Tough Justice

by Colin Bainbridge

  ‘Bark, it’s sure good to see you again.’

  ‘It’s been a long time. But it seems like you ain’t been livin’ too far away. How come we ain’t bumped into each other before now?’

  His question caught Lowell unprepared. ‘I guess you could say I’ve been lyin’ kinda low,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you don’t need to do that anymore. Eliot was sayin’ you might need a job. Once you’re fully recovered, of course. You don’t need to look any further. There’s a job for you right here on the Long Rail.’

  ‘That’s a nice offer, but I ain’t so sure. I wouldn’t want to take advantage.’

  Fuller laughed. ‘For a moment there I thought it was the fever talkin’. You won’t be takin’ advantage, man. There’s a whole heap of work to be done and I’m short of hands.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Lowell said. ‘I’d have thought there’d be no bother findin’ men. There are plenty of cowhands lookin’ for work at this time of year.’

  Fuller’s jovial mood seemed to vanish. A worried look came over his features.

  ‘Normally that would be the case,’ he said. ‘But right now things just ain’t normal.’

  Lowell was suddenly interested. ‘Go on,’ he prompted.

  By way of answer Fuller rose to his feet. ‘Never mind all that just now,’ he said. ‘I didn’t come in here to start gettin’ you all worked up. Seems like you’re recoverin’, but you need to take it easy.’

  He glanced up, looking through the door. ‘Besides, I ain’t the only one waitin’ to see you. Here comes Lorna right now.’

  Lowell turned his head at the sound of footsteps and the swish of a skirt. In a moment a woman appeared in the doorway carrying a tray on which stood some bread and a bowl of broth. Fuller grinned.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said.

  Lowell made an effort to sit up and this time he was successful. ‘Talk to you again,’ he said. ‘By the way, how long have I been here?’

  ‘Two days,’ the girl replied.

  ‘Nearer three,’ Fuller said. ‘See you later.’ He went out of the room and the girl sat on the chair he had vacated.

  ‘Can you manage?’ she said, offering him the food.

  Lowell nodded. He took a sip of the broth. It tasted good and he said so. While he was eating, he observed his companion and liked what he saw. He reckoned she must be in her early twenties. She had thick auburn hair done in ringlets and her plain gingham dress only emphasized the lines of her figure.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

  ‘A lot better than I did,’ he replied. He didn’t mention how his head was pounding or the ache in his shoulder.

  ‘I suppose I had better introduce myself,’ she said. ‘I’m Lorna. I’m Mr Fuller’s niece.’

  ‘I’m very glad to meet you. I’m Burt Lowell. I understand I owe you thanks for attending to me.’

  He suddenly felt awkward, wondering if he had said the right thing, but she quickly put him at his ease.

  ‘There’s no need for thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I’m not much of a nurse. I probably did all the wrong things.’

  He wondered just how much he was in her debt. His wound had obviously been recently bandaged. Instead of pursuing the topic, however, he pointed to the print instead.

  ‘Your uncle tells me the picture is yours,’ he said.

  She looked up. ‘You like it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘It’s by Currier and Ives,’ she replied. ‘The original painting was done by a lady named Fanny Palmer. I knew her a little, back in New York. She’s an old lady now. If you look hard, you might just be able to see her signature.’

  Lowell made to get up but seeing the grimace on his face, Lorna put her hand gently on his arm.

  ‘Maybe not just now,’ she said.

  He sank back again and resumed his broth. When he had finished she got to her feet and picked up the tray.

  ‘Try and get some rest,’ she said.

  When she had gone, closing the door softly behind her, Lowell lay for some time with his head propped against the pillow, looking at the sky through the open window. The broth seemed to have done him some good. The pounding in his head began to fade as he drifted into slumber.

  When he awoke he felt a lot better. The light had faded but the breeze outside seemed to have picked up. Gingerly, he raised himself and swung first one leg over the edge of the bunk and then the other. He sat for a while before, placing his hands on the bed-frame, he hauled himself upright. Behind the bed was a chair he had not previously noticed and on it his clothes were piled. He had some problems pulling them on but he finally succeeded. His gun belt was slung across the back of the chair and he strapped it round his waist. He had no clear idea about what he intended to do, and was just considering the matter when he heard voices coming through the open window.

  ‘It seems like he’s been livin’ in that old ghost town. Why would a man want to spend any time there?’

  ‘I don’t know. He kept mumblin’ somethin’ when the fever was on him – sounded like a name but I couldn’t make it out.’

  ‘If folks in town knew he was livin’ like a wounded coyote, they should have done somethin’ about it.’

  ‘What could anyone do, if that was his choice? One thing I picked up: he used to be the Buckhorn marshal one time. I guess it was still a functioning community then.’

  Lowell recognized the voices of Eliot and Fuller. There was a moment’s pause before Fuller spoke again.

  ‘Well, whatever this is all about, I figure we’d better be prepared. Those gunslicks could come lookin’ for him again. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit surprised they ain’t got here already. You and Lowell must have left some sign.’

  ‘I guess none of them is any good at trackin’. But what happened to Lowell ain’t that unusual. Seems like it’s gettin’ to be unsafe just goin’ about town. Matters have been gettin’ worse and worse in Granton. The murder of Brownlow was just the culmination of a lot of bad things.’

  ‘I knew Brownlow. He was a good man.’

  ‘Yeah. He did a lot to help the town. I don’t hold out a lot of hope that whoever did it will be caught either, not since Fowler took over as marshal. It ain’t no use lookin’ for justice there. If there’s any justice to be had, it’ll be tough justice. Folks’ll have to look out for themselves.’

  There was a pause before the voice resumed.

  ‘There’s somethin’ else I’ve been thinkin’ about. Some of the cattle have been stolen and we both reckon maybe Rickard’s behind it. I know it seems like a different matter entirely, but you don’t suppose there could be some connection?’

  ‘What? With what happened to Lowell?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe all this trouble comin’ at once is more than a coincidence.’

  ‘You could be right. On the other hand, maybe we’re wrong about Rickard. Maybe we’ve been doin’ him an injustice. All the same, I just don’t take to the idea of those cattalo critters he’s got back there at the Half-Box M.’

  ‘Cattaloes?’

  ‘Crossbreeds,’ Fuller said. ‘Buffalo-cattle offspring. You ain’t heard of ’em? I think it’s a spin-off from that buffalo hide business he runs. I wouldn’t mind any of it so much except for Lorna. I’ve tried to shield her, but I think she’s cottoned that matters ain’t quite what they should be. I wouldn’t want her to get caught up in anything.’

  Lowell heard the sound of boots and the talk dwindled as the two men walked away. For a few moments he stood quietly, thinking over what he had just heard. He wasn’t sure what to make of it all. He was caught in a welter of indecision. Through all his confusion the name of Rickard stood clear. It wasn’t the first time he had heard it mentioned. The storekeeper had referred to him too. It seemed Rickard was an influential man around Granton. Although his visits to the town were relatively few, he had picked up some of the gossip.

  He felt reluctant to embroil other people in his own struggles. F
irst Eliot had come to his rescue, and now his old friend Fuller was involved. There was also Fuller’s niece to worry about. He didn’t know what she was doing there, but that was irrelevant. Fuller himself had voiced his concerns about her. It seemed to him that the best thing would be make an exit and do it quickly. Suddenly purposeful, he looked out of the window. There was no sign of Fuller or Eliot. The window looked out on the corral. There were some horses in it but he couldn’t see his own sorrel or the buckboard either. Chances were that the building to the right was the stable. In all likelihood, he would find his horse and his saddle in there. Bracing himself against the pain in his shoulder, he climbed awkwardly out of the window.

  There was more of a drop than he had allowed for and he landed awkwardly, jarring his shoulder. He remained crouched for a minute or two, gathering his breath, before beginning to creep towards the stable building. He kept looking out for Fuller and Eliot, but he couldn’t see them. Just as he approached the stable the door of another building was flung open and two men came out, talking together. Lowell ran the last few yards to the stable, doubled over, and pressed himself against the wall. A light had come on in the building from which the men had emerged and from time to time he heard the sound of voices. He guessed it was the bunkhouse. Inching his way to the stable door, he peered inside.

  It was gloomy but he could see a number of horses in their stalls. The smell of horse-flesh and manure was strong. Still keeping low, he moved inside. He was in luck. The place was deserted. He began to look around for his own horse but he couldn’t see it. He moved to the rear entrance and, glancing outside, saw a dusty yard with the buckboard standing in it. At the back of the yard was a small corral containing a couple of horses, one of which he recognized as his own sorrel. He turned back inside the stable. A number of saddles hung from pegs and he took one. Rather than try to cross the open yard undetected, he made his way round it by a circuitous route, taking advantage of any cover that offered itself. The corral was sheltered by some trees and bushes at one side and he led the sorrel there to saddle it up. It didn’t take very long. It was only as he tightened the girths that he suddenly wondered why he was acting so surreptitiously. After all, Fuller and Eliot were on his side. He assuaged his conscience with the thought that he was doing it for their good. Maybe he had got out of the habit of being with people. In any case, he had made his decision and there was no point in changing his mind. With a last look round to make sure there was no one about, he climbed into leather and turned away from the Long Rail.

  He rode hard till he was well clear of the ranch-house before slowing the sorrel and allowing it to go at its own pace. As darkness descended he saw an overgrown dugout and, after a moment’s thought, decided to stay there overnight. The place was at a remote stretch of the range and looked as though it hadn’t been occupied for some time. It was probably only used in winter as a base to stop the cattle from drifting. When he looked inside, his initial impression was confirmed. The place was very sparsely furnished with a cheap pine table, a couple of straight-backed chairs held together with baling wire and a rusty iron bed frame without a mattress, but it would serve his purposes.

  He knew that he wasn’t thinking straight. It might even be the lingering effects of the fever he had been through. At least the place offered him a temporary refuge. His absence from the ranch-house would soon be discovered and a pursuit instigated but nobody would think of looking for him here and he intended being on his way again before dawn. In the meantime he needed more time to think.

  He made himself as comfortable as possible, making coffee from the supplies he always carried in his saddle-bags, rolling a cigarette and trying to organize his scattered thoughts. His intention remained to seek out the man both Fuller and Eliot had referred to: Rickard. He had a vague sense that he would be riding into a mess of trouble but the knowledge was not sufficient to deter him. He began to consider the name. Had he ever come across it before? Search his memory as he might, he could not recall any incident involving a man named Rickard. Maybe Eliot was barking up the wrong tree entirely when he thought there might be a connection between what had happened to him and whatever trouble seemed to be brewing with regard to the Long Rail. Someone had mentioned a ranch in connection with Rickard but what was it? Either Fuller or Eliot had mentioned a name. He should be able to remember it. He tried going through the names of some of the ranches in the area. That was it: the Half-Box M. Should he make his way there? No, he would head for Granton and see what he could find out in town.

  Chapter Two

  The township of Granton was like a lot of others, but there was a certain bustle about the place because of its stage-line connection. All along Front Street stacks of buffalo hides towered, and over the entrance to one of the bigger buildings was the name Ludwig Rickard, Animal Hides, Pelts and Fertilizer. The owner of the business was sitting on the edge of a windowsill, looking down on the scene below.

  His attention was soon drawn to a stocky figure in buckskin that emerged from the Fashion Restaurant and made its way across the street in his direction. When the man disappeared under an awning, he turned back into the room and sat down at a large leather-topped desk. After a few moments the door opened and the face of his secretary appeared.

  ‘Mr Vernon to see you. I told him you were busy, but he seems rather anxious.’

  Rickard grimaced and thought for a moment before replying:

  ‘Ok, show him in.’

  She turned and made a gesture and the man appeared. She shut the door behind him.

  ‘Well, Vernon, this is an unexpected pleasure,’ Rickard said.

  The man was hesitant and Rickard didn’t do anything to put him at his ease. He advanced slowly towards Rickard’s desk.

  ‘Well,’ Rickard said, ‘can I be of help?’

  Vernon seemed to be steeling himself to speak. ‘I want my money,’ he finally managed to say.

  ‘And you shall have it,’ Rickard answered. ‘Every last cent of it.’

  ‘You told me that before.’

  ‘I said there might be a temporary delay. That little impediment has now passed. In fact, I was in the very process of arranging for a transfer of cash to your account.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,’ Vernon replied.

  ‘Of course; my mistake. Here, let me write you a cheque.’

  ‘I don’t want no cheque. Just give me my money.’

  Rickard smiled. ‘Of course, I understand,’ he said. ‘If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll be right back.’

  He crossed the room and went out the door. Vernon remained standing, awkwardly looking around him. The sounds of the street entered through the open window. In a few minutes the door opened and Rickard re-entered. He was carrying a bundle wrapped in brown paper which he handed over to Vernon.

  ‘There you are: the full amount plus a little extra to make up for the delay. You can count it if you like.’

  Vernon hesitated a moment and then thrust the bundle into an inside pocket.

  ‘If you’re interested,’ Rickard continued, ‘I could put a little further work your way.’

  ‘More buffalo huntin’?’ the man replied.

  ‘I may require your services again in that department,’ Rickard replied, ‘but not just for the moment. Stocks are pretty high, as you might have seen. No, it’s something else I have in mind.’

  ‘What? You mean. . . .’

  ‘Yes. You did a good job dealing with Brownlow. Now there’s someone else who, shall we say, needs teaching a lesson.’

  ‘You want me to do the same?’

  ‘I leave that entirely up to you. I don’t question your methods.’

  Vernon’s face crumpled into an ugly grin. ‘Leave it to me, Mr Rickard,’ he said.

  ‘Rest assured,’ Rickard replied, ‘you will be paid in full and promptly. As I said, the previous delay was purely due to a minor cash flow problem. Now I’ve succeeded in finding a market and those hides are waiting to be
sent off, that situation isn’t likely to arise again.’

  Vernon swallowed and then licked his lips. ‘Who have you got in mind this time?’ he ventured.

  ‘A man named Burt Lowell. You might know of him. Apparently he’s a loner and has been spending most of his time in that old ghost town – Buckhorn I think they call it.’

  ‘I know the place. It should be easy enough to deal with him.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always turn out that way.’

  Vernon looked puzzled.

  ‘I expect you’ve heard about the recent shooting in town. That was Lowell’s doing. Those men he shot were from the Half-Box M.’ Rickard’s expression suddenly turned thunderous.

  ‘Incompetent idiots,’ he hissed. ‘It wasn’t just me they failed. It wasn’t just me they were responsible to.’ He paused while the flash of anger subsided.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘You’ve proved your worth. Your reputation precedes you and I know I can trust you to get the job done. I can tell you, there’ll be good money in it this time.’

  ‘Is Lowell connected with Brownlow?’

  ‘That is no concern of yours. Brownlow went too far with some of his scurrilous articles aimed both at me and Mr Mossman,’ Rickard replied. ‘All lies. All lies. Let’s just say that this time it’s personal.’

  He suddenly seemed to lose interest in pursuing the topic any further. He got to his feet as a signal that the interview was over and Vernon took the hint. Rickard accompanied him to the door.

  ‘My secretary will give you any further information you might require regarding Lowell,’ he said. ‘Just make sure you don’t let me down.’

  Vernon grinned. ‘You know you can rely on me,’ he said. ‘You won’t need to bother about Lowell anymore.’

  Rickard opened the door to usher Vernon out. When he had closed it behind him he returned to his desk and poured another drink. He didn’t like Vernon. He already knew too much and in his burst of anger he had given more away than he had intended. In particular, he should never have mentioned the name of Mossman. His whole position required him to be discreet. After all, he depended on Mossman. It wouldn’t do to antagonize him in any way. Once Vernon had carried out his latest assignment, it might be wise to deal with him too.