Arkansas Smith

by Jack Martin

  ‘Life can be pretty cruel at times,’ Arkansas said, after a long silence.

  Rebecca nodded and turned towards her horse. She untied the reins from the fence and pulled it towards her.

  ‘I may call tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure,’ Arkansas said. ‘That would be nice.’ He moved closer towards her and kissed her gently on the cheek and then stood back while she mounted her horse. He watched her ride off, waving and thinking that she was one of the finest women he had ever met.

  TEN

  ‘After I spoke to you in town I got to thinking and I went out looking for the doc,’ Rycot said and had to catch his breath. ‘Figured he couldn’t be too far with my cart and all.’

  ‘Figures,’ Arkansas said and rolled himself a quirly.

  ‘I very nearly missed him since some attempt has been made to hide the body, but I recognized a piece of lumber from my cart. When I found him he was dead,’ Rycot said and then shook his head. ‘I came straight here because the sheriff would be next to useless and you were closer in any case. I figured you’d want to know.’

  Arkansas nodded and handed Rycot the whiskey bottle. ‘Obliged.’

  ‘They tried to hide the cart, too,’ Rycot continued and took a slug from the bottle. ‘Smashed it all to pieces. If I hadn’t recognized that worm-eaten piece of lumber I wouldn’t have found him.’

  Rycot had come riding in not ten minutes ago, driving his horse as if he had the devil himself on his tail. It had taken him some time to catch his breath and now he slouched in a chair and and was swigging whiskey.

  ‘Damn well shook me up,’ Rycot said. ‘Seeing the doc like that.’ He shivered and made the sign of the cross with a finger upon his chest.

  ‘It’s too dark to go back out there now,’ Arkansas said. ‘You can stay here tonight, we’ll head back out at first light.’

  Rycot nodded and took another slug of the whiskey. ‘Sure. Who do you think did for him?’

  Arkansas shook his head. He had no real idea. It didn’t make any sense for Lance to be behind it: there would be no logical reason that he could see to do that to the doc.

  Arkansas had a pretty good idea what Lance was up to. The documents detailing the sale of Will’s spread would obviously be forgeries, so the attempt on Will’s life made perfect sense. With Will out of the way Lance could just move right in and take control of the spread without his word being questioned. But his attempt to kill the man had failed. Now he’d have to produce the documents and deny Will’s claims that they were forged. Arkansas hoped that the reason Lance was so keen to get his hands on Will’s place would become clear when the answer to his telegram arrived in the morning. But whatever the reason, killing the doc would be a bizarre move for a man in John Lance’s position.

  It was then that the bedroom door opened and Will came out using the Spencer as a crutch. He gritted his teeth against his obvious pain and waved Arkansas away when he tried to come to his aid. He managed to reach a chair and sit himself down.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Will asked.

  ‘Howdy, Will,’ Rycot said, and took another mouthful of the whiskey.

  Will nodded at Rycot and then frowned. ‘What in tar-nation’s happening?’

  Arkansas filled his friend in on recent events. Telling him about the gunfight in town and of how the doc had been missing since leaving here a few nights previously. Rycot had found him, the cart driven off the side of the road and the body partly buried with rocks. The doc had been shot in the chest. Rycot felt that the man would have died instantly.

  ‘I don’t understand what’s going on here,’ Will said, shaking his head. ‘First someone tries to gun me down and now the doc. And Lance claims I sold this place to him. It makes no sense.’

  ‘Lance will probably come up with a plausible reason for you denying selling to him,’ Arkansas said. ‘He claims to have documents signed by you.’

  ‘I signed nothing for no man,’ Will said.

  Arkansas nodded. ‘I’m mighty interested in seeing those documents.’

  ‘John Lance is a rattlesnake,’ Rycot contributed. ‘I ain’t never liked that man.’

  ‘But why kill the doc?’ Arkansas said and paced the room. ‘If he has documents and it becomes his word against yours that the signature is forged, then killing the doc seems mighty stupid. And whatever John Lance may be I don’t think he’s stupid.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Will asked. ‘That Lance is behind it all?’

  ‘I do,’ Arkansas told him. ‘I think he’s forged your signature and that killing you and making it look like the work of rustlers took away the possibility of you disputing his claims. Or it would have if he had actually killed you. Now he’s just going to have to face you down, claim that you are trying to backtrack on the deal. I just can’t figure out any good reason to gun the doctor down. If anything that’s plumb loco.’

  ‘Someone killed him,’ Rycot said. His eyes had glazed over and the whiskey bottle was getting close to being dry. ‘That much I can tell you.’

  ‘I don’t think it was Lance, though,’ Arkansas said. ‘’Less he’s loco, a mad dog.’

  ‘Then who?’ Will grimaced and clutched his side as he felt a fresh wave of pain.

  ‘That’s what I aim to find out,’ Arkansas said. He took the makings from his shirt pocket and rolled and lit a quirly.

  ELEVEN

  Sheriff Bill Hackman was a troubled man.

  He’d hardly slept all night and, as the dawn broke, he suddenly felt exhausted. The little rest he had managed had hardly been reviving and he groaned as he worked a kink out of his back. Recent events were catching up with him and although only fifty years old he felt every one of those years tenfold.

  He left the jailhouse, figuring he might as well patrol the town before the bustle of the day started. It would be impossible to snatch any sleep now that the day had arrived and even if he did get a chance, a quiet few hours, his mind would refuse to switch off.

  Lance had been livid about the gunfight between Pug and the man called Arkansas Smith. He had demanded Smith be arrested, but the sheriff told him that was out of the question. It was a fair fight and half the town had witnessed it – dammit, he’d witnessed it himself. There was nothing the law could do, not even a law that belonged to John Lance. The arrival of this Arkansas Smith had certainly ruffled a few feathers and was continuing to do so. He had a reputation as a gunslinger, a man who hired out his skills to the highest bidder. Why he was in Red Rock was beyond the lawman. And what exactly was his connection to William McCord?

  The sheriff was just about to turn out of Main Street when he heard the arrival of riders coming into town from the south. He turned and saw them, two men, riding side by side. As they neared he could make out the thunder both seemed to carry in their faces. He recognized them both: one was Rycot and the other was the man called Arkansas Smith.

  ‘Sheriff,’ Arkansas said, as they pulled their horses to a stop a few feet from the lawman. ‘About four miles out of town, where the road forks off towards the mountains you’ll find the doc.’

  The sheriff looked perplexed and he shrugged his shoulders. Drunken doctors were hardy his bailiwick.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  The sheriff looked first at Rycot and then at Arkansas. ‘Dead?’ he said, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘How?’

  ‘Shot,’ Arkansas said. ‘By person or persons unknown. They tried to hide the body but Mr Rycot here’s a bloodhound. The cart the doc was driving was forced off the road and into the bushes, but Rycot spotted it.’

  Rycot seemed to like that and he tipped his hat to the sheriff. ‘Recognized a piece of my cart. When you catch these skunks I hope the law will compensate me. That cart was not more than a year old.’ In truth, the cart was long past its best and only fit for firewood, but Rycot figured he was due some remuneration for his troubles.

  ‘I’ll get some men together and ride out there straight away,’ the sheriff told them.

  ‘You do
that,’ Arkansas said. ‘I’ll be needing to speak to you later.’ He turned his horse and started towards Rycot’s livery stable, leaving the sheriff staring at their backs as they crossed the street.

  ‘What time will the telegraph office open?’ Arkansas asked.

  Rycot scratched his head. ‘Nine, I think. Takes a little while for most folk in this town to get going of a morning.’ He obviously didn’t have much use for such modern contraptions as telegrams.

  Arkansas looked up at the sun. ‘Just over an hour,’ he said, and then smiled at Rycot. ‘You got coffee making facilities in that livery of yours?’

  ‘Sure,’ Rycot said, proudly.

  ‘Then get some brewing.’ Arkansas dismounted and led his horse into a stall. He threw some fresh grain into the trough and his horse went at it immediately.

  ‘Yes sir.’ The telegraph operator responded to Arkansas’s query and quickly crossed the room and grabbed two sheets of paper from a pigeonhole. ‘They arrived promptly this morning.’ He handed the sheets over.

  Arkansas quickly ran an eye over both sheets, a thin smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Obliged,’ he said and tipped his hat. He walked out of the small telegraph office to where Rycot waited for him on the sidewalk.

  ‘Did it come?’

  Arkansas stuffed the sheets into his pocket. ‘Sure did.’

  ‘Well, what’s so all-fire important?’

  Arkansas smiled. Rycot seemed to have elected himself his pard. He decided to counter the question with another question rather than be evasive.

  ‘Is the sheriff back yet?’

  Rycot shook his head.

  ‘No matter,’ Arkansas said. ‘I’ll catch up with him on the way back to Will’s.’

  ‘You want I should come with you?’ Rycot asked. ‘Having another man around may prove helpful with your pard still on the mend.’

  ‘Sure.’ Arkansas nodded, knowing that from here on in things could get a little tricky. Having another gun around would not do any harm. And besides, Arkansas had a theory he wanted to check out and leaving someone behind with Will seemed prudent. The telegram had offered no obvious reason for Lance’s desire to get his hands on Will’s spread but the rancher had acquired some properties in recent months and Arkansas had a hunch. He always played his hunches and more than once it had been an intuition, a strange feeling, which had saved his life.

  They went across to the livery and readied their horses. Before they mounted up and left for Will’s place, Rycot hung a sign over the door saying that he was closed for a few days but anyone using the stable should leave a signed IOU.

  Both men were oblivious to that fact that across the street, John Lance stood in his office window watching them and he continued to do so as they started their horses out of town.

  They had gone perhaps a mile when they saw the sheriff and half-a-dozen other riders coming towards them.

  TWELVE

  Doc Cooter’s body was covered in a saddle blanket and draped across a horse that was tied behind the sheriff’s mount. All of the riders looked grim faced as they pulled their horses to a stop.

  ‘You found him then?’ Arkansas stated the obvious and sucked at his quirly. He allowed the smoke to drift out of the corners of his mouth as he steadied his horse.

  The sheriff nodded. He eyes went first from Arkansas to Rycot and then over his shoulder to the body of the unfortunate doctor. ‘Either of you got any idea who did this?’

  ‘Some,’ Arkansas said.

  ‘Care to share with me?’ The sheriff was trying to sound tough, in control, but there was a tremor in his voice. He was obviously ill at ease up against a man with Arkansas’s reputation.

  Arkansas shook his head. ‘When I know for certain,’ he said, ‘you’ll be the first to know.’

  The sheriff nodded and kicked his horse into movement. The rest of the posse followed. They hadn’t gone more than a dozen feet when Arkansas turned over his shoulder and called the sheriff.

  ‘Yeah?’ The sheriff looked back at him, his expression, weary, hangdog.

  ‘When you come out to Will’s place with Lance to take possession, best make sure your papers are legal and in order,’ Arkansas said, and winked at Rycot, though the old man could fathom no meaning in the gesture.

  The sheriff merely nodded and led the posse back to town with their grim cargo.

  ‘Because I’ve got some legal papers all of my own,’ Arkansas mumbled, and then rode off with Rycot in tow.

  Arkansas felt better at leaving Will now that Rycot had taken up the position of companion and guard. They were both armed with rifles that belonged to Rycot, so Arkansas had brought his own Spencer with him. Things went a certain way, he might end up having to use it. He kept the sorrel at a steady pace. His destination was less than six miles away, but there was a lot of rough ground between here and there and he didn’t want to strain the animal. Before he had left, Will had given him a map of the general area and the Bowen place was clearly marked. He would have no trouble finding it.

  The telegrams he had received were nestled snugly in his pocket. The first came directly from the territorial governor’s office and stated that Arkansas Smith was acting on behalf of the US Government and had full legal powers. The second came from the land registration office and could show no reason for John Lance to be interested in Will’s land claim. Land could suddenly prove valuable if needed for the railroad’s extension across the West, but no plans were evident for the railroad to come anywhere near Red Rock. There was also no chance of the land in this area containing any precious minerals. Lance’s desire for Will’s place was a mystery. The telegram also informed Arkansas that John Lance had acquired several ranches over the last twelve months, bought from the owners at less than the current market value. One man had cried foul and claimed that he had been swindled out of his spread but he’d vanished shortly afterwards and his claims were never followed up. That property, once owned by Clive Bowen, an Irish immigrant, was now under Lance’s ownership but was reportedly lying empty.

  Rycot had known the place and had also known old man Bowen. He’d said his disappearance was a mystery that still troubled him and he hated to think of Bowen lying dead somewhere in a shallow and unmarked grave. Done for, the way the doc had been.

  If Arkansas was to tie Lance into Will’s shooting then he needed to find the owner of the ornately handled knife and his partner. But neither of the men had been seen around town lately and it was certain that they were hiding out somewhere. Arkansas doubted that Lance would be stupid enough to keep them too close. It made perfect sense for them to be hiding out at the Bowen place since it seemed to be the only one of Lance’s extensive list of properties that was standing empty. It was also far enough away from Red Rock, and off the beaten track, for someone to keep away from attention.

  Least that was the hunch and Arkansas, true to form, was playing it.

  YESTERYEAR

  Arkansas stared across the desk at the curious-looking man with the head that was almost perfectly dome-shaped Everything about the man was globular – a rotund head, sunk into a podgy neck which sat atop a pair of rounded shoulders. His belly ballooned out over his belt like some great fleshy ball and his legs bulged at the knees forming a half circle.

  ‘You’ve got me at a disadvantage,’ Arkansas said. ‘You know my name and I don’t seem to recall yours.’ The chains around Arkansas’s wrists were biting into the skin but he ignored the pain. The chain ran downwards alongside his legs and was attached to the heavy shackles he wore.

  ‘I’m Justice O’Keefe,’ the man said. He adjusted the tie slightly and ran a finger behind his ill-fitting collar as though struggling for air. ‘And you – once a Texas Ranger, a war hero, and now just a common criminal. A killer, no less, who has an appointment at dawn with the rope. What a disappointment.’

  ‘I’m none too pleased about it myself.’

  The portly man smiled. ‘Good to keep a sense of humour,’ he sa
id. ‘It’ll be of comfort on your way to the gallows.’

  ‘Look,’ Arkansas snarled, tensing and pulling at his chains, but O’Keefe didn’t move. He was in no danger. There was no way for Arkansas to break free of his bindings, but all the same the sheriff came back into the room, alerted at the sound of the struggle, his Army Model Colt in hand.

  ‘Please remain outside, Sheriff,’ O’Keefe said. He was clearly in control of the situation and was in no need of assistance.

  For a moment the sheriff looked unsure and his face held a puzzled expression that almost looked pained. ‘If this skunk gives you trouble,’ he said, eventually, ‘I’ll plug him here and now. Bullet or rope – he’ll still be very much dead.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said O’Keefe. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. Now, if you’ll excuse us, please.’

  The sheriff shrugged his shoulders and left the room, slamming the heavy door behind him.

  ‘You see,’ O’Keefe said, ‘unpleasant fellow.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’ Arkansas asked.

  ‘I think I can help you.’

  Arkansas looked the man directly in the eye. ‘You talking about my heavenly soul? I’ve had enough with the praying already and I’ll meet my Maker on my own terms.’

  ‘I’m talking very much about the physical you. What eventually happens to your soul is none of my concern.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I represent Washington,’ O’Keefe told him. ‘We’ve been following your little rampage with great interest.’