by Jack Martin
‘Well,’ Arkansas said, rubbing the back of his head, ‘there’s nothing really for you to do. He’s seen a doctor. Just needs rest is all.’
‘Nonsense,’ Rebecca said. ‘There’s plenty I could do. I can give this place a proper clean up for a start. And I could cook you two something before I leave.’ She smiled, warmly. ‘I’d like to thank you for saving me and my horse.’
‘That would be dandy,’ Will said. ‘I think I could manage a little food made proper and all.’
‘Shoot,’ Arkansas said. For some reason that he couldn’t understand he was feeling awkward in the company of the woman. He rolled his eyes and went outside for a smoke.
‘I don’t rightly know, Sheriff,’ John Lance said, and sucked on one of his large Juan de Fuca cigars. ‘All I do know is that this Arkansas Smith, a known gunfighter, is out there. McCord being dead or alive is beyond my knowledge since no one can find the town doctor to ask him just what his business was out there.’
‘Doc does this from time to time,’ Sheriff Bill Hackman said and sat back in his chair, resting his hands on his ample belly. ‘He’ll be off drunk and most likely with some whore. He’ll turn up when he’s good and ready. And there are no papers that I know of on any Arkansas Smith. I looked through everything we have and as far as I can tell he ain’t wanted for anything anywhere.’
Lance frowned. ‘So exactly what do you know of this Arkansas character?’
‘Only what folk say,’ the sheriff replied. ‘That’s he’s fast with a gun. Maybe the fastest.’
‘You’re sheriff,’ Lance said. ‘You should know what goes on around here. The doctor rode out to the McCord place with a stranger and you knew nothing about it.’
‘I can’t be expected to see every move anyone ever makes,’ Hackman protested. ‘I’m the only law in this town and I’m often dealing with a million things at the same time.’
‘You seemed busy enough when we rode in.’ Lance’s words dripped heavy with sarcasm. They had arrived an hour ago and found the sheriff slumbering behind his desk.
‘I was resting my eyes. Ain’t had much time to sleep lately.’ The sheriff ran his hands through his hair. ‘I’m run ragged these days.’
Lance leaned over the desk, his knuckles white against the rich wood, and blew cigar smoke over the sheriff.
‘I’m intending to take possession of the McCord property on the first of the month, as is my legal right, and I expect you to ensure that legal right is not impeded in any way.’ His eyes blazed with a thunderous threat and the sheriff sat upright. ‘That’s in four days’ time,’ Lance concluded, and went over to the window and looked out onto the street.
‘Of course.’ Hackman said. ‘I’m the law and I will see the law done.’
‘You are the law.’ Lance nodded but didn’t look away from the window and added, ‘My law. Don’t forget that.’
The sheriff nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I know who calls the shots in this town. Don’t you think I already know that?’ Defeated, he skulked off into the back of the building to where he kept his whiskey.
SEVEN
The following morning Arkansas woke a little later than was usual. He put this down to the substantial meal the woman Rebecca had prepared before leaving the previous evening. Even Will had managed half a bowl of the delicious stew and had then fallen into a contented sleep. Arkansas’s care had been all very well, but there was something about a woman’s touch when it came to getting chow done.
Arkansas stood on the porch, smoking a quirly, drinking a tin cup of strong coffee and looked off at the far horizon. He had to give Will credit, it was a beautiful land. If someone was looking to settle down this was as good a place as any. In the distance, snow-capped mountains could be seen, Ponderosa pines reaching towards the sky.
Later, after tending to Will who was looking better than ever and now able to sit up in bed, Arkansas took the sorrel out for a quick look around. He didn’t want to go too far from the cabin until he knew for certain who had done for his friend. Before leaving, he had armed Will with the Spencer. You could never be too careful; they had both learned that valuable lesson long ago, and the rifle’s .54-calibre slug provided ample insurance against further unwanted visitors.
Arkansas kept the cabin in sight and merely circled the perimeter around the building. He could see why Will had picked this spot to lay his land claim. The valley was protected from all sides by densely planted mountains and a stream ran down from those hills and went directly through Will’s land. Water could often be a valuable commodity in long summers when the rain refused to come. He was about to go further into the mountain when he saw three men riding towards him.
He turned the sorrel and spurred it into a gallop back towards the cabin. He wasn’t sure who the mounted men were but he wanted to be close to his friend if it meant further trouble.
He reached the cabin and sent the sorrel into the corral.
He ran into the cabin and went through to Will. ‘Someone’s coming.’
Will sat up in bed, wincing slightly with the effort. He grabbed the Spencer from beside the bed where he’d left it. ‘How many?’
‘Three men.’
‘What do you think?’
Arkansas shrugged his shoulders. He supposed they could be anyone – drifters, men in search of work. But then again, by the same token they could be connected with whoever it was had attacked Will in the first place.
‘Be ready with that Spencer,’ Arkansas said. ‘I’ll go out and meet them.’
‘Be careful.’
Arkansas smiled, grimly. ‘As always.’
Arkansas got back outside just as the three men reached the corral fence. He stood in the doorway, watching them.
‘Looks empty,’ a well-dressed man said. He was obviously the leader of this particular trio. The other men held their horses level with him, one each side.
‘State your business,’ Arkansas said.
The man who had spoken earlier smiled. ‘I’m John Lance,’ he said. ‘I’m here to speak with William McCord.’
Arkansas took a long lingering look at Lance before speaking. He was bigger than he’d imagined him to be and looked oversized on his horse. ‘About what?’
‘My business is with McCord,’ Lance said. ‘You have me at a disadvantage. Who might you be?’
Arkansas smiled. ‘That depends.’
Suddenly the atmosphere between them became charged and the men either side of John Lance tensed, readying themselves for action should the need arise.
‘Depends on what?’ John Lance asked.
‘On you starting trouble,’ Arkansas told him. ‘Then you’ll find out who I am. Then you’ll find out quick and good.’
The two riders suddenly became alert at the implied threat, but John Lance held up a hand to steady his men. He shifted in his saddle, trying not to show how the over confident man was making him feel.
‘May I speak with McCord?’ Lance asked.
‘No,’ Arkansas said. ‘You may not.’ He stared at the men with Lance and locked eyes with each of them in turn, willing them to make a play.
‘And may I ask why?’
Arkansas smiled at Lance. ‘Because he’s recuperating,’ he said, ‘after being shot by some low down skunk. But he’ll be fine on account of that skunk’s a poor shot.’
‘Oh dear,’ John Lance said. ‘That is most unfortunate and I sympathize. But I’m here to iron out details of taking possession of this place.’
‘Possession?’ Arkansas was confused.
‘Why yes,’ John Lance said. ‘I bought this place from Mr McCord.’
Arkansas hadn’t expected this. It made no sense. Surely Will would have said if he’d sold the place to Lance. Even in his present state he surely would have mentioned that little fact. He’d said the man had made several offers to buy him out, but he hadn’t said he’d taken him up on the deal.
What was Lance trying to pull here?
‘Can you prove that?’ Arkansas asked.
‘Of course. The documentation’s in town, lodged with both my lawyer and the sheriff. As of the first of the month this place becomes mine. I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you and McCord vacate the premises. ’Course as a gesture of goodwill I’m more than willing to arrange a bed at my hotel for McCord to recuperate from his injury.’
It suddenly came to Arkansas. The thing that had been bothering him about the two men he had seen in town when collecting the doc, the men who had worked for Lance. One of them had been wearing a fancy-looking gun, the handle of which was identical to the knife he’d found in the cabin. He’d thought it had looked familiar because it had been Will’s. Yet he’d seen the same ornate pattern on the cowboy but its significance hadn’t registered until now.
‘I saw two of your men in town the other day,’ Arkansas said. ‘Two stupid-looking brutes.’ He cast his eyes at the men either side of Lance. ‘Just as stupid-looking as these men.’
Both men flinched at the insult and made a move to their guns, but before either of them could reach their weapon, Arkansas’s Colt had cleared leather. No one had really seen him move. It was as if the gun had just appeared there in his hand.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Arkansas told them. ‘Now, ride away, John Lance, and take your lies with you.’
Lance’s face clouded over and thunder entered his eyes. ‘I’ll be back in three days, Arkansas Smith.’ He smiled and then spat onto the ground. ‘Oh, I know who you are. I’ll be back and I’ll have the law with me.’
‘Sure,’ Arkansas said, feeling he’d like nothing better than to put a bullet between John Lance’s eyes here and now. The temptation to do so and damn the consequences was great. Only these days he didn’t do things that way. ‘Watch out for rustlers as you go,’ he said with a grim smile.
John Lance looked at Arkansas for a moment and then made the sign of the cross and again spat onto the ground.
He turned his horse and spurred it forward. His men followed close behind.
Arkansas stood watching them until they were out of sight and then went back inside and retrieved the knife from the crate. He held it up in view of his friend.
‘Is this yours?’ he asked. Will shook his head, confused. ‘What was all that about out there?’
Arkansas turned the knife over and over in his hand. He looked at his friend and then smiled. ‘This,’ he said, enigmatically, ‘proves that the men who shot you were working for John Lance.’
‘What do you mean?’ Will asked, his face a blueprint for confusion.
‘We need to talk.’ Arkansas sat on the edge of the bed, tossed the knife down on the bedspread and told his friend of the events of moments ago.
‘The two-bit, fork-tongued skunk,’ Will said, after listening to Arkansas’s story. ‘I never sold him anything. I’d burn this place before I’d sell to that no good varmint.’
‘Which is what I thought,’ Arkansas said. ‘He say’s he’s got the legal papers.’
Will frowned. ‘Papers?’
‘Forgeries no doubt.’ Arkansas placed the knife into his waistband and stood up from the bed. He crossed the room and then lingered in the doorway for a moment before turning back to his friend. ‘John Lance is going to wish he had never been born.’
YESTERYEAR
Arkansas Smith, ten years old, finding himself the man of the house, stood at the graveside long after the other mourners had departed. He stared into the open ground, aware of two men waiting impatiently to fill it in, to pack the soil on top of the cheap coffin for all eternity. But he ignored them and was unable to move.
As soon as he walked away and the grave was filled in it would be final. Walter Smith would be no more.
He didn’t want to take that step; as if staying here, refusing to move, would somehow delay the moment when the old man’s death became a part of history. He wasn’t really his father, no blood relation, but the man he thought of as his father anyway. The man who had found him as a newborn, still attached to his dead mother, and promptly named him Arkansas because that’s where they were. Only they weren’t, he would later discover and tell the boy years later, but the name had stuck.
Blood kin or not, the young boy couldn’t have wanted for better parents than Walter and Edith Smith and he was proud to carry their name.
‘Arkansas.’
The shout came through the mist like a phantom and Arkansas spun on his feet and saw the woman he called his mother standing at the bottom of the hill that served as the cemetery in these parts.
She was waving to him, telling him to come down from there now. His father was dead and only the body rested in the grave. He was with the Lord now and life had to go on.
Arkansas waved back and then once more said a silent goodbye to the man. He turned and caught the stare of the two gravediggers and offered a weak smile, but they bowed their heads to the ground, understanding his grief.
He walked down the hill and met the elderly woman and together they made their way back to the small, two-roomed house at the far end of town. As small as it was, it was going to feel mighty big now with Walter Smith gone.
Winter drew in quickly that year. The summer seemed to bypass the fall and head directly to the sub zero temperatures of the Illinois winter. It was early October and for the past three days freezing rain had fallen and was now giving way to snow. As the temperature dropped further still, the wet ground hardened and ice patches formed. Travelling even the smallest distances became impossible.
Arkansas shivered as he carried the bucket of water from the well. He had found the well frozen over and had had to spend several uncomfortable moments cracking the ice with an axe, the handle of which stuck to his leather gloves. He felt snow fluttering against his face, which made a change from the stinging rain, but he took no pleasure from it.
The snowfall would only make an already hard existence harder still.
The clement summer had been too dry and the larger part of the crops had failed. They had moved here three years ago from Georgia because Walter Smith saw farming opportunities, but when the old man died all they had been left with were debts and land that had refused to provide bounty.
‘It’s getting colder.’ Arkansas placed the bucket in the corner. He threw another log onto the fire, recoiling from the sparks that shot out, and smiled at his mother. ‘I’ll go and chop some more wood later,’ he said. ‘Just in case the snow takes hold.’
‘You’re a good boy.’ Edith Smith closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth as the flames flickered and danced in shadows upon her face. The wind howled around the building, shaking the walls, the sound of snow tapped the window and rattled the panes of glass.
It made the place seem all the more cosy.
They sat in silence for several moments, the only sound being the logs spitting on the fire and the wind. It sounded desolate as if the world outside had ceased to exist and they were all that remained.
‘You know something?’ Arkansas asked, breaking the silence and poking at the fire with a twig to spread the heat around.
‘What?’ Edith smiled at her son and her eyes for the briefest of moments seemed to glow with a long forgotten youth. Her skin was bright in the warm reflection of the flames.
‘I think you should cook up a big old pot of your stew,’ Arkansas said. ‘Put some warmth in our bellies.’
‘That’d be nice.’
‘I can go kill a turkey,’ Arkansas said. ‘Won’t be the same as beef but it’ll go down all the same.’
She nodded. ‘I’ve got some carrots and onions in the root cellar. I’ll do it later,’ she said. ‘Later.’ Soon she was asleep.
EIGHT
The following morning was overcast. The weather matched Arkansas’s mood as he pulled the sorrel to a stop outside the livery stable and dismounted. Rycot immediately ran out to greet him, a smile on his face that was soon replaced by a worried frown.
‘My cart,’ Rycot said. ‘I was expecting it back by now.’
Arkansas
looked at the man. ‘The doc didn’t return them?’
‘No.’ Rycot shook his head.
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Who?’
It was Arkansas’s turn to frown. ‘The doc.’
‘No, ain’t seen him since he rode out with you. The horse came in on its own yesterday, but no cart. I thought you’d bring it in when you were good and ready.’
‘Don’t sound right,’ Arkansas said. He thought about the men hiding in the dark. Had they still been there come daylight and attacked the doc? That didn’t make any sense and he didn’t have time to ponder it too much at the moment. The doctor hadn’t kept to his promise of attending the cabin, but Will had said that was usual for the doc who often went off on drunken benders. Not that it mattered since Will’s fever was close to breaking and he seemed stronger by the hour.
‘Tend to my horse. I need to see the sheriff,’ Arkansas said.
That morning Arkansas had decided that Will would be safe on his own for a few hours while Arkansas rode into town to check up on John Lance’s claims, view the documents the man had claimed were lodged with the sheriff.
‘So where’s my cart?’ Rycot asked. He seemed not to grasp the implications of the situation.
‘Search me,’ Arkansas said, and then more firmly, ‘Take care of my horse.’
Lance turned from the window and smiled. ‘That Arkansas Smith gets around.’
‘He don’t look so tough to me.’
Lance looked at the man known simply as Pug on account of his nose having been broken one too many times, and smiled. Pug was Lance’s enforcer and he had been with him for the best part of a decade. Prior to that the big man’s life was a mystery and that’s the way he seemed to want to keep it. Rumours were that he had been a bandit, a killer of men, and violator of women; in short, an all-round sadistic bastard. Lance thought that was most likely.
‘I reckon you could take him,’ Lance said, and he really did believe that. ’Course, Arkansas had a reputation as a fast gun. He’d demonstrated that back at McCord’s place, but then Pug was no slouch himself. If they could provoke some kind of fight and Pug finished Arkansas then that would make things a whole lot easier for John Lance, but if it went the other way then he would have lost a very good man.