That was Stillwater.
The three men sat astride their mounts; staring at it, shaking their heads. They looked to have come a long way and from the state of the horses they’d been travelling too fast, too hard. The men themselves looked tired, their clothes streaked with sweat and dirt, faces unshaven and lined with dust.
The one in the middle was burly and dark-skinned. His hair was black and hung in lank strands past his bull-like neck on to the shoulders of his cotton shirt. The man to his left was taller, thinner, a flat-brimmed black hat pulled low over his face, shielding his eyes from the sun. He sat stooped in the saddle, back arched. The third rider was younger, a hat dangling behind his head from a cord at his neck. His hair was tousled and curly, light brown. He was constantly wiping the sweat from his hands on to the check material of his shirt or the wool of his pants, his eyes never still either, always nervously alert.
‘This what we come for?’ asked the lanky rider.
‘Maybe not, Quint. But it’s what we got.’
Quint turned his head aside and spat at the ground. ‘We could move on.’
The bulky man shook his head. ‘Not today we can’t. Less’n you want to end up shootin’ that animal there an’ walkin’ the rest of the way.’
‘The rest of the way where?’ put in the youngster, but the others ignored him.
‘Okay?’
‘I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.’ Quint cleared his throat and spat again.
‘Let’s go then.’
They rode into Stillwater, the two older men side by side, the third one bringing up the rear. Outside one of the soddies a tatty dog lay on its side and scratched for fleas. Someone opened a cabin door and closed it again fast. Outside the old depot they stopped and moved into a rough circle.
The big man pointed at the barn. ‘Looks like some sort of stable. Take the horses, Drew, while me an’ Quint get some drinkin’ started.’
‘Why me?’
“Cause you’re the youngest.’
‘Dury, I...’
‘You never quit belly-achin’, I’ll say that for you.’
‘Oh, shit!’
Drew pulled his hat up on to his head and nudged his mount forward, reaching out for the reins of the other two animals. Dury and Quint climbed down and stretched their tired limbs, muscles aching and sore.
‘See if there’s anyone around who’ll give ‘em a rub down then throw some meal in front of ‘em.’
Drew scowled and his eyes darted from one to the other of the men then back again. ‘Maybe I’m fed up with drawin’ all the two-bit chores.’
Quint handed him the reins. ‘Two bits is all you’re worth.’
‘Not now it ain’t. Not after what we pulled. We took so much gold that...’
Quint grabbed at his leg, yanking him half out of the saddle. His right fist jabbed hard up into Drew’s belly.
‘Shut your fool mouth, d’you hear! You want to tell everyone what we’re carryin’, what we did?’
Drew grasped the pommel and pulled himself upright, pain spread across his face. As Quint’s hand strayed near his gun, Dury moved in close beside him.
‘Easy, Quint. The boy didn’t mean nothin’ by it. ‘Sides, who’s goin’ to hear us in a place like this? Hear us and want to do anything about it?’
The lanky man turned away and glared. ‘I just don’t take to the boy runnin’ off at the mouth that way.’
‘All right. All right. He’ll watch his tongue in future, won’t you, Drew?’
‘Sure,’ said Drew reluctantly. ‘Sure.’
‘He’d just better. I’m gettin’ sick of his...’
‘C’mon, Quint. Let’s spend a little of that hard-earned money we got, eh? I can taste that whisky now.’
Quint spat. ‘Yeah, it’ll taste like the piss of some poxed-up whore and burn the back of your mouth out.’
Dury laughed and moved Quint on. ‘Be real disappointed if it don’t.’
The centerpiece of the old depot was a pot-bellied iron stove, with carved feet in the shape of huge rounded claws. Its chimneystack was in three sections and poked up through a snug hole in the roof. Tables and chairs were arranged round it, most of them unoccupied. One old man lay slumped across the table closest to the stove, his grey hair falling forward showing a bald patch. When the two newcomers shut the door behind them he did no more than grunt and twitch the fingers of one half-clenched hand.
At the further side of the stove and part hidden from view a couple of men playing dominoes eased back their chairs to get a better look. Behind the long counter at the right side of the room, Amos Grant pushed himself up from his armchair, springs creaking as he did so. He moved unsteadily, automatically scratching at his scalp through his thinning wisps of hair.
Dury and Quint walked the long way round the stove, making sure there was no one else they hadn’t seen, taking their time. Grant saw the pistols holstered low and pushed his tongue against the gap at the back of his teeth; the old Colt Navy he kept in the drawer under the counter was too far out of reach for him to get at it in any hurry. He picked up a glass off the top of the counter and began wiping it with a cloth instead. Maybe everything would pass off fine.
‘Whisky.’
‘And none of that horse piss you serve reg’lar.’
‘Yeah, make it good. Special.’
Grant tried a smile. ‘You folks celebrating something?’
Quint slammed his hand flat on the counter. ‘Stop gabbin’ and get it!’
Amos Grant nodded and bent down so that he could see under the shelf where most of the bottles were stacked. He fumbled for several moments and finally came up with a bottle covered in dust; this he blew at, wiped with his sleeve, nearly succeeded in dropping twice.
‘For God’s sake give it over and stop your damned foolin’.’
Grant set the bottle down and stepped back, knocking into the edge of his chair.
‘Glasses,’ snapped Quint.
‘Yes. Yes.’ The two glasses were placed alongside the bottle.
‘Three.’
Grant opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. He put down the third glass.
‘You been travelin’ far? From the looks of you I’d say you’d come a good way. I...’
Quint’s stare stopped him short. Dury seized the bottle and the taller man followed with the glasses. They dragged a table off into the corner of the room, close to the shelves of tins and flour sacks, boxes of boots and shoes and cartridges, all jumbled together.
A couple of minutes later Drew came in and joined them. For a while they drank in silence, swallowing down the whisky in rapid gulps, letting their tiredness seep out of them.
When the bottle was more than halfway down, Dury called over his shoulder. ‘You got any food here?’
‘Eat here, you mean?’
‘What you reckon we’re goin’ to do with it?’
‘Thought you meant supplies to take with you.’
Quint banged his glass on the table. ‘We ain’t goin’ nowhere. We just got here. An’ we want somethin’ to eat. You understand that?’
Amos Grant shifted uneasily in his chair; he could feel the crotch of his pants sticking to him with sweat. ‘Ain’t got nothin’ hot. Stove ain’t lit. Cold meat, though. Bread.’
Dury refilled his glass. ‘Get it!’
The two men playing dominoes quietly packed the pieces away, frightened lest they should draw attention to themselves before they got outside. At the other side of the stove the old-timer slept on.
Quint aimed for the spittoon and missed by a good couple of feet: he rubbed his hollow stomach and belched drily. ‘Jesus Christ! What a hole to end up in! When I think what we could be doin’ with what we’ve got.’
Dury raised his hand. ‘We will, don’t you worry. We’re goin’ to do it all. Ain’t none of us goin’ to end up here. Eh, boy?’
Drew looked across at Dury and nodded vaguely; he hadn’t heard what the big man had said, couldn’t eve
n see him clearly, the whisky affecting him fast. The only time he’d drunk so much before was one Thanksgiving when he’d stolen a bottle from the kitchen and sneaked off to the barn with it. His Pa had come out and caught him. He’d pulled off his thick leather belt there and then and made Drew bend over a bale of hay. He’d beat him till the blood ran from the boy’s buttocks, holding the bottle in his left hand and drinking from it between blows.
That had been two years ago, when Drew had been fourteen. Not that he’d told his real age to Dury when he’d met up with him in North Platte. Eighteen, he’d said; eighteen, he’d promised.
Things had been great then, just him and Dury. The burly man seemed to understand him, wanted to help him, not like his Pa had been. Then they took up with Quint—Drew didn’t like Quint. He was afraid of him and he couldn’t hide it. Always spitting and bragging about what he’d done down Texas way.
Drew wished he’d ride off and leave them to be the way it was before, even take the gold if it meant getting rid of him. Anything.
Amos Grant pushed a couple of oval plates on to the table, breaking Drew’s train of thought. There was salted pork and beef on one, ripe and sweaty cheese, pickle and hunks of bread on the other. All three men set their glasses aside and began attacking the food, pulling and tearing at it with their fingers, stuffing more into already crammed mouths.
Grant watched them from his armchair at the far side of the counter, his fingers touching the fraying fabric. Of all the things he and his wife Sophie had shipped west, this was all that remained. The rest of their furniture had been broken or sold; the money they’d had had dwindled down until all Grant had been able to do was buy the place in Stillwater and watch it decay around him.
At least Sophie hadn’t seen it come down to this. He remembered her face that last time, skin like yellow wax, eyes sunk back into her skull, voice a whisper he had to lean low to hear.
‘Go on,’ she’d urged. ‘You go on without me. You make a success of things, Amos. The way we planned.’
Grant pulled angrily at a length of horsehair that had poked up from the upholstery. If this was the land of promise it sure wasn’t keeping faith. Not with him, it wasn’t.
‘Fetch us some more bread!’
Grant got out of the chair and shuffled along to the end of the counter. He was on his way back with the bread when the door to the depot opened and he swung his head round to see if it was Sam Rowdon, come for the nails he’d ordered.
It wasn’t.
Amos Grant nodded quickly at the newcomer and hurried down the room with the bread, dumping it on the plate and starting back. The man had reached the stove and he stood by it, one foot resting on the iron. Grant took in the lean, stubbled face beneath the thick brown hair, the brown collarless shirt, pants with buckskin sewn down the inside of the thighs, the mother-of-pearl grip on the Colt strapped down to his right side.
He was holding a rifle in his right hand, something Grant couldn’t make out covered by an Indian blanket in the left; a pair of well-loaded saddle bags hung over his left shoulder.
‘This your place?’ The voice was low but strong. All the while he was standing there his blue eyes were shifting, taking in the rest of the place and its customers.
‘Sure. Sure is.’
‘Fine. You got any beer?’
Grant moved back behind his counter. ‘Got a barrel in the other week. Pretty good brew, folks say.’
‘Get me a glass an’ some of that bread I just saw you with. If you got some meat to go with it, that’d be even better.’
As Grant turned to the beer barrel, Wes Hart shucked off the saddle bags and set his blanket down on the seat of a chair; the bags he hung over the back. He stacked the Henry so that it rested against them. Then he pushed back another chair and sat down, stretching out his legs in front of him.
The glass of beer was set down on the table and he drank a third of it down, then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. The thought of food was making him aware of his hunger.
At the end of the room, Quint had lost his appetite altogether, He had pushed a half-eaten hunk of bread away and was staring from under his hat, his mouth slightly open.
‘What the hell’s got into you?’ asked Dury. ‘You know him or somethin’?’
Quint nodded, not taking his eyes off Hart.
‘He’s the law.’
Drew coughed and almost choked on the food in his mouth; Dury’s eyes widened.
‘What kind of law? He ain’t wearing no badge.’
‘He’s a Ranger.’
‘A what?’
‘A Ranger,’ Quint hissed. ‘A Texas Ranger.’
Dury glanced fast over his shoulder then away again. ‘How in God’s name d’you know that?’
‘I seen him. Couple of years back.’
Dury glanced again. ‘You can’t be sure.’
‘I’m sure. He was ridin’ guard on some prisoners they’d brought in. One of ‘em was kin, cousin of mine. He tried to say somethin’ to me and that bastard there just smashed him in the mouth with the butt of his rifle. I ain’t likely to forget that.’
Dury drank some whisky and eased his chair closer. ‘He ain’t in Texas here, is he? He ain’t the law here. Just another rider passin’ through. Ignore him.’
Quint narrowed his eyes further and hissed through clenched teeth: ‘Stinkin’ bastard!’
‘Leave it,’ snapped Dury. ‘Here, have some more of this.’ He refilled all of their glasses. ‘We can get us another bottle later. He’ll likely ride on soon as he’s done.’
‘What if he don’t?’ asked Drew, his voice uncertain.
Dury shrugged. ‘Don’t matter. He’s nothin’ to us.’
‘I say we should move on,’ said Quint.
Dury jabbed a finger at him. ‘An’ I say no. You know what them horses are like.’
‘We could buy fresh ones,’ suggested Drew.
‘No.’
Behind them, Hart shouted out for another beer.
‘We could take him,’ said Quint. ‘The three of us. Move round him an’...’
Dury leaned across and took hold of the front of Quint’s shirt. He talked fast, never letting his voice rise above a whisper. ‘Ever since we met you bin cacklin’ on about all the hotshot things you done down in Texas. Now the first sight of some Ranger you’re goin’ to pieces pretty quick. So hear me for the last time—we ain’t runnin’ and we ain’t gettin’ involved in no shootin’ on account of you feelin’ spooked. We pulled off too good a job to run risks for nothin’. We’ll stay here a while and then get us some place to spread our blankets, even if it’s the barn. First light we’ll ride out nice an’ easy, like nothin’ happened.’
He tightened his grip and Quint’s shirt began to tear; the knuckles of Dury’s fist pushed hard against Quint’s neck.
‘Do I have to say any of that again?’
Quint shook his head.
‘Good.’
Dury withdrew his hand and sat back. Drew was half-smiling, glad that Quint had been put in his place. Now maybe he wouldn’t pick on him so often. He picked up his glass to drink but missed his mouth, the whisky running down his chin and on to his chest.
From where he was sitting Hart saw the boy’s failure to pour his whisky inside of him instead of outside and gave a quiet laugh. When he’d started work for the Butterfield Overland Mail he’d tried to keep up with the men around and made a fool of himself times out of number. But he’d learned and he guessed that kid would, too.
The Kid.
Hart’s mind drifted back to Billy Bonney. What was it that made folk grow up different? Once or twice the Kid had said something about growing up in the slums of New York City. Rats running over the drawer his mother used for a cot. His father dying soon after they’d moved west. That wasn’t enough, thought Hart. His own father had died when Wes had been only three. It hadn’t turned him into a crazed killer.
The burly one of the three at the back of the room walked bow-
legged to the bar and asked the man behind it where they might be able to sleep. The only place was the barn. Dury nodded and asked for a fresh bottle of good whisky. He scattered some coins on to the counter, nodded to Hart as he turned, and headed back to his friends.
Half an hour later they trooped out. Amos Grant eased himself forward in the armchair. ‘You know them?’
‘No.’
Grant rubbed at his chin. ‘Got me a nasty feelin’ soon as they walked in. Stank of trouble, that’s what it was. You get that?’
Hart smiled and shook his head. ‘They didn’t seem like no trouble to me.’
Grant came round the end of the bar. ‘Goin’ to light that stove a while from now. Keeps the place warm overnight. You can throw your bedroll down here if you want. Better’n the barn.’
Hart nodded. ‘That’d be fine.’
He pushed the chair back on to its hind legs and swung his boots up on to the table. ‘That good whisky you was sellin’ them. What’s it like?’
Amos Grant grinned. ‘Wouldn’t use it to clean my boots with. But if you want somethin’ real good.. .’
Chapter Three
Hart rolled over on to his left side and pulled the edge of the blanket up to his neck. Underneath his body the floor was hard and his hip ached where he had been laying on it for too long. He yawned and stifled the sound with his hand. His head felt thicker than he liked—Grant hadn’t been fooling when he’d claimed to have some really good whisky. For nothing more than the price of listening to the man’s story, Hart had drunk as much as he’d wanted.
He turned on to his back, wondering what time it was. Faint diagonals of light came through the gaps between the shutters further along the wall. Hart pushed himself up into a sitting position, rubbed the corners of his eyes, coughed. The sound of snoring drifted across the room and he could see the top of Grant’s head as he slept in the armchair.
The stove was still giving out heat.
Hart threw off the blanket and scratched at himself through his Long Johns. Maybe if he woke Grant up there’d be coffee and some bacon before he left. Now that he was well clear of Texas he’d have to drift towards one of the bigger towns and pick up some work.
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