Riding the Line

by Will DuRey

  ‘He can’t go much further,’ he told them. ‘We need to find a place where he can rest.’

  Gus Phipps grinned unpleasantly; his solution to the problem was clear to discern. Frank Felton was dying, so just push him off his horse. Within an hour he would be dead where he lay, covered with snow, undiscovered until spring or dragged off to be a wolf pack’s dinner.

  The same sort of thought flitted through the mind of Drum Hayes, but they’d taken a risk in rescuing their leader from his jail cell and somehow it seemed as though abandoning him now would amount to failure. Still, when he twisted in his saddle to survey the surrounding terrain it was clear to him that they were unlikely to find shelter in the immediate vicinity.

  ‘Let’s go,’ was all he said.

  It was almost an hour later when they reached the Broken Arrow line cabin. Dean Ridgeway had coffee simmering in a pot on the round-bellied stove and was considering pouring out another mugful for himself. The availability of the hot drink was, in his opinion, the only advantage pertaining to the task of being a nursemaid. He would have preferred to be out chasing cows in thick snow to being stuck in this warm cabin with an injured man. He knew nothing of doctoring and was terrified of the responsibility that had been put on him. He could live with himself if he made a mess of a task involving cows, he wasn’t sure he could if his bungling cost another man his life.

  Twice the Red Hammer rider had approached full consciousness, the first moans of discomfort rising to piercing screams of agony when he tried to move his shattered leg. Nervously, Dean had prepared a dose of laudanum in the manner prescribed by Jim Braddock. This had dulled the pain and rendered the sufferer unconscious. From time to time Dean had looked out of the shack’s single window, hoping to see his partner returning from his tour of the high plateau, but all he’d seen was snow and he began to wonder if Jim Braddock would ever return.

  Dean jumped up, startled by the violent opening of the door as it swung right back and slammed against the wall. He was on the verge of exercising his authority as the ranch owner’s son by berating Jim Braddock for the noisy entrance and for leaving him for so long with a task he disliked, when he realized that the man standing in the doorway wasn’t the one considered to be one of his father’s top riders.

  On another occasion, at another time and in another place, the newcomer might have presented a comic figure: snow was piled high on his hat and was crusted on to his long coat, making him look like a sugar-coated gingerbread man. All else, however, betokened a man of violence. His stance, his left leg ahead of his right in the manner of prize-fighters whom Dean had seen at Fourth of July celebrations in Miles City, suggested he was ready either to repel or launch an attack. His head remained steady, his face was red and wet from the snow but his narrowed eyes searched the room, taking in every detail. He held a rifle in his hands, the hammer back and a gloved finger tight inside the trigger-guard. He stared at Dean without emotion, unnerving the younger man who had already been startled by the turbulent entrance.

  ‘Who are you?’ Dean asked.

  His question was ignored as three more men came through the doorway, one supported between the other two. Their expressions were no less grim than that of the man with the rifle as they scanned the small room for somewhere to rest their wounded companion.

  With a jerk of his rifle Drum Hayes indicated the place where Harvey Goode lay.

  ‘We need that cot.’

  ‘He can’t be moved. His leg’s bust,’ Dean protested.

  ‘Get him out,’ Drum insisted.

  Dean Ridgeway looked at each of the men in turn. He knew they weren’t going to listen to reason but he had nothing else to offer.

  ‘He was crushed under his horse,’ he explained. ‘His thigh is shattered. He can’t stand.’

  Gus Phipps, who was holding on to Frank Felton with his left hand, shuffled aside the skirt of his long coat to enable Dean to see the long Colt that was strapped to his leg.

  ‘We don’t care,’ he told the rancher’s son, ‘just get him out so that our friend can lie down.’

  Only then did notions as to the identities of the intruders begin to form in Dean’s mind. He couldn’t recall the name of the man with the eyepatch, whose face had been represented quite frequently in recent newspapers, but he did know that he was one of the associates of Frank Felton. They had killed Deputy Dan Brix to get the outlaw out of jail and Dean had no doubt that they would kill again to preserve their freedom.

  So when he spoke again in words that seemed to reflect a determination to oppose them, they were merely a reflection of his nervousness and an inability to assemble his thoughts into more practicable action.

  ‘He’s drugged,’ he said. ‘Unconscious with laudanum.’

  Drum Hayes swung his rifle by the barrel and smashed the butt into Dean’s stomach. The young man grunted as the wind was forced out of his body, then sank to his knees. A second swing of the rifle brought the butt to collide with the back of Dean’s head, felling him to stretch out stunned on the floor. For the next few minutes everything was hazy but, through the pain and nausea, Dean was still able to hang on to enough sense to know what was happening. He knew that it was Harvey Goode’s piteous wails that enabled him to do so, a recognition that the agony visited upon the Red Hammer cowboy was so great that it had pierced the deadening effect of the laudanum. Dean’s instinct was to go to his aid but no matter how he struggled to shake off the effect of the blows he’d taken, he was unable to gain enough strength to get up off the floor.

  Drum Hayes voice sounded above Harv’s wretched wails, grumbling to nobody in particular.

  ‘Someone stop that noise.’

  ‘Only one way to do that.’ It was Gus Phipps who spoke and although he kept his voice low he couldn’t disguise the hint of pleasure it contained. ‘Want me to take care of it?’

  Drum cast a look at the tormented figure that had been dragged off the cot and dumped on the floor.

  ‘You wouldn’t keep a horse alive if it had injuries like those. He won’t be of use to anybody ever again.’

  ‘Kindest thing to do,’ said Gus drawing his gun.

  ‘Not in here,’ Drum told him, ‘and don’t make a noise.’

  ‘There’s nobody else around,’ Gus argued. ‘There’s not room for more than two line riders in a cabin like this and there won’t be anyone coming to visit them in this weather.’

  ‘I was thinking of the posse,’ Drum argued.

  ‘Forget them. They’ve gone back to Big Timber. We’re safe here for a few days.’

  Gus grabbed the collar of Harvey Goode’s shirt and dragged him towards the door. The sounds of the injured cowboy’s suffering could still be heard after he’d been pulled outside and the door reclosed. A gunshot, its usual sharp sound somehow dulled by the falling snow, reached those inside the cabin a minute later.

  Dean Ridgeway struggled to his feet and crossed to the window. The man with the patch over his eye was making his way back to the cabin, nonchalantly replacing the spent bullet in his revolver’s chamber, tossing aside the empty case into the deepening snow. Behind him lay the spread-eagled body of Harvey Goode, spatters of his blood leaving dark scars in the pure white snow.

  ‘Laudanum,’ Choctaw Jennings said, interrupting Dean’s dark thoughts. ‘Our friend could use some to ease his pain.’

  Dean glowered at the outlaw, repulsed by the idea that he was expected to administer to their wounded man when his own patient had been cruelly disposed of like a mad dog. But he said nothing, the expression in the other man’s face gave a clear indication that he was trying to help Dean. The message couldn’t be clearer: be useful or be killed.

  ‘There isn’t much,’ Dean said, ‘and I don’t know about dosage.’ He looked at the big man lying on the bed and was shocked at the sight of the dried blood around his mouth. ‘I was using laudanum to ease Harv’s pain,’ he went on, ‘it might be the wrong thing to give him. I’m not a doctor. I don’t know anything about these
things.’

  Choctaw gazed steadily at the young cowboy once more.

  ‘If it eases his pain, it’s the best we can hope for.’

  But if it was wrong and the man died, thought Dean, he would be the one they blamed. Then, facing up to the situation, he knew that no matter what happened to the wounded man, they would kill him before they quit the shack. He crossed the room to reach for the small bottle on a high shelf. He poured some on to a spoon, told Choctaw that that was the dose he’d given Harv, then put it to Frank Felton’s lips.

  The outlaw leader had his eyes closed but his face was a continuous rhythm of tics and twitches, signifying his discomfort but confirming that he was still alive. Choctaw spoke to him, tried to lift his head and shoulders to get the medicine into his mouth. It wasn’t easy. Choctaw undid the buttons on the long coat that Frank still wore. When it fell open Dean caught a glimpse of the bloodied shirt below. Frank moaned and the spoon was pushed into his mouth. Startled, he opened his eyes and his look fell instantly on the strange face of Dean Ridgeway. But Choctaw spoke quickly, reassuring Frank that he was still among friends.

  ‘Take it down, Frank,’ he said. ‘It’s medicine.’

  Frank was suspicious ‘Are you poisoning me, Choctaw?’

  ‘It’s laudanum, Frank. It’ll take away the pain and help you sleep. We’ll stay here until you’re well enough to travel again. We’re safe here.’

  ‘Says who?’ Frank’s voice was faint.

  ‘It’s still snowing. No one’s coming up here until that stops, which is likely to be days.’

  Frank closed his eyes as though trying to assemble an argument, but they didn’t re-open and he drifted off to sleep.

  An hour later, after they’d eaten, the snow stopped falling. Dean looked out of the window to where Harvey Goode’s body lay, almost completely covered. He wondered if there would be an opportunity to escape but he knew that even if there was he was likely to perish on the mountain. Jim Braddock was his ace in the hole; the outlaws believed that Harv had been his partner and weren’t expecting anyone else to turn up. But he didn’t know where Jim was, nor why he hadn’t yet got back to the cabin. He’d expected him to arrive a long time ago but he supposed it had become necessary for him to find some shelter when the snowstorm was at its height. Of course, he didn’t want him to return only to become another prisoner. He needed to contrive a warning but that wouldn’t be easy. He was under constant scrutiny. Perhaps Jim would see Harv’s body.

  Thirty minutes passed before a chance presented itself; it came from an unlikely quarter. Gus Phipps had been standing over Frank Felton and the other two outlaws were curious as to what thoughts were passing through his head. Suddenly, he spoke to Dean, told him to get the mackinaw off Harv’s body because he didn’t need it any more and Frank was looking cold.

  Choctaw and Drum regarded their companion with suspicion but said nothing. Whatever scheme Gus was hatching would become obvious soon enough.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ he told Dean as he opened the door.

  Dean didn’t mean to make a run for it but perhaps he could prepare that signal for Jim by leaving Harv’s body in a position where he would be sure to be seen. He donned his heavy coat and went outside. When he reached the body he stopped and looked back to the cabin. He could see Gus through the partly opened door. He was not looking at Dean, he seemed to be deep in conversation with Choctaw and Drum.

  ‘Frank’s dead,’ Gus was saying, pulling the long-barrelled Colt from its holster, ‘so that cowboy is no longer needed. Now that the snow has stopped we can pick this cabin clean of provisions and get out of here. Nothing to hang around for.’ He looked along the barrel and pulled the trigger.

  Dean had just begun to bend to remove the coat when the bullet struck his head and pitched him forward across Harv’s body.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Zeb Walters didn’t know how long he’d been face down on the ground, but when his eyes opened neither the hour of the day nor the day of the week held significance for him. Existence consisted of an immense force that pinned him down, and an all-encompassing pain that was intensified by the slightest movement. For a long time he drifted in and out of consciousness, all physical and mental effort governed by his torment. One conscious moment brought with it the knowledge that he was dying. The realization didn’t frighten him, it supplied an explanation for his nose being in the dirt, his eyes seeing nothing but blades of winter grass and the strange whistling sound that seemed to be coming from his chest as an accompaniment to his breathing. He closed his eyes, certain that his last breath would soon be exhaled.

  Only a moment later the expectation of death was replaced by an overwhelming compulsion to get to his feet. There was a message to deliver and although he couldn’t recall its content, awareness of its importance filled his mind. He’d vowed to reach the Red Hammer ranch and was determined to succeed. It took a superhuman effort to raise himself but the agonies that had engulfed his mind and body were now replaced by an unworldly numbness. Nor was he deterred by the sight of dark bloodstains on the front of his coat and on the ground where he’d lain. He raised his head from the ground, grunted, then twisted his body to the left. Eyes were watching him, big brown eyes in a long face with a white blaze. The horse waited with patient curiosity while Zeb crawled towards him. It took a long time, but eventually, with the use of a stirrup leather, Zeb pulled himself upright and clambered on to the saddle. Of its own accord the horse set off on a downhill route to the ranch.

  Consciousness deserted Zeb more than once on the journey to Red Hammer but, despite being draped over its neck, he was still clinging to the beast, when he was spotted by a couple of ranch hands two miles from the ranch house. In the yard, he was propped against a post of the horse corral and Charlie Grisham was summoned to the scene.

  ‘It’s Zeb,’ somebody informed him.

  ‘Shouldn’t he be up at Fetterman’s Pool?’

  ‘He’s been shot,’ one of the hands who was bending over the wounded man told him.

  ‘In the back,’ somebody else added. That put a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. Nobody liked a killing although sometimes it was necessary, but there was no excuse for shooting a man in the back. Zeb Walters didn’t deserve that; sometimes he was moody but never aggressive, just a cowhand doing a tough job.

  ‘Has he said anything?’ Charlie Grisham asked.

  ‘No. He was unconscious when we found him. I don’t know how he’s managed to get all the way here in that condition.’

  ‘Zeb,’ the rancher said, ‘it’s Charlie Grisham. What happened? Who did this to you?’

  Zeb’s eyes remained closed, his head lolled to the right and there was barely a movement of his chest to signify that he was still breathing.

  ‘Let’s get him on to a bunk,’ ordered Charlie.

  Pat Hunt, who had taken charge of the wounded man when they’d got him off his horse, looked at his boss and shook his head. He pulled aside Zeb’s coat to expose the ugly exit hole in his chest.

  ‘Damnation,’ muttered Charlie. ‘Somebody get some water. We need to know who did this.’

  A damp cloth was rubbed over Zeb’s brow, then his lips were moistened. His eyelids flickered and for a moment he tried to focus on the nearest face.

  ‘What happened, Zeb?’ Charlie Grisham asked. Zeb’s eyes closed again as though the lids were as heavy as farriers’ hammers. ‘It’s Charlie, Zeb. You’re safe here.’

  Again, Zeb opened his eyes and this time there seemed to be some determination to keep them open.

  ‘You’re back at the ranch, Zeb. Can you tell us what happened? Who shot you?’

  To Zeb the world was now a hazy place; he had to concentrate on the voice and the face in front of him. It’s Charlie were the words that he clung to. He’d made it with the message, he’d fulfilled the task he’d vowed to do. At last he’d achieved something of which Alice and Jane could be proud, something that perhaps atoned for the wrong he’d done, something tha
t made him no less a man than. . .

  ‘Who was it, Zeb?’ urged Charlie Grisham.

  The name ‘Jim Braddock . . .’ slipped out with Zeb’s last breath.

  Charlie Grisham was no stranger to acts of violence; one way or another they had peppered his life. Although they had soon lost the ability to shock him or even arouse in him anything more than the mildest interest when he was not directly affected by their commission, he was, in other circumstances, a man prepared to confront savagery with savagery. This killing demanded his intercession; Zeb Walters had been killed while on the Red Hammer payroll and perhaps because he was protecting Red Hammer stock. If so, he, Charlie Grisham, would want retribution against those who would steal from him; if he did not, the rest of the crew would still want his killer punished and would look to him for leadership.

  ‘Jim Braddock.’ When he repeated Zeb’s words to Pat Hunt he spoke them aloud so that the other men gathered around were aware of the name that had been uttered.

  ‘He works for the Broken Arrow,’ Pat told his boss.

  ‘I know who he is,’ snapped Charlie. ‘Just didn’t strike me as a back-shooter.’

  There were nods and grunts of agreement among the ranch hands.

  Charlie picked out a couple of men and told them to get Zeb’s body into the store shed.

  ‘Pat,’ he added, ‘you’d better ride into Big Timber and tell the sheriff what’s happened. He’ll need to investigate the matter.’

  ‘Sheriff’s out with a posse looking for the killers of Dan Brix,’ Pat Hunt replied.

  Among the men a voice spoke. ‘We don’t have to go hunting for Zeb’s killer. We know where he is. If we wait around for the sheriff Jim Braddock might flee the territory.’