The Goose Moon

by Caleb Rand

  He was more than forty feet down-stream by the time York fired off two more shots. He held in close to the edge of the canyon wall, risked a quick look back. York was kneeling, going for a steady, more accurate shot. A moment later the bullet scuttled the shale at the mule’s feet, close to the water’s edge. Will ran with the long curve of the wall, until a minute later he looked back again, saw that he was screened by the ascending rock.

  He stopped and saw that across the fast-running creek, the ridge wall fell in heavy folds of rock and timber. It was a rough slope, but passable. He put the mule into the water, at once he heard the renewal of gunfire. He turned against the current for better footing, felt the current surge hard against the mule’s legs. A bullet zipped into the water close by, and the mule lurched forward. It regained its balance and moved on again, stepped onto the stony bankside. The timber ran down close to the water and Will shouted for them to gain shelter. They quickly reached the trees and Will swung down, pulled the carbine from its saddle holster.

  He leaned into the trunk of a spruce, held the shortened barrel of his carbine in the fork of a low branch. He considered the distance and drew a thoughtful sight on where he estimated the rifleman to be. He let out his breath, took up the trigger’s slack when York appeared in the distance. It was an easily missable shot, but Will saw its effect as the report of the carbine echoed sharply between the walls of the canyon. Back along the creek, the stalking rifleman jerked sideways, pulled back and down out of sight.

  Will took a breather, sat down with his back against the tree. He knew that, out of sheer cussedness, Larris Jule would give him no rest. ‘That’ll learn you to keep your head down for a while,’ he muttered, indicating that Rio stay still. He guessed that the pursuing men had spilt up, and that Jule would probably be coming at him from above. He’d have to make a move now, head south-west, back towards his ranch and Polson.

  Knowing the rifleman along the creek wouldn’t choose to make a target of himself, Will holstered the carbine and walked them out of the trees, moved carefully along the shallow, dipping side of the creek. For a quarter mile, the track opened up and he picked his way through the overgrown debris of Bole’s played out mine workings.

  After an hour, Will recognized the high shoulder of the entrance to Box Canyon. He’d be east of Post Creek, almost back to square one with a good eighteen miles of cold riding on to Polson. Five or six hours if he was lucky, scary time if he wasn’t.

  The wind was from the north, the sky was slate grey and augured more heavy snow, possibly a norther. His mule was a good one though, and knew its way over snow and icy trails. But by noon, Will doubted if he’d travelled more than five miles. Several times he’d taken shelter in thick stands of timber to avoid the first, hard-flurried snow. When they reached Bole Creek, he cracked the thin, pearly shell of surface ice to water the mule.

  The bitter wind was howling down the canyon from its northern end. It burned Will’s face and deadened his fingers. It was late dusk when he eventually emerged from the maw of the canyon, rode into the thinning stands of spruce and aspen. He called in the hound, looked incredulously to the town that was holed up ahead of them.

  13

  CREEK DIGGINGS

  Bole didn’t have a street. Blue woodsmoke curled from ramshackle buildings, and in the last light of the day, lamps glowed yellow from a lone, grease joint saloon.

  The garbage can town was now only a stopping place for drifters, for the badmen who found places like Polson, too busy. A handful of prospectors worked barren digging holes at the fag-end of the Bole Creek strip. They were tight-lipped men, accustomed to the wilderness and Bole’s distinctive brand of whiskey.

  Will dismounted outside a weathered skeletal structure that was the livery. ‘What’s the charge for puttin’ up a mule?’ he shouted from the open doorway.

  There was a surge of coughing before a scrawny man carrying a lantern came limping from the shadows. ‘Them that asks is usually runnin’ from some sort o’ trouble,’ he rattled, during a searching look at Will. ‘If a mount needs corn, it needs corn. That’s what I figure.’

  ‘I’m not runnin’. I’m lookin’ for someone.’

  ‘I got no memory for that sort o’ thing, pilgrim.’

  Will tried a different tack. ‘I own a ranch west o’ here. Name’s Stryker. You heard o’ me perhaps?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Then the stableman spat. ‘If I was to believe what some folk got to say around here, Stryker’s the feller who don’t own a ranch.’

  Will took a quick step forward. He grabbed the man and dragged him up close. ‘Listen, wood foot,’ he threatened. ‘If someone’s been talkin’, tell me, or I’ll shoot your other leg off. You hear?’

  The man blinked hard. ‘Take it easy, pilgrim,’ he croaked. ‘He’s in the saloon. Ain’t left the place since he rode in.’

  ‘What’s he look like, this long lingerin’ man?’ Will asked.

  ‘Heavy, got a small head. He’s a queer-lookin’ cove. Don’t let a smile crack his face. If I was you, I’d be thinkin’ o’ clearin’ town.’

  ‘You ain’t me. An’ you’re goin’ to put my mule up an’ give it a bellyful o’ corn.’ With that, Will walked back to the door. He bent his head against the wind and made his way to the saloon.

  Butty’s Stand was a twelve-foot run of split lodgepole sided to a single room. One man had his elbows on the counter, talking to the barkeep. The man with the small head sat alone at one of three tables. The three men looked up when Will came in. Seeing he was a stranger, the barkeep took a closer look.

  An untouched platter of cold greasy steaks lay on the counter. Another offered hard soda-biscuits and small onions. Will moved to one side.

  ‘Whiskey,’ he said, ‘or whatever you call it here.’

  The barkeep’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he nodded and poured the drink.

  ‘Jesus,’ Will rasped, as the firewater hit the back of his throat. Then he turned slowly, looked at the man at the table. ‘My name’s Will Stryker,’ he said flatly. ‘You the gut with news regardin’ the occupancy o’ my ranch?’

  A muscle quickly tugged at the corner of the man’s bloodshot eye. He was in a bit of trouble, wasn’t expecting the prod. He sucked air through his teeth at Will’s goading. ‘Was just chewin’ the dog, Stryker. I normally keep out o’ business that ain’t mine,’ he said with practised menace, trying to make some time.

  The man looked directly at Will. He knew the look of a man who wasn’t troubled much by killing, knew that if he drew his gun, it wouldn’t be clear of the table top before he died.

  ‘Both hands on the table, an’ ease yourself up,’ Will told him. ‘I promised Jule I’d get my ranch back. Said I’d take him an’ his men out, one by one. That’s the mistake you made, mister … bein’ one of ’em. Now, get out o’ that chair.’

  The man was another who was hired by Jule for his gun, and now he could hardly believe what was happening. He was going to have his chance to use it, more than an even break. He’d claim the $100 and a share of the sale he’d been promised. Slowly he pushed the chair backwards, unbent his girth from the table.

  He rolled his eyes up, but it was too late to see Will’s punch coming. He wasn’t set to take a punch, and he was way off balance when the blow caught him below his right eye. White light exploded, turned to dark inside his head. Curious, dull sounds came and went, and the next moment he was on the floor.

  There was a sour taste in his mouth and he dragged himself into a kneeling position. His breathing was fast and shallow. He was wondering what to do next, when Will’s hands gripped at the lapels of his tight-fitting coat. He felt his bulk being heaved up, then the sudden, dull shock as his broad back and shoulders got slammed hard into the wall of the saloon. His head bounced forward and he threw an arm out in front of him. He was now breathless, and he tried to focus, take a bearing on Will. His instinct was for hanging in, and he tried to reach his gun. It was his trade, and he’d always relied upon that abil
ity as a first and last resort. But it was too late.

  Will’s bunched fist caught him hard in the mouth. He tasted blood and came off the wall swinging, took a wicked blow in his belly. He lost all his remaining wind, got doubled up to Will’s lifting knee that smashed his nose.

  ‘You listen good, mister,’ Will said kneeling beside the man. ‘This really ain’t your sort o’ business. Now you been saddle broke, I suggest you ride north before winter sets in. Move any further west o’ here, an I’ll take it to mean you’re lookin’ for me. An’ Mr Jule will tell you, that ain’t to be recommended.’

  Will got to his feet, threw a weary, disgusted look at the barkeep. ‘If he forgets what happened here, make sure you tell that goddamn Jule when he arrives,’ he snapped. Then he turned on his heel and walked out through the door, whistled for Rio to join him.

  A minute later, Will returned. At the bar he used a neck cloth to wrap up the steaks and biscuits. ‘Never leave meat in the doghouse,’ he advised the barkeep wryly, and tossed a coin on the empty platter.

  14

  ONE NIGHT

  Goober York sat glaring at Larris Jule. ‘He could’ve taken my goddamn head off along that creek,’ he complained of Will Stryker’s gun shot along the creek. ‘Why don’t we get on to the ranch, lie up for him there? We know it’s where he’s headed.’

  ‘Eventually, yeah. Polson’s more likely for what he’s got in mind right now.’

  ‘That’s a long, wretched mile from here,’ Lester Madge put in.

  ‘How far?’ Jule asked of York.

  ‘I’d say five hours. Four, if we keep goin’, which I ain’t in favour of.’

  ‘No, I can see you wouldn’t be. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I got a real bad pain in my chest. Feels like I got caught under a log boat. Pill pusher in Washin’ton State said it’s a heart condition.’

  ‘That’s a great time for one o’ them,’ Jule said, with a pitiless shake of his head. ‘How far are we from Bole?’

  ‘Another hour, why?’

  ‘I told you, I sent a gun there,’ Jule explained. ‘If he’d met Stryker he’d have rode back to tell us. He’d have to come this way.’

  ‘So we go into Bole an’ find out,’ York reasoned. ‘Get us some grub. They might even’ve lit a fire.’

  ‘No. We go straight to Polson.’

  Madge sat his horse, unmoving. ‘An’ what if Stryker was there?’ he asked. ‘Think about it, Larris. A few hours here or there, don’t really matter. We got to ease up. Maybe Goober can get himself some physic.’

  ‘One night,’ Jule conceded summarily.

  The barkeep was staring at the ceiling when Jule, Madge, Goober York and Tom Moss pushed their way in to Butty’s Stand. He lowered his eyes and cursed at the icy draught, moved a greasy bottle along the counter.

  The four men looked with distaste at the candle-lit contents of the back bar.

  ‘You got one o’ them spittin’ cans?’ Jule asked.

  ‘Why?’ the barmen asked, with little concern.

  ‘I’m guessin’ it’s where the contents o’ this bottle’s goin’ to end up.’

  For a moment the barman thought about Jule’s insinuation. ‘Use the floor like everyone else,’ he suggested. ‘Watch out for folks’ boots though. Some o’ these old grubstakers can still cut up rough.’

  Jule had already noticed that all three tables were occupied by prospectors; hostile men who spent more time in the saloon than at their worked-out digging holes. ‘I’m lookin’ for someone. Kind o’ meaty, carries a gun, an’ a head that don’t rightly fit,’ he said. ‘You’d have seen him in here.’

  ‘Yeah, he was here,’ the barman said straight off. ‘But now, he’s carryin’ a bust-up head.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘There was another feller came in – wore a sawed-off carbine strapped to his leg. He didn’t have need of it though. He used his fists to beat the frost out o’ the man you’re lookin’ for. He left a message for you, if you’re Jule.’

  ‘I’m Jule. What message?’ Jule asked, chary of the answer.

  The barman worked his face into a mean grin. ‘Well, it was more of a warnin’. He said for you, not to go west. If it was my business, mister, I’d be takin’ heed.’

  While Jule pondered the second-hand threat, York asked the barman if the town had a doctor.

  ‘Not for much more’n staggers, we ain’t. You sickenin’ for somethin’?’

  ‘Never mind,’ York answered, and grimaced as he swallowed the searing liquor.

  Jule reached for the whiskey bottle, had a closer look at the label. ‘This feller with the long gun?’ he asked, pouring York another glassful. ‘He happen to mention where he was headed?’

  The barman shrugged. ‘I got the feelin’, him an his dog don’t want no one lookin’ for ’em.’

  Jule snatched off his hat. Sweat broke out in a thin line across his forehead, and wild, extreme rage showed in his eyes. ‘I’m not interested in your goddamn feelin’s,’ he snarled. ‘I was askin’ where he was headed, you goddamn piss pusher.’

  ‘He never said where he was headed.’ The barman suddenly saw the dangerous, volatile nature of Jule, looked circumspectly at Lester Madge and Moss. ‘But even if he rides to first light, he won’t get no further’n Polson,’ he added less belligerently. ‘There’s a squall pickin’ up from the mountains. Goin’ to be a real fence-downer.’ The barman didn’t like anything about Larris Jule. He thought better of mentioning Will Stryker’s promises about getting his ranch back, taking out Jule and his men, one by one. He smiled at the wicked thought. ‘You could ask at the livery,’ he suggested. ‘Riders tend to mention where they’ve been. Now and again, where they’re goin’.’

  ‘I doubt Stryker’s one o’ them,’ Jule returned with a bilious look. He turned to consider the rumble of the disquiet miners, their suspicious, challenging stares. One of them gave a long snort, another spat dark juice from deep within his whiskers.

  ‘You set for fixin’ us some grub?’ Jule asked the barman tersely.

  ‘Sorry, mister, not at this hour. I could fix you another round, before you leave.’

  Madge, sneered, ‘Reckon he wants rid of us, Larris.’

  ‘Not before we pay him, he don’t.’

  York held up his hand. ‘I can’t take any more. I already got a mule inside o’ me. This liquor’s got it kickin’ my ribs out.’

  ‘That ain’t no mule, Goober,’ Madge contributed. ‘It’s what they’re purveyin’ as whiskey, in this stinkin’ dump. What do you say, Larris?’

  For a response, Jule looked to the barman. ‘You got a couple o’ rooms on top o’ here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. Four dollars before you go up … fire damage an’ breakages when you come down.’

  ‘You remember that gopher hole called Whitefish, we passed through, Larris?’ Madge grinned. ‘Them beds was already burnin’ when we fell into ’em.’

  Jule gave an indifferent nod. ‘I’ll take ’em,’ he said. ‘We’re stayin’ the night.’

  ‘One night? What about your friend here?’ the barman asked of Jule about York. Jule looked around him as though for a fitting place to spit. ‘Why, he’ll most likely be dead by mornin’,’ he spluttered.

  The barman struck a match. He lit a fat candle that was wax-welded to the counter, wondered if someone would grasp the meaning. ‘Then this’ll be for you … shortly after,’ he muttered.

  15

  FORKING OUT

  Will had told Larris Jule that somehow, he’d despatch him and his men. And Jule wasn’t a man likely to heed the barman’s reminder of that promise either. If anything, it would further madden him, spur him on to a more reckless pursuit in the direction of Polson, back to Will’s ranch. But Will was a man who kept his word, or at least tried to, so he wasn’t leaving Bole just yet.

  The livery was the place to stay low. Jule would be back for his paint and the three other horses, so Will could make up his mind from the
re, have another crack at shortening the odds. He’d already got some satisfaction in beating a Jule gunman with his fists, and he expected another opportunity. His knuckles still stung a bit from the skull thumping. But if they didn’t all come for their horses, he wouldn’t be firing off his carbine.

  For a dollar he’d spent the night beneath the haymow, wrapped in a horse blanket. The ground was damp and it stank of old dust, manure and straw. He’d used a pile of empty sacks as bedding, and at his feet, Rio was persistently troubled by the bite of hardy mites. Even knowing it wasn’t for much longer, didn’t make the rank, chilly hours any easier to get through.

  Just before first light, the interior of the livery was in its usual heavy gloom. An overhanging lamp was still lit, but no one had yet stirred. Staring at the rough-hewn crossbeams over his head, he waited for several minutes, but there was no sound other than the stableman who coughed and slept in his cot sill above the grain bins. He got to his feet and looked out at the yard. Ice was sheeting the water trough, and a cat stepped neatly through the spokes of a wagon wheel.

  There was a rear door, narrow and low, but it was another way out, he noted cautiously. From far off, a timber wolf howled, emphasized the bleakness. He listened to the horses munching grain, the occasional stamp or snort. He moved back beneath the overhanging haymow to wait, let everything get used to the notion of him not being there.

  He’d got the timing just about right, didn’t have too long to wait. Tom Moss had come to collect the horses, would be leading them back to the saloon.

  Will moved slightly as Moss unhurriedly turned into the livery. He felt something touch his shoulder and he put his hand up, touched a bridle and bit that was hanging from a wooden peg. He waited a few seconds, but the man was alone. He gripped the bit firmly but carefully, to prevent any noise. Then he eased it from the nail, and in one smooth movement tossed it underhand, towards Moss.