and rode out ahead of them.

  ‘And he will,’ Callender remarked.

  ‘I believe you,’ Jim said.

  Callender seemed to know which way Keel was going, even though his partner was now out of sight. Jim followed, content to let them get on with a job they plainly knew very well.

  He wondered for a moment how things were back at Rocking-T, but he didn’t let the thoughts nag him. He had a damn good crew back there, a crew who could handle most anything that came up. Whatever the results of his present action, he knew he was doing the right thing. He was fighting for what was his and as long as he was able he would keep on fighting. This move, if it came off, would hit Olsen hard. It might make him reconsider his intentions towards Rocking-T. Jim knew full well that it might just trigger off more violent action from Olsen, but whichever way it turned out it had to be done.

  The morning grew warmer as the sun began to climb. It wasn’t long before they were able to remove the coats they had donned against the chill of the night. Though they were on fairly high ground there was no breeze. The air, fresh and sharp, was motionless. Above them the sky was clear, with only a few clouds and it promised to be a hot day.

  Hard rock lay beneath the hooves of the horses and the noise of their passage was sharp. Jim began to worry, for sound carried far in this high country. Just ahead of him Rem Callender reined in suddenly. He put up a hand and Jim brought his own mount to a halt.

  ‘You hear something?’

  Callender nodded. ‘I figure it’s only Josh.’ He sounded sure, but Jim noticed that he had pulled his rifle from its sheath and had it laid ready across his saddle.

  There was only silence. Then Jim detected a faint rustle of sound off to his left. He eased that way and saw Josh Keel emerging from an overgrowth of brush. Keel was on foot, his rifle in his hands, and Jim noticed that he had changed from boots to soft, silent moccasins.

  ‘Set easy, Mr. Talman,’ he said. He made a swift indicating motion with his hand, back towards the way he had come. ‘Back that way. Eight riders and more beef on the hoof than I ever seen before.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Man, if we get that herd to running they’ll be able to see the dust back in Chicago,’ Rem Callender said.

  Surveying the trailing length of the great herd through a pair of old field-glasses, Jim felt inclined to agree. He had been expecting a large herd, but what he saw now was the largest gathering of beef he’d ever set eyes on. It was only now that he fully realized the scope of Olsen’s ambitions.

  ‘I’ll say one thing. Those eight riders down there must be damn good to be able to control a herd that size.’

  Callender glanced across at Jim. ‘Pretty fair,’ he said. ‘You think we ought to go down and spoil it for them?’

  ‘Hell, yes,’ Jim told him and Callender smiled bleakly.

  ‘No doubt as to who they belong to?’

  Jim shook his head. ‘That’s Olsen’s band all right. And those riders are all Boxed-O.’

  Callender eased back from the rocky rim they were on. Below them the land sloped and dropped away for almost a quarter of a mile to the wide valley floor that cut its way through the range of hills. He studied the lay of the land around them for a minute, then brought his attention back to Jim.

  ‘How do you want to play it?’

  ‘I figure to let them through here. Wait until they get to open ground, then hit them from the rear. Get the herd running, then move out ourselves.’

  ‘That should do it,’ Callender said. He looked over to where Keel sat with his hat over his eyes. ‘Josh, you game?’

  Keel didn’t move. ‘I’m halfway there,’ was all he said.

  Pulling a couple of thin stogies out of his pocket Callender tossed one to Jim. They lit up and sat watching the slow moving herd below. Dust swelled up from the hooves of the jostling beasts.

  Horsemen rode this way and that, keeping the herd together, making sure that any stragglers were quickly hazed back into the main bunch. Olsen’s men were evidently making this drive the hard way, for there was no chuck wagon, and only a small string of spare horses.

  It was a half-hour short of noon when Jim decided to move. Before they mounted up each man checked his weapons thoroughly.

  ‘Don’t want to sound like a preacher about this,’ Jim said, ‘but I’m not looking for any human targets down there. The herd is all we’re after.’

  Callender dropped his handgun back into his holster. ‘Kind of depends on how those fellers down there react don’t it, Jim?’

  ‘If that’s the way they decide to play it, then don’t wait. I’d rather no one was hurt, but if somebody has to be then I’d rather it be them than you.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Keel said. He was on his horse now, carrying a cut down, double-barreled shotgun in place of a rifle. The weapon looked deadly and very efficient, Jim thought, and realized that the description fitted the man just as well.

  They moved out, Jim taking the lead as they negotiated the long slope to the valley floor. The way was unknown to them and they rode with care. A couple of times they found themselves on loose
shale drifts and then it was a case of moving with even more caution. Eventually they reached bottom, pausing so that the horses could rest for a few minutes.

  By this time the herd was out of sight beyond a curve in the valley’s floor. A thin haze of dust misted the air, marking the herd’s passage.

  Jim gigged his horse into motion, Callender and Keel following close behind. He could feel tension building up inside him now. There was no way of knowing just how this would work out. No one was invulnerable, not even himself. Jim knew this and accepted it, but it didn’t lessen the feeling any.

  The valley curve was just ahead of them now. They drew rein just before the curve, keeping in the shadow of an overhanging ledge. From where they were they could see the herd without being spotted themselves.

  ‘Couldn’t find a better place for it,’ Keel said.

  ‘He’s right, Jim,’ Callender agreed. ‘Valley levels out just ahead of the herd. Best way for us is to hit it now, before we come onto that rough country ahead.’

  ‘We won’t get another chance like this,’ Jim said. He slid his handgun out of his holster. ‘Rem, you take the right flank, Josh the left. I’ll be the man in the middle.’

  ‘Always had a hankerin’ to be in a cavalry charge,’ Keel said.

  ‘Don’t mind him, Jim,’ Callender remarked. ‘He just never grew up.’

  ‘Not a bad idea.’ Jim drew in his loose reins. ‘All right then, let’s ride!’

  Together they gigged their horses forward, breaking out into the open in a tight bunch before separating. Ahead of them lay five hundred yards of flat, coverless terrain. They had to cover this in the shortest time possible, before they were spotted. Surprise was the mainstay of their attack. If they could reach the herd before Boxed-O saw them, their chances were high.

  Jim felt a cold band of sweat streak his back. Now that it was almost on them, he felt a sudden burst of elation, a sudden swelling rise of excitement. He had a fleeting, but clear realization that this was what Keel had been talking about when he’d made that remark about a cavalry charge. There was obvious danger ahead, pain and possibly even death. Without being melodramatic Jim was able to realize these things, but at the same time he was looking beyond them, to what lay in front and it didn’t unduly worry him.

  And then there was no more time to think as the tail end of the herd loomed before him. Dust filmed the air around him and Jim dogged back the hammer of his gun and triggered off his first shot. The whip crack of the gun was loud in Jim’s ears and seconds later he heard Callender’s first shot off to his right, then the unmistakable twin booms of Keel’s shotgun. Jim thumbed his gun’s hammer again and fired again, and again. He began to yell. He could hear Callender echoing his shouts.

  He suddenly realized that they were pulling it off, for above the gunshots could be heard the frantic bawling of the cattle, a rapidly spreading sound that grew with every second. Steers were easily panicked beasts and fear or alarm in one was swiftly passed to another. Jim knew that it wouldn’t take long for the unrest at the rear of the herd to reach the front — and when that happened the whole herd would be off and running.

  Jim’s handgun clicked on an empty chamber. He jammed it back into his holster and freed his rifle. He one-handed a shell into the breech and loosed the shot into the air.

  A dust-lathered steer swung in towards Jim’s horse, its eyes rolling and white. It swerved aside at the last moment, plunging off into the rising fog of dust. The incident caused Jim to draw rein and he used the moment to take stock of the situation.

  It was plain to see that the herd was on the run. Frightened steers were pushing and prodding at those ahead of them, turning and twisting in their attempts to find some room, anywhere away from the sudden alien noises that had disturbed their calm and placid world.

  Jim began to cast about for signs of the herd’s attending riders. The Boxed-O men were near at hand and Jim knew that it wouldn’t be long before they put in an appearance.

  He had less than no time to speculate on the matter for a horse and rider loomed up out of the dust ahead of him. The rider wore a red shirt, paled with sweat and dust — neither Callender nor Keel were wearing that color. The rider was shouting something but Jim was unable to hear what it was above the din of the stampeding herd. But he could see, and he didn’t miss seeing the rider’s hand dip and then rise, sunlight glancing off the barrel of a handgun. A flash of flame winked from the muzzle. Jim heard the sharp crack of sound, then felt a tug at his left sleeve. Instinct made him jerk his horse’s head round, sending it plunging into the milling herd where the dust was thickest. In seconds he was being carried along by the running herd. His plan to stampede Olsen’s beef had worked, but now Jim had other things to occupy his mind. At the moment his main objective was to get clear of the herd and the guns of Olsen’s riders.

  Gunshots crackled and popped from every direction. Jim wondered how his own two men were faring. He knew Callender and Keel were well able to look after themselves, yet he still worried about them.

  Jim began to urge his horse on through the surging mass of steers, hoping to get clear before he was carried too far by the herd’s flight. Once the impetus built up the herd would run for miles. Choking swirls of thick dust hampered his vision, clogged his eyes and nose. Digging his heels in Jim gave his horse its head. The animal was used to working cattle and knew instinctively what to do. It sure-footed its way through the herd and almost before he knew it Jim was clear, able to take full control and turn his horse away from the herd.

  A shape appeared out of the dust just beyond Jim. He strained his eyes as he tried to peer through the dust. Evidently the other rider was in the same predicament for he pulled his horse over towards Jim.

  Jim tensed, gripping his rifle in readiness.

  Abruptly the other rider jerked his animal to a halt. In the same instant Jim saw that the rider was from Boxed-O.

  Indecision held both men motionless for a second. Then the Boxed-O rider yelled an oath and went for his gun. Reluctant to shoot Jim gigged his horse forward, covering the few yards that separated him and the Boxed-O rider. Olsen’s man’s hand came up holding his gun just as Jim’s horse slammed into his own. The handgun went off with a spiteful crack and Jim felt a hot slash of pain across his left side. Then he was close enough to bring his rifle barrel down across the other’s gun-hand. The Boxed-O man gave a pained yell as his gun slipped from nerveless fingers. Jim gave the man no chance to recover. He slammed his rifle across the man’s head. No sound came from the Boxed-O rider this time. He simply keeled over and slid from his saddle onto the ground.

  Jamming his rifle back into its sheath Jim took his handgun out and made quick work of punching out the empty shells and then reloading.

  He realized suddenly that the sound of the herd had diminished greatly. Jim drew rein on his restless horse, settling it while he turned his attention towards the distant herd. Dust boiled up in great clouds, hiding the herd itself, but marking its passage plainly. Whatever else they had achieved, he thought, the stampeding of Olsen’s herd had been absolute. The beeves would run for miles, scattering as they went.

  Movement caught Jim’s eye. He glanced around. The Boxed-O rider was recovering from his fall. Give him a few more minutes and he’d be on his feet again, and most probably fighting mad. Jim decided it was time to move on.

  Gigging his horse forward Jim headed for the protection of the nearby hills. The absence of other Boxed-O riders didn’t mean it would stay that way. Any number of them might appear at any moment.

  As his horse began to negotiate the lower slope of the closest rise, Jim became aware of a nagging pain in his side. He’d momentarily forgotten about his wound, but now, with the initial numbness wearing off, he was becoming very aware of his injury. He put his hand to his side for a moment and took it away wet with blood. He knew the wound wasn’t overly serious, but he knew also that he would be well advised to attend to it as soon as possible.

  Only whe
n his horse crested the summit of the farthest level of hills did Jim draw rein. He led his sweating horse into the comparative safety of some close by rocks. He dismounted, laid his handgun on a nearby stone, then got out of his shirt.

  As he had expected the wound was not serious. It was only a surface injury. The bullet had gouged a ragged line across his side. It was sore and it was still bleeding. Jim rummaged around in his saddlebags and brought out a roll of bandage, lint cloth and a jar of salve. Uncapping his canteen Jim soaked a piece of the lint cloth and did what he could to clean the wound. He found he was suddenly sweating and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He’d lost more blood than he’d realized.

  ‘Better sit down ‘fore you fall over,’ a voice said conversationally.

  Jim glanced up, his hand snatching for his gun. He had it leveled, the hammer back before his fuzzy mind let him recognize the man who was getting down from his lathered horse.

  ‘Hell, Rem, I wish you wouldn’t creep around like that.’

  Callender cuffed his stained hat to the back of his head. ‘Give me that swab and sit down,’ he told Jim. He set to cleaning the gash in Jim’s side. By the time he’d finished Jim was feeling a lot more comfortable.

  ‘Thanks, Rem.’ Jim eased his shirt back on, standing up to find out if he was less giddy.

  Callender, searching inside his saddlebags, glanced over his shoulder. ‘I may want you to do the same for me someday.’ He came back to where Jim stood, a bottle in his hand. ‘Try a bite of this,’ he said. ‘It’ll kick that fog out of your skull.’

  Jim took a healthy swallow, then fell to sudden coughing. ‘Grief, man, what in hell is it?’

  Callender grinned. ‘Finest corn whisky a man can buy, Jim. You feel any better?’

  ‘Give me time, Rem, give me time.’ Jim handed the bottle back to Callender. His dizziness had almost gone, replaced by a fierce burning sensation originating in the pit of his stomach. ‘Where’s Josh?’