‘That won’t be long,’ he replied. He watched his deputy as he walked away down the empty street before going back inside. He sat down and put his feet back up on the table. When it was daylight he would get straight over to the undertaker. In the meantime, there was no question of his turning in for the rest of the night. He had too much to think about.
A jolting movement caused Chet Westoe to open his eyes. The sun was shining out of a clear sky. His back hurt with the swaying movement and he realized he was being carried somewhere. One pair of arms supported his shoulders and another held his legs. Then the sunlight was suddenly cut off as they entered a building. He turned his head and though he couldn’t see much of it, the place looked vaguely familiar. There was a distinctive aroma which he thought he recognized but couldn’t place. He was carried through a doorway and then laid on a mattress, face down. His head sank into a pillow. There were voices:
‘Take care removin’ his shirt.’
‘Hell, it’s kinda stuck to him. He’s gonna start bleedin’.’
‘Be as gentle as you can. That wound needs attention.’
One of the voices was a woman’s and he struggled to remember where he had heard it before. Then he recalled whose voice it was and knew where he was. He made a move to sit up, but a strong hand pushed him gently back.
‘Mr Westoe, isn’t it,’ the woman’s voice said. ‘I’m Leonae Bowman. You’re at the trading post. You stopped by here once before.’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘The horse brought you in. You were unconscious. I don’t know how you didn’t just fall out of that saddle. Now, don’t ask any more questions. You’ve got a bad wound that needs dressin’. I’m afraid it’s going to hurt.’
She stopped talking and he could hear some stirring around. Then he felt hands tugging at his shirt. Waves of pain shot through him, but he gritted his teeth. He was sufficiently aware to know the woman was right. He needed help if he was to pull through. He felt something probing his wound and then he passed out again.
When he came round, he was immediately aware of pain, but it was less than it had been. He wasn’t able to sit up straight because the wound had been dressed and he was swathed in bandages. He turned his head to take in his surroundings. The room was plain, but pleasantly furnished. The sun streamed in through a window and on the ledges were vases of flowers. A sampler hung on the wall bearing an image of a church with a tall spire and some hills in the background. He noted the name in one corner: Leonae Bowman. He turned his head the other way and was surprised to find that he was not alone. Somebody was sitting in a cane-bottomed chair at the head of the bed. Westoe looked up as the person moved the chair closer and then couldn’t help but let out a muffled gasp of surprise.
‘Ben Howe,’ he muttered. ‘What in tarnation are you doing here?’ The oldster’s face creased in a grin, revealing a few jagged teeth stained with brown.
‘I was about to ask you the same question,’ he replied. Westoe shuffled about and managed to drag himself more upright.
‘Be careful,’ Howe said. ‘You don’t want to go bustin’ that wound open again after everythin’ Leonae’s done to fix it up.’
‘What am I doin’ here?’ Westoe said. ‘I don’t remember much after gettin’ on board that buckskin.’
‘I don’t know how she found her way here, but you owe that old hoss. I was sittin’ right outside when I saw her comin’. I could see there was somebody slumped across her back, but I never figured it’d be you.’
‘I got bushwhacked,’ Westoe said.
‘Then maybe it was the same bunch of no-good hombres burnt down my cabin and drove me out.’
‘What? Those varmints came back after all?’
The oldster was thoughtful. ‘I guess it must have been. It’s funny though. If it was them, they didn’t return at once. Before they arrived, I had a visit from someone else – Holden Stroup. He’s the owner of a big spread called the Barbed S.’
Westoe made to sit up, but only succeeded in causing himself pain. ‘Holden Stroup? I know the name. In fact I’d just paid a visit to the Barbed S when those coyotes dry-gulched me. What did he want?’
‘That man you shot – it turned out he was one of his sons.’
Westoe was trying to concentrate on the oldster’s words even though his head was beginning to pound. ‘So that’s why they burnt you out?’
‘I don’t figure it that way. Mr Stroup had reason to be angry, but he wasn’t. He just wanted to know what had happened. I told him straight and he seemed to understand. I can tell you I was mighty nervous, but he didn’t seem to hold no grudge.’
‘What did he do? Just go away?’
‘He went away all right, but he took the body with him.’
‘Took the body?’
‘Got a couple of his men to dig it up right there and then. I can’t say I had any regrets about seein’ it go.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Westoe said. ‘Holden Stroup came after I left and took away the body of his son. And he didn’t try to exact any revenge?’
‘Nope. Like I say, he was good about it.’
‘So when did your cabin get burned down?’
‘That came later.’
‘How much later?’
‘A couple of days. A bunch of riders came. Luckily I saw ’em comin’ and made my getaway. I would have faced up to them, but they were just too many.’
‘I should have stayed. Sorry. I didn’t figure somethin’ like that would happen.’
‘It weren’t your fault. I ain’t the first it’s happened to either. I might have cut and run this time, but I intend goin’ right on back and buildin’ me another cabin and if there’s a next time, I’ll be sure to be ready for ’em.’
Westoe’s head was full of thoughts and he was just about to ask the oldster some more questions when the door opened and Leonae appeared carrying a tray.
‘Don’t let Ben tire you out now,’ she said. ‘Here, I’ve brought you some broth. You need to regain your strength.’
With the help of the oldster, she gently helped to raise him a little bit higher so his head rested on the cushion. She placed the tray beside him.
‘Do you think you can manage by yourself?’ she asked.
Westoe nodded and, dipping a spoon into the broth, lifted it to his mouth and swallowed it. ‘That sure tastes good,’ he said.
‘How does your back feel?’
‘Not so bad, considerin’,’ Westoe replied.
‘It should be OK. I’ve cleaned and dressed it a couple of times. It doesn’t seem to have got infected.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Westoe replied. ‘I’ve got so much to thank you for.’ She looked at him quizzically.
‘Did you make it to the Barbed S?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. I had the pleasure of meetin’ Mr Stroup’s son. He wasn’t exactly friendly.’ Leonae and the oldster exchanged glances.
‘It was not long after that I got shot,’ Westoe said. ‘There were at least three of them. I accounted for one. I only escaped because I fell down some kind of ravine. One of ’em waited for me, but my luck held. He rode off when his plan went wrong. A pity. I’d have liked to take a look at his horse.’
‘His horse?’
‘To check the brand. I don’t know what reason they would have for wantin’ to kill me, but I got a hunch those bushwhackin’ varmints were from the Barbed S. Seems kinda funny otherwise.’ He had finished the broth and Leonae took his tray.
‘We can talk later,’ she said. ‘Come on, Ben; let the man get some rest.’
With a nod in Westoe’s direction, the oldster followed her out of the room. Westoe would have liked to ask a few more questions, but Leonae was right. Even the effort of sitting up and drinking the broth had left him feeling weak and exhausted. Nevertheless, he felt that what Howe had said was important. His head hurt and he felt slightly dizzy and confused. What was it the oldster had told him? He felt he was on to something. He lay b
ack and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
Darkness hung over the Barbed S like a drawn curtain. Clouds scudded across the sky and through the blown patches of space a few faint stars gleamed. Only one light cast a muted glow through an open window in the study where Holden Stroup sat up late. In his hand he held a glass of brandy which remained untouched. After a time he put it down and, getting to his feet, walked across the room to a wall of shelves which held his library of books. He glanced along one shelf and took a book in his hands before gently putting it back again. He moved to the window and listened to the sounds of the night; the soughing of the wind, the snicker of a horse in the corral. Although it was dark, he thought he could discern the little mound and the new gravestone which marked the resting place of his son. He suddenly felt a profound sense of loss. Why did it have to come to this? He had heard the story of what had happened at the old man’s cabin from Howe himself and he had no reason to doubt the truth of his words. He wasn’t stupid. He knew the sort of company Eben had got involved with. Not only that; he knew who had influenced Eben to stray – his brother Rafe. Reluctant to accept the truth, he had tried to make excuses for Rafe, but there were some things he couldn’t deny. For example, that it was Rafe who had led Eben on. But then, he had to accept responsibility as well. He was Rafe’s father. If Rafe had turned out badly, then ultimately it was his fault. If their mother hadn’t died when they were young, it might have been different. That was no excuse, however. Throughout their childhood and youth he had failed to give Eben and Rafe the time and attention they needed. He had been too occupied with building up the Barbed S when his priority should have been tending to their upbringing.
He turned back inside the room and sat down again. He picked up the untouched glass of brandy and took a swig, rapidly followed by another. The warmth of the liquid felt good and helped to restore him a little. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe not everything was lost. There was still time to get through to Rafe. After all, the ranch would fall to him now that Eben was gone. Perhaps he could be brought to a sense of his responsibilities. He couldn’t have gone too far along the route to dissolution. Sure, he had heard some talk about Rafe’s activities, but he refused to believe the rumours. He would make a point of having a good talk with Rafe in the morning. He had been hard at work on the range and hadn’t seen or heard anything of him, but Bunch had assured him that Rafe had returned to the ranch the previous afternoon. Surely, too, Rafe was affected by the death of his brother. Something like that couldn’t fail to have an impact. He would discuss everything with Rafe and have it out with him, really clear the air. Things would be different. Somehow, some good would come out of Eben’s death. He emptied his glass and poured another. By the time he had drunk that he felt ready to retire. Getting to his feet, he closed the window and then turned down the lamp before leaving the room, closing the door gently behind him.
Lucas Bunch could vouch for the fact that Rafe Stroup had returned to the ranch earlier the previous day, but he did not see him ride out again the following afternoon. While his father was reflecting on events and planning to talk to him the next day, Rafe had left the Barbed S far behind. He rode hard, heading deep into the range of hills and camping overnight, till late in the morning he approached a narrow defile. When he had almost reached it he brought the horse to a halt and, raising his head, gave vent to a version of the old Rebel yell. The echoes of it were still reverberating round the hillside when it was answered by another yell and the figure of a man armed with a rifle appeared from behind some boulders near the top of the hill. He peered down at the lone horseman.
‘Is that you, boss!’ he shouted.
‘You’ve got eyes in your head. Of course it is.’
The man didn’t respond as Rafe spurred his horse and rode forward. Initially the passage barely allowed for more than one horse and rider, but it opened out to reveal a high tight valley circled by hills. Lying in the shelter of a hillside stood a number of rude huts, cabins and corrals. Bunches of rustled cattle stood idly cropping the grass. It was a perfect outlaw roost. As he rode down, a couple of figures emerged from the largest cabin and stood awaiting his arrival. He drew up and slid from the saddle and one of them, taking the reins, led the horse away.
‘I could do with a drink,’ Rafe snapped.
He strode through the open door of the cabin, followed by the other man, and flung himself down on a settee. The man moved to a cabinet from which he took a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He poured a stiff drink and handed it to Rafe.
‘Have one yourself, Skinner,’ Rafe said. The man did so and then seated himself in a straight–backed chair opposite Rafe.
‘We didn’t expect to see you back so soon,’ he ventured to say.
‘No point in hangin’ around.’
‘How is your old man?’ Rafe shot Skinner a hostile glance, but seemed to relax quickly.
‘He’s OK.’
‘You told him about burnin’ out that oldster’s cabin?’
‘Nope. In any case, that was for my satisfaction, not his.’
‘I just thought.…’
‘Don’t think anythin’. You’re not here to think. None of you are here to think. You’re here to do what I tell you.’
‘Sure, boss.’
‘How are the boys?’
‘It was fun settin’ fire to that oldster’s place, but they’re already gettin’ kinda restless.’ Rafe was silent for a moment.
‘That’s good,’ he continued, ‘because I’ve got somethin’ in mind, and this time it ain’t cattle rustlin’ or burnin’ down shacks. I don’t know about you, but I’m gettin’ kinda tired with all that smalltime stuff. I figure it’s about time we really put the name of the Bronco Boys on the map.’ The other man took a big swallow.
‘The Bronco Boys?’ he said.
‘Yeah. That’s us. The way I figure it, we need a name for folks to remember us by. We need to instil some fear, some respect into ’em.’
Skinner took another sip of the whiskey. Then he turned to Rafe with an ugly grin twisting his thin slash of a mouth.
‘The Bronco Boys,’ he repeated. ‘I like it.’
Rafe gave a sudden laugh. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I been thinkin’ and I got a lot of plans.’
‘Yeah? Like what?’
‘Like holdin’ up the bank at Desolation Wells for a start.’
‘Desolation Wells. Ain’t that a bit out of our way?’
‘That’s exactly what I’ve been sayin’. We need to think big. We need to extend our range if we don’t want to stay a bunch of nonentities. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to make a name for myself that will be known all over the West. Are you with me?’
Skinner finished the last of his glass. He sat silently for a few moments and then let out an unexpected whoop.
‘Hell and damnation,’ he almost shouted, ‘do you need to ask? Of course I am.’
Any lingering trace of animosity between them seemed to have vanished as Rafe leaped to his feet and poured another couple of drinks. When he had done so he turned to Skinner and raised his glass.
‘Then here’s to the Bronco Boys, he said. ‘So far, we ain’t done nothin’, but just as soon as Dwayne gets back, all hell is gonna break loose!’ He paused for a moment. ‘Why even wait for Oliver? We’ve got the explosives. We don’t need nothin’ else.’
They both broke into a prolonged series of whoops and yells before finishing their drinks and then emptying the bottle. When they had done so, Rafe got to his feet and headed for the door.
‘Where are you goin’?’ Skinner said. Rafe turned his head.
‘I figure the boys ought to know what plans we got in store, don’t you?’
‘The Bronco Boys, you mean.’
They burst into raucous laughter once more as they staggered out into the sunlight.
Sheriff Snelgrove had other things to do apart from worrying about the little matter of the Dwayne Oliver shooting, but one afte
rnoon he dug out from the recesses of a cabinet a sheaf of Wanted posters and among them he found the one he was looking for. Dwayne Oliver was accused of carrying out a string of shootings in several States and there was a substantial reward for anyone bringing him in dead or alive. He folded the poster and put it in his pocket. Again, he began to wonder what a gunslinger like Oliver would be doing in the vicinity of Desolation Wells. Even more to the point, what was his connection with the Barbed S?
He was pursuing these thought when he was roused by a distant rumble which he thought at first was thunder, but quickly realized was the sound of galloping hoofs. The sound diminished and then came again, increasing in volume. His instincts told him that there was danger and, dropping the poster, he turned quickly to a rack of guns hanging on the wall and took down his old trusty 1866 Model Winchester. He jammed shells into it from a cabinet and then ran out into the street. The sound of approaching horsemen was getting louder and one or two people walking by turned their heads and looked questioningly into the distance. At the same moment his deputy ran up, carrying his own rifle.
‘I don’t like the sound of it,’ Snelgrove snapped. ‘Quick, follow me.’
He began to run towards the sound of the hoof beats and carried on running till he and Drabble had cleared the central part of town. The thunder of hoofs drummed in their ears and out of a cloud of dust they saw a group of riders coming on fast.
‘Take cover!’ Snelgrove rapped. Drabble hesitated.
‘What about you?’ he said.
‘Don’t worry about me. If they …’
He didn’t get to the end of the sentence as a gun suddenly barked, followed by others. Snelgrove and the deputy both ran for shelter in the shadow of the nearest building as a cacophony of noise tore their eardrums and lead flew willy-nilly. There was no doubting the riders’ intentions now and, raising their rifles, they began to return fire. A couple of men fell from their horses. Other horses reared. The riders slowed for an instant, but then tore on, careering down the main street of town, whooping and shouting and firing at random. Glass shattered near Snelgrove’s head and he felt blood running down his face where he had been cut by a shard of glass. He ran out into the street in order to continue firing at the disappearing riders before turning to look for his deputy.
Desolation Wells Page 5