Remarque's Law

by Will DuRey

  ‘I bought my land,’ he announced. ‘Frank, too,’ he added, flinging an arm in his companion’s direction, making it clear to everyone they had legal entitlement to the stretch of ground on which they’d built their homes. ‘Everyone along the river can produce deeds that will be upheld by the law.’ He looked around, not only to harness the support of his fellow settler but also, it seemed, in the expectation of finding a lawman at his side who would corroborate his words.

  It was the third man that Ben knew who answered. Davey Pursur was foreman at the Long-R ranch. ‘That’s grazing land and you have to go. Mr Remarque has tried to be generous but your stubbornness is trying his patience.’

  ‘Generous!’ the word explode from the Dutchman’s mouth in a shower of spittle, which he wiped from his long, fair moustache with his thick forearm. ‘Mr Remarque has had our crops trampled, our homes attacked and our women-folk and children frightened by his riders. Those are the actions of a coward and you can tell Mr Remarque that we will not move on just because he is displeased with our presence.’ He ended his speech with a curt nod, an affirmation that he would stand by his words.

  ‘Then I suggest you move on because your presence sickens me.’ The speaker was the fourth man on the boardwalk, the one who was unknown to Ben Joyner. He pushed Davey Pursur aside so that he was standing almost toe-to-toe with Arnie Arentoft.

  Some of the colour left the Dutchman’s face but he wasn’t prepared to step away from this man’s threats any more than from those made by Gus Remarque. ‘What you did to Drew Skivver was the work of an animal, but you couldn’t have done it alone. You needed four men to hold him while you whipped him.’

  Frank Faulds tugged at the Dutchman’s sleeve. Arnie hadn’t been in town to witness the beating that Drew Skivver had taken; he’d only heard an account of it from Frank. Frank was worried that he hadn’t sufficiently stressed the brutality of the beating that had been dished out to Drew and certainly didn’t want to watch it being repeated. Arnie shook him off.

  ‘Do you think you are strong enough to beat me on your own?’

  The man with Davey Pursur grinned. ‘I don’t have to.’ The batwing doors were swept aside and more men stepped out of the saloon and ranged along the wall behind the speaker. Ben Joyner recognized some of them as Long-R riders. Marty Levin was among them. ‘However,’ the man continued, ‘you’re carrying a gun and you’ve called me out so I guess that means I’ve got to face you man to man.’

  Frank Faulds tried once more to extricate his friend from the calamity into which he’d talked himself. ‘Come away, Arnie.’

  Again Arnie Arentoft disengaged himself from the other’s grip, although this time it was a more reluctant manoeuvre. He knew he couldn’t win a gunfight with this man or any other. ‘Step away, Frank,’ he said.

  A grin spread across the face of the man facing Arnie. ‘Just go,’ he said. ‘Let everyone in town know just who the coward is here. And when you get home, pack your belongings and get clear out of the territory.’

  ‘The land is mine,’ Arnie uttered quietly but with grim determination.

  ‘Then go for your gun.’

  It all happened so quickly that no one could really confirm that the Dutchman had made any move to draw his pistol. What was certain was that it never cleared leather. Three bullets struck his upper body before he slumped to the ground and another smacked into his forehead while he lay spread-eagled on the street.

  With a dismissive grunt, the man led the Long-R riders back into the saloon and Frank Faulds removed his hat as he stood over his friend’s body. Ben Joyner glanced at his companion.

  ‘You warned me,’ she said, then gigged her horse forward towards the rail outside the Alamo Hotel.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  From his bedroom window, Ben Joyner had watched men load the Dutchman’s body onto a flat wagon. Frank Faulds had driven it out of town in much the same way that Drew Skivver had been taken home by Dick Garde. Drew’s wife, he hoped, would be able to nurse her husband back onto his feet, but Anya Arentoft would have to bury hers.

  Now, Ben could see Sheriff John Vasey in conversation with one of his deputies. Both men seemed puzzled, as though at a loss to know why they were on the street outside Shay Dubbin’s saloon or what they were supposed to do now that they were there. John Vasey was scratching the back of his head in such a manner that it had tipped his sombrero forward to sit low on his brow. At one moment, the deputy was looking along the street towards the river, then the next in the opposite direction, past the Alamo Hotel, as though the resolution to his dilemma was about to ride in from Mexico, or the Long-R ranch, which was closer. The sheriff’s duty seemed clear to Ben; enter the saloon and arrest the man who had slain the settler. Everyone who had witnessed the fight knew that Arnie had been goaded into the deadly affair, that reaching for a gun was as alien to him as farming corn was to a Cheyenne warrior. He cursed, knowing it was impossible to prove the man guilty of an offence. Every Long-R rider would testify that both men had gone for their guns, which, by the law of the west, made it a fair fight. Arnie’s killer would go unpunished. Grabbing his hat, Ben quit his room. He’d been in the saddle for four days but was unable to rest, his brain too active for his body to seek repose.

  Although the dispute between the Long-R and the settlers was not his concern, he was unable to pass the lawmen without questioning their intentions. He got the response he expected, that enquiries had led the sheriff to believe that there was no case to answer.

  ‘The killer used Mr Remarque’s name with freedom,’ Ben observed. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Col Brodie. Thought you would know that. Don’t you ride for the Long-R?’

  ‘Not anymore. Quit almost two weeks ago. Is he a hired gun?’

  ‘ A cattle-pusher. Came in from New Orleans a few days ago.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ben murmured, ‘New Orleans teems with cattle. Reckon you’d better keep an eye open for another pair of experienced cattle-pushers who probably arrived here yesterday. I don’t know their names but one is slim and mean and the other one is carrying a lump of my lead somewhere about his body.’

  The sheriff and deputy exchanged a look but didn’t speak. Ben filled the gap with words. ‘They tried to steal my horse, twice. I reckon they’re here because Mr Remarque is willing to use any means at his disposal to wipe the settlers out of this territory.’

  ‘Mr Remarque is a powerful man in these parts but I expect him to operate within the law.’

  ‘Within the law as he sees it, Sheriff.’

  ‘You sound like a man who means to stand against him.’

  Ben paused a moment, remembered that he’d completed the task that had brought him back to Pecos, and then shook his head. ‘I won’t be around long enough to do that.’

  ‘Then I suggest you leave me to attend to the law in Pecos.’

  ‘That’s fine with me, but just be sure whose law you’re attending to: Mr Remarque’s or the State of Texas.’

  As Ben turned away, he caught a movement at the batwing doors of Shay Dubbin’s saloon. Someone turned their head away as though anxious not to be caught watching, receding until swallowed by the darkness of the beer palace’s interior. Without conviction, Ben thought it might have been Marty Levin, but his curiosity wasn’t sufficiently spiked to warrant him following the man inside. Besides, there would be talk in there about the shooting of Arnie Arentoft and glasses raised in toast by some of the men on the Long-R payroll. Ben didn’t regard it as a cause for celebration. Instead he climbed onto the chestnut and rode out of town, back across the bridge and northward to the stretch along the Pecos where the families had built their homes.

  Ben had mistaken the identity of the man who had overlooked his conversation with the lawmen. Gatt Stone made his way from the batwing doors to the table at the side of the long bar where Jarvis Wilson was in conversation with the foreman of the Long-R. Although eager to acquaint his partner with the information he carried, Gatt’s progress was necessarily
slow. With his arm in a sling and a roomful of men who had taken aboard too much whiskey to be considerate of his injury, it was his own responsibility to guard against accidental collisions that had the ability to engulf him with pain.

  Following the fight with Drew Skivver, Sheriff Vasey had told Davey Pursur to take his men back to the ranch, but that advice had been ignored. They had descended upon Shay Dubbin’s saloon and remained there ever since. They were in high spirits. Their boss would be pleased; every strike against the settlers secured his grip on the territory. Davey Pursur had even hinted at a bonus for those who had been involved in the attack on the red-haired land-grabber if their tough tactics proved to be enough to chase the settlers away from their holdings along the Pecos River. The killing of the Dutchman by Col Brodie, he reckoned, was probably the blow that would achieve that goal. Such was the gist of his conversation with the thin-faced Jarvis Wilson when Gatt reached their table.

  ‘Your special services might not be required,’ Davey Pursur was saying. ‘I doubt if these farmer types will have the backbone to remain around here now that the talking has come to an end.’

  ‘Well, we’re here now,’ drawled Wilson. ‘Your boss still has to pay what he promised.’ He looked up, caught the expression on Gatt’s face and waited for his companion to approach.

  ‘Our friend with the horse is here,’ Gatt said. ‘He’s out on the street talking with the sheriff.’

  Wilson pushed back his seat and, ignoring the question thrown at him by the foreman, rose swiftly and crossed the room. Like Gatt, he didn’t go outside. Instead he paused at the side of the batwing doors and peered into the street. At first, he could see neither the sheriff nor the man who had been instrumental in twice forcing him out of the small town that lay across the scrubland. The man who was also responsible for putting a bullet in Gatt’s shoulder and who had deprived him of owning the finest animal he’d seen for several years. He turned his head and looked down the street towards the bridge across the river, but without reward. Although there were several people going about their business along the sidewalks, the man he sought was not among them.

  Shifting his position he was able to look up the street and his eyes picked out the sheriff by his curious gait as he made his way back along the street to his office. Of the man whose life he wanted to take, there was no sign.

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’ Wilson asked Gatt when the shorter man reached his shoulder.

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘Then I’m sure we’ll meet again soon. You’ll get revenge for that hole in your shoulder and I’ll get a new horse.’

  Drew Skivver’s place bordered a creek of the Pecos where, from the rise of ground where Ben looked down on it, it seemed as though a great scoop of land had been removed to leave a fertile, basin-like pasture that was ideal for a small homestead. The Skivver family had been in the territory for less than two years but already a collection of timber buildings had been constructed, a clear statement of their determination to remain. A stone chimney dominated one wall of the house, and from it, smoke was rising in a long grey line into the sky above. Ben nudged his horse forward, moving slowly down the incline, looking for signs of activity about the place. He couldn’t see anyone in the yard but counted a number of horses that, he figured, belonged to neighbours who, like him, had come to learn the extent of Drew’s injuries. Their presence lifted a slight worry from Ben’s mind; it was late in the day for unexpected visitors and, if they’d been alone, his arrival might have alarmed Lottie and her mother.

  He was thirty yards from the house when two riders emerged from a small copse of cottonwoods and willows. They were riding fast as though racing to the house with an urgent message. Ben pulled on the reins, halted the chestnut so as not to impede the progress of the oncoming riders. He thought he recognized one as the son of Dick Garde but he didn’t get a good look at him, nor did he have time to study his companion. Suddenly, as they got closer to Ben, it became apparent that the object of their ride was not to reach the house but to attack him. Both riders were armed, one with a rifle, the other with a stout stick with which he began instantly to belabour Ben. Clearly, his intention was to crack open Ben’s head, but by twisting and ducking the blows landed on his arms and shoulders. So ferocious was the assault that Ben had little opportunity to voice his protest, nor could he reach for his gun knowing that a rifle was aligned on him and that given any opportunity the armed man was likely to blow him out of the saddle.

  In order to avoid a clumsy swing of the club, Ben twisted his upper body, thereby presenting his back to his assailant. Taking advantage of the situation, the attacker jabbed the stick roughly into Ben’s back, a blow that was not only painful but also unbalanced him, so that when he was struck in that place a second time, he fell to the ground. He was given little time to regain his equilibrium but when his attacker dismounted to continue the pummelling, Ben lunged at his legs and brought him crashing to the ground under the legs of the horses. Ben scrambled onto his knees, delivered a punch that landed with some force, but which he had no time to celebrate. A rifle butt was smashed against his head and he slumped, stunned, on to the ground.

  Barely conscious, Ben could offer little resistance. Any small struggle of which he was capable was answered with kicks and punches. A rope was wrapped around his body, pinning his arms to his side, and the men used it to drag him to the gateway that led into the yard of the Skivver settlement. He was hauled upright and another rope coiled around him in order to tie him to a fencepost. One of his assailants began shouting, hailing the house to arouse those inside.

  The fuzziness of his thinking slowly clearing, Ben tried to form a protest at his treatment but the barrel of a rifle was pressed against his abdomen.

  ‘Keep up the fight,’ a voice said, ‘and I’ll willingly pull the trigger.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ Ben replied.

  ‘Come spying around here for Gus Remarque,’ accused his captor, ‘and you can expect the same sort of treatment that was meted out to the Dutchman.’

  Ben recognized Jonas Petterfield’s husky voice but other noises began to reach him as other men hurried across the yard to investigate the hullabaloo caused by the upraised voice of Dick Garde’s son. It was Dick Garde himself who was first to reach the fence.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked.

  ‘Caught him sneaking up on the house. Come to spy for the Long-R,’ Jonas Petterfield announced, once more poking the end of his rifle with bruising ferocity into Ben’s stomach.

  Ben grunted. ‘Quit doing that,’ he said. ‘I didn’t come here to spy on anyone.’

  Dick Garde came closer, peered into Ben’s face. ‘You ride for the Long-R,’ he said.

  Ben shook his head in denial. ‘I don’t,’ he said, wincing as he began to feel the effect the pummelling had had on his body.

  ‘Sure you do. I recognized you when you tried to ambush me earlier.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to ambush you.’

  ‘Sure you were. You and another man were waiting to finish off Drew Skivver outside town.’

  ‘You’ve got it wrong,’ Ben said.

  Another man brushed Dick Garde aside to get a closer look at their prisoner. Frank Faulds nodded his head as though confirming his own thoughts. ‘He rides for the Long-R, sure enough, and he was on the street when Brodie gunned down Arnie.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Dick Garde wanted to know. ‘Have you come with an ultimatum from Gus Remarque or were you fixing to find out the purpose of our meeting?’

  ‘I don’t have any argument with anyone settling in this area. I quit the Long-R two weeks ago. Drew’s a friend. I wanted to know what happened to him, how serious his injuries are.’

  Someone scoffed at the suggestion of friendship.

  ‘It’s true,’ Ben insisted.

  ‘I suppose your partner is also a friend of Drew’s,’ Dick Garde retorted. ‘Which raises the question of his current whereabouts. Waiting for you b
eyond the ridge, I suppose.’

  Enquiring looks were directed towards Dick’s son and the other rider who had captured Ben, but they were sure that Ben had been alone.

  ‘You’ll find her in the Alamo Hotel. She has no involvement in your dispute with the cattlemen.’

  A momentary stillness settled on the group around the fencepost, confused as to their reaction to Ben’s claim that his earlier companion had been a woman. Current events had made them suspicious of the words and intentions of everyone outside their small circle of families; consequently, any unexpected announcement needed time for consideration. In the lull, another figure, hurrying across the yard from the farmhouse, joined the group.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Lottie Skivver.

  ‘We’ve caught a spy,’ said Dick Garde’s son.

  Lottie’s eyes fell on the figure tied to the post but she dismissed the young lad’s words when she became aware of the identity of the bound man. ‘Ben,’ she said. Immediately, she took in his rumpled and grubby clothing and the marks of conflict that showed on his face. A line of blood ran from the corner of his left eye to his mouth, the result of the blow from the butt of his assailant’s rifle. ‘Untie him,’ she ordered.

  ‘He’s one of Remarque’s men,’ said Frank Faulds. ‘We need to know what he’s doing here.’

  Lottie reached for the rope and tried to undo the knot. ‘I thought you’d gone away,’ she said to Ben.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What brought you back?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’