Coyote Falls

by Colin Bainbridge

  ‘Another bunch of the varmints,’ Calhoun said.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Our only chance is the hills.’

  They turned their horses and urged them to a trot. The hills now looked a long way distant and there was no knowing whether their pursuers might not have gone that way. But the land the other way was wide open and offered no sort of refuge.

  Despite their rest the horses were tired and it soon became apparent to both men that this time they were not going to get away. The dust cloud had resolved itself into a group of riders and they were coming on at quite a pace. Calhoun hefted the Walker. He had only four bullets left. It was a hopeless case but at least he would take some of them with him. Thinking this, he was suddenly surprised by a hoarse laugh from his companion.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Calhoun said.

  Bingley laughed again and Calhoun thought that maybe he had flipped with all the strain they had gone through.

  ‘Keep ridin’,’ he urged.

  Bingley’s laugh subsided into a cough before at last he could speak.

  ‘No need for that gun,’ he said. ‘Those ain’t outlaws. Those are Crutch Bar riders.’

  Calhoun looked hard at the band of men who were fast approaching. Sure, there looked to be something about them. One of them waved his hat. They drew to a halt and Bingley broke into a laugh again.

  ‘That’s Orne Thompson,’ he said. ‘And the big man ridin’ right alongside him is Ray Cole. They’re a couple of my uncle’s top men.’

  They drew to a halt and soon the riders came alongside.

  ‘Howdy,’ Bingley said.

  ‘Howdy,’ Thompson replied. ‘Hell, you sure took the long way back to the Crutch Bar.’

  ‘Guess they were mighty ornery snipe,’ Bingley replied.

  The ranch hands looked at one another and then burst into laughter.

  ‘Let me introduce you to my friend Pat Calhoun,’ Bingley said.

  ‘Sure am glad to make your acquaintance,’ Calhoun added.

  Chapter Six

  High up in the mountains Norah Carney had just returned from exercising the cougar.

  ‘Sure is getting a mite cold,’ she said. ‘You an’ me, we don’t feel it too much but I reckon time’s come to build us a good fire.’

  Out back of the general store she kept a pile of wood torn mainly from the ruined buildings of Elk Creek. She gathered an armful and returned to the back room of the store, where she laid it in the grate. She lit one of the matches that she had stolen from Calhoun and set it to the wood. The match burned down and she tried another.

  ‘Jumpin’ Jehosophat!’ she exclaimed. ‘I know what we need.’

  She went to a cupboard, pulled out a metal box, put it down on the floor beside the cougar and opened the lid. Inside there were bundles of dollar bills and papers. She took a handful and placed them around the pile of wood.

  ‘That should do it!’ she said, applying another match.

  It worked. Before long she had a good blaze going. She sat down beside the cougar and began to stroke the side of its head.

  ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘You an’ me, we do just fine. I wonder how those other two are gettin’ along? Guess they’ll be back by an’ by.’

  The cougar growled and rolled over on its side while Norah moved to a rocking chair beside the hearth where the treasure burned.

  Calhoun had returned to town, leaving Bingley at his uncle’s ranch. Neither of them had come to any conclusions about what the message might mean, but it certainly pointed to something happening on the given date.

  As he rode away from the Crutch Bar Calhoun felt a strange sense of excitement and anticipation and by the time he approached the town it had developed into an unwonted nervousness. He almost felt inclined to give the Graysons a miss and book himself a room at a local boarding-house, but he realized that he was being foolish.

  As he rode down the main drag he took notice of the work that had already been done in his absence to repair the damage wrought by the fire. The place was looking a lot better. The worst of the ruins had been cleared away and people were busy carrying out repairs. Where the fire-blasted saloon had stood was now a gaping empty space.

  He tied his horse outside the marshal’s office, knocked on the door and stepped inside.

  ‘Calhoun! You’re back!’

  Calhoun hadn’t been sure whether he would find the marshal there. He had underestimated Grayson’s powers of recuperation. The marshal was already behind his desk and he managed to get to his feet at Calhoun’s approach.

  ‘Goldurn it! It’s good to see you,’ he said.

  ‘Good to be back,’ Calhoun said. ‘You’re lookin’ in pretty fine shape.’

  ‘Right as rain,’ the marshal replied. He pointed to the crutches propped up against a wall.

  ‘Still need ’em now and then,’ he said, ‘but I’m just about back on my feet. Turns out the injuries weren’t as bad as the doc liked to make out.’

  Calhoun laughed. ‘Maybe so,’ he said.

  Grayson brought out the bottle of bourbon and two glasses he kept in a drawer and poured out a couple of generous drinks.

  ‘You’d better tell me what happened.’

  Calhoun sat down opposite the marshal and took a long swig of the whiskey. He had just started to tell his story when the marshal interrupted him.

  ‘I can’t tell you how pleased Mary will be to see you. She’s been worryin’ so much.’ He paused. ‘You know, she thinks a lot of you. She’s my sister. I know her about as well as anybody I guess.’

  His words made Calhoun realize how much he had been missing Mary. ‘I think a lot of her,’ he replied.

  The marshal shot a quizzical glance at him. ‘Better get on with the story,’ he said.

  Calhoun explained as quickly as he could what had happened. When he had finished the marshal pursed his lips and whistled.

  ‘Phew!’ he said. ‘You sure don’t go about things the easy way.’

  He poured them both another drink. ‘One way and another,’ he said, ‘that outlaw nest is gonna have to be cleaned out.’

  Calhoun nodded.

  ‘What about ol’ Cherokee?’ the marshal said. ‘You must be gettin’ worried.’

  ‘She’s in good hands,’ Calhoun replied. ‘Still, I bin missin’ her.’

  There was silence for a while, then the marshal resumed:

  ‘What do you make of this map business? I mean the message. Sure seems strange to me.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Calhoun said. ‘Neither Bingley nor I could make any sense of it.’

  They considered the matter for a while. Then the marshal scratched his head.

  ‘Reckon this is one for Mary,’ he said. ‘But whatever happens, you can count me in for the twenty-ninth. Come on, I ain’t doin’ much good around here. Let’s get back to the house.’

  Calhoun felt a return of the strange nervousness that he had felt on the trail from the Crutch Bar. He untied his horse and walked it down the street alongside the marshal, who reluctantly took up his crutches. For some reason Calhoun was worried about what Mary’s reaction would be on seeing him, as if the events of the last few days might have served to divide them.

  He need not have worried. She must have seen them coming along the street because she ran out to meet them even before they had reached the gate in the wicket fence, and when he held her in his arms it just seemed the natural thing to do.

  ‘Pat,’ she said, addressing him by his first name. ‘We’ve missed you. Come inside. I’ve got coffee brewing on the stove.’

  A few minutes later Calhoun felt real good to be sitting on a comfortable settee with a cup of black coffee in his hand.

  He glanced round the room. Mary’s handiwork was everywhere in evidence from the cushions and antimacassars on the chairs to the flowers in their vases and the looped curtains at the window. It was homely and comfortable and Calhoun envied the marshal his domestic comforts. As they sat together he repeated what
he had told the marshal.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ Grayson asked his sister. ‘Sure is a funny state of affairs.’

  Mary held the paper with the message in her hand and read it through for the third time.

  ‘What do we know of the facts?’ she said. ‘The man who gave you this claimed to be a government agent. I don’t see any reason at present to doubt that.’

  ‘That’s pretty well what I said to Bingley,’ Calhoun said.

  ‘Presumably he infiltrated the gang in order to get the information about the whereabouts of the treasure. He couldn’t get away, but why would he scribble this message and what could have happened to the map?’

  ‘And what’s the significance of Coyote Falls?’ the marshal interjected.

  ‘The question seems to be whether the note is a general statement or whether it was aimed specifically at Mr Calhoun,’ Mary continued.

  Calhoun looked up at her.

  ‘If it was aimed at you,’ Mary said, addressing him directly, ‘then it must have been written by somebody who recognized you, somebody who knew you.’

  Calhoun considered her words carefully. ‘Yes, you’re right!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Take another look at the writing. There’s not much to go on, but could you recognize it?’ She passed the paper back to Calhoun, who looked at it intently before shaking his head.

  ‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘Besides, I don’t reckon I’d be able to recognize anyone’s writing even if there was a lot more of it.’

  ‘Think back. Did you recognize the man who helped you escape?’

  ‘I can’t remember anything about him,’ Calhoun said. ‘It was dark in the shed and things happened quickly.’

  ‘You said you saw him earlier.’

  Calhoun sent his mind back over the episode at the way station, when he had been surprised by the introduction of Watts. A memory flickered.

  ‘There was something,’ he said.

  ‘Think hard. It could be crucial.’

  Calhoun’s face was a picture of concentration. He was trying to bring the whole scene back to life: the room, the people in it, especially Watts. Watts – or the government agent – had been sitting on a bunk at the back of the room while he talked to Carver. He tried to picture what the man had looked like but it was hopeless.

  Then he suddenly found himself thinking not about Watts but about Carver. At the time he had been struck by how much Carver had changed – how he had put on weight, lost his hair and his moustaches, become blind in one eye. He could almost have been a different man.

  Then he recalled how the scar down Carver’s face had blazed up in anger when he realized that Calhoun was trying to deceive him. He had seen a scar just like that before, but not on Carver’s face. That scar had belonged to Con Reeder!

  Suddenly Calhoun’s whole perspective shifted. In a moment of revelation he suddenly saw what must be the truth. The expression on his face was such that even the marshal noticed it.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ve thought of something?’ Mary said. ‘Something important.’

  Calhoun began to speak, shaping his thoughts even as he put them into words.

  ‘Yes, I’ve thought of something. I remember now. The scar down Carver’s cheek. When Carver got annoyed the scar showed up. But it wasn’t Carver. It was Reeder who’d had that scar. Why didn’t I think of this before? I thought Carver had changed, but I still assumed it was him. But in fact it was Reeder. That scar was the only real identifiable feature.’

  The others were regarding him with uncomprehending looks on their faces. Calhoun was getting excited.

  ‘Don’t you see? I thought Carver had betrayed Reeder. But it must really have been the other way round. Reeder was credited with setting up the escape route. In fact he was leading people into enemy hands all the time. And not just refugees like me but Unionist sympathizers of various sorts. It was a good way of flushing them out.

  ‘Carver must have realized what was going on. He wasn’t there at the end of that last trip across the mountains because Reeder must have had him removed. Reeder wasn’t killed. He wanted it to look that way. Instead he took over Carver’s identity. It could make things a lot easier for him in the aftermath of the war.

  ‘No doubt he had made enemies. To be identified as a Union supporter could also open doors and give him cover for this whole mad exploit of carrying on the war.’

  ‘So what do you think about the map?’

  ‘The map was simply a ruse to get the government agent, whoever he is, into the outlaws’ nest with direct access to Reeder. If it exists it’s probably worthless.’

  ‘But Mary thought that message was aimed at you,’ Grayson remarked.

  ‘And you’ve already said you didn’t recognize the man.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Whoever it is he wants me to be at Coyote Falls at that time and on that day.’

  ‘Well, whatever this is all about, you won’t be alone this time,’ Grayson said.

  Mary gave him a frowning look. ‘You won’t get far on those crutches,’ she said.

  ‘I got time,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘I’ll have Bingley along,’ Calhoun said. He laughed. He had been going to make a joke at Bingley’s expense, but then he stopped himself. Bingley had come through it all pretty well. He might be a greener but he had grit.

  Mary shook her head. ‘I think you’re all crazy,’ she said. ‘But I’m pretty well used to it now.’

  She stood up and, leaning over, poured out second cups of coffee for her brother and Calhoun.

  ‘Tastes good,’ Calhoun said.

  He felt comfortable. There had been no need to feel apprehensive about returning to Coyote Falls. He felt at home and he had no doubts now that there was something between him and Mary. No need to rush things. Let them take their course.

  It was only later that he found himself thinking about the Walker that he had been given, and which he had now swapped for his own Colt Army .44s. Despite being outdated and unwieldy, it had once been Carver’s choice of weapon.

  The next day Calhoun set off early to ride up to Elk Creek. It felt good to ride alone and he was thinking that when the time came for the rendezvous at Coyote Falls he might prefer it that way. Although he was alert to the possibility of ambush he saw nothing of the outlaws. Presumably they had returned to the way station on the other side of the mountain. The waterfalls seemed fuller than the last time and he guessed that there had been rain or snow higher up.

  It was when he had reached a point between the falls and the deserted town that he suddenly felt wary. His horse was restless and its ears were pricked. Something was upsetting him. Calhoun took the Winchester from its scabbard. As he came to a halt he looked about him. Everything was still except for the breeze and the creak of his saddle as he swung down. Ahead was a little patch of brush filled with flickering shadows and patches of sunlight. Calhoun had the feeling that something was moving in there.

  He led the horse to the side of the trail, he hunched down beside a thicket and raised his rifle. Listening intently, he thought he could hear a rustling sound, then abruptly the bushes parted. Calhoun’s hand closed on the trigger of the Winchester but just as he was about to fire he dropped the weapon and rose to his feet.

  ‘Cherokee!’ he shouted.

  It was the reddish-brown form of the cougar that had emerged into the sunlight. The cougar sprang forward and jumped up at Calhoun, almost knocking him to the ground.

  ‘Steady, old girl!’ He laughed.

  The cougar leaped up at him again, then turned and began to walk back towards the bushes. She turned and, drawing back her lips, snarled and then let out a roar.

  ‘What is it?’ Calhoun said.

  The cougar was acting strangely and Calhoun looked towards the bushes, bringing his rifle up to his waist. The cougar moved on before stopping further up the trail. Calhoun lowered the rifle, satisfied that there was no one lurking in the b
ushes. He stepped to the palomino, placed the Winchester back in its scabbard and swung into the leather. The cougar was quite a way ahead and Calhoun knew that something was amiss. Normally the cougar would walk just ahead of him. The only thing to do was to follow the animal.

  ‘Seems like she’s tryin’ to tell me something,’ he muttered to himself.

  Calhoun got his first clue to what was wrong when they reached the ghost town and there was no sign of Norah. Calhoun had expected her to come out and meet them. Sitting astride his horse in the middle of the empty street he called her name, but there was no reply. He would have begun a search through the deserted buildings but the cougar seemed to want to move on. He dismounted and glanced in at the general store and the saloon, but there was no sign of her other than the burnt-out fire in the grate. The cougar was growling and running in circles. Calhoun got back on his horse and trailed the cougar as it turned and ran down the street.

  ‘Looks as though she’s headed for the workings,’ Calhoun said.

  Following the cougar he rode up past the stream and the remains of the diggings towards the pot-holed cliff face beyond. Snow had fallen and the place was dusted with white. Heavy clouds lay atop the mountain peaks and it seemed there was a lot more snow on the way.

  The cougar was slinking along the line of the cliff. It was quite rocky; Calhoun dismounted and leaving the horse in a sheltered patch, followed the cougar on foot, taking his Winchester with him. The cougar was making strange noises and running in a distracted kind of way before stopping at the entrance to a tunnel leading into the cliff face. It let out another roar as Calhoun approached.

  ‘Easy, old friend,’ Calhoun said.

  As he came up to the tunnel entrance he bent down to examine the ground. Although they had been dusted over with snow he thought he could detect traces of the imprint of boots leading away from the tunnel in the opposite direction. He peered inside. The roof was low; it was dark even by contrast with the gloomy atmosphere outside and he could not see very far.

  The cougar had entered the tunnel ahead of him and cautiously he began to follow her. The walls were damp, the floor was uneven and in places there were falls of rock. At intervals wooden struts supported the walls and roof. The atmosphere was musty; when Calhoun touched one of the walls there were patches of damp.