Calloway's Crossing

by I. J. Parnham

  Calloway's Crossing

  I. J. Parnham

  Published by Culbin Press, 2021.

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First published in 2006 by Robert Hale Limited

  Copyright © 2006, 2021 by I. J. Parnham

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sign up for I. J. Parnham's Mailing List

  Further Reading: Incident at Pegasus Heights

  Also By I. J. Parnham

  Chapter One

  TRIP KINCAID CRAWLED to the edge of the ridge and in the campsite below, the situation was exactly as he’d feared. Two bandits had bushwhacked a traveler. The poor man had probably invited them in to share his fire for the night, but instead they’d accosted him.

  Then, while one of the bandits held him at gunpoint, the other man ransacked through his possessions. Already clothes and utensils were strewn all over the site while the traveler stood with his hands thrust high.

  By the light of the spluttering fire, the tallest of the bandits tipped the contents of a saddlebag out at his feet, riffled through them with his foot and hurled the bag away. He snorted with disappointment and gestured to his colleague, who strode a long pace to stand behind the traveler and jabbed his gun into the small of his back.

  At the top of the ridge, Trip drew his gun and stood up. He wasn’t a fast-draw gunslinger, but he considered himself deadly enough over short distances. So to help this man he had to get closer.

  His main advantage was surprise and, as the night was moonless, the dazzling light of the campfire would mask his approach. He paced down the slope, placing his feet to the ground slowly to avoid disturbing the grit and pebbles.

  “Talk, now,” the tall bandit below him said, his harsh words coming to Trip on the light evening breeze.

  The bushwhacked man struggled, but found that the other bandit was holding him firmly and that the gun never wavered from his back. He desisted.

  “About what?” he said, his voice defiant despite the desperate circumstances.

  “You’ve got to have something valuable.” The bandit spat on the ground. “Give it to me.”

  Trip had shuffled for over twenty paces down the side of the ridge, but he was still thirty yards from the bandits and had a complicated path around boulders and through gullies to negotiate in the dark. Although the dirt ahead was loose and slippery, he sped his journey downward, pattering his feet with small steps to avoid falling.

  His lack of caution freed a flurry of pebbles that cascaded from under his feet, the low whisper of grit moving over grit being loud enough to herald his approach. The tall bandit flinched and turned around, his hand shooting up to his brow, while his colleague swung the captured man around to face up the slope and fired off a speculative shot.

  The lead whistled by over twenty yards to Trip’s side, but as he strode another pace and dislodged another flurry of dirt, the bandit homed in on his location and fired again. This time a slug cannoned into the dirt five yards ahead of Trip’s feet.

  Trip reckoned the next gunshot wouldn’t be so wild. So he slid to a halt, steadied himself and tore off a shot. The lead winged past the tall bandit’s shoulder and in return both men crouched as they aimed up at Trip, who flinched away before either man could fire.

  The traveler used the distraction to tear himself away from the bandit who was holding him, but then Trip’s feet slipped from under him, throwing him on his back. Two gunshots whistled over his tumbling form.

  Trip fought to right himself, but he couldn’t find purchase in the loose dirt and he skidded down the slope on his back with his legs whirling in the air like an upturned beetle. He dug his elbows in and grabbed at thin air as he tried to halt his tumbling, but still he slid downward.

  A pained screech escaped his lips as his left elbow jarred against a rock. Then Trip slammed into one of the many boulders on the slope. His head crunched into rock and a bolt of pain wrenched through him as disorientating views of the night sky and the ground swirled around him.

  The stars in the sky merged with stars that were closer to his eyes and the next he knew he was lying propped up against a boulder at the bottom of the slope. A cold and wet cloth dampened his forehead, a flickering fire warmed his feet and the man he had been trying to save was hunkered down before him and smiling.

  Trip tried to get up, but had to fight down a gut-churning burst of nausea. He slumped back down.

  “The bandits are here,” he said. “We’ve got to—”

  The man placed a hand on his shoulder and bade him not to move.

  “Relax,” he said. “They’re gone. You frightened them off.”

  Trip fingered the cloth on his forehead. “I slipped and banged my head. I couldn’t have been that frightening.”

  The man threw back his head and laughed. He slapped his thigh, merriment twinkling his eyes.

  “I know that now, but when you came hurtling down that slope a-hollering and a-screaming like the Devil himself was snapping at your heels, they thought the whole Seventh Cavalry was coming after them.” He winked. “What you did wasn’t that clever, but it sure was effective.”

  Trip returned a snorted laugh and removed the cloth from his brow. He sat up straighter.

  “What did they want?”

  “What do any of them want? They just wanted what I had and would have got it if it hadn’t have been for you, and I’m obliged for your help. . . .” The man raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m Trip Kincaid, and I’m glad I could help.”

  Trip touched the back of his head, suppressing a wince as he located a tender bump.

  “I’m Milton Calloway.” He sighed. “I’ve got no idea what I can give you to show my gratitude.”

  “I never looked for nothing but that thanks,” Trip said, as Milton walked away to sit on the other side of the fire.

  From Milton’s gray hair and deep wrinkles, Trip judged him to be around fifty, and from his relaxed attitude, he reckoned he was someone who had lived life to the full and who found enjoyment in any situation.

  “Maybe there is something I can give you,” Milton mused and leaned forward. “Where were you heading before you threw yourself headfirst down that slope to save my life?”

  “I came from over there.” Trip pointed over his shoulder and then swung his hand forward to point down the trail. “I’m heading that-a-way.”

  “I thought you looked like a traveling man, but have you ever thought of settling down?”

  Trip thought about this and then gave a slow nod.

  “I guess I have. I’ve often thought it’d be mighty fine to have a stretch of land to call my own.” Trip blew out his cheeks as he thought some more. “I’ve spent enough time in saloons, so I guess I sometimes get a hankering to own one.”

  Milton raised his eyebrows and shook himself. He beamed a huge grin and s
lapped his thigh.

  “A saloon, you say?” He raised his head to howl a cry of delight into the night. “I just knew I was right to do this.”

  Milton headed around the fire and sat beside him. He withdrew an envelope from his pocket. It was dirty and battered, but the parchment he slipped out had ornate writing and a thick seal at the bottom.

  “Are you giving me land, or a saloon?” Trip asked.

  “Both.” Milton flicked the parchment open and turned it around so that Trip could read it by the firelight. “It’s a place where travelers like you can stop and enjoy a quiet drink along with fifty acres of the finest farming land you could ever want, if you’re minded to use it. It’s called Calloway’s Crossing, a saloon so fine, it even carries my name.”

  Trip took the offered parchment and after reading the first few lines confirmed that Calloway’s offer was exactly as he’d suggested.

  “I’m grateful, but if this saloon is that fine, why give it away?”

  Milton’s beaming smile died and he rolled onto his haunches to poke the fire. When he responded, no sign of his former good humor remained.

  “I’ll be honest with you. It’s a burden. Two weeks ago I bet, won, and nearly got myself killed using it as a stake in a poker game, and then I nearly ended up giving it to those two no-good varmints.”

  “Don’t let the likes of them tell you how to live your life.”

  “I don’t, but you’re a traveling man with a hankering to settle down, and I’m a settled man who got himself a hankering to travel.” Milton sighed. “Ever since I left Calloway’s Crossing two years ago I’ve thought about the time I’d stop traveling and head back there, but now I reckon it’s time to cut the ties and go my own way.”

  While he pondered, Trip prodded the back of his head, probing around the sore spot. His first reaction of a refusal hovered on his lips as he searched for a way to decline the offer without hurting Milton’s feelings.

  Milton’s resolute expression said a refusal would do more than hurt his feelings. He had faced death and had lost his self-respect. Giving Trip his saloon was the only way he’d restore that self-respect. Moment by moment the temptation to accept Milton’s offer grew until Trip ventured a smile.

  “Where is this saloon?”

  Milton grinned. Then he pointed, the thrust of his arm indicating a general direction in the darkness.

  “Stay by the railroad and keep going until you’re about fifteen miles away from the friendliest town you could ever hope to visit – Wagon Creek.”

  “It sure sounds fine.” Trip returned the grin and held out a hand. “I will accept this saloon, and if you ever want to stop and rest while you’re doing that traveling, you’ll always have a friend at Calloway’s Crossing.”

  “I’ll do just that. I have a good feeling about you.” Milton took the hand and winked. “I reckon this saloon and you were meant for each other.”

  Chapter Two

  TRIP DREW HIS HORSE to a halt before the rough sprawl of shacks, the wooden sign staked into the ground confirming he had arrived at Calloway’s Crossing. To his right was an expanse of pine.

  Behind him was a gentle hill, a creek heading down it to run past him to his left and then around the shacks and lazily merge with a slow-moving river. The river’s wide expanse captured the blue sky and returned a dazzling and cool reflection that would lift the spirits of the weariest of travelers.

  The water was shallow enough and clear enough to reveal the stony bottom, suggesting this was the most convenient point for travelers to cross. The location of the saloon Trip now owned wasn’t obvious, but there was a trading post, a barn, a stable and an adjoining smithy splayed out on either side of the trail.

  From within the smithy, the crisp clang of metal on metal sounded and Trip had the distinct but untroubling impression that somebody was watching him. Sure enough, after one final heavy clang, a brawny and soot-streaked young man came outside, wiping his hands on his apron.

  The man sported a wide and hopeful grin, his teeth and eyes gleaming within his dirtied face, and hailed him. So Trip dismounted and stood beside the sign.

  “Calloway’s Crossing is a mighty fine-looking place,” he said, patting the sign.

  The man introduced himself as Isaac Wheeler and set his hands on his hips.

  “It is at that,” he said. “What can we do for you? We can provide most of what a man could want here without him even having to head through Wagon Creek.”

  “A saloon would be fine.”

  Isaac snorted. “Pa can sell you supping whiskey to take with you, but if you want entertainment, you’ll have to head to Wagon Creek.”

  Isaac turned away, but Trip raised a hand, halting him.

  “I wasn’t looking for entertainment, just the saloon. Milton Calloway told me about it.”

  “So you’ve met Milton,” Isaac mused. “I suppose I’m pleased to hear that no-good dreamer is still alive.”

  “He’s not a no-good dreamer. When I met him he seemed a decent enough man.”

  “Then he must have got religion because decent isn’t a word anyone’s ever used to describe Milton.”

  Trip winced. “Are you trying to tell me that Milton isn’t a reliable source of information?”

  “I am at that and plenty more besides.” Isaac sighed. “So what did Milton tell you about his saloon?”

  Trip caught the emphasis on the last word, and his guts rumbled with an impending sense of foreboding.

  “He said he left it two years ago and. . . .” Trip gulped as a slow smile spread across Isaac’s face. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “There’s plenty. Milton left two weeks ago. He got into a poker game with his brother Adam and afterward, Adam ran his no-good brother out of town with bullets a-flying everywhere. Milton wouldn’t dare return.”

  “He won’t need to no more.” Trip forced himself to smile as he patted his bulging pocket. “I own his saloon and land now, and it’s all legal like.”

  “You own. . . .” Isaac chuckled. “You’re not joking, are you? You really do own Milton Calloway’s saloon.”

  A huge grin emerged as Trip nodded. Then Isaac hurried away into the trading post, his arms wheeling as he shouted out for his pa. Chester Wheeler, a lean and stooped man came outside, his brow furrowed, but as he and Isaac walked toward Trip, Isaac spoke to him and slowly he matched Isaac’s grin. He swung to a halt to stand in front of Trip and licked his lips, his eyes taking on a gleam.

  “How much did you pay for Milton’s saloon?” he said.

  “Nothing,” Trip said.

  “Nothing!” Chester and Isaac both smirked. “Milton sure found himself a prize greenhorn, didn’t he, Isaac?”

  “He sure did,” Isaac uttered, his breath coming in short bursts as he fought to keep his amusement under control. “I didn’t think Milton would ever find an idiot stupid enough to pay that much for his property.”

  Isaac and Chester threw back their heads and they both ripped out a loud snort of laughter, slapped each other on the back and laughed some more. They even linked arms and jigged around on the spot, kicking up the dirt and punching the air as they gave vent to their amusement.

  “I don’t know what you’re laughing about,” Trip said when their first burst of merriment had died down, “but Milton Calloway owned a saloon and a stretch of land around here.”

  “He did.” Chester disentangled himself from his son’s arm. He rubbed his jaw and winced as if the laughter had made it ache. “How do you think Calloway’s Crossing got its name?”

  Trip pointed at the river, shrugging. “It’s the best place to cross the river.”

  “Travelers do come here to cross the river, but I own most of the land around here, so why didn’t I call it Wheeler’s Crossing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Chester chuckled, prolonging the moment before he gave his answer.

  “Because Milton Calloway double-crossed so many of those travelers that any fool who used th
e crossing ended up being crossed by Calloway.”

  Trip rubbed his forehead as Chester and Isaac whirled around on a new jig. He raised his voice.

  “I’d be obliged if you stopped enjoying yourself now and just show me where my saloon is.”

  Chester stomped to a halt and turned to the trading post.

  “I sure will. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

  Chester pointed at the post. Trip narrowed his eyes, but only the post was there. So Chester beckoned him to follow him to the post and then around the side. Slowly the land behind the building opened up to his view, and between the meandering creek and the post there was an expanse of mud. Trip closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Am I right in thinking that Milton’s land is the stretch of mud behind your trading post?”

  “You guessed it.”

  Trip walked to the edge of the mud and with his hand to his brow faced the river. As far as he could tell, the creek that ran into the river overflowed its banks frequently and it had converted the low-lying land to mud.

  Chester had had the sense to erect his buildings on elevated and dry land. If Trip judged where he thought his land started correctly, he didn’t have that luxury.

  “Is all Milton’s land that muddy?”

  “Nope. Nearer to the river, there’s quicksand.” Chester laughed. “Milton might have been the sneakiest, double-crossing varmint who ever lived around these parts, but he sure didn’t have himself any sense or get much luck. He bought the only stretch of land around here that was of no use to man nor beast.”

  “Where’s the saloon?”

  Chester beckoned Trip to follow him into the mud, and they waded for three paces before the slurping mass pulling at their feet dragged them to a halt. Chester gestured around him at the sodden and stinking earth. The occasional bubble formed and then popped in the sea of mud, and several rotting planks poked out.

  “Milton Calloway’s Saloon,” Chester said, pointing at the strewn wood. He gestured with his arms outstretched, signifying a large structure, and flopped his hands over. “It fell down and then sank.”