“All right, Conn.”
Nugent was there, standing by, tough, battle-scarred, a man who lived to fight. I knew that, once he’d accepted a job, he rode for the brand. There was no sell-out in him.
“Don’t you worry none, Dury,” he said now, “we’ll hold up our end.”
“You always have, Harvey,” I said, and there was a flicker in his eyes at the praise.
“You know,” I said in a low voice, “I’d not want to leave here if I didn’t know you were here.”
He threw me a look of astonishment, and then he spat, and said roughly, “You boys ride along. We’re all right.”
We took two head of horses per man, so we could ride harder and faster, and we went off up a draw that led away from the camp. Then we held to low ground so as not to skyline ourselves against the horizon stars. When we were a couple of miles off we came out of the low ground and headed off across country, toward the east.
We went quietly, to leave no dust to mark our passing, for they might have scouts in the country around, and even if dust cannot be seen, the smell of it hangs in the air. We rode off to our own small destiny, six battle-hardened men, to meet an enemy whose numbers we could not know except that they were sure to be greater than our own.
How many times had western men, men such as we, ridden off to their forgotten, unwritten battles? There was a flat stone I had seen once, a stone on which was scratched the small story of five men who dared the western mountains in search of gold, five who went where no one had dreamed of going before, and when the final message was scratched, three were already dead and two were dying.
The names were scratched there, but who ever heard of any of them? Had they relatives, friends? Who waited for their return? Did anyone ever know what happened? And how many other such stories were there, stories never found on stones, of men who had no time to write messages?
These men who rode beside me were such men as had fought the ancient wars, such men as had followed their loyalties to bloody death or bloody victory since time began. If this was my time to die, then I could go in no better company.
The rolling hills and the prairie lands over which we rode were wide, and we rode the night away, until the red dawn came in the sky. At noon, when the sun was high above us, we drew up in a tiny hollow among the hills, and while one man watched for the Indians that might come upon us, we switched our saddles and remounted again.
The place toward which we rode was a lone stop on the railroad where there was a station, a telegrapher, and a saloon, a few cars standing on a side track—and nothing more.
This was the place where I hoped to learn something from the telegrapher about the train that would bring the fighting men for McDonald and Shalett.
By mid-morning we were coming up to the station. We had stopped, scouting the place from a distance and out of sight. Nobody seemed to be around, but I was worried.
McDonald was no fool, and by now he must know we were gone, and he would attack before the day was out, or would make some move. He had the men. He had the fire power.
He might do more than that, he might attempt to cut us off, to destroy us. He must have guessed where we were going, although I doubted that he knew why. He was not the sort of man to expect six men to attempt to stop fifty or more.
Rowdy Lynch cut away from us and started a wide ride around the station. Gallardo started in the opposite direction to head off anyone who might try to circle away from Rowdy.
The rest of us waited to give them a start, and then rode down to the station.
The telegrapher, I saw, was a slim, wiry young Irishman whose face looked like a map of the island itself. He was in his early twenties, and had a tough, hard-bitten, devil-may-care air about him that I liked.
“Meharry,” I said, “it looks like a job for you.”
Meharry got down and strolled into the station, and we rode to the stable back of the saloon, where we left our horses.
The place was built like a fort. The stable itself was half a dugout, half a sod house, but it was strongly made. The second story of the saloon overhung the lower like a blockhouse, so nobody could attack doors or windows without being exposed from above. There were portholes in the second-story floor so that a gun might be fired directly down at anyone attacking the doors below. From a spike near one of those portholes, a withered, dried-up Indian’s hand hung by a wire, and I recalled hearing the story of that hand on my last trip up the trail.
The saloon had been attacked, and one Indian, thinking there might be a door, had thrust his hand through the porthole, grasping for a hand-hold. It had been promptly lopped off, and then hung there as a reminder to others. Nobody had ever attempted that again.
The big room of the saloon was empty except for the saloonkeeper himself, who was bartender as well. He was leaning on the bar reading a month-old newspaper.
“Third time I’ve read that,” he said, “but there ain’t anything else to read. I’ve memorized all the labels on the cans, and on every bottle in the house.”
“I’ve a book in one of my saddlebags,” I said. “I’ll leave it with you.”
“Ain’t one of them pony express novels, is it? I sure like to read them. Makes it seem mighty exciting out here.”
He placed a couple of bottles on the bar. “Fact is, it was reading them books started me out here. So far I’ve had no chance to save ary a white woman from the redskins. Come to consider it, I ain’t seen but one white woman, and no Indian would have her.”
“It’s a history,” I said regretfully.
“Hey, now that’s fine!” He was genuinely pleased. “By the time I figure out what they’re gettin’ at, and how it really must have been, this here will be a settled-up country with kids walking to school.”
“Do you think that will ever be?” D’Artaguette said.
“Why not?”
“How’s business?” I asked.
“You makin’ jokes? Ain’t been a dozen people in here this month. There just ain’t no business, none a-tall. But it’ll pick up…time the cattle start movin’.”
“I haven’t seen a soul in the country around,” I commented, casually. “Who comes to a place like this?”
The bartender touched a finger to his mustache. “Mostly folks to use the wires…right now my guess would be there’s a war startin’ west of here. You boys want to use those guns, you head west.
“Man in here t’other day, askin’ about fightin’ men. Flanagan, down to the station, he told me he wired for riflemen.”
D’Artaguette shook his head in a puzzled way. “Me, I’m just a cowman,” he said, “headin’ south to meet a herd that’s overdue, but I wouldn’t know where to get a lot of fighters if I wanted them. Maybe back in Texas.”
“Hell, you don’t need to go that far! Missouri, Arkansas…eastern Kansas…there’s plenty of men who don’t care who they shoot. You take Missouri, now. Those squirrel shooters over there, they’d shoot anybody, you pay them enough.
“Take that James outfit, now. James and them Youngers—they’ve got a lot of men around them, men who run with them now and again. You could hire that lot. Times are bad, dry year, and that bunch don’t take much to honest farmin’. That Jesse, now. Don’t know as he ever earned an honest dollar. Took to horse-thievin’ even before he joined up with Quantrell.”
D’Artaguette traced circles with his glass on the bar, and I kept silent. If we just listened, this man was going to tell us all we needed to know.
Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. “Get you that book,” I said, and walked outside.
Meharry was standing outside the station talking to Flanagan. Going out to the horses, I took the battered copy of Carlyle’s French Revolution from my saddlebag. Books were hard to come by, and I’d brought this one from England, but I’d read it twice and it might be a cheap price to pay for a friend in the right place.
While I was out there I took a careful look at the hills around. They seemed innocent of trouble, but I
trusted them not at all.
Battery Mason was standing at the corner of the building. “Keep an eye out,” I said. “I’ve a hunch.”
Where the station stood, the ground was flat, but it swelled slowly up into low hills not over a quarter of a mile away. Such country is deceptive, and although it seemed open, and surprise an impossibility, one could take it too much for granted, and surprise was possible. I had seen it happen in just such terrain.
When I went back inside the saloon the bartender was setting them up. He grinned broadly at the sight of the book. “Well, now! There’s a good piece of book for you! Thank you, mister! Thank you kindly.”
He turned it admiringly in his hands, then hefted it. “Now, that there,” he said speculatively, “why, that should keep a man in readin’ for a year, or nigh to it.”
“It’s a fine book,” I said.
He turned the pages. “Yep! Like I thought! Mighty full of big words, and some I never seen before! Now, I like that. I admire a writer who has words…time I figure out what he means by them, a book will last me twice as long. Thank you again, sir!”
Battery Mason stepped to the door. “Conn,” he said, “somebody’s comin’!”
Chapter 7
*
IT HAD BEEN given me that I live in the moment, with an awareness heightened by every impression of the senses. No doubt a part of it was natural to me, but it was also conditioned in me by Jim Sotherton.
He lived in such a way, and he was forever commenting to me on how few people actually lived now. Most people, he said, exist in an emptiness between memory and anticipation, but never live in the moment.
Whatever natural tendency I may have had toward living in the moment was developed and increased by Sotherton’s comments, and by his own awareness.
Now when I stepped from the door of the saloon into the bright sunlight, I stood for a moment to let my eyes become accustomed to the change of light. As I stood there on the weathered boardwalk, I looked down at the gray boards, at the cracks, the slivers, the places where some idle hand had whittled with a knife, and I was aware of the warm sun and the silence, of water dripping from the water tank used by the railroad into a trough used by passing riders. And then I looked up and walked to the end of the porch with Mason.
The air was startlingly clear. Far away in the sky was a puff of cloud against the blue. The smooth flow of the rolling hill was a soft green with the new grass growing, and I stood there, feeling the weight of the gun against my leg, the sun on my shoulders, squinting my eyes against the distance, watching the rider on the far-off hill.
He was one man alone, and he rode a mule. That was obvious from the gait of the animal. Sunlight gleamed on a rifle barrel.
Battery Mason swore suddenly, then he said, “Conn, you know more than one man who rides a mule?”
“Not in this country.”
It was Hoback. He was coming on along the flank of the hill, taking his time.
A little chill went through me, the sort of chill you have when they say somebody has stepped on your grave.
The air was completely still, and I could smell the dust in the space—scarcely to be called a street—between the saloon and the station. Around the tight little knot of buildings all was bare, open to the sky and the wind. Only the distant rider moved.
Lowering my eyes for a moment, I saw an ant struggling with some tiny object, but an object larger than itself. Battery was leaning against the corner of the saloon, and I knew what was going through his mind.…That was Bill Hoback, the Dutchman, out there.
We had not sent for him, and the chances were he was not riding in search of a job, so he must have been hired by McDonald or by Frank Shalett. McDonald was unlikely to have heard of the Dutchman, so it must have been Shalett’s idea.
Shalett again. Now, who was Shalett?
Nobody needed to tell me, or Battery Mason, who the Dutchman was. He was a man-hunter. A man who stalked other men to kill—to kill for cash. He hunted men the way other men hunted buffalo, or deer. He stalked them, killed them, collected his price.
For a man riding a mule who was so well known by chuck-wagon yarns, the Dutchman managed to drop out of sight whenever he wanted. But he was known as a fast and deadly accurate shot with any kind of weapon. Handy with a pistol, though he relied more on a rifle or shotgun, both of which he habitually carried.
Nobody knew how many men he had killed; probably he didn’t know himself. Does a butcher keep track of the beeves he slaughters?
By now he had seen us, of that I was sure, but he was coming on, riding right down to the station.
Suddenly, I felt a twinge of worry. Where was Rowdy? Where was Gallardo?
Battery was thinking the same thing. “Ain’t heard a shot,” he commented, “but those boys should ought to be back.”
From where we stood we could hear the low murmur of voices from the station platform where Meharry stood with Flanagan. They had seen the rider, too, and were watching him, for in all that vast landscape he was the only moving thing.
“Makes a man think, seein’ him around,” Mason commented. “I’d sooner be in a dark room with a cougar.”
“Do you know him?”
“Don’t want to. But I was out in Colorado when he was around there.”
Meharry stepped down off the platform at the station and walked slowly across the street. As he came up on the boardwalk he said, “You ever hear about his contracts?” he asked. “Anybody found dead with a bullet in them…anybody of those he’s supposed to get…and he gets paid.”
My eyes returned to the rider. Never had I deliberately started out to kill a man who had done no harm to me or mine. I had killed two of the men who had murdered Sotherton, but that was my job, for he had been my friend and my employer, and in that country you fought for the brand you worked for.
This was different. This time I was going to have to order a man killed, or kill him myself, and of the two I preferred the latter.
This man must die, and he must die at once, for we might never see him again…but he would be sure to see us. And one by one we would die. The man was more deadly than any Comanche.
Did he know we were here? I thought not. He had come unexpectedly into a trap.
He was close enough now for us to see him clearly, and he was older than I had thought. He might have been fifty, or perhaps older. He was a short man with a lean, sharp face and the coldest eyes I had ever seen.
He came riding up to the saloon and dismounted, tying his horse to the hitch rail. He merely glanced at us, then went inside.
Meharry moved over beside me. “Conn, I had a talk with Flanagan,” he said. “He’s going to talk over the wire with a despatcher back up the line. Maybe he can learn something.”
When I went back inside, Hoback was standing at the bar, and he carried his shotgun slung from his shoulder, the butt up and about level with the top of the shoulder, the barrel dangling near his right hand. It was the first time I’d seen a gun carried that way.
He was half turned, so that his back was not to the door, and I went up to the bar and stood close to him, so close he could not get the shotgun into action if he wanted to.
There was no sense in beating around the bush with a man like this, and I had always believed in direct methods.
“You just rode in, Hoback,” I said. “Did you see a man of mine out there in the hills?”
His eyes flickered the merest bit when I called him by name, but he said, “I saw nobody.”
“I hope you didn’t,” I said.
He let that ride for a minute or two, but it worried him, and finally he said, “Why?”
“Because if you killed him I’m going to kill you.”
Fear rode before this man wherever he went, like a ghost horseman, and he was not accustomed to such direct talk. He started to speak, but I gave him no chance.
“I know who you are, Hoback, and why you are here. I also know how you get paid. Now listen to this. If one of my men, a
ny one of them, is killed by any means whatever, I shall hunt you down and kill you like you’ve killed others.”
Down the bar Battery Mason was holding his breath, and the bartender had moved as far away as he could get, but Bill Hoback had been taken off balance and was speechless. I did not give him a chance to reply or to get set. My left side was almost against him, and he had no chance to lift the shotgun, or even to lift his right hand without brushing me. His left hand rested on the bar.
“You get paid no matter who kills the man you’re after, so we’ll use the same rule you like. If any one of my men is killed, in any way whatsoever, we kill you.”
He was sweating, but I’d never seen a man’s eyes so mean, so bitter with a fury he could not let out.
“You’re Conn Dury,” he said.
“That’s right, Dutchman. I’m Conn Dury; and if you’ll recall, I spent part of my years living with the Apaches. I could follow your sign across a flat rock…I could follow it by the smell.”
He pulled back, trying for distance, but I moved right with him.
“You got no call to jump me,” he protested. “I done nothing.”
“And you aren’t going to.” As I spoke, a plan came to me suddenly. “In about half an hour there’s an east-bound train due in here. We’re putting you aboard.”
“Like hell!” he said. “I’ll—”
My back hand took him across the mouth, and he staggered. His right hand dropped to his shotgun and it swept up, faster than a man could draw a gun, his right hand going back to the action, the left catching the barrel—a movement so incredibly swift that I’d never have believed it possible.
Yet I had followed him up, and as his gun came up I slapped the barrel aside. Had I been two feet further away, he would have blown me apart. As it was, the shotgun went off harmlessly with a thunderous roar in the close confines of the room, and then I hit him.
My right fist caught him on the jaw and knocked him sprawling. Leaping after him, I kicked the gun from his hands. He lay there, staring up at me, blood trickling from a split lip from my backhand blow.
Novel 1964 - Kiowa Trail (v5.0) Page 8