Travis (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 3)

by Neil Hunter

  ‘What’s wrong, Nolan?’ Parsons asked. He had paused in the act of pouring himself more coffee.

  Troop moved back from the window. He picked up his rifle and made sure there was a shell in the breech.

  ‘Damnit, Nolan, what is it?’

  ‘Rider coming in,’ Troop said evenly.

  ‘You’d kind of expect that at a place like this.’

  ‘This ain’t no damn passer by,’ Troop said. ‘He looks like he’s been riding a long time. And he’s comin’ in from the same direction we did.’

  ‘You recognize him?’ Parsons asked. He reached for his own rifle.

  ‘No. But I’m sure the son of a bitch has been trailing us. He must want something pretty bad.’

  Parsons had placed the saddlebags holding the money from the Sweetwater bank on the table. ‘If it’s this he’s come after he’s going to have to kill me to get it.’

  ‘Could be that’s on his mind.’

  ‘You figure he’s a lawman?’

  Troop shrugged his shoulders and strode to the door, pushing past the man called Jonas. He stepped outside and positioned himself against the wall. His rifle was held loosely in one hand, against his leg; unobtrusive yet ready for instant use.

  ‘You expecting company?’ Jonas asked.

  Troop shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I’m always expecting certain kinds of company,’ he said, then turned his attention to the rider coming around the far end of the corral.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jim’s horse paced steadily across the dusty yard fronting the trading post. Sighting the tall man as he stepped out of the door, Jim had drawn his right hand close to the butt of his holstered Colt. He was aware of the intensity of the man’s stare; there was an aura of extreme violence barely held in check. It radiated from the man with an almost physical force. Jim knew without being told that he was facing Nolan Troop. Tyree’s description of the man was exact, and Jim recalled what Sweetwater’s lawman had told him about Troop’s reputation; he was a hard man, with little regard for any life save his own; if someone got in his way Troop would sweep him aside without a moment’s thought.

  There was a second man in sight. He was standing close to the post door. Tall and lean Jim saw; certainly not Luke Parsons. By his clothing Jim judged him to belong to the trading post.

  So where the hell is Parsons?

  Jim glanced to either side. Nothing. There wasn’t much in the way of cover. The buildings of the post all lay before him. Parsons was likely to be there somewhere. Maybe even inside the post itself.

  He’ll show himself when he’s ready, Jim decided. There was nothing to be gained from getting too worried because he couldn’t see both men. They weren’t going to make it easy for him.

  ‘That’s close enough,’ Troop called out.

  Jim reined in, settling his gaze on Troop.

  ‘What’s your business here, boy?’

  ‘To do with something that belongs to me,’ Jim said.

  He felt his anger rising at the way Troop had called him boy, but he fought it down as he realized that Troop was trying to rattle him. Once he became aware of that fact he was able to restrain himself.

  ‘Spit it out, boy,’ Troop snapped.

  ‘Three thousand dollars of the money you took from Sweetwater is mine,’ Jim told him, surprised at his calmness.

  Troop grinned. He seemed amused at Jim’s statement. ‘Hell, boy, least you’ve made my day.’

  ‘Troop, it wasn’t that funny, and I’m not laughing, mister.’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me, boy, else I’m liable to forget what a good mood I’m in.’ Troop moved away from the post a distance. ‘You follow us from Sweetwater?’

  ‘All the way,’ Jim said evenly.

  Troop studied him. ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘Ran into some of your friends.’

  Troop’s grin vanished. ‘Loomis? Brown? Where are they, boy?’

  ‘Brown’s teamed up with a US Marshal. Mind it’ll only last as long as it takes to reach the nearest jail.’

  ‘Loomis?’

  ‘He’s dead, Troop. He tried to kill me. He didn’t make it.’

  ‘You took Will Loomis?’Troop shook his head in disbelief. ‘What did you do — back shoot him?’

  Jim refused to rise to Troop’s bait. ‘I figure that kind of play would be more in your line, Troop. Same as shooting down a lone man trying to get back his stolen horses. You remember John Mulchay?’

  ‘He should have cut his losses.’

  ‘I’ll tell him that next time I see him.’

  ‘He still alive?’

  ‘Far as I know. Looks like you boys are having a spell of bad luck. I’d say it’s running out fast.’

  ‘Well, don’t you fret on it,’ Troop said, his voice taking on a hard edge. ‘And don’t get any ideas about me handing back any damn money, boy, ‘cause things can change. I’ve got a feeling my luck’s on the turn.’

  ‘Troop, all I’m interested in is my three thousand dollars. You do what the hell you like with the rest of it. I’ve ridden a damn long way and been kicked seven ways from Sunday, and I ain’t about to ride out of here until this is settled one way or the other.’

  ‘You’ve either got guts, boy, else you’re plain crazy.’

  ‘Some of both I reckon,’ Jim said.

  ‘Well, I’ll give it to you straight. You turn that horse about and ride out and do it now. That way you might stay alive. Keep pushing I’m just going to have to kill you.’

  Jim watched Troop’s face. The man’s eyes were fixed. Unblinking. An expression of momentary weariness clouded his features. As if he was reluctantly forcing himself to initiate a course of action that could only end in a violent confrontation.

  And then the expression changed. The eyes sharpened. Focused. The line of the mouth hardened.

  Troop’s right hand swept the rifle away from his leg, the muzzle rising to line up on Jim’s body.

  Realizing he had no more than a scant few seconds Jim acted out of pure survival instinct. His left hand dragged down on the rein, pulling his horse’s head aside. In the same instant he drove his heels deep into the horse’s sides, catching the animal by surprise. The startled animal lunged forward, following its head, and was forced to veer to the left.

  The muzzle of Troop’s rifle spat a gout of flame and powder smoke.

  Jim snatched his handgun from the holster, thumb dogging back the hammer as he slid his boots from the stirrups and let himself fall from the saddle.

  Troop, seeing his shot had missed, worked another round into the breech.

  The ground rushed up to meet Jim. He thrust out a hand to break his fall, then took the reduced impact on his shoulder. Tucking in his head he let himself be carried forward in a roll. He twisted his body round, pushing his gunhand out ahead of him.

  As Jim’s horse raced on by him, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake, Troop ran forward, cursing wildly as the dust hid Jim for a brief few seconds. It was enough for Jim. He touched the trigger and felt his gun slap against his palm as it fired. A mist of dust spurted from Troop’s shirt where the bullet hit. Troop stumbled slightly, regained his balance, turning in Jim’s direction. His rifle’s muzzle sagged ground wards. Troop jerked the weapon level, firing a fraction of a second too soon; his bullet gouged through the hard-packed dirt inches from Jim. In the few seconds since firing his first shot, Jim had cocked his gun again, and even as Troop’s bullet was kicking up the dirt, Jim returned the shot. This time Troop went down, his body twisting in agony as he hit the hard ground. Yet he refused to stay down, dragging his legs under his body to thrust himself to his knees. His left hand was clamped over the bloody wound in his body. He jammed the stock of his rifle against his hip and worked the lever one-handed, tilting the muzzle up to meet Jim’s body as he climbed to his feet.

  ‘Leave it, Troop!’ Jim yelled; he didn’t want to kill the man, but was fast realizing that Troop had no intention of backing
off, no matter how badly hurt he was.

  ‘Go to hell, you son of a bitch,’ Troop snarled through bloody lips. He braced a foot against the ground and hauled himself upright. ‘I ain’t about to get took by no ... ’

  Two guns fired as one, the combined sound slapping against the hot silence that surrounded the isolated trading post.

  Jim braced himself for the impact of a bullet that never came.

  Yards away Nolan Troop was thrown flat on his back by Jim’s bullet. It caught him directly over the heart. He was dead before his discarded rifle hit the ground.

  Jim’s hands were trembling as he flipped open the loading gate of his gun and ejected the spent shell cases. He thumbed in fresh loads and then he walked towards the post.

  Jonas, who had stood rooted to the spot during the brief gun fight, stepped aside as Jim neared him. He was no coward, but he had seen the hard gleam in Jim’s eyes, and he knew enough not to interfere with him.

  ‘Where is he?’ Jim asked as he neared the door.

  ‘He was inside ‘fore I stepped out. That one,’ jerking a thumb in the direction of Nolan Troop, ‘followed me straight off.’

  Jim nodded. He stepped in through the door, blinking his eyes as he was met by the comparative darkness inside the building. He stepped by the open door.

  Heard the dry creak of its hinges as it was disturbed.

  A shadow moved close to him.

  Jim half-turned. Saw a dark shape rush at him. As he became aware of his exposed position he tried to step aside.

  He was too late. Something hard clouted him across the back of the shoulders. The pain made him gasp. He was knocked off balance by the blow. He threw up a hand to try to ward off any further attack. It didn’t save him. He heard a man grunt with effort. The back of his head seemed to burst apart under the savage blow that came out of nowhere. The darkness around him blazed with brilliant light for a few pain-filled seconds, and then the darkness returned. Jim felt himself falling forward. He thought of the floor and threw out both hands to break his fall. But contact with the floor never came. He just kept right on falling. Into endless, silent, enveloping darkness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Boy, it’s lucky you’ve got a hard head,’ Jonas said.

  ‘It’s being hard-headed that got me into this mess,’ Jim told him ruefully. ‘Trouble is I never learn by my mistakes.’

  He was seated at the very same table Parsons and Troop had used. Now Nolan Troop was dead, and Luke Parsons, after beating Jim unconscious, had taken a horse from Jonas and had made his escape.

  ‘You want more coffee?’ Jonas asked.

  Jim pushed his cup across the table, resisting the urge to nod. He was attempting to stay as still as possible until the savage ache inside his skull subsided. True, the pain wasn’t as bad as it had been on recovering consciousness. At that time Jim had wondered if Parsons had hit him so hard it might leave some permanent damage. The thought had left him in a cold sweat. Then the pain had eased some and he had just taken things easy, one step at a time, allowing his senses to recover.

  ‘Now I ain’t a man who normally holds a grudge,’ Jonas said abruptly, ‘but I’m ready to make an allowance for that son of a bitch. Hell, I draw the line at bein’ held at gunpoint in my own place, an’ then having to saddle up a horse for him to steal.’

  ‘And ideas to where he’s heading?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Direction he took’s liable to fetch him up in the high country,’ Jonas said. ‘Way it looked to me he wasn’t too particular which way he went. He was getting real jumpy. You’ve got him scared, boy, no doubt about it.’

  ‘You think he’s scared?’ Jim picked up the refilled cup of coffee.

  Jonas chuckled softly. ‘I know what you mean. Been scared a few times myself. Mind I’m old enough to know it don’t matter none. Bein’ scared of something is as natural as breathin’. Means you’re aware of what’s going on around you. Man who says he ain’t a feared of anything is a damn liar — and a fool to boot.’

  ‘Isn’t he still a fool if he knows what he’s getting into but still goes on?’

  ‘Talking about yourself? Hell, boy, there are times when a man just don’t have any choice. He can step back an’ take a look at what he’s doing, but it don’t make any difference. He still has to keep right on doing it. I figure it’s the difference between being a man or not having the sand to face up to whatever life has to throw at you. Back down once and you’ll likely end up doin’ the same thing every time there’s trouble.’

  ‘Gets kind of monotonous, though,’ Jim said. ‘Seems every time I take a step forward I get knocked back a half dozen.’

  ‘Bide your time, boy, and you’ll get there.’

  ‘I need a fresh horse, Mr. Jonas,’ Jim said. ‘You willing to do me a trade?’

  ‘No problem.’ Jonas grinned. ‘And I’ll make sure you don’t get no crow bait.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Parsons don’t know it yet, but he ain’t going to get too good a ride out of that horse he took.’

  ‘Something wrong with it?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Could be. That animal has a weak foreleg. If Parsons pushes it too hard it’s going to fall down on him.’

  ‘You knew about it?’

  ‘Sure. But I didn’t feel inclined to let Parsons know. What with his gun pokin’ in my ear and all — I guess it slipped my mind.’

  Jim found himself grinning widely. ‘Mr. Jonas, I guess it must have done just that.’

  ~*~

  Jonas did more than provide a fresh horse. He made sure Jim had everything he needed from food to ammunition. He even threw in a heavy sheepskin coat.

  ‘It can get pretty cold on those high peaks,’ he explained.

  ‘Thanks,’ Jim said.

  ‘You just keep your eyes peeled, boy, ‘cause Parsons is on his own now. He’s going to be real nervous. Primed ready to shoot at anything that moves. Just be careful and don’t trust a damn thing he does.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  ‘I were you, boy, I’d get it done — then maybe think about it. Luke Parsons ain’t about to allow you the luxury of taking your time. Come the day he’s going to play it mean and sneaky.’

  He rode out from the trading post and trailed north. Parsons’ tracks were easy to follow. The outlaw was riding hard and fast, making no attempt to conceal his trail. He was either too concerned with getting clear of the area, or becoming careless because he was running scared. It made little difference as far as Jim was concerned. He knew he was close to Luke Parsons now. He had no intention of allowing the man to slip away a second time.

  A couple of hours of steady riding brought Jim to the first of the rising slopes marking the foothills. The skyline ahead was dominated by the sheer bulk of the gaunt peaks. Jim put his horse up the rocky slopes, his eyes constantly searching the way ahead. Parsons’ tracks petered out every so often, mainly because he was keeping to the hard bedrock, staying away from soft ground and Jim lost some time as he searched for the trail.

  Late in the day he spotted a good campsite and decided to get some rest. It was too risky to go blundering around the treacherous slopes in the dark. Jim made himself a good fire this time. He was getting tired of making cold camps. He cooked a meal and brewed a pot of coffee. He ate slowly, reflecting a little sourly that it was a miserable way to be existing. Here he was, all on his own, stuck out on the slopes of some inhospitable mountain range. The way things were running the only definite prospect ahead of him was the likelihood of being shot at.

  And for what?

  A bundle of dollars ...

  Jim sat upright. His food became suddenly tasteless. It was the first time he’d even considered that what he was doing might be wrong. He pushed his plate aside and stared into the darkness beyond his lonely camp. Why had he suddenly entertained such a thought? Possibly because he’d been too busy previously to give it much attention. Too busy trying to stay alive. Now though he was able to think abou
t the men who had died. The wounded outlaw abandoned on the mountain. His meeting with that man seemed a lifetime ago. Then there had been Loomis and Brown; Loomis was dead, Brown was in jail. And then there had been Nolan Troop. Jim’s three thousand dollars was coming high.

  Too high?

  Did the return of his money justify the deaths of three men? Jim stirred restlessly. He poured himself a mug of coffee, trying to find answers to the questions crowding his confused mind. The answers refused to come. He felt angry, and for the first time since leaving Sweetwater, he felt unsure of himself and his motives. Maybe he was tired. A good night’s sleep might help to clear the confusion. Somehow he didn’t think it would. He sat staring into the flames of his fire, and the longer he sat the heavier became his misgivings. After a time a new image grew in his mind. It was of Jenny. He realized he could easily forget about everything, maybe even his money, when he thought about her. He admitted that he wanted to be back with her. Able to see her. Touch her ...

  The click of a gun hammer going back drove deeply into Jim’s silence. His right hand dropped to the butt of his Colt, fingers brushing the smooth wood.

  ‘Leave it, boy, or I’ll blow your damned head clear off?

  Jim took his hand from his gun. He tried to locate the position of the speaker but the darkness beyond his fire gave nothing away.

  ‘Set easy, boy, ‘cause I’m primed to touch this trigger.’

  ‘Parsons?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s me, you son of a bitch.’

  ‘You want something?’ Jim asked. ‘Or have you decided to hand back my money?’

  ‘No way,’ Parsons said. ‘That money’s mine now, boy, and the hell with you!’

  ‘So what are you here for?’

  ‘I could kill you right now, no trouble. Like steppin’ on a bug.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Jim answered. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he could make out the denser shape of Luke Parsons’ crouching form. ‘So what’s stopping you?’

  ‘I’m ready to give you the chance to back off and stay alive. I ain’t about to gain anything from killing you, boy, so get the hell out of here. Go on back where you came from.’