by Jack Sheriff
Blunt blinked and widened his eyes at his daughter’s words. ‘You telling me you’ve got one of them .44 Henry rifles?’
‘Ed Morgan got it for me, years ago, at my request. Got it engraved, too, with both our names.’ She smiled with sadness at Chip Morgan. ‘Just goes to show parents don’t know everything their kids get up to.’
‘All right,’ Bobbie Lee said, ‘that settles the question of fire power. Will, you ride with me. Chip, I’d like for you to stay here and run the bar, be hospitable to any visitors to The Last Water-hole.’
‘Why me? Alice or Beth could handle that chore real easy.’
‘The womenfolk are my reason for wanting you here: you’ll be available to look after them if there’s trouble.’
Chip still objected heatedly. ‘You just heard Cassie. Will’s gal’s got herself a .44 Henry—’
‘Yes,’ Cassie cut in, ‘but I’m riding with Bobbie Lee.’
The room went silent.
Bobbie Lee shook his head.
‘Those fellers’re too dangerous.’
‘If two of you ride, you’ll be outnumbered – maybe by more than you anticipate. You’ve got a bad shoulder, a six-gun you can shoot with one hand. Pa’s got a single-shot Sharps. With me along the odds look better and, like Chip said, the gal’s got herself a Henry repeater.’
She smiled sweetly.
‘Give the repeater to your pa,’ Bobbie Lee said, meeting her gaze.
‘I could shoot the eye out of a crow while my pa’s still looking for the goddamn bird,’ Cassie said, and winked at her mother.
Will Blunt caught the look. He chuckled. ‘I can’t argue with that.’
Bobbie Lee thought for one swift moment, realized Cassie was right, and let his breath out in relief.
‘So everything’s settled? We’re all agreed?’
‘I guess so,’ Chip Morgan said, still contriving to look disgruntled but obviously relieved to be staying home with his grieving wife while being of use.
Will Blunt was looking in some amazement at his daughter.
‘Give us a half-hour,’ he said, getting up from the table. ‘We’ll go get those weapons Cassie’s been nurturing, pack supplies in saddle-bags, be back here ready to ride.’
‘Bring extra water bottles,’ Bobbie Lee said. ‘The weather’s going to get warm.’
And so the three Blunts left for the short walk over to their property where the windmill creaked in the mild night breeze, Chip and Alice Morgan taking the even shorter walk across the square to where the light glowed yellow in the window of their general store.
Bobbie Lee watched them from the gallery. Bathed in wan moonlight that picked out the ruts and undulations in the dusty old square he recalled with sadness that he had stood in that same spot when the sun had been beating down from a clear blue sky and, behind him, his son had been happily splashing soapy water onto the boards.
Two days ago. Now Jason was gone, one of Chip Morgan’s sons had taken a bullet in the chest and was six feet under, and there was work to be done; the kind of work Bobbie Lee thought he’d left behind twelve months ago when he’d said goodbye to the owlhoot trail and ridden home to take over the family-run saloon on the edge of the Staked Plains.
He reflected on that for a few moments, his head growing dizzy with thoughts that were at best uncomfortable, at worst verging on the morbid.
Then he sighed, turned away from the rail and walked in to the echoing silence of The Last Water-hole.
Part Two
The Manhunt
Chapter Nine
They made a strange, mismatched group, the members of that small, private posse: Bobbie Lee on his big sorrel mare riding awkwardly as he favoured his bandaged left shoulder, six-gun butt-forward in the holster on his left hip for an easy cross draw; Will Blunt on the skinny blue roan, the old but well-oiled single-shot Sharps jutting from the leather boot beneath his right knee; and his daughter, flaxen-haired Cassie, a small woman made to look larger than life as she rode behind the two men on her lively paint pony.
They rode out in clear moonlight, watched by a sombre, silent trio on the gallery of Bobbie Lee’s Last Water-hole saloon. Behind the riders the lamps of Beattie’s Halt were few, but warm and seductive nonetheless for ahead of them lay naked uncertainty. They had witnessed murder, and were hunting cold-blooded killers. But those killers could be lying in wait for them and so, as the warm lamplight of the Halt was washed away by the cold light of the moon, it was Bobbie Lee who took the lead after telling Will Blunt to fall back a full thirty yards, Cassie to put that same distance between her and her father and watch their back trail.
For if Van Gelderen was planning an ambush, he would be sure to let them ride past one man before giving the signal to open fire.
That the distance between them made for solitary riding was unavoidable. Bobbie Lee knew the dangers of bunching. A volley of rifle fire could wipe out men riding too close together. But he also knew that the disadvantages of riding alone could be outweighed by the consequent sense of responsibility; men forced to rely on their own ability to stay alive were unlikely to doze in the saddle.
And that, Bobbie Lee thought with a secret smile, applied equally to women – and yet again he found himself marvelling at the outstanding qualities of the young woman who, in trail drive terms, was now riding drag.
That thought at once took him back to the discussion in The Last Water-hole. He found himself wondering how close any of them had been to the truth when raising the possibility of a Texas herd out there, waiting to be guided across the arid Staked Plains.
Chip Morgan had pointed out the uselessness of conjecture when there were killers at large, deaths to be avenged, and Bobbie Lee had accepted those sentiments. But now, riding through the night with the only sounds the jingle of bits, the creak of leather and the soft snorting of the horses, he knew that what lay ahead needed his serious consideration. He needed his wits about him; to be forewarned was to be forearmed. As he rode, he was alert not only to the possibility of ambush – though for the life of him he couldn’t see how such action would benefit Van Gelderen – but to what the night was telling him. He was looking ahead for the reflected glow of camp-fires; sniffing the air to detect their smoke, or the aromas of cooking food from a trail-drive chuck-wagon; listening hard for the faint but unmistakable murmuring that would indicate the presence in the vicinity of a large herd of cattle.
Will Blunt caught the sounds first.
‘Cattle some way ahead.’
Cassie kicked the paint up to join him.
‘If they’re about to cross the Plains, night’s the time to get started.’
By now they had both pushed up the trail to join Bobbie Lee, and all three were riding stirrup-to-stirrup.
‘A good guide would know that,’ Bobbie Lee said. ‘But Van Gelderen’s man might not have that wisdom.’
‘They’ll have it all figured out, one way or another, with cruel logic,’ Will said. ‘If we’re thinking along the right lines, Van Gelderen wants to ruin a certain rancher. Best way of doing that in this situation is to put a big herd of cattle in the middle of the Staked Plains when the sun comes up.’
Bobbie Lee nodded. ‘The rancher’s heading for Colorado. He’ll expect the guide to get him there, maybe with a depleted herd but with plenty left to make him a big profit. I reckon you’re right. Van Gelderen’s man will play out his role, but at some stage arrange it so those steers are scattered to hell and gone.’
‘One man?’
Bobbie Lee looked at Blunt and shook his head. ‘The guide, plus Van Gelderen, Cleet, and the feller who shot Ed. More than enough if they work it right.’
For a while they rode in silence, listening for the faint, distant cries of ’punchers as they got a big herd up and moving. No such sounds reached their ears, but already they could detect the smell of cattle and dust carried on the night air, the smoke of the camp-fires.
‘There’s one thing wrong with that last supposition,�
�� Bobbie Lee said at last. ‘If Van Gelderen’s hell-bent on revenge, he’ll be forced to stay well clear.’
Cassie was quick to catch on. ‘Sure. If there’s been a feud between those two in the recent past, the rancher will know him by sight. I can see Van Gelderen stepping forward later, so he can have the satisfaction of knowing he’s done his job and the rancher’s staring ruin in the face.’ She laughed softly. ‘But will you listen to us, Bobbie Lee! Ranchers and herds, revenge and ruination. You realize all this is like Chip said, vivid imagination allowed to run riot?’
‘There’s a herd out there, so that’s one thing we got right,’ her father said. ‘All we can do is press on, and see if the rest of the plot matches what we’ve dreamed up.’
‘Yes indeed,’ Bobbie Lee said. ‘But I’ve got a horrible suspicion Van Gelderen knows I’m coming after him, and I’m bettin’ he’s got a couple more nasty tricks up his sleeve.’
The chuck wagon was canted at an angle on the side of the slope. It had been driven in fast with pots and pans clattering, and sited in a hurry so the cook could build his fire in its lee and get the Dutch oven settled on the hot coals before the herd arrived. That had happened at dusk, the full straggling column taking more than an hour to be swung around in a wide sweep by the point riders, worked close to the Pecos where steers, cows and calves drank their fill of the muddy waters before settling for the night.
Only then could the hands slide wearily from their saddles close to the chuck-wagon and set to work on the cook’s interesting variation of Sonofabitch Stew, handed to them steaming on battered tin plates. Several had then ridden out to relieve those riding lazily on the flanks of the resting herd, softly crooning Texas lullabies to soothe the animals while turning impatient eyes towards the sparks drifting skywards from the glow of the cook’s fire.
The latecomers had now eaten, and all but the night guards circling the herd had turned in. Blanket rolls had been dragged from the chuck wagon’s bed. Sleeping figures were shapeless heaps lying in the dappled shadows under the trees, alongside them the odd, angular shapes of boots and saddles. Smoke from the fires drifted pungently to mingle with the mist hanging low over the Pecos. A cowboy laughed at something another man had said. Nearby under the trees another sat cross-legged and held his hands to his mouth to cup the plaintive wailing of his mouth organ.
‘What was that name again?’
Harlan Gibb looked up at the lean man with the badge pinned to his vest who had just ridden in, at the other rider with his hand on the stock of the long rifle jutting from his saddle boot and his horse positioned a few yards behind the lawman.
‘B.L. Janson,’ Cleet said. ‘Bobbie Lee. You probably know him better as the Caprock Kid.’
‘Do I?’
‘Should do. He raised hell around your neck of the woods. South Texas. The gulf coast. Faded away about a year ago. If I were you, with that feller on the prowl I’d be worried about my herd.’
‘But you’re not me, Marshal. . . ?’
‘Earp.’ Cleet grinned. ‘Pure coincidence. I’m no relation to that feller who bested Ben Thompson up in Ellsworth.’
Gibb nodded slowly, chewing on the information, frowning slightly as he let the fragments float around to form some sort of sensible shape in his mind.
‘We’ve come halfway across Texas, pushed this herd through flooded river crossings, rescued cows and calves from sinkholes, rounded up the whole two thousand head after thunder caused ’em to stampede. Despite all those troubles, we’ve lost fewer than a dozen head.’ He squinted at Cleet. ‘You mind explainin’ why a tired old outlaw should cause me a single moment’s concern?’
‘Tired and getting old he may be, but Janson’s wounded and dangerous. You mentioned sinkholes. I was forced to pull my pistol on the Caprock Kid in a sinkhole by the name of Beattie’s Halt. Plugged him in the shoulder. While there, I also picked up on some gossip. Lord knows why, but this man bears you a grudge. And he’s doubly dangerous, because he’s not operating alone. He knows you’re here, knows you’re taking a herd across the Staked Plains.’
‘That’s a long speech, Marshal Earp.’
‘The next bit’s short. You need an escort. Me and my deputy, Sangster—’
‘I don’t see the shine of a deputy’s badge.’
Cleet shrugged. ‘What you do see is a buffalo gun and a man who can shoot the black centre out of the Ace of Spades at any distance you care to name.’
‘Maybe.’ Gibb smiled, then shrugged. ‘What you do is up to you. I’ve told you you’re not needed, but I can’t stop you riding into that baking wilderness if that’s what you want.’
Cleet looked towards the trees, thinking of the timing.
‘Your men are sleeping.’
‘So are the cattle. You got here too early. We rest all day tomorrow, move out at sundown.’
‘You following the advice of your guide?’
Gibb pushed his lips out, his eyes narrowed, and Cleet grinned.
‘Ain’t no secret, no mystery. Ed Morgan rides herd down in Texas, but the reason he can take you across the Llano Estacado is because he was born in Beattie’s Halt. You know Ed, so you already know that, an’ me knowing Ed explains my presence here: I saw him in the Halt. We were sharing drinks when I was forced to plug the Kid. Ed told me what he was about to do, how you’d hired him. . . .’
Cleet shrugged, waited.
‘Do I see more coincidence at work here? You ride into this Beattie’s Halt, by chance run into Ed Morgan and the Caprock Kid—’
‘The Kid runs the saloon. The Last Water-hole.’
The name brought a smile to Gibb’s face. He hesitated, then shook his head. ‘Suit yourself, Marshal.’ He turned away. ‘You and your deputy can bed down under the trees. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day doing nothing. Use it to see the setup here, understand how we can handle anything this Caprock Kid throws our way – maybe change your mind about actin’ as unpaid unwanted escorts.’
‘If you’ve got doubts, sir, Ed Morgan will vouch for me.’
‘I’m sure he will, but I look at a man and make my own assessment of his character.’
‘Yeah,’ Cleet said softly as Harlan Gibb walked away, ‘and men like you, they’re so damn full of themselves they can’t see it when they’re busy diggin’ their own graves.’
‘Like you told him,’ Sangster said laconically, ‘we’re only here to help.’
Chapter Ten
Bobby Lee and Will Blunt left Cassie tucked back in a thick stand of trees and pushed on through the night to locate the herd. She was out of sight, comfortable in a clearing small enough to be untouched by moonlight, her bedding unrolled and the Henry fully loaded and by her side.
Will had understandable misgivings at leaving her. She brushed them aside. The clearing was a natural fort, a hollow surrounded by stony banks. To get close without being seen, Cassie said, a man would be forced to come on foot through the woods. Only an Indian could do that in silence.
The two men covered a mile, then another, sensed in their bones they were getting close but still had no idea how they were going to handle the meeting with the rancher – if he existed; if he was about to take his stock across the Staked Plains; if Van Gelderen’s man in buckskins was there with him – just too many ifs for Bobby Lee.
‘But does it matter?’ he said to Will Blunt. ‘We’re hunting a couple of killers. We’ll get them, one way or another, whether they’re heading north to Colorado or south through Texas.’
‘Quit speculating,’ Blunt said. ‘Van Gelderen could be watching you right now, but you’re out of time. We’re so close the stink of the herd’s taking my breath away.’
The trail was wide. They rode up a gentle grassy slope, thudded over the crest. Bobby Lee could see the lights of the camp-fires, beyond their flickering the gleam of the mist-shrouded Pecos River. The herd was a dark mass covering the ground like a monstrous swarm of bees. Now and then horns gleamed bone-white in the moonlight as a steer turned i
ts head. Bobby Lee sniffed, caught the whiff of some kind of stew that set his mouth watering and his eyes hunting for the chuck-wagon.
‘No guards.’
Bobby Lee grunted. ‘Only the nighthawks. I can hear one of them crooning to those critters. This herd’s not moving tonight.’
‘Someone talkin’ over that way.’
They swung right and down the slope, and now the smell of food was stronger and Bobby Lee knew the men who were too restless to sleep, or about to spell those watching the herd, were gathered in the warmth of the cook’s fire.
As they rode down he could see the remuda in a simple rope enclosure, the horses dozing hip-shot; the pale bulk of the chuck wagon’s canvas; the dark shapes of men sleeping under the trees.
Then a tall figure was on its feet and moving away from the hanging lantern and the fire’s glow to meet them. The long shadow falling across the grass faded as the man stepped out into the moonlight. Bobby Lee hissed a warning to Blunt and lifted the reins high to make his hands clearly visible.
‘That’s far enough, Janson.’
‘Jesus!’ Will Blunt said softly.
And over by the fire there was the ugly sound of a weapon cocking.
‘What kind of a greeting’s this?’ Bobby Lee said.
‘No greeting. That comes after you’ve stepped down and hung up your gunbelts.’
‘Coffee and a plate of that stew would make the welcome a warm one,’ Bobby Lee said.
He swung down, awkwardly unbuckled his belt and hung it on the saddle horn. As he stepped forward he could hear Blunt doing likewise, saw the tall man in front of him eyeing his bandages, the steady gaze searching his face. He chuckled softly.
‘The wanted dodgers got the likeness all wrong, I’ll wager you’ve never seen me in the flesh and I know damn well you couldn’t see my face as I rode in. So tell me, how’d you know my name?’
‘I was told to expect the Caprock Kid. Wounded.’ The big man gestured towards the sky, and at Bobby Lee’s shoulder. ‘Clear moonlight, white sling supporting a damaged arm.’