by Arthur Kent
He reached a groove deep enough to hold him in cover. He rolled into it. Then he began to move along it. It turned sharply and he saw that it would take him right along the rock formation, but on the opposite side to the sentry.
Now the shallow deepened as the granite ledge which was the beginning of the rock formation began on his right. He moved more quickly now. The formation climbed until it was three-feet above Frome and, on the otherside somewhere, the sentry waited. But where? It was almost comic. Had the rustler moved in the direction from which Frome had just come, was he moving in the opposite direction, or was he level with Frome, only a few feet of rock between them?
Frome decided to find out. He lifted a cartridge from his belt, and flicked it over to the right. It clanked on rock. Less than a yard from him, the beard-blackened face appeared behind a long Colt’s barrel, and fired off two slugs in the direction of the sound. Frome levelled his Colt, fired, and the Colt span from the man’s hand, driven by the smack of the bullet. The man came up, screaming at the pain that laced his arm, his fingers clawing.
Frome came up, stepping over the rocks, jacking back the hammer, levelling on the man.
‘You lousy, two-faced, belly-crawling, skunk’s son... .’ The man snarled flipping his hand. Frome saw his right holster was empty; his left still carried a Colt. The likeness of the man to Harry and Dirk Breslow was unmistakable. This man was taller, leaner, tougher, more intelligent. His dark eyes, twin diamonds of hate, flicked over Frome, and he cursed him again.
Frome said, ‘Cut the parlour talk. You must be Blacky Breslow?’
He looked surprised at that, never having met Frome before. ‘How did you guess?’
‘I heard a conversation between your brothers and Kyle Bennett,’ Frome lied. ‘Bennett was about to string ’em up. Dirk blabbed out the whole story of how you hijacked Frome’s cattle.’
The man’s hard lips tightened. ‘You’re a liar! They had no quarrel with Kyle!’
‘But Kyle had plenty with them. It wasn’t so much the cattle rustle that annoyed Kyle as the fact that your brothers failed to get Frome. Kyle thought they might’ve done a deal with Frome. Anyway, they were too talkative. So he hanged them.’
The man looked at Frome through slitted, suspicious eyes. ‘You’re lying,’ he said again, but Frome could see that Blacky Breslow half believed him.
‘All right, I’m lying. So how did I get here? So how did I know you had the cattle in this canyon, or that you were Blacky Breslow? I’m telling you, Dirk broke down, he blabbed it all. Then Kyle swung him and Harry on a cotton-wood on Frome’s place.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Kyle’s righthand. Does my name matter?’
Bitterness showed on Blacky Breslow’s face. His face became hooded. He forgot the pain in his hand as he pictured the death of his brothers swinging on a thick cottonwood tree ... ending just like their father had ended. His voice was muffled when he spoke. ‘How ... how could they miss Frome? He was easy; he was a gun-shy; and there were five of them? Dirk’s never been much, but Harry was always a smart boy.’
‘Just one of those things. Me, I don’t know. Kyle doesn’t. But they missed him, and he dropped three of your help, including a kid named Farrow.’
Breslow lifted his head suddenly, and tensed. His left hand dropped, inches from his Colt.
Frome said, ‘Don’t try it.’
‘Why not. Bennett and Speakman don’t want me alive; not after they’ve killed my brothers. You’ve been sent to finish me, so don’t deny it. But I’ve got a chance ... I’ve got a chance to beat you to the draw, get away from your gunslingers down there ... and go after Bennett and Speakman.’
Frome had learned for the first time that Bennett and Speakman were in this thing together. He didn’t want Breslow to go for his gun yet. He wanted to keep him talking.
‘Speakman?’ Frome said, ‘Speakman wasn’t in on the lynching.’
Breslow shrugged. ‘So what, he’s a partner with Bennett in this deal, ain’t he?’
Frome took a chance. He said, ‘That’s news to me.’
Breslow smiled savagely at that. ‘I see. Kyle never did trust anybody. So he didn’t confide in you ... well ... just in case you beat me, feller ... I’ll tell you the story. If Bennett didn’t tell you, it means he doesn’t trust you. Maybe what I tell you will do Bennett some harm someday . . . that’s if you beat me to the draw.’
Frome said, ‘I’m listening.’
‘Speakman and Bennett arranged the deal in Kansas City three months ago. They’d start a fake war between ranchers and miners, get a few on both sides killed off, and the leaders like Glinton Le Roy, his son Denny, and Frome. Then Bennett as kin to Le Roy would take over the management of the Double Star and Broken Arrow ranges and probably get them eventually by marrying Hesta Le Roy, who was his old sweetheart.’
Frome said, ‘I see, but what would Speakman get from the deal?’
Breslow said, ‘A free hand to mine in the hills.’
‘There’s only one snag,’ Frome said, ‘the range wouldn’t be any good to Bennett if he couldn’t get clear water from the hills.’
‘They even worked that out,’ Breslow said. ‘Speakman sent an engineer down to make tests. There’s water not too far down in many parts of the grasslands on that side of the Arrows.’
Breslow smiled slowly. He could see that Frome was interested. He misunderstood the man’s interest. ‘If you live, then, you ought to be able to make some use of that . . . to Bennett’s cost of course.’
Frome only nodded. He saw the gleam that came into Breslow’s eyes. He lifted the Colt on the man. ‘I’ve got you covered, Breslow; I shouldn’t try it.’
‘Can’t you give a guy an even break? Holster that iron. Let’s draw together.’
Frome said, ‘Not a chance.’
Breslow snapped, ‘Then I’ll make one.’ His left-hand flashed for his gun. Frome saw it blurr, lifting the heavy Colt from leather; then Frome snapped the hammer forward on the Colt, driving a slug at Breslow’s wrist. The bullet cut deeply into skin, not touching bone. The Colt dropped from Breslow’s hand. The damaged wrist went to his mouth as he tried to stop the flow of blood.
Jacob Haines came over the rim with three of his boys.
Breslow looked from them to Frome, then said, ‘OK, finish it.’
Frome said, ‘You helped me. You’ll go to jail. You’ll stand trial for rustling only. I’ll see to that.’
Breslow snapped. ‘That was fancy shooting, feller. Who are you?’
Frome holstered his Colt. ‘A gun-shy named Dave Frome.’
CHAPTER 15
It was late evening and dark when Frome put the pony over the rim into his home valley. He jerked the pony to a stop, hawking forward in his saddle, lips tightening. No light showed in the cabin; and he saw the black shapes of the Breslows bent stiff and grotesquely forward against the ropes that lashed them to the corral poles. Frome swung from the saddle, dragging the rifle from his boot with the same movement. He hurried down the track without caution, thinking only of Curly.
Reaching the corral, he dropped by the poles. He looked to the brothers. There was no doubt about it. Both were dead. Long dead. He could even see the blood glisten on their shirtfronts. He found his hands were sweating as he slick-slacked a shell into the Winchester. He moved towards the cabin. Throwing all caution to the wind, he shouted Curly’s name.
And then her voice reached him clearly from the cabin. She opened the door. She put her rifle down and hurried towards him. He went to meet her, propped the Winchester by the veranda and took her in his arms.
Then she told him, with the horror twisting her features, of the death of the Breslows, killed by Bennett and a bunch of men. ‘It happened just before noon. I heard horsemen coming, and ducked out of the cabin and hid on the slopes. There were a dozen of them – and Bennett, the man you fought in Plattsville. The Breslows tried to talk to him, but he was angry, he wouldn’t listen. He opened fire.�
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She broke down, weeping before she could finish it. Frome lifted her into his arms and carried her into the cabin. He went out, collected his rifle, returned to the cabin, closed the door and lit the lamp.
Curly began to tell it again, going into more details. Bennett was like a mad man, she said. ‘He had cursed the Breslows for not killing you, for mistaking Dwight Taber for you, and then for stealing your cattle. Dirk Breslow tried to argue, pleaded, but Bennett wouldn’t listen. Then he gave the order.’ Curly stopped.
Curly said that the dozen or so men, laughing and swearing, had opened fire, emptying their guns into the brothers. One of the men had then searched the buildings. Bennett had rejected a suggestion that they should try and follow the sign left by the rustled cattle. Frome was still alive, he had said, so they were still his cattle. He had also rejected a suggestion that two men should wait in the valley in case Frome returned. Bennett had said that it would take more than two men to trap Frome like that, and that in any case, Frome would be on the other side of the Arrows, trailing the rustlers. They had then ridden away.
Frome told Curly what had happened at the Five Mile Canyon, that Blacky Breslow had talked before enough witnesses to get court convictions against Bennett and Speakman for murder and conspiracy.
He smiled softly, ‘Now all we’ve got to do is catch the pair so they can stand trial.’
Curly said, ‘And that won’t be easy.’
‘They have a hardcase crew of some fifty men,’ Frome answered. ‘No, it won’t be easy.’ Frome got up. ‘I’ll make some coffee. You sit tight, keep your senses trained for sound. Bennett might come back.’
Frome went across to the cookhouse, lit the stove, found water and put it on to boil. Then he freed the bodies of the Breslows from the ropes which held them, covered them with sacking, and carried them to the barn. He brought his own pony down from the valley rim, watered it, and placed it beside the pony which was already saddled. Curly and he might need the ponies in a hurry.
He returned to the cookshack, washed himself, and then made coffee. When he reached the cabin with coffee and food, Curly had relaxed and was seated on the couch. While eating, he noticed that Curly had cleaned the place up. He thanked her, and it reminded her of something.
She frowned, put down her plate, went to the mantelpiece and returned with a large gold watch. ‘While cleaning up, I found this, Dave.’
Frome said, ‘So, what’s the problem? That was my father’s.’
Still puzzled, she opened the back, and showed him the photograph of a family group there. It was the picture of a father, a mother, and three sons, and it had been taken many years before.
‘That’s my father,’ Frome explained, ‘and the little kid with the sour expression is me.’
‘But,’ Curly said, ‘it says at the bottom “The Morgan family – Dodge City”?’
Frome said, ‘I see. Well, my real name is Morgan. I’ll have to tell you about it.’
Curly sprang up, backed away from him, and horror showed on her face. She said accusingly, ‘Then you’re David Morgan?’
Frome felt a chill climb his spine. ‘That’s – that’s right....’ Curly still backed away from him. She crushed her hand against her mouth suddenly and tears appeared on her cheeks. ‘Then you’re the Dave Morgan who shot my fiancé on Front Street in Dodge six years ago!’
Horrified, remembering the Stuart boy he had killed, Frome moved towards her.
‘Don’t come near me,’ she screamed, ‘don’t touch me!’
Frome stopped paralysed. There was a long silence. Then the rain began to beat on the roof with a monotonous sound. Frome turned, moved across the room, and stood by the window, watching the heavy rain drip down the panes.
He was still standing there minutes later when the sound of horsemen approaching reached him.
He hurried to the lamp, turned it out, snatched up his carbine, and raced back to the window.
CHAPTER 16
Frome dragged back the curtaining, yelled to Curly to take cover, and triggered a shell into the carbine. Rain lashed the window, glistening, running down the panes in rivulets. A point of fork lightning jagged down beyond the valley’s rim, and for a fraction of a second Frome saw the horsemen swing in around the corral. Their faces were hidden by pulled down hatbrirns, their bodies shapeless in shiny slickers. They formed up before the veranda, and one dismounted. ‘You there, Dave?’ he called.
Frome, recognizing Sam Justin’s voice, lowered the rifle. ‘Here, Sam. Curly, put the lamp on.’ He moved to the door and opened it. The light bubbled on behind him, chasing the shadows from the long room. Justin, without shape in the long slicker, stepped into the room. Now other men dismounted and followed him in. Frome recognized their faces.
‘This is it,’ Justin said grimly. ‘The showdown. Glinton Le Roy’s been killed. Kyle Bennett killed him.’
Frome, remembering what Breslow had told him, only nodded. Justin continued, ‘And Bennett and Speakman have linked forces. They know they’re up against it. They’re going to make one last attempt to clear the Arrows of ranches ... or go under in the attempt. We’re marshalling all the men we can at the Double Star.’
Frome said, ‘What happened to Glinton?’
Justin explained. Glinton Le Roy had been sleeping badly since the death of Denny. Apparently he had heard Bennett leave the house in the early hours of the morning after receiving a signal – pebbles thrown against the window. Le Roy must have followed Bennett, heard him conferring with somebody who had brought him news from town – probably the news that five hundred head of Frome’s cattle had been rustled. Le Roy had heard too much. Either he betrayed his presence, or openly challenged Bennett. There was a shot. When people came running, Bennett had said that he thought he had seen an intruder and fired at him. Nobody had missed Glinton at that time, had believed Bennett and returned to their beds. Bennett had moved swiftly then, waking all his own gunhawks, and telling the others he was going on a scout. Glinton’s body had been found in the corral at first light, and pebbles on the veranda stoop below Bennett’s window had helped Justin to reconstruct what had happened.
‘The theory is,’ Justin added, ‘that he’s been working with Speakman all the time. If he hasn’t, he will certainly join up with him now.’
‘That’s more than a theory, that’s fact,’ Frome said. He told his story, he told of what he had heard from Dirk and Harry Breslow; and what Blacky Breslow had told him of the Bennett-Speakman meeting months before in Kansas City.
Justin considered that. ‘Sure are a cold-blooded bunch, aren’t they, knocking off their own people to start a fake war? The important thing now is what do we do: do we wait for the bunch of them to come at us, or do we go after them and stomp them in the hills?’
Frome said, ‘How many men have they got?’
Justin said, ‘About twenty each. All are gun-experts.’ He looked around at some of the men forming his own posse – the barber Ott Dakers, the boy Al Gulick, and other citizens like them. The spirit and guts might be there, but the experience and cunning would be missing.
‘How many men can we muster?’ Frome asked.
‘Sixty to seventy. About half are cowpunchers; the rest townees. I’ve sent for Keester at Denton to come join us with the biggest posse he can form. But that’ll take time.’
‘What about the miners,’ Frome said, ‘there’s more than five hundred of them? What happens if Speakman arms them?’
Justin smiled. ‘I told you George Broome was a good friend of mine. I told you he was willing to compromise. He’s gone to see the miners, tell them the true facts. They’ll listen to him. They know Broome, and Speakman’s only a name back east to them. Broome can guarantee that they won’t back Speakman in this, providing of course, he gets to them in time to have his say. He can’t guarantee that they’ll side us in this, though.’
‘All he need tell them is that Speakman and Bennett engineered the lynching of Tony Wolf,’ Frome said.
‘Oh, he’ll tell them that. But that doesn’t mean they’ll openly fight Speakman. He’s still their boss.’
Frome noticed that most of Justin’s men were still in the saddle. He said, ‘Why don’t you fellows get some sense and go to the cookshack, dry yourselves and get some coffee?’
Justin said, ‘There isn’t time for that. We just came this way to see if your place was still standing and if you were hereabouts. Any time now, Bennett’s bunch are going to ride from them hills and stomp on ranches one by one. We’re gathering at the Double Star. As soon as the broncs are rested we’ll ride. You’d better come with us.’
Frome remembered Curly. He recalled the shock they had both received over the watch. He turned to look for her. She was on the other side of the room, her back to him, looking from the window.
‘I’ve got a few plans laid out, Dave,’ Justin said. ‘I’d like to discuss them with you. Men are out trying to trace Bennett and Speakman’s men. The sooner we hit them the better.’
Frome said, ‘That idea’s sound. Let’s get back to the Double Star headquarters and look it over. How’s Hesta taking the death of her father?’
‘She’s holding up bravely. She’s got too much to do to mourn. She’s organising things like a soldier.’
Frome nodded. ‘She’ll make a good rancher, Sam.’ He looked to Curly again. He lowered his voice. ‘I would like Curly to get back to town, Sam. Perhaps you can leave a couple of men to escort her?’
Justin nodded. ‘I’ll select ’em. Got a few messages I want to send to Plattsville anyway.’
Frome went to the bedroom, got a long slicker from a cupboard, opened a box of Colt cartridges and began to fill his belt. Then, pushing a cardboard box of carbine bullets into his pocket, he went back to the big room. Curly was still looking away from him. He pushed through the men talking before the door and found Justin on the veranda instructing the two men he had picked to escort Curly back to Plattsville.