by Tyler Hatch
It was a jack-knife with a broken blade point with ‘Alamo’ scratched into a metal oval on the staghorn handle.
‘Blaine must’ve dropped it in his hurry to get away after killin’ Old Morg … Right, Luke?’
It seemed a long time, but in the end Lucas nodded.
‘Reckon it’ll cost you more than two hundred, though,’ Waco said confidently.
Lucas grinned crookedly. ‘I reckon so – but it’ll be worth every cent!’
CHAPTER 11
TRAIL’S END
Blaine regretted his snap decision to ride into Brackettville and join the crew of Broken Wheel.
He was tired from the long trail drive and the seemingly endless ride back from San Antone. Squeezing a halfway decent price for the herd out of the meathouse agents had taken a lot of effort – he wasn’t a man who did much talking and it had been two long day’s hard drinking and fast talking before the agent had come around.
Then he had done it so abruptly and with such good humour that Blaine knew the man had just been filling in time, enjoying the endless hassling and bargaining.
Well, truth was, he was tired of a lot of things lately. Tired of Broken Wheel and Morgan and Lucas – particularly Lucas. But he had given his word he would work off what Morgan figured he owed him and although he knew it had been a rash decision he would not go back on what he had undertaken.
He was not a man given to wild drunks – he didn’t care for the rotgut whiskey they served that much, although he liked beer when it was iced – but the crew had a couple of hours start when he arrived and plied him with drinks. He shook his dark mood deliberately and tossed down more whiskey in half an hour than he had, probably, drunk over the last couple of months. He had a few beers as well, felt suddenly expansive, and bought cigars all round. The strong tobacco mixed with the vile liquor soon made his head swim.
The men were drunk, mostly happily so, but a couple got into fights with townsmen. Then someone started singing trail ditties and everyone joined in – making up their own words and causing much coarse laughter. The bar girls moved in through the smoky fog and soon were helping staggering men upstairs to their musty beds. Others were content to dance with the ‘ladies’ – at least until roving female hands aroused basic instincts and gave them other ideas.
Blaine refused to dance – his head was swimming and he felt queasy, unused to this kind of thing – but at least he had stopped worrying about the O’Days, although he felt kind of sad when he allowed himself to dwell on Kitty….
‘Go on, Blaine! Dance!’ urged Lucky Kinnane, swaying, with a straggly-haired blonde a good twelve years his senior clinging to his arm, trying to steer him towards the stairs.
‘Yeah, dance, Blaine!’ urged the brassy whore, false smile pasted on, shaking him a little. ‘Let’s see you dance.’
He shook free, a little unsteady. ‘You wanna see a dance?’ he roared and a wave of silence washed through the big bar, all eyes turning to the one-eye breed, surprised: everyone was used to his quiet, deep voice, not this stentorian bellow. ‘I’ll show you a dance you’ve never seen before!’
He overturned a couple of tables, kicked chairs out of the way and began a grunting chant, stamping in time to it, lifting one leg, hopping a little on the other foot, lowering the leg and raising the other, all the time his arms jerking and his lean body twisting as he moved in a tight circle.
‘By God!’ screamed the whore, laughing. ‘He’s dancin’, all right! He’s doin’ a goddamned war dance! Watch out!’
It suited the mood of the drunks and they began shouting and whooping, clapping their hands and stamping their feet. Calico and Lucky and Clay Winton joined Blaine and the four of them were busy raising the roof with their clamour when a gunshot brought things to an abrupt halt.
Blearily, they stared at the batwings. Sheriff Marsh Kilgour, stooped a little from his arthritis, hatless, and his thinning grey hair loose and wild, stood there, holding a smoking six gun. Blaine’s blurred smile of amusement faded slowly as Lucas and Waco pushed in behind the lawman, both looking mighty pleased with themselves.
Kilgour limped down the silent room, one hip giving him a lot of trouble lately, and stood before Blaine.
‘Well, guess we don’t see you like this very often, Blaine. Fact, don’t recollect ever seein’ you like it before.’ He squinted. ‘This a tribal celebration or somethin’, mebbe?’
Blaine shrugged. ‘Celebratin’ – drownin’ my sorrows – something like that, Marsh. Have I broken the Law?’
‘No-ooo – not with your cuttin’ loose the curly wolf, leastways, but back at Broken Wheel you sure busted it good.’
Blaine, sobering fast, frowned and flicked his single-eyed gaze to the smirking Lucas and Waco. Those two were up to something – that much seeped through his sodden brain but he wasn’t prepared for Marsh Kilgour’s next words.
‘I’m arrestin’ you for the murder of Morgan O’Day – Now you gonna gimme trouble or come along quietly….?’
The hard, narrow streaks of the iron bars on the window gradually took form as the sky lightened in the east. From down the stone corridor he heard the clatter of tin mugs and the rattle of dishes, and he smelled frying bacon. Then came the deputy’s heavy boots trudging towards his cell.
Blaine sat up slowly, wincing, holding his head as he swung his feet to the floor.
‘Ain’t used to tyin’ one on, eh?’ Deputy Linus Sebastian grinned through the bars. ‘Stay put while I open the door and slide your breakfast in … Nice greasy bacon and soft-fried eggs with burnt toast and coffee that’ll float a six-shooter. Mebbe a couple flies – for fresh meat!’
‘You can keep everything but the coffee,’ slurred Blaine as the deputy opened the door partially and slid the tray along the flagged floor. Half the coffee spilled into the tin platter of bacon and eggs but it couldn’t spoil it any more than it already was.
‘You’ll be required to come out for wash-up at six o’clock,’ intoned Linus, locking up again. ‘Then you can clean out the other cells and muck-out the stables … Sheriff don’t ride much no more but he still keeps a couple fine hosses – Likes to talk to ’em and think about the old days when he was an Injun fighter. Whoops! Did I say “Injun” or “engine”?’
‘Just go away, Deputy, and let me die in peace.’
The java was the worst Blaine had ever tasted and he couldn’t even look at the mess on the tray let alone attempt to eat it. He rolled and lit a cigarette but stubbed it out almost immediately. Then he rattled the bars until Linus Sebastian came striding down angrily, demanding to know what all the racket was about.
‘Lemme wash-up now and I’ll get started on the chores,’ Blaine said. ‘I’ll go loco if I have to stay in here smelling that pigswill.’ He pointed to the bacon and eggs.
‘Matter of fact the pigs kinda like my cookin’, but Uncle Marsh says to have you wash-up at six in the a.m. and … Aw, what the hell? C’mon out an’ get started….’
At the wash bench the chill water in the tin bowl woke Blaine up fully and he sluiced it over his face and head several times. Drying himself on the towel, he saw Linus watching from the doorway.
‘Stables next … I got a long-handled shovel for you so you don’t have to get your hands dirty. Not that it’d bother you much I s’pose. You’d be used to sleepin’ in trash and manure at the Reservation, wouldn’t you?’
Sebastian was new here, had come up from El Paso with Marsh Kilgour’s widowed sister and landed the deputy’s job. ‘Yeah, Linus, we’re like that – sleep where we can. Muck don’t bother us Injuns.’
‘Hell, I dunno how you can stand it,’ Linus sneered. The new deputy was feeling superior now, white man over breed, and Blaine deliberately sniffed, spat on the floor before going through the door.
‘Pig! They say you shot your own father.’
‘I never shot anyone. But the one who got killed was the man who raised me, not my real father. He shot him in a raid on our camp when I was a shaver.�
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‘Ah! But finally got your revenge, eh? Well, they say you people’ve got a helluva lotta patience….’ He gestured abruptly. ‘That clapboard buildin’ yonder. Put the hosses out to grass first.’
Blaine took the long-handled shovel and inspected the blade, metal worn shiny and thin from use. ‘This is too rounded and worn to shovel manure and straw.’
Linus’ face hardened – as much as it could, him being moon-faced and flabby. He dropped a hand to his six gun, trying hard to be the tough deputy. ‘You just do what you’re told!’
‘Sure.’ Then Blaine jabbed the end of the long handle hard into Linus’s flabby belly and the man grunted, staggered, and before he could get his balance, Blaine hit him across the head with the flat of the blade. Linus dropped like a poled steer and Blaine dragged him quickly into the stable, bound his wrists and ankles with spare harness and stuffed the man’s own neckerchief in his drooling mouth. He tied it into place with a sleeve ripped from the deputy’s shirt.
Blaine took the man’s gun with him, ran back into the jail building and found his own Colt and Winchester in the front office with his saddle. After locking the door, he took these back to the stables, chose the roan and saddled quickly. In minutes, he led the horse through the gap in the sagging paling fence, around a cess pool and into the brush. He cleared town before many folk were astir. He hoped Marsh Kilgour’s arthritis was giving him hell this morning so he would sleep in and not come down to the jailhouse to check on Linus for a few hours yet.
It was noon before the posse arrived at Broken Wheel.
Sheriff Marsh Kilgour was leading, taking swigs of strong ‘pain killer’ from a silver flask he carried because his arthritis was troubling him. Linus Sebastian was there, too, his hat on all askew because one side of his head was swollen. He was bitching about the headache he had sustained and maintained that he ought to have stayed behind in town.
‘You let him escape,’ Kilgour told him unsympathetically. ‘Only right you help recapture him.’
There were six townsmen, none very enthusiastic, but they had been forcibly deputized by the sour old sheriff.
Lucas was in his father’s office – avoiding looking at the dark stains on the floor that had so far resisted all efforts to remove them. He was going over the books and felt his sombre mood rapidly dissipating as he saw the still-incomplete figures, but figures that promised him almost instant riches.
After all, he was the lone beneficiary of Morgan’s will now. Kitty had been disowned months ago and Blaine would soon be hanged for Morg’s murder—
Then he heard the posse and his belly lurched. He called for Waco who had been searching the house, on Lucas’ orders, for money the Old Man might’ve had stashed away for an emergency – Lucas knew there had to be some….
A lot with a little luck!
Kilgour didn’t dismount, called for Lucas to come out on to the porch. The sheriff was gripping the saddlehorn firmly and swayed slightly. Lucas compressed his lips. Goddamnit! Marsh was already halfway drunk … Which meant he would be unpredictable….
Damnit! He didn’t need this!
Marsh didn’t mince his words. ‘Saddle up – this sorry son of a bitch of a nephew of mine let Blaine escape. He’s ridin’ my roan – can pick its tracks out of a bunch of a hundred mustangs easy. He’s headed into the hills yonder.’
‘I can’t come now!’ Lucas said, heart racing. ‘I – I’ve a lot of paperwork to do and Morg’s funeral to arrange and …’
‘His murderer to catch – I’d have to think you don’t care whether he’s caught or not, Lucas, if you refuse to come.’
Lucas mentally cursed the drunken old fool. ‘Waco – saddle some horses and grab a few men – We’d better scour the hills with the sheriff’s posse before he gives us a bad name – that satisfy you, Marsh?’
‘I can always call in a few more men if I need ’em from some of the out-lyin’ spreads….’
It was hot, unproductive work. They found tracks where Blaine had skirted the Broken Wheel down by the riverbend. An ex-army scout named Tyson was tracking for Kilgour and he said he couldn’t be certain, but looked to him like Blaine had crossed the river.
So they crossed over, then broke up into two parties and arranged to meet near Fool’s Canyon at sundown.
‘Hell, you aim to stay out that long?’ Lucas complained.
‘Long as it takes – Lucas, this is your father’s killer! Figured you’d ride to hell’n’back to track him down.’
‘Well, sure I would – but I know Blaine. I figure he’ll be riding hell-for-leather for White Creek. His Injun kin’ll hide him, no trouble.’
‘I’ve already wired the San Antone Marshal to get a posse out there and some men up to the Reservation.’ The sheriff paused to take a final, deep swig of pain-killer from his flask, watery eyes on Lucas. ‘My creaky ol’ bones tell me he’s still around here. He maintains you framed him for Morg’s murder, Lucas, you and Waco—’
‘Well, he would say something like that, wouldn’t he?’
‘Mmmmm – claims he must’ve lost that old knife of Alamo’s when he fought with Waco. Says Waco musta picked it up – fact, he and Lucky rode back to look for it but it’d gone by then – so had Waco….’
‘Listen, Marsh, I never saw no knife!’ Waco said, emphatically denying the implication. ‘Only when me and Lucas ran into the ranch office and found Morg dead – the knife was lyin’ beside him. That’s where Blaine dropped it!’
‘Well, I guess it’d make sense that way,’ the lawman admitted. ‘Now, scatter, do your best, and meet up at Fool’s Canyon by sundown.’
Lucas made sure Waco was with him and Lucky Kinnane and Calico tagged along but Lucas got rid of them quickly enough, despatching them to check out dry gulches more to the north.
‘You think Kilgour’s on Blaine’s side?’ Waco asked worriedly.
‘If he was stone cold sober I’d say “no” – but he’s half drunk already an’ he could let his personal feelin’s override his Lawman’s sense of duty….’
‘Well, what we gonna do?’
‘Stick to our story – we left Morg and Blaine alone, heard Morg shouting and soon after there was the gunfire. We ran back, found Morg dead – and saw Blaine lightin’-out towards town. We don’t change that for anything! Marsh’ll have to believe us then…. We’re lucky, it looks bad, Blaine leavin’ the trail crew in town, then sending the rest of the hands in for a booze-up. Like he wanted to get Morg alone.’
Waco was willing to go along: he knew he could prise a lot more than two hundred bucks out of Lucas now. If Lucas could get rid of Blaine he’d have the ranch all to himself. And as Waco had opened the door for him to claim Broken Wheel, surely he would be justly rewarded.
These were the thoughts he had as he crossed a creek on the south side of the river. Then suddenly something hissed and he started to turn his head. Next instant he was gasping for breath, clawing at his throat and some unseen force dragged him violently from his saddle….
Lucas, expecting to meet Waco by the big beech just opposite the smaller set of rapids in the creek, wondered what was keeping the man. He started cussing Waco in his mind and then the brush behind him rustled gently, although there was no breeze at all, and his head seemed to explode like a firework going off behind his eyes….
Both men came round at about the same time. Waco rubbed at his throat and the raw rope welt that encircled his neck. The back of his head throbbed, too, where he had landed on it after being dragged out of his saddle. Lucas felt sick and his eyes seemed crossed, everything he looked at appearing double and blurred. He retched painfully.
‘Take your time.’
They snapped their heads up at the quiet voice, and immediately regretted the unwise motion.
They saw Blaine, sitting on a rock by a small fire in a trench with a line of rocks around the edges, effectively shielding any glow.
‘I’ve just finished my supper – left a little coffee warming on a nice
set of coals, hot coals – you fellers interested?’
‘The posse’ll nail you before morning, Blaine!’ grated Lucas, still feeling sick.
‘They do, you won’t know anything about it, Lucas – how about you, Waco? You want to gamble on the posse getting here in time?’
Waco swallowed – it hurt his throat. ‘In time for – what?’
‘To save you.’
Both men stared.
Lucas stammered, ‘S-save us? From – what?’
‘Me.’
Lucas felt his eyes widen and his mouth was suddenly very dry. He couldn’t force out any words.
Waco frowned and his harsh voice was taut with concern as he said, ‘You ain’t gonna do anythin’ with the posse so close!’
‘How close you reckon they are?’ Neither man hazarded a guess and Blaine said, ‘They’re way over in Fool’s Canyon wondering where you are – miles from here.’
‘W-what d’you want?’
Blaine swivelled his one eye to Lucas. ‘Give it some thought. No hurry.’
Waco scowled. ‘Gimme my gun and I’ll …’
‘You’ll die, Waco – I’ll put a bullet in you the moment you try for your gun. Mightn’t kill you then, but you’ll die eventually.’
Lucas felt really sick now. After Alamo and Blaine had gone to Mexico, Clay Winton had found some human remains half-unearthed by coyotes back in the hills where some rocks were splashed with what looked like blood. The dogs hadn’t left much but had apparently been disturbed before they had finished their gruesome feast. There was enough left to see how horribly the men had died: they had been scalped, mutilated. There was a battered religious medal in the pocket of one corpse’s shirt, one that Clay knew had been carried by Clem Hardesty – no churchgoer, but a man who cared for his mother who had given him the medal on her death bed.
Although it had never been proved and no one had asked Blaine, it was generally accepted that the remains were those of Hardesty and Clint Rendell, that Blaine had caught up with them, taken his revenge and buried the bodies before Alamo had whisked him away to Mexico.