The Goose Moon

by Caleb Rand

  The Goose

  Moon

  Caleb Rand

  Contents

  Title Page

  1: THE CALGARY FLYER

  2: CAME TO PASS

  3: SHADOW JUMPER

  4: GETTING THE MAN

  5: SADDLE BROKE

  6: OPPORTUNITY

  7: DOG HOLE

  8: TRESPASS

  9: SECOND ENCOUNTER

  10: PURSUED

  11: BREAKING FORCE

  12: COLD TRAIL

  13: CREEK DIGGINGS

  14: ONE NIGHT

  15: FORKING OUT

  16: DEAD BEAT

  17: WHITEOUT

  18: HELL OF A DAY

  19: SHAKY TOWN

  20: BREAK UP

  21: DROWNING RATS

  22: STARTING OVER

  23: ONE MORE GUN

  Copyright

  1

  THE CALGARY FLYER

  Will Stryker came in blind when Cale opened the pot for ten dollars and Brand followed. When all cards were down he picked up his hand and fanned it slowly. He was holding the seven, eight, nine and ten of spades. He closed the cards and thought about the odds of the six or the jack turning up, the chances of turning over the railroad gamblers.

  Joel Beeker considered his choices then pushed his bet forward.

  Cale and Brand took two cards each and Will called for one. Beeker placed a card in front of Will and frowned when it wasn’t picked up, took a single card for himself.

  Within moments, Cale was leading again. ‘Twenty,’ he said, with a wry smile.

  Brand sneered, but followed on.

  Without looking at the draw card, Will counted out the money, led Beeker in with his call.

  Beeker hesitated, then equalled the bet. ‘There’s your twenty, an’ fifty more,’ he said.

  Cale glanced at Will, then at Beeker. ‘That’s eighty you’re in for,’ he said. ‘That’s rough on us greenhorns.’

  ‘But necessary,’ Will muttered.

  Cale shrugged, decided to stay in the game.

  There was an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling of the caboose. Under its glow, Will looked confidently at the cards in his hand. ‘I’m stayin’ with these. They handle real well,’ he said with a challenging smile, as he drew out his breed bull money. ‘So well, I’ve got to back ’em up with a hundred more.’

  ‘That’s on the long side for me.’ Brand dragged on his cigarette, pushed his chair away from the table.

  Beeker chewed his bottom lip, clinked a big ring stone against his whiskey glass. ‘That’s nothin’ more’n a bet from the table. It ain’t foolin’ me,’ he said determinedly. ‘If you want to stay in, it’ll cost you another hundred.’

  Cale looked from Beeker to Will and closed his hand, tossed the cards down in front of them. ‘Too serious,’ he said with a sigh.

  Beeker glared at Will. ‘Too serious for you, cowboy?’ he asked harshly.

  ‘No,’ Will replied, his face deadpan. ‘In fact, if you want to play on, it’ll cost you another three hundred.’

  Beeker chuckled, but with a little less confidence.

  Will allowed himself a lean smile. He knew that Beeker had probably reached his cut-off point, the limit of the real value of his cards. Now, he’d have to make up the going. ‘Them table stakes, is what you hide behind, not me,’ he goaded. He looked out the narrow window of the caboose. Through the reflections of the poker group, the world, west of Medicine Hat appeared unimaginably black and featureless. ‘I think it’s called put-up or shut-up time,’ he added calmly.

  Cale spluttered and shook himself back to alertness. Brand whistled through his teeth and dropped the front legs of his chair back to the floor.

  Beeker tugged at the collar of his shirt, had another look at the cards he held.

  ‘I’m partial to your game, Stryker,’ he said. ‘But I’m supposed to be the one who gnaws hog. I got me a reputation to uphold.’

  ‘You could lose more’n that,’ Piper suggested to the travelling gambler.

  ‘Yeah, if I was bluffin’ or gamblin’ even. But you fellers know I never do that.’ Beeker stared coldly into Will’s face, opened up his billfold and withdrew the seeing dollars. ‘An’ I’m puttin’ up this lady an’ her entourage to prove it,’ he said, covering his bet with the queen, ten, eight, five and four of hearts.

  Will guessed that Brand and Cale were working as Beeker’s shills, knew that trouble was on the way when they traded nervous glances. A moment later, beads of sweat broke out on Beeker’s face and he took a slug of his whiskey.

  Will’s right hand dropped below the table as his left covered his cards. One at a time he turned them over; the seven, eight, nine and ten of spades. He touched the fifth card which he’d played blind throughout, returned Beeker’s troubled stare.

  ‘I reckon he’s got it. He’s got the six,’ Cale whispered.

  Will, raised a quizzical eye, then smiled enigmatically.

  ‘No. I was holdin’ that. It’s the goddamn jack,’ Brand said.

  Will turned over the jack of spades. ‘Some of us are just born lucky,’ he said coolly.

  The muscles in the gambler’s face twitched, his chest heaved and he got to his feet. He kicked out at his chair, sent it crashing away from him. His face was contorted with anger, but he was working on his response. ‘You know the odds o’ playin’ on that jack?’ he accused. ‘You been cheatin’, you son-of-a-bitch.’ He took a step back, rushed a hand inside his frock coat.

  Cale shuffled away from lines of fire, and Brand issued some panicky curses as the enraged man drew out a gleaming belly gun.

  Will shook his head. ‘An’ you just got your flush busted,’ he sighed, as he brought up his right hand with the short-barrelled carbine he’d been cradling. The explosion reverberated wildly in the confines of the caboose, as Beeker’s body slammed into a stack of market crates.

  The gambler’s hand dropped the belly gun and he blinked slowly, tried to form a word. He rocked forward with blood surging from the front of his fancy shirt. He dragged out a single step, and his upper body twitched in an ugly spasm. Then he fell across the table, his face staring lifeless into the pile of crushed dollars.

  Will sat staring at him for a few seconds, then he got to his feet. He looked down grimly as he reaped his winnings. ‘You were goin’ to roll me. But I wouldn’t have shot you for it,’ he said.

  With Cale and Brand watching him, he pushed the saddle gun into its leg holster. ‘This really is for self protection,’ he told them. ‘I sat in this freeze-out to kill time, not any goddamn tinhorns. An’ I ain’t to blame for you two losin’ hoss an’ beaver, neither. But ’cause no law an’ order agency’s goin’ to hear the truth if you’re on the tellin’ end, there’s a change to my plan. I won’t be stayin’ on to Calgary.’

  Leaning from the rear step of the caboose, Will could see the distant lights of Lethbridge. It was nearing midnight and the train was still rolling north, close to the Milk River trestle and Fort Mcleod.

  The wind cut, and he held a wool mackinaw tight around his ribs. He groped for his travel sack, swung it across his shoulder and waited, stared into the wintry darkness.

  Five minutes later the train jolted and slowed in its approach to the river bridge. When the whistle hooted and the brakes squealed, he said goodbye to the stove-warmth, gripped the hand rail and swung away from the wagon. With the bite of frozen rain across his face he swore, took a deep breath and let go.

  He felt the crunch of the ground, tried to retain his balance. But his feet slipped and he fell into the deep slush that flanked the track. He was inches off the train’s wheels, but he lay there stunned. Then the clatter quietened down and he saw the red tail lights of the
caboose fading into the distance.

  He lay still, listened to his rasping breath. The howl of the engine’s whistle eddied back through the wind, then the only sound was the soft, steady hiss of sleet.

  He thought about the forty or fifty miles south to the border, Flathead Pass and the next hundred on to Lonepine Lake and Polson, his hundred-acre spread. Buying the herd bull would have to wait. He had over a thousand dollars stuffed in his pocket, wouldn’t have to dig halfway through a mountain to earn it.

  Unsteadily he got to his feet. He was slick with mud and chilled to the bone, but he took a bearing on the track and moved off south, shuffled some because of the fall.

  2

  CAME TO PASS

  Hidden behind a clump of wind-blown spruce, the crouching man peered through the storm. Something was moving, something dark that faltered, moved again and then was lost among the snowflakes that swirled down from Montana’s Flathead Mountains.

  For a moment the wind lulled, and the whiteness lifted to reveal a human figure waist deep in snow, struggling up the trail. The man pulled a glove from his right hand and slowly raised a short-barrelled carbine. He smiled thinly and squinted against the brightness, with a satisfied grunt rested his cheek against the cold stock.

  ‘Can’t be sure … too far,’ he muttered and lowered the gun.

  The wind lashed past him with renewed fury. He saw that the dark figure was still coming nearer and he raised the muzzle of the carbine again. He watched whoever it was stumble and fall, rise for another hesitating step, before pitching headlong into the snow.

  Without leaving the shelter of the trees, the watcher looked back along the trail to where it curved and disappeared. But there was no other movement or sign of life. Nothing except the huddled, still figure who was already being mantled by snowflakes.

  For a long moment he stood watching, then he worked his way slowly to the body. He dropped to his knees and swore quietly.

  ‘I could’ve shot me a lady woman this time,’ he said.

  Under the falling snow he looked uncertainly about him, then he reached out and gently touched her chilled skin. He got to his feet, lifted the girl in his arms and, holding on to his carbine, he began a long struggle up the slope.

  Back at the clump of spruce, he stopped to tie-in his clothing. Then, pulling his collar up and his beaver cap down, he turned from the refuge of the forest to face the storm.

  With many rest stops, it took the man more than an hour to fight the blizzard up the long slope. Near the top, a huge stony outcrop loomed before him, and he halted once again to catch his breath and rest his arms. Then he turned through a small clearing of jack pine and confronted a low, sod-roofed cabin. He stumbled forward, and kicked open the door, almost fell inside.

  The light from one small window dimly lit a narrow rough-boarded cot, and he laid down the exhausted girl. Then he scooped up kindling to make them a fire in the cook stove. Along one side of the cabin, a bowed shelf carried some tins, star candles and half-empty bottles. The man groaned and shook his head.

  ‘There’s nothin’ much good to man nor beast, here. Even keg drainin’s would’ve done us some good.’

  The fire brightened quickly and he placed on some blowdown and scraps of fresh wood. He walked over to the girl and loosened her heavy belted coat. Then he saw that her feet and ankles were wet, her skin boots dark and icy.

  He removed his own mackinaw and held it in front of the stove until it picked up some warmth. He self-consciously tucked it around the girl, then sat before the fire and waited. He watched the melting snow drip from his fur cap and he closed his eyes.

  The minutes passed and the storm hissed through the pine tops until a tired sigh from the cot broke into his thoughts.

  Startled and uncomprehending, the girl fixed her eyes on the man. Then she looked about the cabin, and moved her arms beneath the big coat. She winced at the closeness of its pungent odour, and sat bolt upright. She might have leaped from the cot, but the man was quickly beside her.

  ‘Take it easy, girl,’ he cautioned. ‘You’re out o’ danger now.’

  ‘Where am I? What happened?’

  ‘You got plumb tuckered in the snow. Lucky I found you an’ brought you here.’ The man smiled, took a step back. ‘Did no one ever tell you about duckin’ a border blizzard?’

  ‘Yes, they told me.’ The girl’s voice, in spite of its fatigue, held a gritty resonance, and it brought a doubtful smile to the man’s face.

  He went to the long shelf and pulled down a few potatoes and an apple. ‘Like most else, they’re near froze,’ he commented, and pulled a stubby-bladed knife from somewhere deep inside his clothing. Then he pulled off his cap, rolled up the sleeves of his woollen shirt and started to pare off thick peelings.

  The girl still felt drowsy and couldn’t do much more than watch him. She noted his short, fair hair and his bristly beard, the way his eyes incessantly flicked to the cabin window.

  He turned to look at her. ‘You want some hot tater stew?’ he asked.

  The girl nodded. ‘I thought tie cutters weren’t starting until later in the spring,’ she said.

  ‘There’s some start early to get the pick of the timber.’

  ‘You’re working for the company then?’

  ‘I never said that, ma’am.’

  ‘A yes or no would do,’ the girl corrected, and swung her legs from the cot. She looked down at her stockinged feet. ‘Where are my boots?’

  The man nodded toward the stove. ‘I hung ’em up to dry.’

  ‘You took them off?’

  ‘Well, the hook weren’t big enough for all o’ you,’ he joshed. ‘When they’re dry you can put ’em back on.’

  Suddenly it came to her that if it wasn’t for this man, she’d probably be dead, a frozen lump beneath the drifting snow. ‘I’m Linny Jule. You saved my life, and I’ll never forget it,’ she said impulsively. ‘My pa’s got a small ranch below Snowshoe Creek. So, I’m acquainted with most folk round about here,’ she added testingly.

  Briefly the man stopped what he was doing and his face seemed to mask itself. ‘You can call me Will,’ he said, by way of a response.

  ‘That’s the same as your name then, is it?’ she countered in her pernickety way. ‘Will who?’

  ‘Stryker. You know what I’m wonderin’, Miss Jule?’ he continued, reaching for the last potato.

  ‘Yes. You’re wondering why a girl would be idiotic enough to climb the pass on a day like this.’

  ‘More, why anybody’d want to do it.’

  ‘I was going to Kalispell.’ Linny’s small hands clenched. ‘I’ll be happy enough not seeing Snowshoe country again.’

  ‘An’ there’s someplace I feel the same way about,’ Will said, with quiet and genuine commiseration. ‘Well, you’re seein’ my ugly mug for a few more hours yet, so why don’t you turn in? We can talk some more tomorrow.’

  Linny squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve done with sleeping for a while. I’d rather talk.’

  Will started to build himself a cigarette. ‘Then talk it is,’ he agreed.

  3

  SHADOW JUMPER

  Before dawn, twenty-five miles west of the snowbound cabin, Larris Jule stirred from his sleep. He lay for a long time listening for sounds from the corral, but he heard nothing until first light when he rolled from his bed.

  After a mug of strong coffee, he stepped into the clear, cool morning. There was a stiff breeze that tracked Snowshoe Creek and it raised fresh snow flakes in the waterside corral. The Overo paint mare was staring up at the close-timbered slopes of the Flatheads and paid little attention to Jule as he approached. For a while, the man stopped and watched, but the horse didn’t face him, though it must have heard the clink of his spurs.

  ‘Yep, sure is a shame to coop you up, like this,’ Jule muttered deceitfully. ‘You want to be runnin’ ahead o’ that storm, don’t you? Like the little bitch.’

 
He was angry when he stepped into the coral to rope the paint and get it snubbed. The horse was feisty and there was a film of sweat across Jule’s face by the time he got the animal tied to the post. The paint wouldn’t quieten and had the saddle off twice before Jule got it belly-strapped.

  ‘I don’t take to this any more’n you do,’ he rasped. ‘It’s just somethin’ that’s got to be done. Now calm down, or you’ll feel the wrong end of a rope as well.’

  But the instant Jule loosed off the holding snap, the paint was away, ripping the lines from his grip. The horse moved hard and fast, snorted ferociously as it raced to the other end of the corral.

  Cursing savagely, Jule stepped forward. But before he was within half-a-dozen paces of the animal, it broke wildly past him, its hoofs pounding the grit and dust. He made a grab for his rope, shook out a loop and advanced again.

  The horse bared its big, yellow teeth, flattened its ears against its head. A shrill furious snort emitted from it and it broke again. It seemed to hurtle straight at Jule and the man had a swift, fearful vision of going under the flailing hoofs. But at the last instant the paint swerved, and, as it trampled past him, Jule dropped a loop over the animal’s neck. The paint fought its way back to the snubbing post, but Jule managed to get it tied-in again.

  Jule was breathing hard, realized it was no use trying to get any further until he’d calmed the horse. He edged closer, caught the halter and patted the horse’s neck.

  ‘Can’t you get it into that bone head o’ yours, I’m goin’ to get you broke,’ he told the paint, while continuing to stroke its deep, muscled neck. ‘Why’d you keep fightin’ me?’

  The paint listened to Jule’s patter and quietened. It lifted a foot and pawed the ground and the wicked glint seemed to leave its eyes.

  ‘You’re a good learner; I just know it. You got the horse sense,’ Jule said. But it was with a confidence he didn’t feel and he kept running the palm of his hand along the paint’s neck.