Coyote Falls

by Colin Bainbridge

  Coyote Falls

  Pat Calhoun rode into town straight into a hail of lead and from that point things just got worse. Why is the town a target for attack by a gang of owlhoots and gunslingers? Is there a connection to the Civil War and the man who betrayed him? To find the answers, Calhoun must ride straight into the outlaws’ roost with only a cougar and a greenhorn for backing.

  But there are more questions. Is the ghost town in the mountains really haunted? What is the secret concealed in the old mine workings? And then there are Calhoun’s growing feelings for Mary.

  Events build to a dramatic climax as Calhoun comes face to face with his past above the raging Coyote Falls.

  By the same author

  Pack Rat

  Coyote Falls

  Colin Bainbridge

  ROBERT HALE

  © Colin Bainbridge 2010

  First published in Great Britain 2011

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2313-8

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Colin Bainbridge to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Chapter One

  Straining against the wind and rain, Pat Calhoun leaned down from the saddle to read the name on the battered signpost: Coyote Falls. No Gunfighters. The finger pointed towards the sky but at least he knew he was on the right track. He had come a long way.

  ‘Not far now, Cherokee,’ he said.

  There was a growl from the cougar.

  ‘And remember to behave yourself in civilized company.’

  He rode on, the cougar slinking along just ahead of him, riding point. Lightning began to flicker and he was carrying a rifle as well as his six-shooters. He had known of men who got burned for being caught that way and he thought about making camp. Thunder rolled down the sky. He carried on riding and as darkness fell he saw a few lights up ahead.

  The rain-swept streets of town were deserted. Light spilled from under the batwings of a saloon and a piano tinkled. He climbed from the leather, tied the dun to the hitch rack and entered the building with the cougar at his heels. Inside the air was thick with tobacco smoke. Cowboys sat around tables playing poker. Nobody seemed to notice the cougar until there was a sudden scream from a woman in a low-cut satin dress, standing by the bar. A few of the players looked up. The piano ceased in a minor key. A group of cowboys at the bar glanced slowly round and the bartender reached behind the counter.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Calhoun said.

  The woman screamed again and one of the cowboys reached for his gun. Calhoun’s .44 was already in his hand.

  ‘Just take it easy,’ he said. ‘The cat’s tame. She won’t hurt no one.’

  The cowboy’s hand remained suspended for a moment over his holster, then he slowly let it drop.

  ‘What the hell?’ somebody said.

  ‘Go and get the marshal.’

  The woman made for some stairs and ran up them two at a time. The men at the bar began to move aside. The batwings creaked as a few others took the opportunity to slip out.

  ‘Better take it outside,’ the barman said.

  The cougar had seated itself at full length by a spittoon under the bar. Sawdust was sticking to its reddish-brown fur.

  ‘She won’t cause any bother. She’s likely more worried about you than you are of her.’

  A toothless oldster detached himself from a corner of the bar and approached the cat. Bending down, he stroked it behind the ear.

  ‘Ain’t never heard yet of a human bein’ attacked by a cougar,’ he said. ‘Knowed a man kept a wolf as a pet. Now that’s somethin’ different.’

  ‘You’re right, old man,’ Calhoun said. ‘Here, let me buy you a drink.’ He turned to the bartender. ‘Whiskey for me an’ my friend,’ he said. ‘Beer for the cat.’

  The oldster’s action seemed to have a calming effect. A few of the cowboys returned to the bar and the piano began to play again. The card games continued. Calhoun slipped his gun back into his belt and the bartender poured the whiskey. When he had finished he looked hesitantly at Calhoun.

  ‘She’ll take a glass,’ Calhoun said, ‘but a saucer would be better.’ The old-timer took a long swig of the whiskey and Calhoun replenished his glass.

  ‘Where’d you find her?’ the old-timer asked.

  ‘Got her from an Indian up on the Cherokee Strip. Weren’t no more than a kitten. Brung her up myself.’

  The old man looked reminiscent. ‘The Cherokee Strip,’ he mused. He glanced down at the horn-handled Army Colts tucked butt foremost into Calhoun’s belt. ‘One of the dangdest places I ever bin.’ He held up his left hand from which the middle two fingers were missing.

  ‘Left those behind in the Cherokee Strip,’ he said. ‘Lucky to come away with the rest.’

  Any further conversation was interrupted as the batwings swung open and the marshal appeared. He took a moment to glance around, then he saw the cougar. For just the fraction of a second he hesitated before striding to the bar.

  ‘The cat belong to you?’ he said to Calhoun.

  Calhoun nodded.

  ‘You read the sign outside o’ town?’

  ‘Sure. She ain’t a gunfighter. Neither am I.’

  ‘You shoulda checked those guns in with me.’

  Calhoun glanced about the bar. Quite a few of the customers wore irons. ‘What about them?’ he said.

  ‘That’s different. They’re regulars. And not too many of ’em are on friendly terms with a cougar.’

  The oldster bent down and stroked the cat again. ‘She ain’t doin’ no harm, Marshal,’ he said. ‘Just as friendly as a grass widder gatherin’ her hay crop.’

  Suddenly the batwings flew open again and three men burst into the room waving six-guns. The marshal looked up. Calhoun’s Army Colt was already in his hand. As the men opened fire and the glass behind Calhoun’s head shattered into fragments he pumped lead into one of the gunslingers. The marshal spun away as a bullet tore into his shoulder, and another man at the bar fell forwards, blood oozing from a jagged tear in his chest.

  Calhoun fired again and another gunman went down. The third turned and began to run. At the same moment the cougar leaped forward. The man was part-way through the batwings when the cougar reached him, hurling herself forward and sinking her teeth into the man’s gun arm. Down he went screaming as the cat began rending his flesh.

  One of the gunmen Calhoun had shot struggled to his feet, firing wildly, but a slug from the marshal sent him spinning to the floor.

  ‘Cherokee! Stop!’ Calhoun called, and then: ‘Ahiya’a!’ He ran forward and pulled the cat away from the gunman’s mangled arm. The cougar was growling and blood spattered her whiskers. The man was emitting a strange kind of sobbing sound as Calhoun dragged him to his feet. Apart from that, the bar was strangely quiet. People began to emerge from the shelter of tables and chairs. The marshal stepped forward, clutching at his shoulder, and clapped a pair of handcuffs around the gunslinger’s wrists.

  ‘Better get the doc!’ someone shouted.

  The bartender had come round from behind the bar and was examining the two gunmen who had been shot. ‘Too late for these,’ he said.

  A few of the customers assisted him to drag the bodies outside. The oldster appeared with a bucket and mop and began to clear away the blood-soaked sawdust. Calhoun turned to the marshal.

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ the marshal said. He was losing qui
te a lot of blood but the wound was not serious. ‘Let’s take a walk,’ he said to his prisoner.

  He moved to the batwings and Calhoun went with him. Out in the street rain was still falling but the worst of the storm seemed to be over. They crossed to a small building which was the marshal’s office and jail. By the time the gunman had been locked away the doctor arrived, carrying with him a worn black bag. He flinched when he saw the cougar but soon got about his business.

  ‘This is going to hurt,’ he said.

  The marshal winced as the doctor prised out the bullet which had lodged beneath the collar bone.

  ‘You were damn lucky this time,’ the doctor said, bandaging up the wound.

  When he had finished the marshal brought out a bottle of whiskey from a drawer in his desk and poured stiff measures all round.

  ‘I guess I owe you,’ he said to Calhoun.

  ‘And Cherokee,’ Calhoun replied.

  The marshal laughed, grimacing with pain as he did so.

  ‘I’d better check that varmint’s arm,’ the doctor said. While he was attending the injured man, Calhoun turned to the marshal.

  ‘The doc said this time. What’s this all about?’

  ‘Ain’t nothin’ to concern you,’ the marshal said.

  ‘Maybe not. Who’s to know till I hear the story.’

  The marshal shrugged. ‘First let me introduce myself. Name’s Grayson, Jim Grayson.’

  ‘Glad to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘This used to be a quiet town. Just lately things have changed. There’s been trouble. Some no-good owlhoots have been puttin’ in an appearance. I had to shoot one of ’em. I figure there’s a whole lot more makin’ their home up in the hills. Used to be a mining camp up there, but it got abandoned a long time ago. I figure they’re usin’ it as some sort of retreat.’

  Calhoun nodded. The doctor reappeared, but after turning down the offer of another drink, left the office.

  ‘You take care,’ he said to the marshal.

  After he was gone there was a long silence. Eventually it was broken by Calhoun.

  ‘I reckon you’re right about those owlhoots,’ he said.

  The marshal looked up.

  ‘Ever hear of a man named Johnny Carver?’

  The marshal shook his head.

  ‘No real reason you should. There’s been a dodger out on him but not in this state. I knew him during the war. We were on the same side then. Leastways that’s what I thought.’

  ‘Is he somethin’ to do with these owlhoots?’

  ‘Can’t be certain, but I have reason to believe he might be. Some people think the war’s not over. Seems they never heard of Appomattox.’

  ‘I’ve seen the type. Some of the boys on both sides just don’t seem able to settle down to normal life.’

  ‘To cut a long story short, this hombre Carver betrayed me. More than that, he betrayed some friends of mine. I spent time in Andersonville because of him. I swore I’d get even. I reckon he’s the man we’re both lookin’ for.’

  The marshal downed the last of his whiskey. ‘I could make you a deputy,’ he said.

  Calhoun shook his head. ‘Thanks, but it ain’t my style. Ain’t you got no one else to back you up?’

  ‘Deputy’ll be by soon, but the town’s runnin’ scared. I can’t blame ’em. They’re peaceable folks. Never come up against nothin’ like this before.’

  ‘How far to this old minin’ camp?’ Calhoun asked.

  ‘Hills is about fifteen miles out of town. Beyond them’s the Big Beaver range. A man could get lost up there.’

  Calhoun got to his feet. He peered out through the slats of the marshal’s window.

  ‘I’d best get movin’,’ he said. ‘Make camp. Ain’t no guest house likely to take ol’ Cherokee.’

  ‘No need to do that,’ the marshal said. ‘Like I say, I owe you. Why not stay over at my place?’

  Calhoun looked at the cougar.

  ‘I’m kinda gettin’ used to her,’ the marshal said. He paused for a moment. ‘Ain’t so sure about Mary, but I guess she might be persuaded.’

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘She’s my sister. Since I came back to Coyote Falls after my wife died a couple o’ years back I bin stayin’ with her. The arrangement suits us both.’

  Calhoun looked hesitant.

  ‘She’d appreciate the company,’ the marshal said. ‘She runs a little eatin’-house off Main Street. The way she has to deal with some of her customers, that there cougar ain’t gonna present no problem.’

  When he was introduced to her, Calhoun was impressed with Mary in three ways. First of all she showed no fear of the cougar whatsoever. In the second place she was plumb pretty. In the third place she was an excellent cook.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Calhoun said when he had finished the last piece of apple pie. ‘I ain’t tasted anything like that in a long time.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ she replied.

  Calhoun turned to her brother. ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  They sat out on the veranda to drink coffee. It was late. The rain had ceased and a pale moon came and went between scudding clouds. In an outhouse Cherokee lay sleeping.

  ‘I want to thank you for what you did for my brother,’ Mary said.

  Although she had shown obvious concern at the marshal’s wounded shoulder, she had not previously mentioned the matter.

  ‘It was nothin’,’ Calhoun replied.

  ‘That’s not true,’ she said. ‘If you hadn’t have been there. . . .’ She stopped short and Calhoun thought he detected the suggestion of a sob in her voice.

  ‘Hey, how about that cougar,’ Grayson remarked.

  Mary rose to her feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll leave you boys to it.’ After she had gone a hint of her perfume hung in the air.

  ‘That’s a mighty nice lady,’ Calhoun said.

  They sat back. Calhoun produced a pouch of Bull Durham and they both built smokes.

  ‘Those owlhoots ain’t gonna let this pass,’ Grayson said eventually. ‘That’s three of ’em dead now and one in jail.’

  ‘You’re probably right. The townsfolk may be peaceable, but perhaps it’s time you gave ’em a wake-up call.’

  The marshal blew a ring of smoke into the night air. Tree leaves rattled in the wind.

  ‘This hombre Carver. What’s the story?’

  Calhoun looked away. For a few moments he seemed to be wrestling with his memories before fixing his eyes on Grayson. Then he began to explain in almost unnecessary detail, as if he had to stick to a fixed narrative that he couldn’t afford to vary.

  He had been detailed to scout for the general commanding the division. His instructions were simple: get as near as possible to the enemy’s lines and gather whatever information he could find. To get there he had to move through a densely wooded area, keeping off the beaten path in case remnants of the Rebels still remained. It was a dull day and dark beneath the boughs, and the undergrowth was dense. A lot of the time he could only make progress on his hands and knees. Moving forward with agonizing slowness he came to a narrow opening in the bushes through which he could see a mound of yellowish clay. It was a line of abandoned Confederate rifle pits but there were no signs of stragglers. There were no indications either of wounded soldiers. The place had simply been deserted. It was an important piece of news for the general.

  He had come to an angle of the woods beyond which was the edge of a farm. It presented a forlorn and desolate sight, overgrown with weeds and brambles. The buildings were scorched and broken, with vacant apertures like unseeing eyes where the doors and windows had been smashed. It was obvious that no one had lived there for some time. Between Calhoun and the main building stretched an overgrown field and orchard: if he climbed one of the apple trees he would have a fine view over the surrounding countryside, from which he might be able to gain an idea of the enemy’s disposition.

  In this he was proved correct. The tree overl
ooked a long piece of open ground leading to a spur of the nearby mountain; a road across this was crowded with the Confederate rearguard, on the retreat, their gun-barrels gleaming in the sunlight. Now he had something to report.

  For a moment he felt a huge sense of elation but his joy was cut short by a rushing sound which suddenly seemed to fill the air. It increased to a roar. Calhoun was confused, half expecting to see some huge bird come sweeping down upon him. It was no bird, however, and even as he realized what the sound was the missile struck with a deafening burst of noise, bringing down the tree and several others in a shattering explosion of dust and dirt, tree limbs and branches, and burying him in a pile of earth and debris.

  He must have passed out. When he came round all he could see immediately in front of him was a high mound, which cut off his view of the trees in one direction. His head throbbed and there was a loud ringing in his ears. Dust was still billowing from the explosion. He became conscious of something running down the inside of his leg and when he tried to move a wave of pain instantly engulfed him. His left arm was twisted and caught behind him but he was able to move the right. He was in a bad situation. There was nothing he could do except hope that he might be discovered by Union troops advancing through the woods, but if ever they came it would probably be too late and they would find him dead. He was probably more dead than alive as it was.

  He looked up at the sky. How blue he remembered it to have seemed, bluer than anything he had ever seen before, and very empty. He became aware of tears flowing down his cheeks but he could not understand why he was crying. Then another rush of pain swept through him like a crashing, surging billow and he was carried away into a dark submarine cave where there was no blue or any other colour.

  Calhoun lit another cigarette. Although many nights had been lost in tormented dreams and nightmares it was not often that he thought consciously about those events. He had been lucky to come out alive and with nothing worse to show for it physically than a slight stiffness in the left arm and shoulder and the usual scars of battle. Even now he could not recall how he had managed to crawl to the shelter of the ruined farmhouse nor how long he had lain there, moving in and out of consciousness, before he had been found by refugees and nursed back to a semblance of health and the knowledge that he was behind enemy lines.