Coyote Falls

by Colin Bainbridge

  ‘Stubborn!!’ was the only word she used but that was enough.

  ‘Damned foot,’ Grayson said as Calhoun took a seat beside him. ‘Doc reckons it could take a while before I can get around properly again.’ He pointed to a crutch leaning up against the wall.

  ‘I insisted on that,’ he said. ‘At least I can stagger about that way. Better than bein’ laid up completely.’

  ‘You take it steady,’ Calhoun said. ‘No point in makin’ things worse.’

  There was a box of cigars lying on a nearby table and the marshal offered one to Calhoun. They both lit up and began to puff away. A large glass of whiskey added to the enjoyment.

  ‘Reckon those varmints got taught a lesson,’ the marshal said.

  ‘Guess so. Leastways, I don’t figure they’ll be back for more, not for a while.’

  ‘Bit off more than they could chew. And they’ll know we’ll be even more ready for ’em if they did decide to try again.’ The marshal paused to drink his whiskey as Mary rejoined them.

  ‘All the same,’ she said, ‘they seemed to go to an awful lot of trouble.’

  They all pondered her words.

  ‘They’re scum,’ Calhoun said. ‘If I’m right about them they’ve got so used to doin’ whatever they liked in the war they think they can go right on as if nothin’s changed.’

  ‘Was some trouble hereabouts,’ the marshal added. ‘Back in ’63. Some Rebs got themselves hanged. Maybe they was takin’ time out to settle a few old scores.’

  Calhoun was thoughtful. ‘You could be right,’ he said.

  They had finished their drinks and their cigars. ‘Think I’ll be turnin’ in,’ the marshal said. ‘How about you, Calhoun?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty soon. But I think I might just take a stroll down town, see how things are first.’ He got to his feet and made to step off the porch when Mary spoke.

  ‘Mind if I come with you? I guess all these events have made me unsettled.’

  Calhoun felt a strange flush of excitement. ‘I’d be honoured ma’am,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you sure you can manage on your own with those crutches?’ Mary said.

  ‘Just git movin’ before I throw ’em at you,’ her brother replied.

  Together Calhoun and Mary stepped down off the veranda, and when they had closed the gate in the wicket fence behind them she took Calhoun’s arm. It seemed natural. Without feeling any need for words they walked through the outlying streets towards the centre of town. The rain had ceased and only scattered remnants of clouds blew about the sky.

  Coming at length to the burned-out saloon, they stood and looked closely at the shattered pile of debris. The front was completely blown out and in the darkness at the back they could see the broken staircase hanging crazily in the air. The marshal had been lucky to survive the blast at all. A damaged ankle and some minor burns seemed a small price to pay for having been in the building when it blew apart.

  ‘Almost looks like the place has been abandoned,’ Calhoun remarked.

  The streets were deserted. Traces of blood still remained in the dust like the spilled gore of the buildings themselves. Their walls were pockmarked with bullets and great gaping holes like sightless eyes stared blindly out where windows had been shattered. Broken shutters hung at crazy angles and swung creaking in the breeze. Mary seemed to take a firmer hold of his arm.

  ‘My brother would never have come out alive if it wasn’t for you,’ she remarked. ‘This is the second time I’ve had to thank you.’

  He looked down at her. Her eyes were gleaming and filled with unshed tears. He felt an urge to take her in his arms but instead they carried on walking, moving out into the centre of the street. A gibbous moon swung out from behind some clouds and hung above the roofs of the still smouldering buildings.

  ‘You’re going after them, aren’t you,’ she said suddenly.

  Calhoun was taken unawares.

  ‘My brother has said something – about a man named Carver.’

  Calhoun would have preferred the conversation not to have taken the turn it had, but there was no way now he could avoid it.

  ‘That was my intention from the start,’ he said. ‘What has happened here has only convinced me even more that the man I want is up in the hills somewhere.’

  ‘And you think he’s the man behind what happened here?’

  Calhoun nodded. ‘What do you know about a mining camp in the hills?’ he asked. ‘Your brother seems to think there was silver up there.’

  ‘So some people say,’ she remarked. ‘There was even a small town. I believe they called it Elk Creek.’ They turned and began to retrace their steps. ‘Do you really have to go?’ she said.

  Calhoun was silent. As they approached the house he looked down at her.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘But I aim to come back.’

  The boys from the Crutch Bar were setting off on a snipe hunt, bringing with them a chastened Hiram Bingley. He was wearing a different set of duds, having been persuaded by his uncle, Jake Adams, that the outfit he had chosen really wasn’t the most appropriate for helping round the ranch. Hiram had expressed an interest in staying around for a few days before checking out what property might be available in town in which to set up his law practice.

  ‘That’s good,’ Adams said. ‘You took that bit o’ nonsense from the boys this mornin’ real well. They’re a good crew. Don’t take it to heart if they josh you around a bit.’

  Orne Thompson had suggested that Bingley should come along with them. Ray Cole and a few of the others from the morning’s activities were there. Bingley was riding a big skewbald. He could ride well enough but his uncle had thought it wise to choose a horse for him and had checked it personally for any sign of burrs under the saddle blanket.

  ‘We bin plannin’ this for a whiles,’ Thompson said. If Bingley had any doubts, he did not show them.

  ‘Ain’t nothin’ to beat snipe for taste,’ Cole remarked. ‘An’ just as easy to catch as all get-out.’

  ‘Can’t say as I’ve tasted it,’ Bingley remarked. ‘Kinda like turkey at Thanksgiving, is it?’

  ‘Yup, you got it.’

  ‘Flapjacks with maple syrup to follow.’

  They were riding towards the foothills. It was a clear evening with stars just beginning to glimmer and gleam. They splashed through a narrow stream overhung by cottonwoods and willows.

  ‘Ain’t I seen this before?’ Bingley commented. ‘Looks kind of familiar.’

  ‘Lotta creeks. They look pretty much the same.’

  ‘Seems like we bin through this swampy patch already.’

  ‘Like I say, that’s just the way it is.’

  They rode a little further and then Thompson drew them to a halt.

  ‘Right about here should do it,’ he said.

  They dismounted and a couple of the cowboys lit a lantern.

  ‘Here, take this,’ Thompson said. He handed Bingley a gunny sack.

  ‘Now remember what you gotta do,’ Cole said. ‘The main thing is to keep the mouth of the sack wide open. The light will attract the snipe right into the sack so long as you keep it open.’

  ‘I understand,’ Bingley said.

  Thompson was giving a demonstration of how to squat down and hold the sack. ‘You sure about it?’ he said.

  ‘Seems easy enough,’ Bingley replied.

  ‘OK. The rest of us will just mount up and go drive in the snipe. We got a heap o’ country to cover.’

  ‘Don’t forget to take his hoss,’ Cole added. ‘Otherwise that pinto is just set to scare the snipe away.’

  With a final few words of advice they rode off. Bingley watched them go and when the last thuds of their hoofbeats had died away he turned to the task in hand. He didn’t know how long it would take them to drive in the snipe but he was prepared for a decent wait. It was a pity, though, that there were so many black flies and mosquitoes about. They seemed to be drawn by the lantern. It wasn’t going to be any picnic but he was dete
rmined to show them what a good snipe hunter he would make. They would sure appreciate snipe on the menu back at the Crutch Bar.

  It got dark and after he had been waiting a long time he began to wonder why there were still no signs of snipe. Thompson had advised him that it might take a good time; maybe they were just an elusive kind of bird. His back began to ache and reluctantly he dropped the gunny sack. He began to doze.

  When he awoke the sky was ablaze with constellations. He had no way of telling the time but he had a feeling that it was long past midnight. His limbs were aching a little and he felt cramped. Flies were still making a nuisance of themselves and he was itching from their bites. Getting to his feet, he began to stamp up and down till he felt better. Glancing down, he saw the gunny sack and bent down to peer inside in case some of the snipe had somehow found their way in. It was empty so he resumed his earlier position and squatted down, holding open the mouth of the sack.

  It was only after he had been waiting that way for a long time that he began to feel suspicious. He remembered the badger fight. The first signs of dawn were paling the horizon when at last he decided that he had been jobbed for a second time.

  ‘Goldurn those danged cowpokes,’ he said to himself. ‘Looks like there’s only one snipe around here and it’s me.’

  Apart from his aches and pains he was beginning to feel decidedly hungry. They had left him with some water in a canteen and a few strips of jerky and he started on them.

  ‘Keep me goin’ till I hit town,’ he said.

  When he had finished he got to his feet and looked around for the pinto. It was only then that he recalled they had taken his horse with them.

  ‘Damnit,’ he said. ‘Now I’m stuck. Must be a good long ways back to Coyote Falls.’

  He was talking because he was feeling lonely. Dawn was washing out the stars and a cool wind was blowing from the distant hills. A bird began to call. Suddenly he felt nervous. He looked around him. The trees and bushes seemed to be watching him and the shadows concealed a hidden and mysterious life of their own. He thought he heard something and his attention was drawn to a patch of vegetation by a suggestion of movement. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was just the flickering of the leaves.

  He was about to start walking when the bushes abruptly parted and a cougar stepped into view. Bingley’s blood ran cold and he was so frozen with fear that he forgot the six-gun he had in his belt. His mouth opened but no sound came from it. The cougar looked at him, its head slightly cocked to one side, and then it opened its mouth in turn and let out a fearsome roar which rang in Bingley’s ears like a knell of doom. He had just enough presence of mind to begin edging slowly away although his legs scarcely obeyed him and his knees were trembling. The cougar began to creep forwards.

  Sweat had sprung out on Bingley’s brow and began to roll down his face. Bingley cracked and he started running. The ground was soft and seemed to suck at his feet. A fraction of a second later there was a growl from the cougar and then he could hear its feet padding along behind him. Reckoning his time had come he plunged forward as fast as his legs would carry him, expecting at any second for the cougar to land on his back, when he heard a loud yell:

  ‘Ahiya’a!’ Ahiya’a!’

  His feet struck some snag and he went head first to the ground. A second later and he could feel the cat’s hot rancid breath on his neck but the expected coup de grâce was not forthcoming. Instead there was the sound of footsteps and then a voice.

  ‘Good girl, Cherokee.’

  There was a pause. Bingley rolled over and looked up.

  ‘Bingley!’

  Bingley’s features drew into a wan smile. ‘Calhoun,’ he mumbled. ‘Thank goodness it’s you.’

  By the time he had finished breakfast, which Calhoun cooked for him, Bingley was feeling a new man. Over a tin cup of steaming thick black coffee he explained what had happened. Calhoun laughed.

  ‘That’s an old one,’ he said. ‘Works every time.’

  ‘I’ve got a lot to learn,’ Bingley said. ‘I guess the boys at the Crutch Bar take me for a complete fool.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re a greener. We were all like that once.’

  Bingley was sunk in thought. ‘Can I come with you?’ he said. ‘I could take one of your spare horses.’

  Calhoun had said something about why he happened to be there with the cougar. He had set off early partly to avoid farewell scenes, leaving a note for Mary. He had brought a spare mount and a packhorse to carry supplies; he did not know how long he might be gone.

  ‘Appreciate the offer,’ he said. ‘But things could get rough. I don’t think it would be a good idea.’

  ‘Remember, I got a personal stake in this as well,’ Bingley said. ‘Those varmints killed my fellow travellers on the stage. They tried to kill me.’

  ‘What about your uncle? Whatever he thinks about this snipe huntin’ business he might not take it too well if you just took off.’

  Bingley shrugged. ‘I’m not responsible to my uncle,’ he said. They sat on in silence for a while.

  ‘I’ll say this for you,’ Calhoun remarked. ‘You’re a game one.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll have me along?’

  Calhoun looked from Bingley to the cougar which was lying a little way from the fire.

  ‘I’m not worried about the cat,’ Bingley said. He got up and began to walk towards Cherokee. It looked round at his approach and baring its teeth, growled menacingly. Bingley stopped and, thinking better of it, sat down again beside Calhoun.

  ‘Give her time,’ Calhoun said. ‘Who knows, maybe you’ll survive both Cherokee and the outlaws.’

  Bingley smiled.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bingley. ‘You won’t regret it.’

  ‘At some point someone from the Crutch Bar will probably stop by,’ Calhoun said. ‘They’ll see where the fire was. Leave a note for your uncle. I’ll saddle the roan.’

  They had been riding for most of the day and were high up in the hills. Behind them the long valley lay stretched and golden in the late-afternoon sunlight. They were both silent and Calhoun was studying the land for any sign of movement. He had noticed faded sign of riders and he knew there were a lot of gunmen gathered in the hills but so far he had not seen anyone. From somewhere ahead there was a booming sound and as they emerged from a stand of trees it grew louder. Bingley noticed it for the first time and turned with a puzzled expression on his face to Calhoun.

  ‘Water,’ Calhoun said. ‘Coyote Falls.’

  ‘Like the town?’

  ‘Guess the name had to come from somewhere.’

  They were in trees again and through occasional breaks they could see a wide sweep of country. High above an eagle swooped. Just ahead of Calhoun’s dun the cougar padded steadily forward, occasionally turning its head. The trail led downwards. It was quite dark and they splashed through a shallow stream before a sharp turn took them round a rocky outcrop.

  All the while the sound of the waterfall was growing louder and as they came round another bend in the trail they caught their first sight of it, pouring down over a horseshoe curve of rimrock high over their heads and tumbling in a wide curtain to a dark pool far below. Rainbows played about its upper reaches and mist wreathed in the air. The trail they were following climbed up towards it and then seemed to lead behind the waterfall. The horses were skittish and Calhoun drew them to a halt. ‘See any other way?’ he asked.

  They both scanned the scene but there seemed to be no alternative.

  ‘Wait here with the packhorse,’ Calhoun said. ‘I’ll take Cherokee and scout on ahead.’

  He moved forward. The noise of the waterfall was deafening and the air was drenched with spray. Calhoun was worried that the trail would be too slippery for his horse to gain a proper foothold or that it might be too waterlogged to be able to proceed. He was under the near edge of the falls and it was very dark beneath it. The dun’s ears were pricked and it kept edging sideways away from the water. Ca
lhoun moved deeper inside the curve of the waterfall, allowing his eyes to get accustomed to the darkness.

  In fact conditions were better than he had feared. The rock wall behind the falls was deeply indented and there was a considerable overhang. As he moved slowly forward he saw a glimmer of daylight and soon he emerged from behind the water on its far side. Looking back he could see Bingley with the packhorse on the opposite side of the falls and he began to wave to encourage him to move forward.

  Bingley did not seem to see him at first and Calhoun tried shouting, but the noise of the cascade was too loud. He took off his hat and began waving it and eventually Bingley saw him. He started towards the waterfall. Calhoun was still concerned about the greenhorn; he seemed to be behind the waterfall for a long time and he was just about to go back when he was relieved to see him emerge, walking and leading the horses by their reins.

  ‘You OK!’ he yelled as Bingley came alongside. Bingley nodded. ‘I wouldn’t like to see what that trail might be like in wet weather,’ Calhoun said.

  They carried on, the roar of the cataract diminishing in their rear. A wind was coming down from the higher peaks and it was beginning to grow cold. Eventually they made camp, gathering branches from the trees to build a fire. Calhoun shoved some pine cones into the flames to make the fire flare up. Then he got some bacon from the packhorse and slapped it into the pan. There was coffee and beans and by the time they had settled to eat they were feeling pretty comfortable. They could hear the sounds of running water from streams further below and, some distance behind them, the continuous booming echo of the Coyote Falls.

  Chapter Four

  High in the Beaver Range the man known as Johnny Carver had made the deserted ruins of Elk Creek his headquarters, setting himself up in the ghost town’s only hotel. Most of the rest of his gang of outlaws had taken up residence in other buildings but it was a strange place and some of them preferred to sleep in the open. The creek itself ran through a high meadow behind the town and back of it reared the snow-capped crags and bluffs of the Beavers, pockmarked with the entrances to mines long ago abandoned.