by Caleb Rand
The iron bit clanked into a pile of empty cans. ‘You tryin’ to be funny, Madge?’ the startled man called out. ‘Now you’re here, stop messin’ an’ gimme a hand with this tack.’ For a second or two, the man’s words hung in the oppressive silence. ‘I said, stop messin’, Lester,’ he went on, a trace more uncertain. ‘This ain’t exactly a commandin’ situation we’re in.’
Will was carrying the carbine in his left hand. Raising the barrel, he took a step forward. ‘You can say that again, feller,’ he said. ‘Now that ain’t funny, an’ I ain’t your Madge.’
Moss stepped away from the horse he was looking to saddle, ‘I got three dollars even,’ he replied, after a nervy moment assessing Will. ‘That’ll buy you the price of hot water an’ soap, a bed for the night, an’ a drink if you’re startin’ early,’ he added unpleasantly. ‘Now, you goin’ to use that long shooter, or is it just to frighten me?’
‘I ain’t goin’ to waste a bullet on you, you sonofabitch. I already used a handful on them friends you’ve chose to ride with.’
The man groaned, as the thought struck him. ‘Will Stryker.’
‘Yeah, the man with a crow to pluck.’
Moss took a close look at Will, his eyes flicking to the carbine. ‘Me an’ York had a wager on whether you’d been here,’ he said. ‘Jule wanted to press on to Polson. Madge reckoned a few hours here or there, didn’t really matter. Ha! It seems it did.’
Will drew back the hammer of the carbine with the ball of his thumb. ‘As long as Jule persists in goin’ for my ranch, I’m always goin’ to be somewhere,’ he advised the man. ‘That goes for the henchmen he’s payin’, too.’
Fear suddenly shadowed Moss’s features. ‘So far you been real clever, leadin’ us on a chase through these goddamn mountains. But you fire that thing, an’ all the vultures get a peck at their quarry,’ he said, and shuffled his feet, backed off a half step.
Will jabbed the carbine. ‘Right now, it’s you got to worry about what he does next.’
More perturbed by Will’s purpose, Moss looked around him. ‘You ain’t got that knob-head saddled,’ he observed.
‘What makes you think I’m leavin’?’ Will retorted.
The man gave a thin, wily smile. ‘You ain’t goin’ to risk dyin’ in this muck pile. An’ you ain’t goin’ to shoot me in cold blood, either.’
‘That’s right,’ Will agreed. ‘I already told you, I ain’t wastin’ a bullet on you.’ With that, he let the carbine fall to the floor, and he moved his right arm from behind him. ‘But you’re still gettin’ some holes in you,’ he explained, sliding his hand nearer the twin tines of a pitch fork. ‘Didn’t you know that trouble never comes single-handed?’
‘You’re goin’ up against me with that?’ the gunman sneered.
Will shook his head. ‘Not unless I have to. My old hound’s about to fall from the rafters an’ bite your nose off,’ he grinned disturbingly.
Moss knew of the red tick coon hound, had seen him in the mountain snow. His mouth twisted open, and for an instant he was suckered, then his hand moved fast for his Colt.
Will was aware of that, though. It was his advantage. His arm muscles were sprung and ready before his antagonist made the move. It was a solid, powerful movement that sent the fork, chest high, across the stable.
The long, sharp prongs found their victim. They went in deep, trapped the man’s wrist, his gun hand, hard against his ribs. He moved his other hand, but did nothing more than make a rigid grip on the handle. The stabbing was fast and final. There was nothing could be done for him, and he knew it, as he waited for the pain.
When it surged through his body, Moss didn’t make much of it, Will gave him that. A sharp intake of breath, then a strangled, coughing curse, was about all. The sudden chill, the darkness, the wretchedness of dying, the man went through it all without a sound. He dropped his Colt, but remained standing, licked at the blood that seeped from the corner of his mouth. His eyes bored through Will, as if he was expecting help to come rushing through the open door. But no one came, and he fell sideways into the stableman’s empty peach and tomato cans.
Will picked up his carbine, took a few short steps across the stable. ‘You’re another o’ Jule’s gunmen that really ain’t worthy o’ their hire,’ he said. ‘Why’d you do it?’
The dying man turned his head towards Will. ‘Same as the others. A hundred dollars.’
‘I wonder what he’d have paid a true specialist,’ Will said, with unbelieving contempt. ‘Crazy thing is, I reckon I’d have let you go, if you’d have asked.’
‘I wouldn’t have done that,’ Moss said. Then he closed his eyes against the white fire that ripped through his insides, the overwhelming silence.
‘I know it,’ Will said curtly.
He thought of Jule, wondered how he was going to deal with the man who was still Linny’s father, wished it was all over.
‘Hey, Rio. We got to go now,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Whether them that’s left, chooses to die’s up to them. If they do, it’ll be in Polson. Then we go home. I promise.’
Rio scuttled down the short haymow ladder. It was where he’d gone to escape the mite bites.
Will dragged Moss’s body to the rear of the stable. He wasn’t going to take out the fork, so he lay the dead man on his back. Then he piled his bedding sacks and some dirty straw on top, close around the bloodied, clutching fingers. ‘It won’t be the smell that gives you away,’ he mumbled, looked up to where he knew the stableman had been silently watching.
He saw the man’s eyes glisten from his cot. ‘Won’t be long before they come lookin’. So get down here an’ find somewhere to hide this stiff’s horse,’ he rasped. ‘But you say one word to ’em about what happened, an’ I’ll come back an’ plant you alongside him. You hear me, old feller?’
16
DEAD BEAT
Avoiding a direct route to Polson, Will moved into the foothills. He was going to make a loop from Bole, follow on to the route he knew his adversaries would be taking.
For nearly a mile, he traversed the broken ground of a dry-bed creek. There were walls of rock to either side, and occasional island boulders to negotiate the mule around. Rio would drop from in-front to behind. He’d flush out a quail, send it flapping noisily through the trees, then he’d run around to lead again. When the eastern wall broke down to a gap, Will made his way out through the gnarled roots of creekside timber. He took them to a point where he could view the land east of Box Canyon, where three riders made their way along a corded ridge en route to Polson and the ranch. It was as he thought: Jule hadn’t wasted any time on rising to the threat of moving west.
Will continued on a course through the snow-covered timberline, turned now and again to look at the dark peaks of the Missions. From now on he’d keep to the rim, that he might keep better watch on Jule’s party. If they got strung out, he’d likely get a shot at whoever brought up the rear, make a better number for the inevitable gun fight they were all heading for.
Near to midday, Will looked again at the western approaches to the canyon. He saw that Jule’s party was now riding to the base of the ridge. Without dismounting, he watched the riders wend their way to where the evergreen timber broke on to the flats. When he was certain that Polson was the objective, he started downgrade, worked his sure-foot through the scree to a point where he’d get near to crossing them.
An hour later Will had closed on the group. He dismounted, scuffed up some lichen for the mule to snatch at. From now on, he was going to stay in reach, bide his time. Snowflakes were in a heavy, plumb fall, and he held Rio against his chest for reassurance and warmth, waited patiently until the sound of a brief exchange came to him.
It was Goober York cursing the cold, the going, the fact of being there. Rio met Will’s eyes, for ten minutes waited brightly for a sign of direction. But only when the outfit had swung away, did he move to sniff at the cold air.
Head down, Will rode quiet and cautious until he cu
t Jule’s trail. They weren’t far ahead; he could take one, maybe two of them well before they reached the flats or Polson, even. But if things went wrong, if wouldn’t be him telling the tale. He flicked the snow from the brim of his hat and followed on patiently.
The terrain became less broken and the timber started to thin out. The trail bent further west, dropped away from the long mountain slopes. Another hour of pursuit and Will saw hoof prints that were sharper in the carpet of fresh snow.
He halted a mile above the timberline. If he followed on they’d see him. Now, they were less than a two-hour ride from Polson, and they’d shoot him from the saddle. He decided to stay in cover and smoke some cigarettes, then ride further north, before bending back. It wasn’t going to matter to Jule either way. To him, it was the end of the line, whether Will was in town or on the way there.
Will was walking the mule slowly, was brushing a snow-loaded branch aside when he saw Rio drop to a crouch. The dog’s tail flicked sharply, brushed at the snow in warning. Then ahead, Will saw the horse. Beside it, a man crouched on both knees. Beneath a wool blanket, his arms were clutched tight around his ribs.
The man turned his head as Will approached. He made a feeble effort to reach his Colt, but his hand just dropped away. Will didn’t bother to pull his carbine, because he was looking at the man’s face. The skin was grey around dark lips, and he was sickly sweating, despite the cold. Will knew he was in the company of one of Larris Jule’s men.
He climbed from the mule, pushed the man’s horse aside. ‘Do I know you, mister?’ he asked.
The man hardly raised his eyes to Will. ‘Not exactly. We exchanged a shot or two. Goddamm ticker’s givin’ up on me. I knew it would … been warned. Should’ve gone back,’ the man growled huskily.
‘What’s you’re name?’
‘York.’
‘They left you here, York? Larris Jule gone an’ left you to die, has he?’
‘They’re in a hurry.’
‘A hurry for what?’
Goober York was breathing shallow. ‘To get you box fitted,’ he murmured. He lifted his head, squinted hard at the man he’d had in his rifle sights along Bole Creek. ‘What you think I can do for this goddamn pain?’
‘You got to be some sort o’ dumb-ass askin’ me. Why the hell d’you think you’re up here?’ But Will found a few dry branches, some bark and duff to get a fire going. It was small, but sheltered by the low ground and the aspen. ‘No way I could’ve rode off with you feelin’ the chill an’ all,’ he said without sentiment.
The man’s eyes held an ill-fated bead on him. ‘You found Jule’s guns, didn’t you?’ he accused. ‘Back in Bole. Jule reckoned Tom Moss run out on us.’
‘Yeah, I found ’em. But we never exchanged names, an’ neither of ’em run out on you … not exactly.’ Will shivered, looked east towards the crushing cloud.
‘How long before it hits us?’ York asked.
‘There ain’t no “us”, mister, an’ you’ll be floatin’ long before first light.’
York stifled a raw cough. ‘Jule never told us about the rime that covers you, Stryker. He said you’d got stuff belongs to him. Said you’d see it that way, an’ skedaddle back north.’
‘What do the others say?’
‘There ain’t any others, an’ you know it. Jule really ain’t got much help any more. Madge stays ‘cause you shot his kin.’
‘Your paymaster’s a real bad judge o’ character, ain’t he?’ Will sneered. ‘Never knew a man who got it wrong, just about every time.’
‘You’ll send somebody back?’ York despaired in a cracked voice.
‘Yeah,’ Will lied. ‘Like you would for me.’ Then he called for the hound, turned back to his mule and remounted. The two remaining men didn’t amount to significant odds, he considered, and he’d settle on an encounter in Polson. He hoped that being near home gave him the edge, and that with the diminishing returns of his manpower, Jule would be the one to get his nerves racked. It’s why he left no sign of the gunman, Moss. For an absurd moment, Will deliberated on the man cutting and running back to the Flatheads.
Thirty minutes on, and the mountain trail ended. Out on the flats, between himself and where he sat the mule, the snow swirled near the ground, as if to shirk the oncoming norther. ‘We come some sort o’ full circle, boys,’ Will acknowledged. He could hear eerie groans in the distance, the cracks and grindings as the shifting ice waters from Bole and Post Creeks gathered their force. The big, fearsome innards of the storm was hours away yet, but Larris Jule and Lester Madge wouldn’t be far-off from Polson.
Rio yipped, gave an outstretched leap, as if he wanted a saddle ride. ‘Yeah, this sure ain’t no gully-washer,’ Will commiserated. ‘But it won’t take us on this night. It’ll clear for a while, then wait till early mornin’ … catch us in our beds.’
If there had been a sun, it would have fallen long west of Polson, when they set off after Jule. Will looked down at Rio. ‘We’re goin’ to make for the bench south o’ the canyon. There’s higher ground there.’ He understood Rio’s nervy side, that he’d run from the weather that was going to hit them. ‘You ain’t goin’ to like it,’ he explained considerately. ‘An’ it ain’t your sort o’ fight either. Why not go back to the timber, an’ bite some rabbits. Go on! Me an’ the mule’ll get us beds in town.’
17
WHITEOUT
A messenger wind was pressing down from high Mission ridges. The first Canada geese were returning from the south, and Will watched them, followed their flight across the face of the moon. Then the clouds darkened, and he shivered, turned the mule through the chilly slush into the gloom of the livery.
‘Caddo!’ he called out. ‘The men I came lookin’ for a while back. You seen any of ’em again? They been here?’
Emerging from the refuge of his small, stove-heated room, Caddo drew his scattergun from the mugginess of his fur robe. ‘Yep,’ he granted, indicated Larris Jule’s paint mare that was standing back in the stable shadows. ‘Got a pack dog with him.’ The livery man slanted his eyes at Will. ‘The girl brought my buggy back. I reckon she’s still in town if’n you’re interested.’
Will nodded. ‘I’m goin’ to be. Meantime, I’ll be availin’ myself o’ that byre o’ yours for a few hours,’ he said. ‘No need to tell you what you’ll suffer, if that gets out.’
‘Same as last time. You’ll set fire to me,’ Caddo mumbled, as he drew his face back inside his scarf.
Will climbed tiredly from the mule. ‘Not if I’ve got Jule’s bullets in me, I won’t,’ he responded with little humour. ‘If you got any windows, keep ’em shut. This town’s gettin’ drowned, before a full night’s out, an’ it won’t waste time in comin’.’
He’d known full well that Jule would be laid up in one of the few buildings that had a view of the lodging house. With no scruples about using his daughter as a lure, the man would be waiting for his quarry. With Lester Madge in attendance, there’d be little hope of ferreting him out.
So, Will took into account the extent of his backing. He didn’t think Abe Dancer would be of much help. Under the fast-approaching blizzard, the town’s sheriff would be making sure his family were out of harm’s way, most likely trade a street patrol for the relative safety of the hotel bar. He considered the whereabouts of Buckham Sendaro, wondered if he’d be out setting beaver traps, if he’d be stalwart in a gunfight.
Will toe’d the door in to the lean-to. Holding the carbine down at his side, he lay flat on his back on the cot, closed his eyes and set himself to wondering. There’d be an opportunity before long. The squall would meld with the ice-flood to find a natural route into town. With it would come an adequate distraction for his next move.
He woke under the torrential deluge, grey light leaching through the swollen, splintered walls of the lean-to. He stood for a moment listening to the explosion of hail on the livery’s grain shed. His thoughts centred again on Linny, her predicament within the lodging house. He was re
asonably certain that nothing much had moved during the night, and nobody was going far now.
For the long hour of a slow-breaking dawn, Linny had been sitting by a side window of the lodging house. Deeply disturbed, she watched the overpowering shadows move from the mountains. She knew about snow and ice storms, the unimaginable destructive power when ice-bound headwaters broke from high ground. As the full rage of the whiteout rolled over Polson, icy shards struck, gushed at the window glass until there was nothing to see. Linny wondered on Will Stryker’s confrontation with her father, but turned away before establishing an outcome.
She drew a slicker from her carpet bag, pulled on a slouch hat and made a move to the front of the house. She took a deep breath before pulling open the door to the street, recoiled from the onrush of frozen air. The low-lying street was already overflowing, the rising water shoving branches and broken ice along its turbulent course.
Linny hung to the step rails, watched a teamster untying a mule from a mud-trapped ore wagon. Some folk stood in their doorways simply staring at the flood, others ran here and there for no plain purpose. At one of the two stores, a man and a woman had dragged provision sacks into the doorway. Their boy swung from a support rail, laughing, kicking his foot out at the swirling water.
Linny ran back through the lodging house to the rear door. The steps descended to the edge of the swelling water and she jumped down, made it safely to the raised gallery of the other store. A woman and two small children were huddled inside, their faces showing the first unmistakable signs of panic. The man stood further back talking to a prudent Abe Dancer.
‘What are you doing to help? Shouldn’t you should be out there, advising them to get out of town,’ Linny demanded breathlessly.
‘They don’t need advisin’,’ the sheriff answered quickly. ‘They ain’t bundlin’ up for a potlatch. There’s a limit to how the law can help in these circumstances.’