The 7th Western Novel

by Francis W. Hilton

  “Jason!”

  “What?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m spreading my bed here under the wagon. Now, goddammit, go back to sleep and stop your blubbering!”

  Billy groaned inwardly.

  There were sounds beneath the wagon. Then a grunt or two as Jase settled down. Then silence.

  An eternity passed. The pile of blankets bore down on Billy, threatening to suffocate him. He felt the sweat trickle down his back then run along his ribs. His shirt was wet and he squinted his eyes as the salt stung under the lids.

  A sudden coolness struck his face. He opened his eyes quickly. Mary pressed a finger to his lips to caution him and he nodded to show he understood. Quietly, carefully, he drew himself to a sitting position. Mary shook her head as a further warning not to talk. He nodded again and sat there looking at her. For a long time their eyes held each other, a multitude of unspoken questions passing between them.

  The sound of regular breathing came from beneath the wagon. Still they waited, motionless.

  Five minutes passed.

  Ten.

  A snore came through the floorboards. Their eyes met and held again.

  Another five minutes passed. From the plain beyond the camp came the occasional lowing of restless cattle. The snores beneath were more regular now, deeper.

  Billy looked at Mary, arching his brows in a question.

  She smiled at him sadly, then kissed him quickly on the cheek. Then she brushed his arms aside and put a finger to her lips once more. The pale moonlight flooded through as she pulled the canvas flap quietly back. Billy hesitated, then smiled back and moved through the opening, putting his head out first for a quick look around.

  The camp was quiet. The sleepers rolled in their blankets were like dead men. He listened. From beneath the wagon the regular snores kept up their steady rhythm. He put one leg down, quietly, then the other. When he looked up, the flap had closed again and she was gone.

  Cautiously a step at a time, putting each foot down gently before trusting it with his weight, Billy crept away from the wagon. At fifty yards he stood up, glanced back over his shoulder, then began to walk swiftly away. A hundred yards—he broke into a trot.

  Up ahead, in the moonlight, he caught sight of the sorrel as it lifted its head and pricked up its ears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Billy stopped in the shade of a willow along the sparsely timbered draw and reached in his shirt for tobacco. Old Thad rode up beside him. Together they sat looking back at the herd winding like some great snake along the shallow, valley-like depression in the Kansas plain. Behind them—many miles behind—lay the Arkansas. Up ahead—not far ahead—lay Abilene.

  “Can’t be much farther now, Billy,” Old Thad said, removing his hat and wiping the sweat from the band.

  “It’s not, Thad,” Billy said quietly, drawing on his cigarette.

  “When you figure we’ll be there?”

  Billy thought for a minute. “About noon tomorrow. Somewhere along there.”

  Old Thad smiled. Then he noted the serious expression on the face of his young trail boss and his own face grew solemn. “Billy,” he began hesitantly, “I ain’t one to pry into a man’s affairs, but—well, ever since that mornin’ I woke up and found that note in my hat I been kind of worried. I was glad, though, to see you ride back into camp before we left there.” Billy shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.

  Old Thad went on cautiously. “You been mighty quiet ever since. Now, if there’s anythin’ I can do…”

  Billy shook his head. “I appreciate what you’re trying to say, Thad, and I’m obliged for your offer of help. But—well, it’s something I’ve got to work out myself.”

  “Somethin’ to do when we get to Abilene?”

  “Yes, Thad,” Billy said quietly. “Something I got to do in Abilene.”

  The old man hung around a minute longer, then muttered some excuse and rode off. Billy watched him go with a deep sense of regret. Friendship—the kind he’d come to enjoy with Thad Harper and the other Circle 8 riders—had been a hard thing to come by. And now that he had earned it, now that he needed a friend the most, he couldn’t take advantage of it. Not that they wouldn’t be willing to help. Trouble was, they’d be too willing. If any of them had an inkling of what was coming between him and Jase Thornhill’s crew, they’d have jumped at the chance to help. But it was too personal a thing now. Too much a thing to be settled between him and Jase alone. He felt he had an obligation to keep it that way.

  There was one consolation. If it came to a showdown—if Jase Thornhill should kill him—he would not regret it the way he might have a few months before. Now he was a man who held the respect of friends. A man who could fight his own battles with the knowledge that what he did was the way he saw best. He was no longer an outcast. He was once again a Texan among Texans. That made it better, somehow—even if he died by Jase Thornhill’s guns.

  He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Joe Metcalf riding up until he heard him speak.

  “What you reckon Thornhill’s up to now?”

  Billy looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

  The foreman pointed across the backs of the passing herd to the rolling land beyond. “Ain’t that one of his wagons?”

  Billy rose up in his stirrups. Dust rising in its wake, canvas cover flapping, a light wagon was making its way across the plains some two miles to the east. As he watched, the wagon crossed over a swell and disappeared.

  “Looks like he’s headed for Abilene,” Joe said. “Got company, too,” he added as four riders swung out of the brush and followed the wagon.

  Billy only nodded. But there was no calmness inside him. That was Mary’s wagon. And those riders—it was a safe bet Ackerman was one of them. He squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun, trying to think.

  “Why do you suppose he’s so eager to get in ahead of us?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know,” Billy said slowly. But, suddenly, he did know. Somehow, Jase Thornhill had found out Billy had seen Mary. Maybe she let something slip. Maybe Jase found out another way. At any rate, it was a safe bet that he was on his way to Abilene to get Mary married to Ackerman before Billy could do anything about it.

  He’d made one mistake, though, Billy figured. Jase should have waited till dark—or at least given the Circle 8 herd a wider berth. If it hadn’t been for Joe Metcalf’s sharp eyes…

  Billy turned to the foreman. “Joe, you’re it from here on in. You ought to make Abilene around noon tomorrow. Tell Thad I’ll meet you all there.”

  Joe’s eyes narrowed in a puzzled expression. Then he looked in the direction the wagon had taken and a thin smile came to his lips. “Need any help, Billy?”

  Billy shook his head. “Thanks, Joe. Looks like this is a personal account. I’d hoped Jase Thornhill would come to his senses by now. But he’s had his last chance. From now on it’s either me or him.”

  * * * *

  Now and then he caught sight of the wagon, a white speck that danced and wobbled in the shimmering waves of heat that rose from the sun-baked plains. It would disappear behind a swell for a long period; then he would see it again when he topped a crest at the same time. And always there were those four black specks riding close behind the white one. There was six to eight miles, he figured, between him and the wagon. It wasn’t likely he’d be seen at that distance.

  As the shadows began to lengthen he closed the gap a little. Not too much. Just enough so as not to be too far behind when they drove into Abilene. He thought of Mary and felt sorry for her. If there could just be some way to let her know he was following. But nothing could be done about that.

  He didn’t have a plan, exactly. A lot would depend on where Jase took her when they got there. And a lot more would depend on the four riders Jase’d brought al
ong. He wondered what the town itself would be like. Something would depend on that—how big it was, how much chance he’d have to hide himself until the right time came. Whenever that might be.

  The sun touched the western rim of the plains and the hollows between the swells filled with liquid shadows. He felt the heat diminish a little, though the molten ball of fire settling on the horizon seemed determined to turn the country to a cinder before relinquishing it to the cool of night. Then the sun was gone. The twilight was a wide blue canopy stretching above the limitless expanse of brown. To the east he could see the first faint smudge of indigo that marked the coming of night. He put the dun into a rocking-chair lope that ate up the distance without straining either horse or rider. He was glad he’d saddled the dun at noon. It was the first time he’d ridden the horse since the ordeal with the quicksand at Wolf Creek. He figured the mount deserved the rest for the punishment he’d taken that night. The dun was fresh—fresh enough to be equal to anything he might be called upon to do from here on in.

  The twilight lingered, then slowly gave way to night, cool after the blistering heat of the day. The stars came out in thousands, casting a faint light over the endless plains. Billy held the dun to the tireless lope, putting mile after mile behind him, closing the gap ahead.

  Suddenly, from the top of a rise, he saw the yellow glow of lights. It took him so by surprise that he stopped. So that was Abilene! Six miles away it was, he guessed—maybe more. Bigger than he’d expected—a cluster of lights, then more lights sprawling out along where he guessed the railroad must run. Judging by what Ed Sheff had told him it must have grown some, even since Sheff had seen it last.

  He let the dun have rein and moved on. Now the lights would rise into view as he crossed a swell, then he would lose sight of them as he rode in the hollows. Always they were closer. A vague uneasiness came over him and he tried to shake it off. Each time he saw the lights again something tightened in the pit of his stomach. And each time he tried to tell himself he wasn’t afraid. But he knew damn well he was.

  He knew those lights might be the last he’d ever see.

  * * * *

  Close in he came to the river—the Smoky Hill River, he believed Sheff had called it. He tried to remember the map Sheff had drawn. There was a ford along here someplace, if he recalled rightly, near the mouth of a creek—Holland Creek. He found it, and in the starlight he found what he was looking for—fresh wagon tracks crossing at the ford.

  Across the river he turned east toward the lights. There was one more creek, then the buildings began. They’d named this one right for sure, he thought, as he eased the dun across and heard the sucking sound of the hoofs in the mud. Up the bank of Mud Creek he rode, more slowly now. Yes, it was bigger than he’d expected. There must have been fifteen or twenty buildings there, and just to the north of them he caught the faint glint of starlight on steel rails—the Kansas Pacific.

  He rode on, conscious of the growing excitement inside him. Unconsciously, his hand slid to his .44, loosening it in the holster. The sound of laughter and singing came to his ears, loud above the tinkling of an out-of-tune piano. The street was lined with all manner of horse-drawn conveyances, from heavy wagons to fancy buggies. People milled up and down, passing in and out of the swinging doors. He found himself looking for a canvas-covered light wagon among the many he saw.

  He’d nearly gone the length of the street when he found it, the team tied to a hitchrail in front of an uncompleted three-story building. His eyes searched out the name in the reflection from the lamplight that poured through the doors and windows. There—the Drovers Cottage—he remembered now what Sheff had said. From the darkened flats beyond came another sound,, a more familiar one—the bawling of cattle in the pens along the tracks. Apparently the Circle 8 herd wouldn’t be the first to reach Abilene.

  Billy dismounted and crowded the dun in among the other horses at the hitchrail. Then he stepped quietly on the board porch and stood in the shadows outside the saloon, listening. The roar of voices was an unintelligible babble. He turned and looked at the mounts tied at the rail. There were four together, beside the light wagon. He nodded, satisfied. The four were covered with dust and flecked with foam, and he didn’t have to see their brands to tell they were Lazy S. He turned, letting his right hand rest on the butt of his .44, and peered cautiously over the top of the batwing doors.

  “Lookin’ for somebody?”

  He started to spin around, but the pressure of a gun in the small of his back changed his mind. The voice was familiar, and he swore softly for having been such a fool.

  “All right, Ackerman,” he said slowly, “you don’t have to push that hogleg through my spine.”

  There was a low chuckle, and he felt his own gun being lifted from its holster. “That’s better, Condo. Now let’s step around the corner, along the side of the building here. It’s more private.”

  He did as he was told, anger and humiliation burning inside him. Beside the building, in the darkness, he stopped. A shove from behind sent him stumbling forward.

  “You son of a…!”

  “Easy now, Condo!” Ackerman chuckled. “Remember, this is one time I’ve got the upper hand. Now we’ll see how brave you are!”

  Cold sweat stood out on Billy’s forehead. He cursed himself again for the blundering fool he was. He might have known they’d be watching their backtrail all afternoon. They’d known he would be along—all they had to do was wait. Maybe even—and the thought made him mad as hell—maybe they’d even driven that wagon close to the Circle 8 herd on purpose, hoping he’d swallow the bait and follow them in!

  “Listen, Ackerman! I’ve got a trail herd due in here tomorrow and I’ve got to make arrangements. Put that goddam gun away, and if you’re so eager to settle our grudge I’ll meet you on your own terms as soon as I get Thad’s herd settled.”

  It was a long shot he took, and Billy knew it.

  Ackerman chuckled. “My, but ain’t you a clever one!” Then his tone changed and he shoved Billy again, jabbing viciously with the gun and snarling, “Get on back there you bluebelly bastard! I know damn well what you’re thinkin’—but it won’t work. You gave yourself away when you followed us this afternoon. Like hell you came here to make arrangements for a herd!”

  They were in back of the building now, and three men stepped out of a back door. Billy tried vainly to get a look at their faces as they crowded around.

  “I see you got him, Ace!” one of them laughed quietly. “We was watchin’ from inside in case somethin’ happened. When we heard you talkin’ out there we slipped out the back.”

  “Is the way clear?” Ackerman asked.

  “Yeah,” one of them said, “you can take him on up.”

  Billy felt himself being herded through the darkened doorway. The next instant he nearly fell flat on his face on a staircase. The gun barrel whipped him sharply across the shoulders.

  “Make any more noise like that and it’ll be your last!” Ackerman snarled.

  Billy groped his way in the darkness, feeling for the stair landing he knew must be there. He found it, and for a fleeting second he thought of lashing back with his foot and sending Ackerman piling down the stairs on top of the other three. But he changed his mind. He didn’t even have a gun, and for all he knew those stairs were the only way out of the place. No—he’d have to wait his chance. If he ever got a chance.

  “Wait a minute!”

  Somebody struck a match. Billy saw faintly down the narrow hall. There was a window at the end near what he guessed must be the front of the place.

  “All right—in here!”

  Ackerman opened a door and shoved Billy into a room. He stood in the middle while Ackerman touched the match to the wick of a lamp on a table near the door.

  “You fellas can go back downstairs now,” Ackerman told the others. “One of you better stay at the bottom of th
e steps out back—just in case.”

  “Should we tell Jase when he comes back?” one of them asked.

  Ackerman grinned, looking across at Billy. “Yeah,” he laughed, “tell him we got him!”

  Billy took in the room at a glance. There was an iron cot in one corner, a chest of drawers in the other. The table, with a slop jar underneath, was the only other furniture. There was one window. He watched Ackerman sit down on the cot, still holding the gun in his hand.

  “You’re going to have your hands pretty full, Ackerman,” Billy told him.

  “With you?” The big man curled his lips in a sneer.

  “Maybe with me,” Billy smiled thinly. “But mostly with a bunch of Circle 8 riders when I don’t get back tonight. They’ll be looking for me, and when I don’t show up…”

  Ackerman laughed and shook his head. “You don’t fool me a bit, Condo.”

  Billy knew he was right. The story was pretty thin. Even if he started back tonight, like he said he was supposed to, it would be morning before he could reach the camp.

  “All right, Ackerman,” he said resignedly. “You win. This round, anyway.”

  “Uh-huh. But it ain’t over yet. We got some surprises for you.”

  “What you drivin’ at?”

  Ackerman leered at him, pointing with the pistol to the wall. “The next room—tomorrow there’ll be a weddin’ in there. You’ll be in here, where you can hear it. Jase thought you’d like that, bein’ as you’re such a close friend of the family. And tomorrow night…he broke off in an obscene chuckle, “…well, not everybody gets to spend a night next to the bridal chamber where they can hear…”

  “You dirty bastard…!” Billy lunged at him, rage rising in him like a demon uncontrolled. The room swam in a sea of red. He saw Ackerman draw back his arm, saw the pistol butt descending, felt himself reaching for it frantically. Then—the whole side of his head exploded in a blinding burst of light. Then the light went out and he felt himself falling down through a well of blackness that had no bottom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Consciousness came back slowly, like sunlight beginning to penetrate a fog. There was a dull, aching throb in his head. Instinctively he tried to put his hand there to ease the pain. But his hand wouldn’t move. Vaguely, he wondered why. Gradually, like waking from a dream, he began to realize where he was. The iron cot came into focus, just above his eyes, then the whitewashed board wall, the single window which was pale now with the first light of dawn. Then it all came back. Ackerman. The descending pistol butt. The memory made him wince and the throbbing seemed to grow more intense. He tried to move again, but still his arms wouldn’t respond. His hands seemed numb, lifeless.