by Will DuRey
Jarvis Wilson was still astride his horse, his hands placed one atop the other on the saddle horn. The glint in his eyes was as cold as ice but his lips twitched as though having difficulty suppressing a smile.
Gatt Stone was on his feet, the reins of his own horse and those of Ben’s chestnut gripped in his left hand while a cocked pistol was held awkwardly in the other. There was no play in the expression on his face: revenge was his spur and murder his intent. ‘You were right, Jarv,’ he muttered, ‘you said we’d soon run into him again.’
Jarvis Wilson’s reply was to cease the struggle with his facial muscles and a smile spread across his face.
‘Revenge for me and a new horse for you, isn’t that what you said?’
‘My very words.’
Gatt gestured with his pistol for Ben to unbuckle his gun belt.
‘This doesn’t concern Mrs Tippett,’ Ben said as his holstered weapon fell to the ground. He knew there was little he could to protect the woman but his natural instinct was to seek out every small advantage he could provide for her. At that moment it seemed that nothing he could do would be adequate to save her from the guns of the men they faced, but by manoeuvring his body he pushed closer to the tree, hoping its gnarled, old trunk might protect her when the shooting began.
‘Of course it doesn’t.’ Jarvis Wilson twisted in the saddle and studied the unattended horse that peacefully grazed a few yards away. ‘That must be your mount, Mrs Tippett. It carried you here so I reckon it’s able to carry you back to Pecos.’ He swept his arm in a gesture that inferred she was free to climb into the saddle and ride away.
Elsa Tippet didn’t move. Ben knew she had fixed her gaze on him. For once, he thought, she was prepared to listen to his advice but none came immediately to his mind. Despite what he said, Ben didn’t believe that Jarvis Wilson was prepared to let Elsa Tippett ride away. They intended to kill him and couldn’t allow any witnesses to survive.
‘I’ll go when Mr Joyner goes,’ Elsa Tippett announced.
‘Mr Joyner and I have matters to discuss. He could be here for some time.’
‘Even so,’ Elsa Tippett spoke defiantly, making it clear that she was aware of the nature of things and was gambling that her presence would avoid bloodshed.
The supercilious grin that had developed during the brief exchange remained intact on the face of Jarvis Wilson. ‘That makes things so much easier for me,’ he said and, with a sudden movement, drew his pistol from its holster and fired a shot. The bullet struck the ground behind the legs of Mrs Tippett’s horse, sending it off on a startled run along the ridge.
Those few seconds that Jarvis Wilson had spent twisted in the saddle in order to stampede Elsa Tippett’s horse proved vital to Ben Joyner. Not only had the rider taken his eyes off the pair he intended to kill, but his companion, too, had turned to watch the fleeing animal. Ben’s reaction was instantaneous, moving even while the thought that another opportunity would never come his way channelled through his mind. Using his left arm, he pushed Elsa Tippett behind the tree; her surprised yelp and the knowledge that she was sprawled on the ground registered in his subconscious as he dipped his head and drove his body into the bulky form of Gatt Stone. Together they tumbled into the horses, the beasts backing away, feet stamping, heads thrown high and emitting a series of nervous sounds.
A gunshot cracked. Ben knew Gatt Stone hadn’t fired it because that man had almost lost the grip on his weapon when they landed in a heap on the ground. Ben knew he should be concerned about the safety of Elsa Tippett but for the moment the top priority was to wrestle the gun away from his opponent. They were under the legs of the horses now where, despite the risk of being struck by a flying hoof, Ben was afforded a degree of safety. Jarvis Wilson couldn’t shoot at him without risk of wounding either the horse he desired or his companion.
Gatt was a man of brute strength who recovered quickly from the surprise attack. Immediately, he was using forearms, elbows and head in the manner of a man accustomed to street and barroom brawls. His intention was to shake off the grip that Ben had fastened around the wrist of the hand that held the gun but was having little success, hindered mainly by the shoulder that was still recovering from the impact of the slug that Ben had put into it several days ago. He twisted, turning rapidly in order to be uppermost. Both bodies bumped against the legs of the animals above, causing them to dance away, stepping gingerly across the men whose struggle was unabated by the risk of a blow from an iron-shod hoof.
Eventually, it was Gatt who suffered a blow from a fore hoof of Ben’s chestnut. Anxious to move away from the underfoot obstacles, it had skipped backwards with its front legs raised and would have escaped the melee if, at that moment, Ben hadn’t taken the opportunity to thrust his head into the other’s face powerfully enough to inflict a cut above Gatt’s left eye from which blood began to run freely. Stunned, Gatt instinctively drew away from Ben, unmindful of the startled horses. The chestnut’s hoof impacted with the already wounded shoulder, extracting a yell from Gatt that laid bare the agony that had been invoked.
The horses parted and Ben saw that his opponent had dropped the gun he’d been clinging to so grimly. Now it lay on the ground only inches from his own hand and possession of it could extract him and Elsa Tippett from the situation in which they found themselves. The solution, however, was not simple to achieve. The horses were no longer a barrier between himself and Jarvis Wilson; using Gatt as a buffer was currently the only impediment to being a clear target for the mounted man. The cold expression he saw on the other’s face made it clear that waiting for the opportunity to kill him was merely adding to Jarvis Wilson’s enjoyment of the situation.
‘Try for it,’ scoffed Wilson. ‘I only want the horse. It’s Gatt who wants to kill you.’
Ben didn’t move. He was aware that Gatt’s moans were lessening and that at any moment his hatred would overcome his pain and he would use the gun to fulfil the revenge that burned inside him.
‘Now Mrs Tippett over there,’ Wilson waggled the gun he held in the direction of the tree, ‘offered me fifty dollars a few days ago. Payment is due now.’ Almost casually, as though he had implicit faith in his marksmanship, he fired his pistol. A lump flew off the tree behind which Elsa Tippett waited. ‘Come out, Mrs Tippett.’
‘What’s all the shooting about?’ The voice was gruff and authoritative and it came from behind Jarvis Wilson.
Accompanied by Davey Pursur and Marty Levin, Gus Remaque made the final climb up to the summit of the ridge and regarded the tableau before him. His eyes settled first on Gatt Stone and a glint of disapproval showed in his eyes as he noted the way that man held his shoulder. It was apparent that the pain he was experiencing made him incapable of carrying out the work that was expected of him. The rancher’s gaze flicked over Ben, registering surprise and curiosity when he recognized his former employee. It was only when he reined to a halt beside Jarvis Wilson that he spoke. ‘Put that gun away,’ he said.
It took a moment for Wilson to obey; the deliberate slowness with which he re-housed his weapon was meant to demonstrate both his reluctance to obey to Gus Remarque and a threat to Ben Joyner that it would be drawn again when next they met.
‘So what is it all about?’ Gus Remarque asked again.
By now, Davey Pursur and Marty Levin had drawn alongside their boss.
‘Not for the first time, these men are trying to steal my horse,’ Ben announced.
‘These men are in my employment,’ replied Gus Remarque. ‘I’ll need proof of that before I’ll take any action against them.’
Ben knew that Gus Remarque wouldn’t take action against men who were part of his own crew unless their crimes were against him personally. Nonetheless, he pointed at the chestnut that was watching from a point a dozen yards along the ridge. ‘Do you recognize the horse, Mr Remarque?’
‘I recognize the brand burned on its hip. That’s the Long-R. My brand, which means the horse belongs to me.’
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��The horse is mine. You sold him to me.’
Marty Levin shuffled in his saddle as though he had something to add to the conversation, but any support he had intended to give to Ben’s case remained unspoken.
‘Put a rope on it,’ the rancher told his foreman. ‘We’ll sort out the matter another day.’
‘The matter is sorted,’ Ben told him. ‘You know that horse belongs to me. Besides, I’ve got a bill of sale in my pocket, which has your signature on it. Do you mean to deny your own name? If you take that horse away I’ll make it known all around Pecos that you’ve reneged on a bill of sale. There are plenty of people in that town who know the horse is mine, which will leave you with a reputation no better than that of a common horse thief. Who will trust or do business with you then?’
Angrily, Gus Remarque scowled. He was the self-styled king of the section and wielded the power to prove it. Saddle tramps had no right to speak to him in those terms. He examined the faces around him. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be so bold,’ he said to Ben. ‘All of these men take my dollar. They do my bidding. If I order it you’ll be buried in these hills.’
Elsa Tippet, who had until this moment remained hidden behind the old willow, stepped forward. ‘Do you also kill women?’ she asked.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Elsa Tippett.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Trying to find my son and brother, Henry Tippett and Carlton Wellwin. Did you ever meet them?’
For a long moment, Gus Remarque stared at her. ‘No,’ he said then turned his attention to Wilson and Stone. ‘When I give you two a job to do I don’t expect you to put it aside to pursue your own petty grievances. Get mounted and attend to what you’re being paid to do.’
The two men clambered into their saddles, one with a grin for Ben that was in no way friendly, and the other, less athletically, with a look like thunder, redolent of a man still seeking revenge but unsure that it would ever be achieved.
As Wilson and Stone rode away, Gus Remarque spoke again to Ben Joyner. ‘You’ve got your horse. I suggest you use it to get out of this territory. If I see you on my land again I won’t do anything to stop my men killing you.’
‘This isn’t your land, Mr Remarque: it’s free range. You might use it to graze your cattle but you don’t own it. Someday, perhaps someday soon, someone will own it, but until that time I’ll ride in these hills as much as I choose.’
‘I don’t know why you’re pushing me, boy, but after today don’t cross me again, or I’ll kill you myself.’
CHAPTER NINE
When he looked up, John Vasey was surprised to find that his paperwork was being interrupted by Gus Remarque. John had represented the law in Pecos for almost a decade and, to the best of his recollection, this was the first occasion that the region’s most prominent man had entered his office. They weren’t strangers, of course, but their conversations had rarely been more than a few words exchanged on the street or in one of the many saloons that adorned Austin Street. When the rancher wanted detailed information, he summoned the sheriff to the Long-R. There had been only two occasions when John had ridden out to the ranch uninvited: seeking the rancher’s explanation for incidents it had become necessary to investigate.
John Vasey put aside his pen and waited for Gus Remarque to speak. Even if the older man had been a regular visitor in the past, the frown lines on his brow and the fact that he was accompanied by his foreman and Marty Levin made it clear that this day it was the rancher who was seeking information.
‘What’s going on in this town?’ asked Gus, his voice accusatory, as though John Vasey was responsible for every evil act in Texas.
‘Are you referring to anything in particular?’ the sheriff replied, immediately irritated by the other’s attitude. Gus Remarque’s position in this area had never been in doubt and, until now, John Vasey had never had any reason to oppose it. However, he hadn’t been able to dislodge from his mind the barb that Ben Joyner had slung at him the previous day – whose law did he uphold: that of Texas or Gus Remarque?
‘A man was killed yesterday. Have you caught his killer yet?’
‘If you mean Col Brodie, he was neither killed in this town nor was he a citizen of Pecos. His death isn’t my concern.’
‘Well, it’s my concern. That man was working for me. Where was his body found?’
‘Across the river. A teamster bringing in supplies from Amarillo found him about five miles out of town.’
‘Bushwhacked by one of those settlers. You need to find out which one and hang him for murder.’
‘You might have employed Col Brodie, Mr Remarque, but you don’t employ me. The people of Pecos pay me to keep law and order in this town, not to go chasing wild geese across the rangeland. They might be more concerned by the fact that I didn’t lock up your foreman and his pals for their cowardly and unprovoked attack on Drew Skivver.’
Davey Pursur stiffened, affronted by the sheriff’s remark. ‘Drew Skinner’s a land thief,’ he snarled.
‘They are all land thieves,’ said Gus Remarque, ‘and they need to be cleared out of this area, pronto.’
‘They have papers that give them a right to the land they’ve built their homes on.’ Uttering those words was almost as much of a surprise to John Vasey himself as it was to the boss of the Long-R. Personally, he’d never had any problem with the influx of newcomers but because this was cow country he was aware that the needs of the stock were a rancher’s paramount concern. Historically, the ranchers governed the territory and he’d supported them, but now his role was not so clear.
‘Are you siding with the settlers?’ Gus Remarque’s words sounded as angry as the glare he directed at the sheriff.
‘I’m siding with Pecos,’ retorted John Vasey. ‘The merchants in town welcome the business that the newcomers bring with them. They don’t want them driven away.’
‘The merchants survived well enough before they came. I reckon they will after they’re gone.’
‘If they go,’ said the sheriff, ‘and getting rid of them might not be as easy as you think.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘There’s talk around town about sending for the Rangers. People don’t want the place torn up with gunfights and battles. Think on it, Mr Remarque, and try to settle your differences with the newcomers because the Rangers are sure to support any papers issued by the state of Texas.’
For a moment, Gus Remarque was dumbstruck. The Texas Rangers were, indeed, a greater threat to him than a town officer with a star on his chest. He could cajole and manipulate men like John Vasey as easily as he could rope the hind legs of a yearling but the Rangers wielded the authority of the state. He could neither threaten nor hope to bamboozle them. Yet, despite the disquiet that had been aroused by that disclosure, Gus was more greatly troubled by the fact that it marked another instance of rebellion to the power he’d commanded in this region for twenty years. When he’d spoken, others had jumped to obey his commands. Now, in the space of a few days, he had been confronted by his foreman, threatened by a former employee and let down by men he’d hired for their specialist skills. Furthermore, the people he’d expected to be driven off the grassland were showing an unexpected determination to resist his plans, were preparing to fight, and victory for them would not only be humiliating but disastrous to his own affluence.
He turned away, reluctant to let the lawman see the perturbation that undoubtedly showed on his face, and as he did so his eyes lit on two riders who were passing along the street at that time. Ben Joyner and Elsa Tippett had arrived back in Pecos quicker than he’d expected and were now riding along Austin Street with a boldness that told the rancher that they had no intention of heeding his instruction to get out of town. Regret seeped through him. If, earlier, he’d allowed Wilson and the useless Stone to proceed unhindered then the pair now dismounting outside the Alamo Hotel would no longer be a potential source of trouble. Joyner had spoken to him like a ma
n with a grievance, as though they had always been enemies, but it was the woman who troubled him most.
‘Tippett,’ he murmured, then, aloud, spoke to John Vasey. ‘I want those two out of town before another twenty-four hours have passed.’
The sheriff was on the point of arguing but Gus Remarque didn’t give him the opportunity. He opened the door and stepped out onto the street with his foreman and Marty Levin at his heels. As they walked away from the sheriff’s office, Gus spoke first to Marty Levin.
‘Ride out to the northern ranches,’ he told the cowboy. ‘Tell Carter, Wainwright and Johnson to be here in Pecos for ten o’clock tomorrow. No excuses. If the settlers want a fight then we’ll give them one.’
Marty Levin clambered into his saddle and headed back towards the bridge over the Pecos River.
‘Davey,’ Gus said after Marty’s departure, ‘I’m staying in town tonight. I want you to go back to the ranch and organise tomorrow’s work, but I want you back here before ten. Bring some men with you ready to fight.’
‘Sure thing, boss,’ came the reply, and he, too, rode out of Pecos while Gus Remarque crossed the street to the Alamo where a room was always available to him.
Among the old adobe buildings that constituted the Mexican old town was the single-storied cantina owned by Pedro Garcia. The only natural light that penetrated the low-ceilinged interior came via the ever open door, lighting up little more than a rectangle of floor which altered in size and location in accordance with the position of the shifting sun. Those who weren’t regular customers, especially those Americans who had been attracted by the spicy smells that wafted from within, always chose a table as close as possible to the patch of daylight, as though compelled to inspect the food that was presented to them by Pedro or his wife. Although Marty Levin was no stranger to the cantina he still put his hat on the first table and sat facing the door so that the sunlight fell on his plate of fried beans, chicken and sweet potatoes. His reason for choosing that location, however, had nothing to do with distrust of the fare put before him but a need to keep an eye open for discovery by Davey Pursur. Gus Remarque had given him a direct order and would expect it to be obeyed without delay but Marty was hungry and if he were to deliver a message to all the northern ranchers he wouldn’t get back to the Long-R until the cook had stacked away his pans. So he’d ridden away from Austin Street but had dismounted at Pedro Garcia’s cantina before crossing the river.