Desolation Wells

by Colin Bainbridge

  With some reluctance, he finished his cigarette and set about removing all traces of his campsite. When he had finished, he threw his saddle over the mare, tightened the girths and climbed into leather. He had no idea where the Barbed S ranch was, but he figured that if he retraced his steps to the point at which he had first become aware of the three riders following him, he would be in a better position to find out. It must lie somewhere near there. With a glance towards the sky, he turned the buckskin in that direction.

  After watching Westoe disappear, Sheriff Snelgrove’s first reaction was to saddle up his mount and ride after him. A few moments’ reflection were enough, however, for him to see the futility of giving pursuit. Westoe had a good start. He had no idea which way he would decide to go and it would be impossible to find his sign in the darkness. His pride had been wounded, but it didn’t make any sense to go off at half-cock. A few people emerged on hearing the shooting, but he waved them away and went back inside to pour himself another drink. When he had restored his equanimity he got to his feet, took a bunch of keys from a drawer, and locked the outer office. He returned and went through a doorway which led to his own private apartment. Without removing any of his clothes, he threw himself down on his mattress and lay awake looking at the ceiling.

  He was up early next morning, having slept but fitfully, and after a quick breakfast, made his way through to the office. He looked out of the window. The place was beginning to stir and presently he saw the remaining Barbed S man making his way over. He opened the door and the man entered.

  ‘I’m sorry for what happened last night, Barnet,’ he said.

  ‘It is Barnet, isn’t it?’ the sheriff asked. The man muttered a surly assent. ‘I warned you about that hombre. Couldn’t you have done somethin’ to stop him shootin’ my friend?’

  ‘Friend? There were two of ’em.’

  ‘Yeah. One was a regular rider for the Barbed S. In fact, it was me took him on in the first place. Mr Stroup assigned the two of us to the case. I don’t know how the other feller got involved. To tell you the truth, I don’t feel any regrets about him bein’ killed. I never took to him.’

  ‘The way I heard it, it was your friends who started the whole rumpus. You can count yourself lucky you weren’t there.’ The man sat down in a chair beside the sheriff’s desk.

  ‘The question now is, what do you intend doing about it?’ he said.

  The sheriff observed him as he sat beside him, straddling the seat. Despite his protestations, he didn’t have the air of someone in mourning. After a significant pause it was the sheriff who spoke.

  ‘Tell me again about Westoe,’ he said, without preamble.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man you were following. The man who shot your friends.’

  ‘I told you already,’ the man replied.

  ‘Tell me again.’ The man glanced sideways at the sheriff.

  ‘Well, like I told you before, we’ve been on his trail for a couple of days.’

  ‘Because he killed Eben Stroup,’ Snelgrove interrupted. ‘Remind me; who exactly is Eben Stroup?’

  ‘He’s one of Mr Stroup’s sons. Mr Stroup is the owner of the Barbed S.’

  ‘One of his sons?’

  ‘There’s another one called Rafe.’

  ‘And what makes you think this man Westoe shot Eben?’

  The man shifted uncomfortably. ‘Because there was a witness. He told Mr Stroup about what happened.’

  ‘A witness? A reliable one?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the man exclaimed. ‘I guess you’d have to ask Mr Stroup that question. I’m only followin’ instructions.’

  ‘What would Westoe have against him?

  ‘Like I say, I’m just followin’ orders. I’m not the one you should be askin’. All I know is that Mr Stroup set us the task of trackin’ him, actin’ on information received.’

  Snelgrove looked closely at Barnet. He couldn’t tell whether he was telling the truth or not. Instead of pursuing that line of questioning, he took another.

  ‘With what purpose exactly?’ he asked.

  ‘Look,’ the man blustered, ‘we coulda dealt with Westoe our own way, but Mr Stroup ain’t that kind of a man. He wants Westoe to face justice.’

  ‘After what happened last night, it sure don’t look that way.’ Snelgrove stroked his chin. ‘You’ve put me in an awkward position,’ he continued. ‘This whole affair ain’t really any of my business, but as the representative of the law round these parts I can’t just let it go.’ He paused, thinking hard. Eventually he looked up.

  ‘I’ll say one thing,’ he resumed. ‘I don’t figure Westoe is guilty.’

  Barnet looked at him sharply. ‘How would you know?’ he said. ‘Where is Westoe now? Haven’t you put him under arrest?’

  ‘Let’s just say he left in a kind of hurry. But that don’t mean I want you to go doin’ anythin’ hasty.’

  ‘If you can’t do anythin’ then I sure am,’ the man snapped.

  ‘Now what did you just say about wantin’ to keep things legal? OK, listen up. Can you be ready to ride in half an hour? I’ll meet you right outside the saloon.’

  ‘What? You’re formin’ a posse?’

  ‘Just the two of us. We’ll see if we can find Westoe. But I ain’t got a lot of time to spend on this. If we can’t find him fairly pronto, you’re on your own. I got plenty of other things I need to do without goin’ off on a wild goose chase. Like I say, I’m willin’ to give it a try, but if Westoe’s lit clean out, then that’s it.’

  Without waiting to argue the matter, Snelgrove rose to his feet. The Barbed S man looked less than happy as the sheriff ushered him out of the door. Snelgrove watched his retreating figure till it was lost to view and then took in a deep draught of the morning air. He had made a compromise with the Barbed S man and with himself. He didn’t see what else he could do. Personally, he didn’t hold out much hope of finding Westoe, but at least he would have done something.

  After a day and a half, the country through which Westoe was riding began to change and presently he discerned a range of low-lying hills dotted with clumps of trees. As he got nearer, he spotted a wisp of smoke in the distance. He rode towards it and presently saw a ramshackle structure in the lee of a boulder-strewn slope. It was part tent and part cabin and as he got closer he could read the words Bowman’s Store and Trading Post scrawled in faded letters. A couple of horses were standing at a hitchrack in the yard.

  ‘Well,’ he said, addressing the buckskin, ‘seems like we might be in luck, old girl.’

  So far he had come across no-one and he had been wondering where he might get the information he needed regarding the whereabouts of the Barbed S. Maybe someone at the trading post would be able to supply information.

  He rode up, dismounted and tied his horse next to the others. He could hear voices coming through the open doorway and one of them seemed to be that of a woman. Taking the time to look around him, he listened to the voices for a few moments, but couldn’t make out what they were saying, and then he stepped through the doorframe. The air inside was warm. Two men were standing at the counter, behind which stood a tall woman with a pretty face and her hair tied back in a bun. A kettle hissed on top of a potbellied stove. The woman broke off her conversation with the two men and glanced up at his arrival. For a moment their eyes met and they held each others’ gaze, then she said in a lilting voice:

  ‘I’m makin’ coffee. Would you like some?’

  ‘That would be right welcome, ma’am,’ Westoe replied.

  She nodded towards a table and he sat down at it. In a few moments she had poured the boiling water and brought him a piping cup of strong black coffee. As he took his first sip, he glanced at his surroundings. Although the room served as a store, there had been some effort to make more of it. In addition to the table at which he sat, a few chairs were placed near the stove. The empty windows were covered in rose-patterned chintz and there was a threadbare carpet on the uneven floo
r. Flowers stood in pots and vases on whatever surface provided a space, most of which was piled high with supplies and sundry items such as metal bowls, wooden boxes, picks and shovels. A trestle laid across a couple of barrels formed a rude counter.

  ‘Is there gold in the hills?’ Westoe asked, addressing the two men who were looking at him surreptitiously.

  ‘Used to be,’ one of them remarked. ‘It’s just about cleaned out by now.’

  The woman was regarding him with her face tilted a little to one side. ‘Are you aimin’ to pan for some gold?’ she asked.

  Westoe looked at her. The way she asked the question suggested something teasing in her manner.

  ‘No ma’am,’ he said, ‘I’m just passin’ through.’

  ‘Then you’ll maybe be needin’ some supplies?’ she said.

  ‘Sure, I could use a few things.’

  ‘Which way are you headed?’ one of the men asked.

  Westoe saw his chance to raise the issue which was on his mind. ‘I’m lookin’ for a spread called the Barbed S,’ he said.

  His reply seemed to act like a cold douche. There was a pause. One of the men produced a pouch of tobacco and a corncob pipe whish he proceeded to fill. He tamped the tobacco down but instead of lighting it, put it back in a pocket of his jacket.

  Before Westoe had finished his coffee, the woman came across and took his cup away.

  ‘Maybe you know of it?’ he resumed. ‘If so, I’d sure appreciate you tellin’ me the way.’ His words hung heavy in the changed atmosphere. He was feeling awkward and not sure how to continue when the woman spoke.

  ‘Take the trail at the back of the store and just keep on ridin’. It’s still quite a long ways. When you pass some old diggin’s you’ll come to a wide valley runnin’ east and west. Follow it to the end.’

  ‘I’m much obliged,’ Westoe replied. He got to his feet and began to pick out some items he would need for the ride ahead. Although nothing more was said, he was conscious of three pairs of eyes on his back. He returned to the counter, carrying the articles he had selected.

  ‘Maybe I’ve got this wrong,’ he said, ‘but I get a definite impression that I’ve said somethin’ to upset you folk.’

  ‘Nobody’s upset,’ the woman replied.

  ‘Look. If there’s somethin’ about this Barbed S ranch you ain’t tellin’ me – well, I’d appreciate if you just out and said what it is.’ The woman handed him his supplies in a bag without replying and he laid his money on the counter.

  ‘You got business with the Barbed S?’ the man with the corncob pipe enquired.

  ‘Only lookin’ for a job. I got experience of range work. I figure they might need someone now it’s getting’ along towards roundup time.’

  ‘There are other ranches,’ the man replied.

  Westoe couldn’t think of a ready answer to that one so after a moment’s hesitation he took the bag and made for the door. He stepped out into the sunlight and strode over to the buckskin. As he was adjusting his saddle bags to accommodate his purchases, he heard a light footstep behind him and turned to face the woman.

  ‘Maybe we were a mite unfriendly back there,’ she said. ‘It’s just that some of us got cause to have some suspicions about the Barbed S.’

  ‘Suspicions?’ he prompted. She hesitated as if uncertain to say anything further, and he was touched to see that she bit her lip.

  ‘I don’t want to prejudice you,’ she said. ‘Go on and if you get a job at the Barbed S, then see for yourself. There’s no proof of anythin’.’

  He looked closely at her. Lines were spreading on her face and her hair was beginning to grey; he figured she must be around forty years old, but she still held her looks and charm. Before he could say anything else or ask any further questions, she turned away and went back into the store. For a few moments he wavered, adjusting the girths, then he climbed back into the saddle. Touching the horse’s flanks with his spurs, he rode round the cabin and set his course for the hills.

  Just ahead of him, near a clump of trees, was a boulder off to the side of the trail. He would have passed it by, but there seemed to be some writing scrawled across it. Veering towards it, he dismounted and took a close look at the rude lettering. It read:

  Sean Bowman. Born 1834. Died 1873.

  A Loving Son. Secure In Your Hands.

  Westoe drew his hand across his chin. Sean Bowman? The lady’s son? Whoever it was, his death was recent. He thought of the woman’s last cryptic words: ‘There’s no proof of anythin’.’ What did she mean by that? Was it a reference to this man’s death? For a moment he felt an impulse to go back and question her further, but it quickly passed. It was none of his business to go probing another person’s wounds and sorrows. There were many unanswered questions he could have asked, but he had learned enough to set him on his guard in matters relating to the Barbed S. Climbing back into leather, he continued along his way.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Shortly after the conclusion of their conversation, Marshal Snelgrove and Barnet rode out of Desolation Wells, heading west. It seemed logical to assume that Westoe would carry on riding in the same direction he had been before arriving in town. They rode slowly at first, looking for sign. There were various traces of horses which might have been left by Westoe’s buckskin, but there was no way of knowing. All they could do was to carry on riding and hope to pick up something more positive. They continued till mid-morning when Snelgrove called a halt to give the horses a break. As they rested in the shade of some trees, Snelgrove pulled out his pouch of Bull Durham and, after taking some tobacco and papers himself, handed it to Barnet. When they had rolled cigarettes and lit up, he turned to the Barbed S man.

  ‘Tell me again, what’s your connection with the Barbed S?’

  ‘I’m foreman. Been there quite a while.’

  ‘The Barbed S,’ Snelgrove repeated. ‘Is it a big spread?’

  ‘Near three thousand head of longhorn steers,’ Barnet replied.

  ‘And it’s owned by a man named Stroup?’ Barnet nodded. ‘Just tell me again. What was the name of his other son; I mean the one who didn’t get shot?’

  The man glanced away and when he replied there was a look of distaste on his features. ‘Rafe,’ he replied.

  ‘I get the impression you’re not too fond of him,’ Snelgrove said.

  ‘I don’t have any opinion.’ Barnet paused for a moment as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. ‘Hey, wonder if that other feller Westoe shot was one of Rafe’s friends? That would account for him stringin’ along.’

  ‘The one you said you didn’t take to?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The sheriff paused, looking around him. ‘Gettin’ along to roundup time pretty soon,’ he eventually remarked. Barnet nodded.

  ‘We need to find Westoe and bring him in quick now,’ he replied.

  Snelgrove glanced back along the trail they had been riding. ‘I wouldn’t count on catchin’ up with him,’ he said. There was no reply and they drew on their cigarettes.

  ‘What’ll you do if we don’t find him?’ Snelgrove asked.

  Barnet paused indecisively. ‘That’s somethin’ I’m just gonna have to think about,’ he commented.

  Snelgrove took a last drag of his cigarette and then flicked the stump away. ‘You can think about it while we ride,’ he said. ‘We ain’t gonna do our chances of catchin’ up with Westoe any favours by sittin’ around here.’ He got to his feet and Barnet followed suit. They quickly remounted.

  ‘Hell, this is hopeless,’ Barnet remarked. ‘We might be goin’ completely in the wrong direction.’ Snelgrove eyed him closely.

  ‘You’re right,’ he replied. ‘I’m gonna give this till nightfall and then I’m callin’ it a day. After that you’re on your own. Do what you think best, but there’s one thing I gotta say.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s that?’ Barnet asked.

  ‘Whatever you decide to do, I’d prefer not to see you around Desolation Wells again.’
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  After leaving the trading post, Chet Westoe had hoped to reach the Barbed S that same night, but it gradually became clear that the ranch was further than he had thought. Accordingly, towards midnight, he decided to set up camp by a stream sheltered by a grove of bushes. After picketing the buckskin on a grassy patch close to the water, he gathered sticks and soon had a fire started. When he had eaten and drunk a couple of mugs of strong black coffee, as the fire died down he lay back with his head on his saddle and his shoulders covered with the saddle blanket. For a long while he lay awake, thoughts darting through his brain, till eventually he nodded off into a fitful slumber.

  He was awakened by the cold. He stirred the ashes and added some more twigs and leaves. He didn’t feel much like eating and made do with another brew of coffee. Then he saddled up the buckskin. The sun was still below the horizon when he rode out. He was worried in case he had missed the abandoned diggings mentioned by the woman at the trading post, but as the light began to spread he realized he must have entered the wide valley she had mentioned. At least it was a similar one. In the growing light, he could see that the hillsides were dotted with aspen and ponderosa pine. As he rode on, he began to notice signs of riders having passed that way and eventually he saw ahead of him cattle standing singly or in small groups. It was obvious that he was on range land and he soon caught his first glimpse of the ranch. The main ranch-house was a two-storied building behind which stood various outbuildings and a corral with a number of horses in it. Westoe sat the buckskin for a few moments, taking in the scene. The ranch looked prosperous and well suited to its surroundings. After a time the door to what Westoe assumed was the bunkhouse flew open and two men came out. They made their way to the yard where a couple of horses were tied to a hitchrack, mounted up and rode slowly away. Westoe watched them till they disappeared behind a rise, then touched his spurs to the buckskin’s flanks and rode down to the ranch-house. He dismounted and then stood for a few moments considering his next move. He hadn’t given much thought as to what he would do when he arrived at the Barbed S. He had simply been intent on getting there. Now that he had found the place, he was still in a quandary. He was saved from further thought when a man appeared around the corner of the ranch-house and approached him.