Through the driving rain he could see that a melee had developed at the point at which the cows he had been following had broken away. It was only then that he realized that the attack from Rickard had arrived. Turning his horse, he began to ride back.
He rode as hard as his flagging mount permitted towards the heart of the struggle that was taking place between Fuller’s Long Rail cowboys and Rickard’s gang of gunslicks. Isolated groups of cattle passed him and to his right he could see the main body of the herd as it continued its headlong chase. Cattle were straggling across a wide area and as he rode he was still partly thinking about how difficult a job it would be to round them up again. Then he had another thought. He had been so caught up with the stampede that he had forgotten about Lorna. Suddenly her image flashed across his mind. What had happened to her? Was she still safe with the chuck-wagon? A fresh wave of fury swept over him. If Rickard’s men had hurt her. . . . Like a man possessed he rode into the heart of the battle.
Even as he approached the melee, groups of riders began to break apart and form separate struggles within the main battle. He found himself facing an oncoming rider. Touching the horse’s flanks with his spurs, he drew it to one side and pressed the trigger of his Winchester. The man flung up his arms and fell backwards over his horse. Another rider appeared; holding his rifle with one hand, he squeezed off another shot and the man fell away to the side. His foot caught in the stirrups and prevented him from falling cleanly. Lowell heard the man’s screams above the tumult of the battle as he was dragged across the sodden ground. As he turned his mount, his horse reared as another bullet scorched its flank. Lowell was almost thrown, but he managed to bring the animal back under control. The movement shook the rifle from his grasp. Reaching for one of his six-guns, he began to blaze away at the mass of struggling horsemen in front of him, but quickly realized that he was taking a risk of hitting one of his own men.
In the driving rain, it was hard to see what was happening. Darkness hung over the prairie and thunder continued to roll around the sky. A vivid flash of lightning lit up the scene and in that instant Lowell had a sharply etched vision of something almost unreal, like a visual parable of everything his life had become since the death of his wife. For some reason, he thought of Lorna’s print on the wall of the room in which he had found himself recuperating from his injury back at the Long Rail. It was only momentary; he was jerked back to reality as a bullet whined close by and he quickly jammed more slugs into his six-gun. Out of the melange of men and horses two more riders appeared, galloping hard towards him. He raised his gun and fired and they veered off, heading away from the fray. Looking after them, he saw that they weren’t the only ones. A number of horsemen were riding back up the slope towards the rocks and he had an intimation that the tide of battle had turned. At the same moment he heard his name being called and he turned to see Eliot ride up.
‘Lowell,’ he breathed. ‘I saw you go off after the breakaways. Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. What about Fuller?’
‘Last I saw he was doin’ all right.’
‘And Lorna?’
Before Eliot could reply there was a fresh salvo of fire. Lowell looked around, expecting Rickard’s gunnies to be coming at them again, but the opposite seemed to be the case. All around there were horsemen in retreat, mainly heading up the ridge.
‘Come on!’ Eliot shouted. ‘Looks like we got the varmints on the run!’
He spurred his horse but Lowell did not join him. Instead, he began to ride back to where the chuck-wagon stood at a little distance.
His heart was pounding. Would he find Lorna there? He came up to the wagon and jumped from his horse. Tearing open the canvas, he peered inside. There was a body inside, sprawled face downwards. With fear clutching at his entrails, he climbed in and turned it over. It was one of the gunnies. He crawled forward to the front of the wagon and jumped down. The horses of the remuda had scattered. He couldn’t tell whether they had been deliberately loosed or had simply broken free in all the furore. He could see some of them standing forlornly in the driving rain. Back down the line, the sounds of battle had dwindled but he felt no sense of victory. Where was Lorna? He remounted and began to ride, searching desperately for some sign of her.
Suddenly his blood seemed to freeze. Lying on the prairie he saw a body. It could have been any of the Long Rail cowboys. It could have been one of Rickard’s hardcases. But he knew it was Lorna. Coming up to the prostrate figure, he jumped down and kneeled beside her. She was lying face down and her rain-lashed body was soaked and streaming, but she was breathing. Very gently he turned her over, holding her head above the swampy ground.
‘Lorna!’ he breathed.
There was no response and he said it again. This time he felt a shiver go down her body and then her eyes opened.
‘The horses,’ she said. ‘I was trying to bring in some of the horses.’
She was confused but in another moment she recognized him.
‘Lowell,’ she said, ‘Oh Lowell, thank goodness it’s you.’
From his vantage point high among the rocks, Rickard had been watching the scene with mixed emotions. Things hadn’t gone as he planned, but maybe it would turn out OK. He hadn’t specifically given orders for his men to attack. It was more a matter of not being able to restrain them. Observing the problems that Fuller and his crew were having with the herd, they had decided the time was ripe to make their move. They were probably right. Certainly Rickard would not have been able to say what was for the best given the unexpected turn that events had taken. So it was that he had decided that the only thing was to make the best of a bad job. His men still had the advantage in terms of numbers. They retained the element of surprise and they were nearly all seasoned gunmen. He was confident of the outcome.
As the struggle proceeded, however, his feelings gradually changed, first to anger and then to anxiety and finally to panic. As he watched more and more of his men break off and ride away, he decided not to wait any longer. The time had come to make his exit. In a state of panic, he made for his horse and, digging his spurs viciously into its flanks, began to make his retreat. His only aim was to get away. He had no idea where he was headed when he saw the mule train in the distance. It was the obvious place to seek refuge. It was his own mule-train and offered an easy way of making it to Shoshone Flats. As he rode down on it he began to feel better. This was just a set-back, a delay, nothing more. He would reorganize and then resume his plans. He carried on riding, not even noticing a rider heading in the opposite direction. It was Conrad, who, having found a suitable spot for the cattle to bed down, was on his way back after hearing the sounds of battle above the crashing of the elements.
The storm began to fade and at last the sky brightened as the men from the Long Rail took stock of the situation. All in all, they hadn’t come off so badly. Two men had been killed and others wounded, but they had won the day. The time to try and come to terms with their losses would have to wait. First of all there was the job of rounding up the cattle to be done, and it wasn’t going to be easy. As the wrangler hazed in the remuda, the rest of them brought together what cattle they could manage to find in the more immediate area and then, roping fresh horses, they set off to scout the prairie.
The land here was crossed and scarred by run-offs and washes. After the rain the streambeds were bubbling watercourses. The grass had become boggy and the horses found it hard going as their hoofs sank into the marshy ground. The men hadn’t gone far, however, before they came upon a number of mangled corpses, the trampled remains of some of Rickard’s gunslicks who had been unable to get out of the way of the onrushing herd.
‘I guess that’s one reason they decided to call it a day,’ Fuller remarked.
They found scattered bunches of cattle which they rounded up to bring back to camp, but the bulk of the herd had vanished. Their tracks were easy to follow, but it was a long and wearisome job to reach them, round them up, and drive them back again.
By the time the task was completed and the cattle bedded down on the ground Conrad had selected, night had fallen and they were exhausted. Even then, they still weren’t quite finished. The front wheels of the chuck-wagon had sunk almost up to the axle and it needed to be righted. Fortunately, the rear wheels were on slightly firmer ground. The cook, with the help of some of the other men, began to unload the wagon in order to make it lighter. Then he blocked the rear wheels, and led one of the horses to the back of the wagon. Fastening a rope to each side of the axle underneath, he slapped the horse across the rump, tugging on the reins and encouraging it to pull. Slowly at first but then with a jolt the wheels came up out of the sodden ground. When it was clear, he re-rigged the horses, returned the jettisoned items and climbed back on the wagon seat. He backed up the wagon, taking care to avoid the marshy patch, and then moved forward again. Only when the operation was completed did he and Lorna between them rustle up some grub for everyone. When they had eaten and downed some strong black coffee, they all felt a little better and gathered closer round the camp-fire to talk things over.
‘We’d better not relax our guard,’ Conrad said. ‘Rickard could be back any time.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Fuller replied. ‘I reckon Rickard’s shot his bolt. Those gunslicks he hired ain’t gonna have any sense of loyalty to him or the Half-Box. I should think they’ve had enough.’
‘I’d be more worried about gettin’ the herd across the river,’ Conrad remarked. ‘It’s gonna be swollen with all that rain.’
‘What about Rickard himself?’ Eliot remarked. ‘Did anybody see him?’
There was a general chorus of denial.
‘It would be like him to stay out of it,’ Fuller said. ‘That’s his way, to employ others to do his dirty work. He’s probably still sittin’ pretty back at the Half-Box M.’
Conrad was thoughtful. ‘Hold on a minute,’ he said. ‘When I heard gunfire and started ridin’ back, I saw a man goin’ hell for leather in the opposite direction. There was a mule-train out there and I’d say he was headed for it.’
‘You reckon it was Rickard?’ Fuller said.
‘I don’t know. It’s a fair chance.’
They looked at one another, considering Conrad’s words. Lowell downed his coffee and tossed the grounds into the fire.
‘I reckon someone should take a look at that mule train,’ he said. Fuller turned to him. Even in the flickering firelight Lowell could see the wry look on his face.
‘I guess I could spare one man for a spell,’ he said.
‘I hoped you’d say that,’ Lowell replied. ‘If Rickard is there, I’ll bring him back. Even if he’s not, I got a hunch I might just find out where Mossman is anyway.’
Lorna was sitting beside him, none the worse for her experiences.
‘You’ll be careful, won’t you?’ she said.
Lowell looked down at her and then at Fuller.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’
Rickard sat high on a wagon seat at the head of the mule-train, smoking a cigar. Although he still felt annoyed about the way things had turned out, his temper was beginning to improve. Because of circumstances largely out of his control the attack on the Long Rail herd had proved abortive, but it didn’t really matter too much. There would be other opportunities. He cared not a hoot for the gunslicks who had lost their lives. He had a small opinion of them and he could always hire more. It was frustrating but it was nothing more than that. Now he could supervise the sale of the hides in person once the mule-train got to Shoshone Flats. His visit might include a meeting with Mossman. That would depend on whether he could make arrangements for Lowell’s demise. He was confident that an opportunity would present itself once Fuller got there with the herd. He toyed with the idea of carrying it out himself.
It was as he was thinking these things that the mule-skinner drew his attention to a rider in the distance. He was moving across the prairie at a considerable speed in their direction. Rickard drew himself up and stared hard. Who could it be? He assumed that any of his own men would have started making their way back to the Half-Box M, but maybe it was one of them. He wished that he had his field-glasses to hand but he had left them in his saddle-bags. As the rider got closer, he began to feel uneasy. There was something familiar about him. Suddenly he turned to the driver.
‘Deal with this,’ he said. ‘Don’t let on I’m in the back of the wagon.’
The driver made a grimace in acknowledgement and Rickard slipped inside where he concealed himself behind a pile of provisions. He drew his gun and licked his lips. His throat was dry and his hand trembled. Although a golden opportunity had presented itself, any thought of dealing with Lowell himself now that the man had appeared, vanished from his mind. He had only one thought, and that was to keep out of sight and hope he would go away.
The wagon driver slowed his mules and brought the wagon to a halt as Lowell came up alongside. He was chewing a quid of tobacco and spit a gob of brown juice over the side of the wagon.
‘Howdy,’ he said.
‘Howdy,’ Lowell replied. He paused, looking up and down the mule-train.
The smell of the hides hung heavy in the air and further back the flies hung in a dense cloud.
‘You kinda lost maybe?’ the man said. ‘The cow trail is back there.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
‘Nope. I’ve just come from there. I’m lookin’, but not for directions.’
The mule-skinner looked at him through hooded eyes. His skin was burned to leather by the sun and he looked like a lizard.
‘Shoshone Flats is thataway,’ he said, ignoring Lowell’s comment and pointing with his finger, ‘and Granton is thataway. You might say you’re betwixt and between.’
‘Like I say, I’m not lookin’ for directions. I’m lookin’ for someone, a man by name of Rickard.’
The oldster ran his hand across his chin. ‘Nope,’ he said, ‘can’t say as I’ve heard that name.’
Lowell glanced again down the line of wagons and mules. He caught a glimpse of the other drivers. They didn’t appear to be taking much interest in the proceedings, but just as he was thinking that a rider appeared from the back of the train and came up alongside.
‘We got some kinda problem, Howson?’ he asked.
‘Nope. Gentleman here is lookin’ for someone. Seems to think he might be right here with the mule-train.’
‘That’s right,’ Lowell said. ‘A man called Rickard. The name mean anything to you?’ The rider shook his head.
‘Well, it should,’ Lowell said. ‘He owns those hides.’
The man exchanged glances with Howson. It was clear to Lowell that they were lying from their response to Rickard’s name. At the same time, he suspected that neither of them was anxious to get into an argument.
‘Where is he?’ Lowell said.
Involuntarily, Howson’s eyes flickered towards the interior of the wagon. At the same moment the newcomer’s horse shifted its feet and made a sideways movement. Without warning, there was an explosion of gunfire from inside the wagon and the man’s horse brayed and toppled over, throwing its rider. Lowell leaped from the saddle and, drawing his weapon, threw himself to the ground. There was another explosion and the mules panicked.
As the driver strove to gain control, Lowell saw a figure leap from the back of the wagon and start to run down the line of wagons on the opposite side. Springing to his feet, he began to run after him. Another shot rang out and though a gap in the line Lowell had a glimpse of legs. He knew that his quarry could only be Rickard. Presumably he was trying to reach his horse at the back of the mule-train. Someone shouted; if it was Rickard calling for assistance, there didn’t seem to be any response from the mule-skinners. Lowell hurtled on till he came to a gap between two wagons and slipped through. Not far ahead of him the figure of Rickard plunged on.
‘Rickard,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got you covered. You’d better stop.’
There was no response and Lowell fired a shot into the air. Rickard ran on for a few more paces and then came to a halt. He turned and fired the gun he was carrying but the bullet flew harmlessly wide. Lowell began to walk steadily towards him. Rickard’s finger squeezed the trigger of his weapon but it only clicked. Desperately, he hurled the useless implement at Lowell and sank to his knees. He began to snivel and plead.
‘Please, don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot. It wasn’t me, you can’t blame me. Please.’
Lowell stopped in front of the squirming figure of Rickard. It reminded him of Vernon. Behind him, he was aware that a couple of the mule-skinners were standing watching Rickard’s grotesque performance with contempt.
‘I’ve only one thing to say to you,’ Lowell said. ‘Where is Mossman?’
‘Mossman? I don’t know. I don’t know who you mean. Please, don’t kill me.’ Lowell spun the chamber of his gun.
‘One last time,’ he said. ‘Where is Mossman?’
Rickard’s shoulders shook with sobbing. ‘He’s in Shoshone Flats.’
‘Where in Shoshone Flats?’
‘He’s livin’ in a converted rail-car.’
‘A rail-car? Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know. He owns the railway. He don’t like livin’ in town. He’s, he’s. . . .’
‘He’s what?’
Tough Justice Page 8