Walkers Creek - A Western

by R. Bentley Davies

  He kicks open the door and shoves her hard through it. She stumbles at the top of the steps, unbalances and falls down them, landing heavily at the bottom. The stones and dirt have cut her hands. Everything hurts and flashes of color confuse her vision as she gulps down the dusty air.

  The horses shuffle uncomfortably. Their feet feel quite close to her. It's probably better not to move until she can see more clearly in case she gets trampled.

  Her arm is grabbed. She is dragged to her feet. One of her cowboys coming to her assistance.

  'Thank you,' she says.

  'That's better. Be grateful I'm treating you as well as this.' It is Humby who has her arm. She is confused.

  'Help me!' she screams with all the air she has in her chest. It hurts. It hurts her bruised throat. It hurts her ribs where the rifle butt hit her. It hurts her pride to have to ask for help.

  She hears running footsteps and looks up hopefully, squinting to make out who it is.

  'It's okay Wilson. Miss Nixon here has taken a bit of a turn and wants us to take her into town to see a doctor.'

  'No, he's lying. Somebody help me. Please.'

  Then she makes out the shapes against the fence. There are five, no, six men stood there. She thinks she can see Louis amongst them. They are just standing there watching.

  'Please?' she begs the blurry shapes.

  They do not move.

  'Where's Tanner?' Humby asks Wilson.

  'Still in the house I think. I'd better find him.'

  Wilson. That name rings a bell. A moment of clarity breaks through the pain. The deputies that came with Humby. Logan and this Wilson man. That was why she had played along in the first place, to keep them from finding out about Billy. If he goes back there looking for Logan then he's going to find Billy and it will all have been for nothing.

  'You won't find him in the house.' She says through gritted teeth. 'He ran off that way.' She points in the direction of the corral. 'Quite some time ago too.'

  Humby and Wilson look at each other as though unsure whether or not to believe her.

  'I'll check for a trail.' Wilson says, 'I'll find him. You take her back to town and I'll meet you there.'

  Humby drags her toward the horses, then pauses. He turns to the men standing by the fence.

  'I think Miss Nixon will be more comfortable on her trap. Perhaps you boys could do me a favor and hitch it up for me?'

  She wants to shout and tell them not to. Stand still. Don't you see what this man is doing to me? But she stays silent and watches as her own men, people who she thought were friends, step forward and prepare her own little trap while Humby ties her hands and feet. She doesn't fight against the bonds. She is outnumbered and defeated.

  Each bump in the road hurts. The ride into town has been painful and humiliating. Humby isn't rushing, letting the horse make a steady pace, dragging out her discomfort. What will people say when they see her being driven down the streets with her ankles tied together? Will anyone dare defy Humby to help her? When she watched her own men step up to help Humby a little piece of her died. Did they not understand that such a large part of the reason she wouldn't sell the ranch was to protect them and their jobs?

  The trap rattles along the bridge over the creek. A man tips his hat to the Mayor. Nobody seems to remark on the rope round her legs. They pass Mannion's shop. Her good friend is stood in the window watching them go past. Has he seen her? Has he seen that she is tied up? Will he understand what is going on? Will the old man be able to do anything to help her?

  She sighs at the helplessness of it all. If she had the derringer right now she'd probably shoot herself. Except of course that she'd miss.

  Humby pulls the horse up outside the Mining Company office and steps down.

  'Now if I cut you loose, are you going to behave? I don't think either of us wants to create a scene here in the street now, do we?'

  'Go ahead. Do whatever you want. You're going to do it anyway.' She no longer cares what happens. She stares into the distance as he cuts free the ropes from her ankles and her wrists. A grey-haired man in a suit stands with a newspaper under his arm, watching them from the front of the barber shop.

  She climbs dumbly down from the trap with Humby holding her hand to steady her. It stings where the stones cut the skin when she fell. She makes no complaint. Nobody will help her even if she screams. She sees that now. If her own men won't help then there is no hope for these people, each and every one of them owned by the Mayor.

  A child sprinting along the street collides with Humby and falls sprawling onto the floor in the street. Humby turns and shouts at the boy for not watching where he was going.

  'Don't you know who I am?' he demands.

  The boy mutters an apology. She is concerned for the boy but can't seem to move to help him. Then she feels a little tug on her hand. She looks down and sees a small piece of paper has been tucked in her palm. A little girl is running away up the street. The boy leaps to his feet and darts off as Humby readies himself to beat the him for his insolence.

  She doesn't dare look at the note, but continues to play dumb and follows Humby into the office, tucking the piece of paper into the pocket in her skirts where the derringer normally sits. Such a little token, but her spirits are lifting already. There is someone here who noticed her. She doesn't care what the note says for now. It might even be an insult. It doesn't matter. Someone noticed. It's not over yet.

  The Mining Company office has a 'Closed' sign hung in the door and the big room full of files and desks and cabinets is uncomfortably empty. A balding man in spectacles pops out from an office at the back.

  'Welcome back Mr. Humby. Did your trip go well? Oh, I see it did go well.' He says, noticing Emily following quietly behind.

  'Thank you Haskins. We'll be in my office.'

  Emily follows past the little man and through the door into the rear office that has 'Jeremiah Humby, Mayor' painted on it.

  'Haskins?' Humby calls out. 'Can you run an errand for me? Can you fetch me McLaren? I think you should find him at the saloon.'

  'At this time of day sir?'

  'He's at saloon most times of day, Haskins.'

  Emily sits down in the leather chair behind the desk and watches Humby moving about the room. She is desperate for an opportunity to read what the note says but doesn't want him to know that she has it.

  McLaren smells of whiskey when he arrives.

  'Miss Nixon is here as my guest.' Humby says.

  'Guest?' says McLaren stupidly.

  'The sort of guest that had better not leave without my permission.'

  McLaren smiles a leering, drunken sort of smile.

  'We're going to be married just as soon as the judge gets here. I have some things to do before he arrives and I need someone to keep an eye on my fiancée.'

  'I can do that.' McLaren grins.

  'And you can wipe that grin off your face. Don't you think I'm leaving her here for your entertainment. She's mine and I'm marrying her. Nobody harms a hair on her head but me, do you understand? You're to keep watch, nothing more.'

  McLaren frowns.

  'Don't you trust me?'

  'I trust you enough for this. She's going to be staying in here for now. I'm going to lock this door. You can keep watch at Haskins's desk out there.' He points at the large office.

  Humby ushers McLaren out and directs him to the desk by the door. Without saying a word to her, he pulls the door shut. She hears the key turn in the lock.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He takes a familiar route to the cabin, through the trees away from the main track. He is early. The note said 'at sunset'. He still suspects a trap, but he hopes to be early enough to turn the tables. If he can get the money then he can still leave Walkers Creek with a healthy profit.

  The stolen horse labors over the steep, broken ground. His own horses and his equipment are all still back at the hotel. He will have to leave them behind if he is to escape the attentions of the she
riff and Humby. He can live without his things. He'll be able to buy new clothes and anything else he needs provided he has some money to take with him. If this money drop goes off the way it is supposed to then it'll be worth more than the value of all the stuff he is leaving behind.

  Logan ties up the horse to the same tree that he'd tied his own horses to on the day he dynamited the house. The horse fidgets and shuffles noisily. He talks softly to it trying to calm it down. He misses his own horses, they are so much better for this sort of sneaking around. At least he hasn't had to walk here from the ranch, that would have really tested the ankle he hurt jumping from the window. The horse is a bonus. It has got him here nice and early and got him quickly away from Wilson and Humby. Of course, now that he is a horse thief, it could also get him shot.

  He edges through the trees to get a look at the McLaren house. He sits quietly, watching for movement. There is no breeze in the airless heat of the day. Nothing moves, just a gentle shimmer in the air from the sun's heat on the ruins.

  He wishes he had his rifle. If he could have just one of the things he has left behind, his rifle would be his choice. More than his own horse, his rifle. A pistol is no use at this distance. If someone were moving around at the house he'd have no chance of hitting them from here. With this gun, he's going to have to get closer.

  He keeps looking down at the ground for clues, to see if the Mexican is here already. Each time he looks he curses at the abundance of tracks. Boots and horses. Tracks over tracks. The ground is so well trodden it could be a town's main street. The sheriff and his men have certainly been thorough. There could be a dozen men hiding around the cabin's ruin and they'd have left no different tracks to these.

  He creeps as close as he dares in the shade of the trees. He can still hear the stolen horse shuffling and snuffling. If the Mexican is here then he can probably hear the horse too. There is no wind to take the sound away. Should he wait? Maybe he should start to circle the house and check the trees on the other side?

  The sun is still high in the sky. It will be some hours before sunset. Perhaps the Mexican isn't here yet. He starts to think about the best spot for an ambush. The trees are too far from the house here. He needs to be closer. Damn that rifle.

  An eagle soars high overhead in the silence.

  He feels he has sat here a long while and seen nothing that suggests that he isn't alone. If there is anyone else here they are a lot more patient than he is. Slowly he starts to move along the tree line. Pausing from time to time to listen. Nothing. He reaches the point where the trees are closest to the house and peers out along the main track that leads back to Walkers Creek. Surely the Mexican wouldn't just come straight up that track? But maybe he has no reason to suspect that there'd be anyone here before him?

  Was that a noise? Logan turns, scanning the trees behind him.

  'You are early,' says the Mexican. Logan cannot see him but the voice is clear enough and from somewhere in the trees.

  'So are you,' Logan says, after a pause.

  'You creep about in the trees, Mr. Tanner. Why do you not go fetch the money?'

  He doesn't remember telling the Mexican his name. This isn't happening the way it was supposed to. It is barely after noon and yet they are both already here for a meeting at sunset. An anonymous exchange and yet this Mexican is calling to him by name. Damn, why didn't he bring that rifle? He squints into the trees trying to make out where the Mexican is hiding.

  'Go on, go take the money. It is in the chimney like the note said. I place it there already.'

  'Why are you hiding?' Logan calls out. If he can't see the Mexican then it won't be wise to move at all. He needs to get this out into the open.

  'I see you sneaking about, why would I not hide?'

  'It seemed like we had a good arrangement when you hired me. There was plenty of trust between us then. Why not trust me now? Don't you think that if I'd come here to double-cross you I'd have brought a rifle?'

  'Okay, I come out.'

  There is a rustling in the trees and Logan hunts for the source of the noise, pistol raised at the ready. The flash of movement is much closer than he expects and he fires. The bullet hits a tree and sprays splinters. The sound of the shot echoes around the valley.

  'That was not the way to win trust Mr. Tanner.' The Mexican's voice seems to come from somewhere else.

  Is he shooting at shadows? Is that thing over there just a bit of cloth on a stick or a man with a gun? Logan's heart pounds. He transfers his gun to his left hand to wipe the sweat from the grip. He mustn't panic. Stay calm and in control, that's the only way to win a game like this. Except he's never played a game like this before.

  A crack of a stick breaking underfoot sounds as though it comes from the back of the house. Logan raises the gun again, but there is nothing to shoot at.

  He is looking in the right direction to see the muzzle flash. The bullet misses, ricocheting off the rock he was resting his gun hand on. That was too close. The echoing shot sounded like a rifle too. He is at a big disadvantage. What was he thinking? Why did he think that he could just ride up and take the money? The money doesn't matter now. He isn't going to be getting away from here.

  No, don't give up, that way is certain death. Stay calm and in control. Find somewhere better to hide, somewhere that's easier to defend. There are too many trees here.

  Looking back up the track towards the town he sees that the ground becomes more broken and the trees less thick. There is no need to stay near the house now, any idea of an ambush is gone. If he can get away from the trees and get some open ground between him and the Mexican's rifle then maybe he has a chance.

  He starts to shuffle backwards, keeping his head down and watching the spot where he'd seen the Mexican fire from. Crouched behind a tree he takes a deep breath and adjusts his hat. He wipes the sweat from his hand again. The sweat seems sticky and looking down he sees that his hand is bleeding where a shard of rock must have cut him. He has left a trail of little drips of blood as he moved. He wipes it roughly, it seems to be just a scratch. He peers back round the tree in time to see the Mexican moving. He fires, twice, all noise and smoke. He doubts that he has hit the Mexican, he is too far away, but it might be enough to scare him into staying still.

  'Shooting at shadows Tanner?'

  He turns to the voice and his throat tightens. Frank Lake, the man he punched to the ground in the hotel is standing over him, gun in one hand, horse’s reins in the other. Somehow he has managed to lead his horse up the track without Logan noticing. He shakes his head in disbelief.

  'Now, I thought the sheriff had you arrested. Just imagine my surprise when I saw you riding by. So you know, I said to myself, I bet that man is a fugitive and I could make me some money by capturing him. I lost your trail back aways but then with all your gunplay you did kind of signal your location.'

  The calm way that he stands there, so proud of his tracking skills, he seems oblivious to the presence of the Mexican. Does he really think Logan was shooting at shadows?

  'You have it wrong Lake. I'm not a fugitive.'

  'You're not?' Frank shakes his head. 'I could swear I saw you taken out of the saloon by the deputies.'

  'That wasn't an arrest.'

  'Okay.' Frank is thinking hard.

  Logan shuffles a little, slowly turning the gun in his hand so that it is pointing towards Frank.

  'Don't move!' he barks.

  Logan makes a show of freezing. His gun hand is starting to sting now. He can feel the blood running along his trigger finger.

  'Damn it, stand up Tanner.' Frank says suddenly, coming to a decision. 'If you ain't a fugitive then I ain't going to make no money from catching you. So I might as well just shoot you right here, and I intend to shoot you standing up. So stand up, or God help me I'll shoot you where you sit like a scared old woman.'

  Logan adjusts his hat, but stays crouched.

  'Surely you're not going to kid yourself that you killed me in a fair fight now
are you?'

  The barrel of the gun still points at him, the dark circle of the muzzle as dark as death itself.

  'You know I'm pretty sure the sheriff would be pleased with you if you brought me in.' Keep him talking, don't give him a reason to shoot.

  'I ain't bringing you in if there's no money in it.'

  'If you want money Frank, I know where there's a whole stash of money hidden.'

  'How much? Where?'

  'If I told you that, then there'd be no incentive for you to keep me alive now would there?'

  'Tell me where it is or I'll shoot bits off you until you do.' The gun waves around as though Frank is trying to work out which bit to shoot off first.

  Logan glances over his shoulder at the ruins of the house, and then instantly regrets it.

  'So the money's in McLaren's house is it?'

  Logan thinks for a moment before nodding, slowly. He doesn't want to give away the information that might keep him alive, but if he can persuade Lake to walk out into the ruins to look for the money, there's always the Mexican's rifle to consider.

  'Why would there be money in McLaren's house? He ain't got no money. Nothing but what Humby gives him and he spends that every day. No, he has nothing. So if there's money there, then either you put it there, or someone else put it there for you.'

  Logan remembers the gun in his hand. If he can turn it so it points at Lake then he can cut him down. Can he do it before Lake pulls the trigger?

  'Damn, it was you with the dynamite wasn't it? Why didn't I realize? Of course the sheriff would be pleased I'd killed you. You blew up the house and now your payoff is in the ruins. Well, you ain't gonna be collecting today!'

  Logan stands suddenly, fear and panic turning everything into slow motion clarity. He has to kill Frank Lake before he tells anyone else the truth about the dynamite in the cabin. He pulls himself to his feet, the gun raises and he plans to fire as soon as the bullet might hit any part of Frank. The legs would be fine, knock him over, just get the first shot away. He raises the gun and feels his grip slipping. The blood on his hand. The gun slips too far, he can't fire it, he can't even hold it. He watches in horror as the gun loops gently forwards in the air away from him.