Desolation Wells

by Colin Bainbridge

  ‘I saw you ride up,’ he said. ‘Is there somethin’ I can do for you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was hopin’ to have a word with the owner.’

  ‘Mr Stroup? He’s overseein’ somethin’ down on the north range.’

  ‘The owner of this spread is called Stroup?’ Westoe asked, for confirmation.

  ‘Sure. I guess that’s why they call it the Barbed S. S for Stroup, I mean.’

  Westoe nodded. ‘Yes, I see.’ He stopped, observing the quizzical look on the other’s face.

  ‘Is it a job you’re lookin’ for?’ he asked, after a moment’s pause. ‘If so, you might just be in luck.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, that’s what I was hopin’.’

  ‘Then you could have a word with Jack Sumter. He’s actin’ in the capacity of foreman while Mr Barnet, the regular foreman, is away on business. He ain’t here just at the moment either.’ There was an awkward pause and then the man resumed: ‘Tell you what. Come on over to the bunkhouse. I’ll roust up a cup of coffee and you can wait till Mr Sumter gets back. He shouldn’t be long.’

  ‘Sure sounds like a good idea to me,’ Westoe replied.

  The young man grinned. ‘My name’s Lucas,’ the other man said, ‘Lucas Bunch.’

  ‘Chet Westoe. Glad to make your acquaintance.’

  They shook hands and were just about to make their way to the bunkhouse when they heard a clattering of hoofs. They looked up as a rider galloped up and swung from the saddle. He regarded the two of them for a moment before speaking.

  ‘Who the hell is this?’ he snapped.

  Westoe was observing the way his companion appeared to withdraw into himself as the rider addressed him. He seemed to be steeling himself to reply when Westoe answered for himself.

  ‘The name’s Chet Westoe,’ he said. ‘I was just introducing myself to this young man.’

  ‘Well, now that you’ve done that, you can get back on your horse and ride right out again.’

  Westoe took a moment to observe the new arrival. He looked to be in his late twenties, narrow-built, with deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks. Something about him made his scalp crawl. Bunch seemed to be winding himself up to speak.

  ‘Mr Westoe was just askin’ whether there might be a job for him. I said he would have to speak to Mr Sumter.’

  The newcomer turned his gaze on Bunch. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘he doesn’t need to stick around and talk to Sumter now. I’ve just told him he can leave.’

  ‘I didn’t intend to cause any kind of trouble,’ Westoe interposed. ‘If you say you don’t need any extra hands, then that’s fine by me.’

  ‘Good,’ the man snapped. He turned again to Bunch. ‘Take my horse and give it a good feed and rub-down.’ With a last fierce glance in Westoe’s direction, he turned on his heel and marched into the ranch-house.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Bunch said as the door swung shut.

  ‘He sure don’t seem too happy. Who is he?’ Westoe asked.

  ‘That’s Rafe Stroup.’ Westoe’s attention quickened at the name.

  ‘Rafe Stroup?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yeah. He’s Mr Stroup’s son.’

  ‘The only one? How many sons does Mr Stroup have?’ As soon as he had spoken, Westoe realized that his words were somewhat hasty. He glanced at Bunch but couldn’t detect any reaction. The young man seemed not to see anything suspicious about the question.

  ‘There were two of ’em; Rafe and Eben. Now there’s only Rafe. Seems like Eben got himself killed, but I don’t know the details because nobody seems to want to talk about it.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Just recently.

  ‘Well,’ Westoe replied, attempting to cover up his previous indiscretion by seeming disinterested, ‘I guess it’s none of my business.’ He moved to the buckskin and climbed into leather.

  ‘I’m sorry about the coffee,’ Bunch said, ‘but I guess I’d better do what Mr Stroup says.’

  ‘Sure, thanks for the offer.’

  ‘If you really need that job, I guess you could try again when Mr Sumter is back.’ Westoe nodded.

  ‘I might just do that,’ he said.

  ‘Rafe probably won’t be around for long. He tends to come and go. We don’t see that much of him.’

  ‘Then I guess I just called at the wrong time,’ Westoe said. ‘Thanks again. I’ll see you around.’

  Without more ado, he turned the buckskin and rode out of the yard. As Bunch watched him, the door of the ranch-house flew open again and Rafe Stroup emerged.

  ‘I thought I told you to attend to that horse!’ he snapped.

  ‘Just doin’ it,’ Bunch replied.

  He turned to the roan gelding which Rafe had just been riding. It was sweating and had obviously been driven hard. As he untied it, he was relieved to see Rafe walk away in the direction of the bunk house. He led the horse to the stables and was just removing the saddle when the door opened and three men swept in. Ignoring him, they saddled up their horses and led them out; through the open door he saw them mount and gallop away. He remained motionless for a few moments, deep in thought, before turning his attention back to the job in hand.

  Westoe had no intention of giving up on the plan of getting himself a job at the Barbed S. If what Bunch had told him was correct, he had simply chosen a bad moment to arrive at the ranch. He would give it a day or so and then try again. Maybe he would have better luck with the older Stroup or with the temporary foreman, Sumter. He had learned quite a lot already from Bunch. If the regular foreman was away, could he be one of the three riders who had been following him? His plan now was to set up camp somewhere in the hills and return to the Barbed S in due course. In the meantime, it would be no bad thing to get to know something of the lie of the land.

  After traversing a relatively flat area of ground, the trail began to wind up over some further hills with patches of wooded land through which he rode slowly, savouring the pungent smell of the trees. Sunlight dappled the path and the sound of the breeze whispering in the leaves was a pleasant accompaniment to the creak of leather. Then suddenly he thought he detected another sound, a faint muffled thud. Maybe it was nothing, but his instincts told him to be careful. Swiftly, he slid from the saddle and pushed forward though the trees on foot. Then he stopped, listening and waiting. The sound reached his ears again, the tread of hoofs on soft earth. He drew his six-gun and waited till he saw a vague hint of movement through the trees. He pressed himself close against the trunk of a pine and watched closely as two riders came into view, one of them riding a distinctive skewbald. They drew to a halt, looking about them and then down at the ground. It was clear to Westoe that they were looking for the buckskin’s tracks. After a moment one of them looked up and then immediately went for his gun.

  Westoe realized he had been seen and loosed off a couple of shots. The man jerked backwards and then toppled from the saddle, his gun exploding as he did so and sending a bullet crashing into the branches high overhead. Immediately the other man dropped from his horse and took shelter. Westoe was just about to move around the side of the tree behind which he was hiding when he heard scraping noises behind him and turned to face the new danger, but he was too late. He felt a blow in his back like a hammer had been swung and the roar of a shot close by. He fell forward, rolling over as another shot thudded into the bark of the tree just over his head. A fog began to descend as he crawled away and then he felt himself falling into a dark abyss of pain and unconsciousness.

  When he came round again, it was dark and the trees arching overhead looked like sinister sentinels watching over his corpse. For what seemed a long time he lay inert, not feeling anything till pain began to gather and grow in his shoulder. At least it confirmed to him that he was not dead. Setting his teeth against the pain, he managed to raise himself to a sitting position so that he could look around. It seemed he had fallen into some sort of gully, the sides of which were quite steep. He lay among a tangle of bushes and other vegetation
which had presumably broken his fall and hidden him from the sight of anyone looking down from above. His head throbbed and he had to make an effort not to lose consciousness. When he tried to move, pain shot through him and he knew he was badly hurt. He needed to think. Were his assailants still around? He listened for any sounds of movement but could hear nothing, save the whisper of the wind in the trees. Then he realized it was no longer daylight. How long had he been lying there? The sky above his head was just beginning to grow light so he guessed it was approaching dawn. The attackers, whoever they were, had obviously left him for dead. He needed to get out of the gully and find his horse. Would it still be there? And if it was, would he have the strength even to haul himself into the saddle? There was only one way to find out.

  Bracing himself for the effort, he struggled to his knees and then, wincing with pain, managed to stand upright. His back felt sore and tender all along its length and he guessed that the bushwhacker’s bullet had raked it. His left shoulder was bloody, but as far as he could tell, nothing was broken. Suddenly he remembered his gun. He looked about and to his surprise saw it lying among the vegetation. He reached down and retrieved it, wiping it free of mud and leaves. Then, placing it in its holster, he took in some deep draughts of air and started to climb. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have been difficult, but in his condition each step was an effort. He grasped at whatever hand and foot holds he could find and slowly began to ascend. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and he could see well enough as he inched his way forwards through the brush. Towards halfway he began to feel an almost irresistible temptation to stop and rest, but he knew he couldn’t take the chance of losing consciousness again. He had to keep going. Suddenly his feet slipped from under him and he slid a little way backwards, gasping with pain, till a vine brought him to a halt. He lay still, gathering his strength, and then began again.

  The climb seemed interminable, but at last he hauled himself over the rim of the gully. Grey light was filtering through the trees and the first thing he saw was the buckskin. The sight gave him fresh energy and, drawing himself erect, he began to hobble towards it. As he did so he felt blood flowing down his back where movement had caused his wound to open up. A shaft of light coming down though the foliage threw the horse into relief; he was getting closer to it when he suddenly stopped. The buckskin was tied to a tree. It was a trap. Not being sure whether they had finished him off or not, his attackers had left at least one man behind to kill him if he should reappear. Even as the thought struck him he saw a stab of flame and a bullet whined close by. Stopping suddenly in his tracks had probably saved him. In an instant he had taken cover and drawn his own revolver. Another shot thudded into the tree behind which he had taken cover, sending shards and splinters of bark raining into the air. He had a good notion of where the attacker was hiding, but was he alone? Another shot rang out, coming from the same direction, and he was convinced that there was only one man. He waited for the next shot. The buckskin was a little way further down the track and he had a sudden fear that the gunman might shoot it or it might be hit accidentally. Still he waited. His back ached and stung and his head felt heavy and as if a clamp had been fastened to the back of his skull. Minutes passed, but there was no further shooting. His ears strained for any faint sound that might indicate that the gunman was trying to outflank him, but he could hear nothing. He was worried in case he might pass out. Maybe the time had come for him to take the initiative.

  He hunkered down and was about to move when his ears caught the unmistakable sound of boots scuffing the earth. He took the chance of peering round the tree and saw a glimpse of a fleeing figure hurtling through the trees. Instinctively he made a move to follow, but he was pulled up by the pain in his back. Even disregarding his injury, he was too exhausted to mount a pursuit. He was only relieved that the man, whoever he was, appeared to have had enough. Having missed his first shot and the opportunity to finish off his victim at no risk to himself, he had decided to take no further chances. Westoe holstered his gun and then staggered onwards, but before he had reached the buckskin he heard the sound of hoofs through the trees. The man had made good his getaway.

  It seemed to take a long time to reach the tethered horse. His knees were shaking and he felt woozy. His eyes seemed to be out of focus and he feared he was about to faint. As he came up to it, the buckskin shied and then stood still as he untied it. For a few moments he stood beside it, summoning his remaining strength to make the supreme effort of climbing into the saddle. He gripped its mane and placed one foot in the stirrup. His arms and legs felt weak and watery and it seemed he wouldn’t be able to throw his other leg over the horse. Gritting his teeth, he put out all his energy and succeeded in getting astride and spurring it into movement. He swayed in the saddle and then lay low over the buckskin’s back. He knew he was badly hurt and he needed to find help, but he had no idea in which direction to go. Too weak to care, he let the horse take him where it would. After a time the trees thinned and they emerged into more open country. Light was flooding along the eastern horizon, heralding another day.

  It was in the early hours of the morning that Sheriff Snelgrove returned to Desolation Wells. True to his word, he had continued the search for Chet Westoe till the evening before deciding to abandon the enterprise. He had known from the start that it was a hopeless quest, but he had felt it was his duty to make an effort. The way Westoe had escaped still rankled, however. Barnet had seen it as just another indication of Westoe’s guilt, but Snelgrove was less than convinced. Despite his best advice, Barnet had decided to carry on the search.

  ‘Even if you catch up with him, what will you do?’ Snelgrove asked. Barnet shrugged.

  ‘I liked Eben,’ he said. ‘He had his faults, but he wasn’t a bad boy. More than that, I owe it to his old man. Me and Holden Stroup go back a long ways. We rode together before he struck it rich and acquired the Barbed S.’

  ‘I wish you luck,’ Snelgrove said.

  One thing puzzled the sheriff slightly. Barnet seemed a decent sort. If the accounts of what had occurred at the saloon were to be believed, that was more than could be said for his two companions. According to the eyewitnesses, it was they who had started the trouble and been the first to draw iron. It didn’t seem to fit. Barnet had certainly expressed his dislike for one of them. Maybe he was wrong about Barnet. Maybe he would have acted just like the others if he had been there at the time.

  The streets of the town were black, but as he rode down the main drag and approached the jailhouse, he was surprised to see a lamp still burning in his office. He would normally have taken a backstreet in order to reach the lean-to stable at the back of the building, but instead rode up to the front and tied his horse to the hitching rail. He stepped up on the boardwalk and turned the door-handle to his office. It opened and inside he found his deputy sitting and smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Howdy Drabble,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here at this time of night.’ He sat down in a chair and put his legs up on the table. ‘Well that was a waste of time,’ he continued. ‘I can think of a heap of things I’d rather have done.’

  ‘You didn’t catch up with your man then?’ Drabble said.

  ‘Nope. Didn’t really expect to neither. Anyway, you haven’t explained why you’re up so late. I hope nothin’s wrong.’

  The deputy took a last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Things are quiet. But there’s somethin’ I figured you’d like to know. The undertaker was over this afternoon looking for you. He seemed quite excited.’

  ‘Then it must have been somethin’ important. It takes a lot to get Henry Wilkins interested.’

  ‘Seems so. He said for you to look him up tomorrow. In the meantime, he left a message. Seems like one of the men that feller Westoe shot was none other than Dwayne Oliver.’ The sheriff started and put his feet back on the ground.

  ‘Dwayne Oliver! Is he sure about this?’

  ‘Sure
as he can be, unless there’s more than one hombre got a jingle-bob ear and a death’s head tattooed on his back.’

  ‘Dwayne Oliver. Well I’ll be.’

  Drabble looked across at Snelgrove. ‘Is it true what they say about him?’

  ‘Every last word of it. Dwayne Oliver is one of the meanest gunslingers this side of hell.’

  ‘If that dead man is Dwayne Oliver,’ Drabble mused, ‘then Westoe must be one heck of a fast gun.’

  ‘Oliver has a reputation for bein’ a back shootin’ snake,’ Snelgrove responded.

  His expression was thoughtful. ‘I guess this kinda throws a whole new light on this little affair,’ he said. ‘Those three men claimed to have come from a ranch called the Barbed S. Now what would someone like Oliver be doin’ ridin’ for it? I tell you what. It sure makes me more convinced than I was before that Westoe is an innocent party.’ Again he asked himself the question: what was Barnet doing riding with Dwayne Oliver? And if what Barnet had said about Oliver being a friend of Rafe Stroup was true, what did that say about Rafe?

  ‘I don’t know exactly where that Barbed S spread is located,’ he said, ‘but it seems to me that if varmints like Dwayne Oliver are nestin’ there it spells a heap of trouble for Snake County.’ The deputy glanced up.

  ‘You figure if there’s somethin’ goin’ on at the Barbed S, that it might spill over?’ The sheriff’s face was grim.

  ‘Not if I have anythin’ to do with it,’ he said.

  Drabble rose to his feet. ‘Guess I’d better try and get some shuteye,’ he remarked. Snelgrove walked him to the door.

  ‘Thanks for waitin’ up,’ he said.

  ‘That’s OK. I couldn’t get to sleep anyway. See you in the mornin’.’ The sheriff glanced up at the sky.