by Caleb Rand
The bile rose and Will’s heart hammered. His throat constricted and he recoiled in mute terror as tiny claws scuffed across the fingers of his gun hand. The rats scampered to the floor around his feet, and he couldn’t hold his position any longer. He was forced into going for Madge.
‘Meet the whole goddamn family!’ he yelled in defiance, and rolled out from the shelter of the bar.
Madge spun on his heel and found Will with his Colt. ‘Kid Killer,’ he bellowed back and pulled the trigger. The blast was still resounding madly around the walls of the bar room, when Will fired again.
Madge’s bullet had punched into the sodden floor inches from Will’s face. His second just missed because Will had rolled frantically to one side.
Will fired again, and knew that was it. ‘Reckon right’s on my side, if God ain’t,’ he rasped.
Madge faltered as he got off another round, as his legs buckled. But Will had moved again, taken another full spin away from the bar. He knew it would be the end if he made it so, and he was leaving nothing to chance. As Madge’s bullet hit him in his left side, he extended his right arm. At what seemed to be point blank range, he fired up at the man’s dazed features.
‘You made it to your grave, Madge,’ he said, as above them, low roof beams cracked loudly from their trusses.
With bullets in his belly and chest, Madge collapsed alongside Will. Will twisted around to look at him, for a few moments lay very still. With the exhaustion of relief, he listened to Madge’s gulpy breath, and inched closer.
‘It ain’t much to do with God or bein’ right, Stryker,’ the man said hoarsely. ‘You win ’cause the likes o’ me an’ young Slender got no place of our own. You do … that’s the difference … the difference you live for. I guess I should’ve told the boy about homesteads.’
Will nodded. ‘It might’ve helped,’ he agreed tiredly.
Madge grimaced hopelessly and lifted his chin, then his hand from the floor. He squeezed the Colt’s trigger one more time, and something burst in a spout of gore and fur. ‘An’ I hate rats,’ he gasped and closed his eyes.
Will dragged himself back to his feet, as all around him the walls of the hotel groaned. The front of the building bulged again, but this time it couldn’t be contained. It broke away, sent a great billowing cloud of snow ahead of it. Then, like some big-jawed raptor, the roof folded in.
With one hand pressing against the wound in his side, Will backed through the warped doorway. Then, leaving the saloon’s vermin to nose the bloodied corpse of Madge, he half fell, half jumped to the swell of ice and mud below him.
Wincing at the surge of pain, he dragged himself further away as the building went into a remarkable corkscrew motion. It collapsed into an isle of timber, and Lester Madge’s tomb floated off to merge with the rest of Polson’s flotsam.
It signalled an end to Will. He was suddenly aware of the lonesomeness and desolation, and his knees recognized it. He looked around him, north towards where he’d first seen the figure through the snowstorm. But the man was a lot nearer now. Riding a big, winter mare, he approached from the direction of the lodging house. The wind snatched at his fur robe, for a moment, revealed the crimson tunic of Sergeant Ashley Cameron as he raised his hand in greeting.
Will thought of Linny, and cursed. ‘The bastard’s come to get her. Or me,’ he rasped miserably.
22
STARTING OVER
‘Still killin’ folk I see, Stryker,’ Cameron called out as he rode close.
‘You ain’t seen nothin’,’ Will retorted. ‘Fellers just drop dead in these parts.’
‘With .45 carbine bullets in ’em, I’ll wager.’
‘Well I’m carryin’ lead too, in case you ain’t noticed. You rode more’n a hundred miles to keep an eye on me?’
‘No. You really ain’t that important,’ the mountie countered with a dutiful smile. ‘It’s Larris Jule I’ve been trailin’. He was gettin’ to make too fast an’ fat a profit on the saddle brokes. Most o’ the last delivery were runnin’ into the corrals, still wild. I’m purchaser for the border forts, an’ accountable. It’s to me, he was sellin’. Them miles ain’t much when it’s a personal matter.’
‘Yeah, I really do understand. I was thinkin’ o’ leavin’ him. But seein’ as you’re here now, an’ he’s your captive, you can save him. You want to see Linny?’
‘For what? Tell her I’m takin’ her pa back to the Mcleod Prison Infirmary. I don’t think so. An’ he’ll freeze solid if he’s left out here for much longer. I’ll patch him up, get him to a doc in Kalispell.’ The mountie turned his horse away, then checked and looked back. ‘Nearly forgot,’ he called out. ‘Up along the loggin’ camps, a couple o’ tinhorns been tellin’ a tale. They’re sayin’ it was Joel Beeker up to his ol’ gamblin’ tricks aboard the Flyer. Seems he pulled a gun on a feller when he shouldn’t – got himself shot dead because of it. Means, the RCMP murder indictment’s been dropped.’
Will stared with surprise at the mountie. ‘If ever I meet up with that feller, I’ll pass it on,’ he responded drily.
It was a strange procession that straggled northeast from where Polson now remained, broken and desolate. Through the bleak, white landscape, a motley collection of wagons, hand-carts and buggies were strung out behind Will Stryker and Linny Jule.
The townsfolk brought with them salvaged essentials; bread and molasses, tinned fruit, milk and tomatoes. On the three to four-hour journey, they drank coffee and spruce tea. The animals went hungry or ate corn from what nosebags Caddo had managed to drag from the livery stable. Will’s coon hound ran back to the head of the line, dropped a well-chomped hare at the feet of the mule, panted its pleasure on returning.
For an hour, Will and Linny hadn’t spoken much, merely listened to the sounds of grim travel, the animals’ hoofs and wagon wheels as they crunched through the snow and mushy ice.
‘What do you think will happen to Pa?’ Linny eventually asked.
Will stepped his mule closer. ‘You know, I really don’t much care, Linny,’ he said. ‘I know he’s livin’, which is more’n he had in mind for me. I’m sure the good sergeant will find somethin’ fittin’.’ He grimaced at the heave of pain in his side, looked behind at the bedraggled trail of men and women, the small number of children. ‘It’s them I’m thinkin’ of right now.’
Linny nodded her support. ‘Me too,’ she agreed. ‘They truly are a lawless society now. That’s why they’re looking to you. You can at least show them how to survive, which is a lot more than the law’s able.’
‘Yeah, well, it ain’t quite the same as huntin’ wolf. Where we’re goin’, there ain’t even a cookshack. I got me a cabin an’ a corral, a shed with firewood, an’ that’s it. They’ll have to go back an’ start over … rebuild the town.’ Will gave a quick mischievous grin. ‘Or move on down to Missoula, seein’ as their homes an’ businesses have gone on ahead of ’em’.’
‘That’s not funny, Will. They’ve lost everything.’
‘I know that. An’ when we’ve all ate what few head o’ cattle’s been left me, I’ll be joinin’ ’em. I ain’t no long-term poor house.’
It was five more thoughtful minutes, before either of them spoke again.
‘I never did thank you for rescuing me from the lodging, did I? I guess I’d be in a pretty wretched state by now,’ Linny said.
‘Whatever the state, it was always goin’ to be a pretty one. Savin’ you from the misfortunes of frostbite, seems like a fine habit for me to get into,’ Will flattered. ‘Perhaps even big, bad, blue northers have a silver linin’.’
Linny smiled agreeably. ‘Tell me about Canada … what you wanted up there,’ she said.
‘Well, I ain’t responsible for no unlawful deaths. I never did murder anyone, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I didn’t … don’t. I wanted to know what you wanted there. I’m assuming there’s a difference.’
Will smiled at the recall of Linny’s pernickety way. ‘Yeah, t
here is. I went up to buy me a couple o’ Milk River bulls. I found out the Canadian Pacific was payin’ top wages for rock splittin’ out on the Calgary loop. Thought I could use the extra dollars to buy some line breeders at the big, border pens. They’d have been a real stock improver.’
‘And what was it stopped you?’ Linny persisted.
‘I had a ticket on the Flyer. Made the mistake of sittin’ in with a bad crew, though. One particular jasper didn’t like my way o’ winnin’. I certainly didn’t like his.’
‘Which was?’
‘I had Jack Spade headin’ up a runnin’ flush, an’ he had a belly gun. We had a short argument.’
‘An engaging defence to take into a courtroom,’ Linny replied. ‘I get the general idea though.’
‘What else do you want to know about me?’ was Will’s question.
‘How’d you get that scar on your hand?’ she asked, without pausing.
‘His name was Spike, an’ I tried to take a bone away from him. It was a long time ago.’
The snow started to ease off, and a brighter sky opened up across northern Montana. It was a full quarter-hour later, before Will continued.
‘The geese are back, so green-up shouldn’t be more’n a few weeks off.’ he said. ‘I could start over. I earned that money. It’s in a loggers’ bank in Kalispell.’
A twist of doubt flitted across Linny’s face, and she shook her head. ‘I know someone who could use a fair-minded horse dealer. And Caddo’s looking after the paint. Like me, it won’t be harbouring fond memories of Snowshoe Creek.’
Will pondered for a moment, then looked pleased when he got the picture. ‘Horse breedin’ ain’t my work though. I’d need help.’
‘Well, I need to earn my keep, and I do know horses,’ Linny offered.
Rio suddenly barked, went off ahead, lumbering through the drifted snow.
‘We’re nearly there, an’ I think he remembers,’ Will said. Then he gave Linny a quizzical look.
‘What are you thinking now?’ she asked.
‘Who was it, led his gang to the Promised Land?’
‘That would have been Moses. And they were his people, Will.’
‘Oh! Weren’t your Dan Tucker then?’ he said and grinned.
23
ONE MORE GUN
‘I’m sure that Ashley Cameron really is keeping an eye on you, Will,’ Linny said.
‘Why’d you say that, knowin’ he’s halfway back to Fort Mcleod?’
‘Because he’s not. He’s up there … been watching us for nigh on an hour.’
From the doorway of his cabin, Will looked to the east. It was where the timber ran along a snow-covered ridge. ‘That ain’t the good sergeant, goddamnit,’ he said after a long look. Then his voice became a hard whisper. ‘I reckon it’s someone who ain’t rode north, someone who ain’t took hard warnin’.’
Linny’s voice immediately held concern. ‘What do you mean, Will?’ she asked. ‘Please don’t tell me we’ve got more trouble.’
‘Probably not,’ he lied. ‘I’m guessin’ it’s a travellin’ man, lookin’ us over. Maybe he’s got some bitters or quinine. I’ll ride up an’ take a look.’ Will saw Rio respond to the word ‘go’. ‘Sorry, feller. Can’t take the risk o’ you scarin’ off our caller.’
Linny knew that something was wrong. She clutched her hands, looked at Will in obvious distress.
‘Look for my signal. I’ll be back soon after you see it,’ he said confidently.
From the cabin, Will turned the mule south, as if making for the wagon road. Then he rode a tight loop west, then north into the timberline. It was only an hour from first dark and he didn’t want to lose his quarry in the shadows of the close timber. If a watcher atop the ridge had wished to kill from ambush, he’d have his horse close, probably in a scoop where snow drifted.
Ahead of him, his lookout magpies rose up, and a rabbit flashed its scut into tunnelled cover. The wind whipped through the light snowfall, stirred the tops of the trees where he dismounted. He grinned with resolve, lifted his boots through the thick carpet of snow.
Now and again, branches dropped their snow-lines, and Will flinched at the silent movement. He circled to the knoll where he’d seen the figure of the waiting man. There were no tracks and Will guessed he was right about the horse being tethered below the ridge. As he got closer he held in tight to the trees, listened for a giveaway sound as he blinked against some gusting snowflakes. He stepped over a gnarled root spread, saw the horse below him in the snow-packed hollow. It was a dun mare that stood waiting, head down and disconsolate.
Will moved closer slowly, merged with the blackness of the stark, upright trees. It was darker now, and the birds had moved their roost. The cold started to bite, and Will flexed his fingers around the carbine, raised the barrel to hip level. He’d wait for the failing light to merge the shadows, then make a move if he had to.
But within a few minutes the horse snorted and shuffled. Flailing a Winchester at the snow-covered branches, the man was coming back from his vantage point, and Will gritted his teeth.
The heavy, small-headed gunman moved from the cover of the timber, had a sudden, cautious look around him before reaching for his saddle holster.
‘You don’t frighten easy then?’ Will rapped out.
The man gasped and swung his rifle in a short arc. A blade of flame stabbed at the gloom and Will jerked backwards. He felt the shock as the bullet thumped the tree beside him, as his neck caught a splinter of bark.
‘Perhaps this’ll worry you more,’ he yelled. He hunkered and fired, realizing as he did so, that the gunman was still a fast and practised shot.
As if in acknowledgement of Will’s thinking, the man took a short step away from the dun, and fired again.
‘Mistake!’ Will rasped.
The man shook his head, realized he’d lost his cover as Will’s bullet hit him high in the chest.
Will rolled to one side. He pulled himself into the bole of the tree, and waited. He wasn’t about to reveal himself to a man who’d suddenly become dangerously wounded. He listened to the chatter of his teeth and the grate of his breathing, the snorting of the frightened dun.
Time drew on, and Will waited, worried now that the first man to make a move was going to be the first to die. ‘Christ, the cold’s most likely killed him,’ he muttered after another full minute. He got to his feet and came out from behind the tree. The horse glared at him and backed off, strained at its bridle tether. ‘Easy, girl. No more shootin’,’ he said. He walked forward, prodded the body with the carbine. Nothing moved and he grabbed at the man’s coat, rolled him face up. He saw the warped mouth, the facial damage that he’d meted out to the gunman with his own fists.
I told him to ride north. Must be one of ’em that keeps comin’ back, he thought. Another one who wouldn’t be claimin’ any $100 an’ a share of the sale he’d been promised. He considered hauling the man up and across the saddle, thought better of it. Instead, he untied the length of rope that was tethering the dun mare. ‘I’m goin’ to have work for you,’ he said. ‘Meantime, come an’ get acquainted with my mule.’
Ten minutes later, he walked close to where the gunman had waited earlier in the day. In the distance, and to the west, amidst the night blue landscape he saw the yellow glow from a string of hanging lamps.
‘That’s tellin’ me to come home,’ he said. He pulled off his mackinaw and pushed it into the low branch of a tree. He struck a match and held it to the oiled wool, stood back and watched the flare up. ‘An’ that’s to let you know I’ll be there,’ he added.
Copyright
© Caleb Rand 2005
First published in Great Britain 2005
This edition 2012
ISBN 978 0 7198 0549 3 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0550 9 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0551 6 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 7724 4 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
; Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Caleb Rand to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988