by Abe Dancer
For the three months since the elections Tate Talbot had been sheriff of Senora. Unlike most of his predecessors Talbot had never been on the honest side of the law. It was also a fact that, until standing for office, Talbot had been known by many other names and was wanted dead or alive for each of them.
Tate Talbot sounded honest enough though.
Even if most of the townsfolk knew the truth they were not loco enough to mention it. For all of his thirty-nine years he had ridden along both sides of the long unmarked border between Texas and Mexico, using his skill at killing and rustling to make him wealthy beyond the dreams of most men. Becoming a sheriff had been his latest ploy to cash in on all the saloons, whorehouses and gambling halls within the sprawling, sun-bleached town’s boundaries.
It had worked well and paid him handsomely.
In twelve weeks Talbot had managed to cream off ten per cent of every business in Senora. His personal wealth now accounted for more than half the money in the town’s only bank.
Even the rest of the outlaws who used Senora as a place to rest their bones between rustling cattle knew that Tate Talbot was a man they could trust not to interfere with them as long as they gave him a cut of their profits.
Yet even Talbot could not resist the mouth-watering wanted posters that were sent to him once a month by stage. Most were for such paltry sums that it was not worth his while even considering trying to collect the bounties, but there were a few that just could not be ignored.
It was as tempting as honey to a hungry bear but the wily Talbot knew that he could not turn on the outlaws who filled the saloons and brothels and spent their ill-gotten gains in Senora without risking their retribution. If he were to collect reward money safely he had to figure a way of doing it while also keeping the free-spending drifters sweet.
But he kept looking at the wanted posters. He kept trying to think of a way in which he might be able to make that one big play that would enable him to be so rich that he could buy himself respectability far to the west, in a city like San Francisco. It was OK being rich in Senora but it meant nothing to a man who had always wanted more. To be rich in a city on the Californian coastline was a different matter. There his money could buy things which simply did not exist in this dust-weary town.
All Talbot had needed was that one wanted poster with a reward so large it would be worth the risk of incurring the wrath of the outlaws and bandits.
He knew that it would arrive one day. One day he would hold in his hands the key that could unlock him from the life he found himself living.
It had been close to sundown when the noon stage had eventually drawn into town. Talbot, a well-built man, had walked the fifty or so yards from his office to the stage depot and watched as the mail bag was thrown down by the shotgun guard to the depot clerk.
‘Anythin’ for me, Luke?’ Talbot had asked the guard who was climbing over the various bags on the top of the coach.
The bearded man paused and looked down at the boardwalk where Talbot was standing with thumbs tucked into his gunbelt.
‘Yep. I seen them put a whole heap of wanted posters in the mail bag for ya, Sheriff,’ the guard said through a mouthful of broken teeth. ‘Git Clem to give ’em to ya.’
Talbot nodded, turned and slowly trailed the clerk into the depot office. He rested his hands on the top of the desk and watched the clerk with eyes that had seen more than most in their time. Sunlight was low and its dying rays danced across the office wall.
‘I’ll have them posters, Clem,’ Talbot said in a deep drawl.
The clerk opened up the bag and searched through the mail until he found the posters, tied together by blue string. He handed them to the lawman and tilted his head so he could see from under his black visor.
‘Ya sure likes them posters, Tate,’ he commented.
Talbot grinned. ‘Yep. One day I’m gonna find me one with big money printed on it. Wanted dead or alive!’
‘Ya itchin’ to kill some critter, Sheriff?’
‘Damn right!’ Talbot smiled. ‘I ain’t killed nobody in a month of Sundays. A man can get rusty.’
The clerk gestured at the window, then struck a match and touched the wick of the candle on his desk. As the flame lit up the office the small man blew the match and tossed it out into the street.
‘The town’s full of outlaws, Tate. Ya could go kill some of them and make a few bucks. I reckon if ya just closed ya eyes and fired down the street you’d hit at least one varmint wanted for something.’
Talbot nodded. ‘But most of them varmints are my pals, Clem. Besides, they ain’t worth a new saddle between ’em. Ain’t worth my while wasting lead on them.’
The clerk busied himself as the lawman walked out into the fading light and strolled back to his own office with the posters tucked under his left arm. The words had been true. Most of the outlaws and bandits who roamed freely in town were dangerous killers without an ounce of morality between them, yet for Talbot to go up against any of them would be suicidal for a man so close to the other side of the law. Talbot knew that if he were to try to claim the reward on anyone, it would have to be someone neither he nor any of the other trail trash in Senora had ever encountered. The bounty would also have to be in the thousands of dollars for him even to bother.
Upon arriving back in his office, Talbot had lit the lantern on his desk, turned up its brass wheel and sat down. He broke the string and placed the pile of posters before him. It was like looking at a potential meal. His mouth started to water in anticipation.
One after another he studied them, turning each one face down as he got to the next.
As always there were vague descriptions of the outlaws who seemed to have more names than any honest soul. Some had even more names than Talbot himself. Heights varied, as well as hair colouring. Few of the posters had any truly accurate information and none could even agree on the outlaws’ ages. Thought to be between twenty and forty was printed on at least half of them. Only a few had crude photographic images which could have fitted nearly anyone in town. One poster after another turned into one disappointment after another.
Then as Talbot had almost reached the last poster his hand stopped turning and he drew the stiff paper closer to him. He turned the wheel of the lantern up once again. The office became brighter. This was the one poster he had never even imagined was in circulation.
It was the amount that had attracted his full attention first.
‘Twenty thousand dollars, dead or alive!’ Talbot muttered aloud.
A crooked smile etched itself on his face as he looked at the poster in his left hand. ‘Diamond Bob Casey.’
He shook his head and laughed out loud. It was a joke only he understood. It was perfect. Diamond Bob Casey was wanted dead or alive for $20,000.
Tate Talbot rose from his chair with the poster clutched in his hand. He looked out of the window of the office as the street lights were being lit by a small man with a long pole and a flaming rag at its end.
He kept laughing.
Not one of the other wanted men in Senora knew why their sheriff was so amused. If they had they might have started shooting in his direction.
For, ten years earlier, Tate Talbot himself had used the name of Diamond Bob Casey. The lawman pulled a cigar from his vest pocket and placed it between his teeth. He leaned over the glass funnel of the lamp on his desk, lit the tip of the cigar in the flame, and sucked in the smoke. It filled his lungs as his mind raced. Of all the wanted outlaws in Texas and beyond, it was he himself who was the most valuable.
He inhaled the cigar smoke deeply. But how could he get his hands on the money someone had placed upon his own head? The question burned into his mind.
Then, as if by divine providence, Tate Talbot was given the answer he had searched for.
As smoke drifted from between his teeth the man with the tin star pinned to his shirt saw the lone rider pass the window of his office. It was a man whom he did not recognize but that made it even be
tter.
A stranger.
A drifter.
A drifter who was doomed to become the dead body of Diamond Bob Casey. All Sheriff Talbot needed to claim the bounty on his own head was a body. Any body would do. He still had the savvy that had served him well when he had been Diamond Bob, and he knew that he could salt the corpse with personal items that would allow him to kill, prove his case, and make his claim for the $20,000.
Hal Harper aimed his mount at the nearest cantina. He had no idea that, in the mind of the lawman who watched him from the sheriff’s office, his fate was already sealed.
Sealed by a ruthless man who was going to do the impossible.
A man who was going to claim the reward money on his own head.
Talbot carefully folded the wanted poster up and pushed it into his shirt.
‘Like taking candy from a baby,’ he muttered. ‘A lotta candy.’
THREE
As another three rifle bullets kicked up clouds of sand and buried themselves at his feet, Hal Harper somehow found renewed vigour. Without a second’s hesitation he turned and leapt down the sandy slope, dragging the horse behind him. Both man and beast toppled head over heels and rolled downward as the unstable white granules beneath their feet gave way. It was Harper who reached the level ground first, but he was soon followed by his horse. Every last breath was knocked from the animal as it landed hard beside its master.
It was a shaken Harper who staggered back to his feet, dusted himself off and moved to the motionless animal. For a few moments the young man wondered whether his mount was still alive. He then saw the creature’s long legs kick out as its startled eyes followed his every movement.
Reaching down, Harper grabbed hold of the loose reins and was about to tug at them when he heard something to his left.
Something that startled him.
The youngster spun on his heels and swiftly drew his Colt from its holster. He cocked its hammer and screwed up his sun-burned features in a vain attempt to see what had alerted his senses.
There was nothing to see. Nothing to focus upon.
Only another mountain of yellow sand looming amid so many identical others. Gun in hand, Harper turned full circle as if perhaps the noise had come from somewhere else. Somewhere he had yet to identify. Nervously he returned to the horse who was lying on its side with its saddle almost torn free. Harper checked the cinch strap. It was still intact. He told himself that he would be able to use the saddle again, if the horse survived.
‘Get up!’ Harper urged the winded animal as his eyes vainly searched every square yard of sand within view for a hint of what or who had made the disconcerting sound. ‘Get up, boy!’
Then another bewildering noise drew his eyes and his gun barrel back to the dune. Yet he still could not make out what it was that was making the noises beyond the mountain of sand. Was it an animal, or perhaps something made by the hands of man? He could not fathom the brief tormenting noise, which did not linger long enough for his tired brain to work out the riddle.
He looked back down at the horse.
For three long years this animal had obeyed every command Harper had uttered. Never once had it refused to comply with its master’s demands. Now it lay wide-eyed and pitiful at his feet.
The young Harper moved around the horse and checked that it had no broken bones. When satisfied he returned to its head and grabbed hold of the reins close to the metal bit.
‘Get up! I’m in worse fettle than you are, boy.’ Harper dragged at the bit until the horse eventually started to move its long legs and claw with its hoofs at the soft sand. It took a few attempts but eventually it managed to roll over and stand upright. Harper pushed the saddle back up on to his mount’s high shoulders.
‘Good boy!’ Harper ran his left hand along the animal’s neck. ‘Good boy! Now come on before them backshooters behind us catch up and make glue out of the pair of us.’
As if the horse understood the words, it began to trot at the side of its master. The fatigued mount trailed Harper who somehow managed to ignore his own weariness and crippling thirst and actually run.
They had almost reached the nearest dune when they both heard the uncanny sound again. Both stopped in their tracks and looked in the direction from where they were convinced the strange sound had emanated.
‘Whatever that is I got me a feeling it ain’t gonna be good news for us, fella.’ Harper held on to the reins with his left hand whilst keeping the gun in his right trained on the sandy prominence before them. They began to walk again, this time with more caution than previously. With each stride the horse kept turning its head and looking to where they had both heard the sound.
It too was frightened.
‘You hear it as well,’ the youth whispered. ‘Thank God I ain’t imagining it! I saw you look the same as me. There is something ahead over that damn dune. Something that’s making them strange noises.’
For another ten minutes the man and his horse staggered and walked. Neither seemed to notice the blazing sun which continued to beat down upon them. The sand which covered their sweat-soaked hides gave them a little protection.
Their dazed minds were now upon something besides their own pain. Something which might be more dangerous than the five riders who trailed them or the unyielding sun in the cloudless blue heavens that tormented them.
The horse was nervous because it, like its master, was slowly losing its battle for life against the unbearable heat and the lack of water. Only determination kept them upright and fighting the elements.
Neither was ready to die just yet.
With every step that Harper took he tried to recall the direction in which he had seen the image of the lake of blue water. He prayed that the lake might be real and not just another trick of the desert. He knew where the sun had been in the cloudless sky when he had been atop the high dune, and he tried to remain on course as he staggered through the hot dry land.
‘We gotta keep heading thataway, boy,’ Harper said to the animal as though it understood. ‘That’s where the lake is. We have to keep heading thataway.’
Suddenly another sound shook the air. This one was louder than those which had confused him. It echoed all around the man and his horse.
The horse reared up and kicked out at the very air itself as its owner hung on to the reins. There was no mystery in this particular sound though. This was a noise they both recognized all too well.
Rifles were being fired.
The only difference was that this time the bullets were not being aimed at them. This time there was another target.
The horse battled with its owner. Harper holstered his gun and pushed his gloved fingers into both sides of the bridle of the frightened horse until his hands were jammed there. Another shot rang out behind them. The horse tried to rear up again but could not lift its forelegs off the sand with the weight of its master hanging on to its head and neck.
‘Easy, boy!’ Harper shouted into the horse’s face as it attempted to shake him free. ‘Steady! You’ll kill yourself if you get too excited!’
The tired animal slowed and then stopped bucking. It was too weary to fight the one man who had always taken care of it. Hal Harper held the head of the animal in check and stared off behind them at the largest of the dunes.
He could not see any of the five men who hunted them.
They had yet to reach the top of the high dune. Again shots rang out in the hot afternoon air. This time the horseman saw the lines of the hot lead as they cut up into the sky from beyond the mountain of sand.
He also saw two of the four circling vultures fall from the sky and disappear from view.
Harper sighed with relief. He pulled his gloved hands free and steadied the animal with soothing strokes across its lathered-up head.
‘Easy, boy!’ Harper panted heavily. ‘I reckon we got ourselves some time. Them varmints must be hungry and they just shot themselves some dinner. Vultures must take a lot of cooking before you can eat the dam
n things.’
The exhausted man began to move again, with haste, away from where the shots had sounded. The animal kept pace with him as they found themselves ascending a slight rise between two towering dunes.
Again Harper paused. His eyes squinted from beneath the wide brim of his hat. ‘I figure that we have to go another few miles in that direction, boy. Then we’ll have all the water we can drink.’
Slowly Harper staggered down the rise. Cramp was beginning to gnaw into his leg muscles but he knew that he could not stop. He had to ignore his pain and keep going. Only death could stop the sweat-soaked man now. But there were five hardened riders somewhere over the highest of the dunes behind him who would be more than willing to dish out death given the slightest chance, or a clean target to aim at.
The further they walked the hotter it grew. It was unbearable. The very air around the man and horse was thickening like a fog. Yet no fog was like this, Harper thought to himself.
Then they heard the strange noise again.
Harper drew and raised his gun. He aimed to his right, into the swirling heat haze.
‘Who are you?’ he called out.
There was no reply.
Then he heard the sound once more.
Trails of sweat ran from his hatband over his forehead and into his eyes. Salt stung like a thousand hornets. Harper shook his head and tried to see. He wondered how much of his body’s sweat he had left to lose.
He swayed on his feet, holding his gun at hip level.
‘What the hell was that?’ he asked himself fearfully. ‘That ain’t no human making that ruckus.’
He blinked hard but the sweat kept stinging his eyes. They seemed to be on fire just like the rest of him beneath the remorseless rays of the sun.