by John Davage
With that, he swung his horse around and galloped away before she could reply.
It would be more than two years before Meg saw her brother again. And by that time, and in those particular circumstances, she would wish that she hadn’t.
Chapter One
Becky Garrod shifted uncomfortably in the corner seat of the stagecoach, conscious of the overweight body of the woman sitting next to her as the latter’s fleshy thigh pressed against Becky’s leg. Then there was the June heat. Her underclothes were sticking to her and she could feel the prickles of sweat on her forehead, in spite of leaning out of the window from time to time to catch what little air there was.
She glanced around at the rest of her fellow passengers. There was the husband of Fat Thighs sitting the other side of his wife. In a round of introductions at the start of the journey, they had introduced themselves as Mr and Mrs Hector Pratt. But he’d had little or nothing to say during the fifty or so miles since they had left Becky’s home town of Solace. He seemed an anxious little man in a shiny too-tight dark suit and a string tie. He clutched a black bowler in his hands, revolving it nervously in his fingers.
The man in the seat opposite Becky was in his forties, she guessed. A gambler, maybe? ‘Cal Farrow,’ he’d introduced himself as. He wore a white alpaca suit and a planter’s hat, and had a way of looking at Becky as if – well, as if he knew what she looked like in her chemise! Becky felt a wicked yet pleasurable thrill at the thought.
Next to him was the drummer. (‘Sidney Mason, that’s me.’) A skinny little runt with frayed cuffs to his jacket and holes in the soles of his shoes, and a tired look that indicated too many years on the road. Probably nearing fifty, Becky guessed.
Jeeze, what a bunch, she thought, and silently cursed her pa for sending her on this miserable journey. And all because she’d been a little wild and – all right – maybe a little over-friendly with some of the young men in Solace. But was that any reason to pack her off to stay with some distant relatives up north she didn’t know, cousins of her pa whom she’d never met?
‘Just for a few months, my girl,’ he’d said, exasperation in his voice. ‘Maybe they can knock some ladylike manners and some good sense into you. “Fast Missy”, that’s what the church-going ladies of Solace call you, and they’re right. Well, things have got to change.’
‘Fast Missy!’ Becky smiled to herself as she thought of the church-going old biddies. Bet the dried-up old sticks were just envious, if truth were told. When was the last time any young hombre had whistled at them or pinched their behinds!
Still, maybe it was a good time to get out of Solace. ‘What’s more, it’ll give time for folks to forget all about you and Tom Walsh and that little embarrassing episode,’ her pa had said – and maybe he was right.
Tom Walsh. Becky felt a pang of regret as she thought about the good-looking young man. For a while, and seemingly much to her pa’s relief, it had looked like she might have hooked herself a husband in the town’s young deputy. But a year ago a nineteen-year-old girl (two whole years younger than Becky!) from someplace a hundred odd miles away called Adam’s Creek had turned up. She had come to live with the Greens at the mercantile (relatives, apparently) after the death of her father. And all of a sudden, Tom Walsh’s interest in Becky’s more obvious charms had shifted to the pretty young incomer’s more subtle allure. Like a bee drawn to a honeypot, he’d been. And now, dammit, the two of them were engaged to be married, leaving Becky the laughing stock of her female contemporaries in Solace.
So, yes, maybe it had been a good time to get out of Solace.
Becky sighed and stared out of the window at the barren landscape of sagebrush and a group of rocky outcrops. Excitement, that’s what she craved. A dark-haired handsome man to carry her off and show her a good time. Maybe spiced up with a smidgen of danger, even! Yes, that’s what she needed – a little danger. She chuckled to herself, attracting the attention of at least one of her fellow passengers.
‘Something amusing you, missy?’ the Pratt woman asked, looking down her nose at Becky.
‘Yeah, you are,’ Becky retorted, suddenly feeling bold. ‘Loosen your girdle a mite an’ I reckon you could get a job as the Fat Lady in a carnival show.’
Cal Farrow stifled a laugh, but the outraged reply that the woman was about to hurl at Becky was cut short by the stage’s sudden quickening of pace, and a yell from the driver as he wielded his whip on the horses.
‘What the hell. . . ?’ Farrow began.
Suddenly the sound of gunfire crackled around them, and bullets zinged off the sides of the stage. There was a return volley from the shotgun rider sitting next to the stage driver, followed by a grunt as he was hit by one or more of the outlaws’ bullets and the sound of him falling sideways into the dust.
‘Get down!’ yelled the drummer, and threw himself on to the floor as the stage began to sway from side to side.
‘Owlhoots!’ Farrow drew a derringer from under his jacket. ‘Guess we’re about to be held up.’ He continued to peer out of the window, as if calculating the odds. After a moment, he slipped the gun back under his coat. ‘Six of them. Don’t reckon our chances,’ he said. ‘Best reconcile ourselves to losing some of our valuables if we’re to stay alive. No time to be heroes, folks.’
The Pratts clung together in their seat like a pair of Siamese twins as Becky felt herself being pulled to the floor by Farrow, seconds before a bullet whizzed through the window, embedding itself into the back of the seat where she’d been sitting.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ she said. What was it she had been craving? Excitement? I should be more careful what I wish for, she thought.
In spite of the pace the driver had managed to urge the horses to pick up, the outlaws were gradually overhauling the stage. Moments later they were alongside it, three on either side.
‘Pull over!’ Becky heard one of them yell at the driver. ‘Or you’re dead meat!’
The driver, who had no wish to meet the same fate as his shotgun rider, did as he was bidden, hauling the stage to a halt in a haze of dust.
‘Now climb over the top and toss down the bags. Fast!’
‘OK, OK!’ The driver scrambled across the roof of the stage and began to untie the straps holding the passengers’ baggage at the rear of the vehicle.
The masked riders circled the stage. Several dismounted and began ripping open the bags and tossing the contents of each on to the ground, searching for anything worth taking. Another pulled open the stage door with one hand, waving a six-gun with the other. ‘Get out, all of you!’ he yelled at those inside. ‘An’ toss any weapons out ahead of you.’
The drummer was the first to scramble out, hands in the air. ‘I . . . I’m just a drummer, an’ I ain’t carrying any guns an’ no money to speak of, m-mister. Don’t shoot.’
Next the nervous Mr Pratt emerged ahead of his wife; he turned to take her arm. She followed, for once speechless. Once outside, the pair of them placed their hands on their heads. ‘We have no valuables,’ Pratt said to the riders at large, ‘other than my pocket watch and a few dollars. Take those and don’t hurt us.’
‘Shut your mouth an’ line up with the drummer,’ one of the dismounted outlaws told him, then looked back at the open stagecoach door as Becky stepped out into the hot sun.
‘Well, lookee here, Boss,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Reckon we’ve got ourselves a pretty little bonus!’
A rider on a large black stallion, responding to the word ‘boss’, edged his mount forwards to within a couple of yards of Becky. Then, taking his time and assessing his prize, he dismounted and walked over to her. At the same moment Cal Farrow tossed out his weapon and stepped from the stage with his hands in the air.
‘We’re no heroes, mister,’ he said. ‘Just take it easy.’
The apparent boss of the outfit gave him a cold stare. ‘Get in line an’ button your lip,’ he said. He turned back to Becky, took hold of her arm and drew her alongside him, away from the other pa
ssengers. He took her chin in his hand and pulled her closer to his face. Becky could smell his sour breath. She almost gagged.
‘You’re journey ends here, darlin’. You’re comin’ with me,’ he told her.
Becky was too frightened to speak. She could feel a dampness in her drawers and her heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Yet at the same time, she recognized a stirring within her that was a mixture of fear and . . . there was that word again: excitement?
‘Hey, leave her! You can’t. . . !’ Farrow began, stepping forwards.
The boss man turned, unleashed his six-gun from its holster and fired – all in one swift movement. The bullet took Farrow in the centre of his chest before he fell backwards into the dust.
The Pratt woman began whimpering and her husband drew her closer to him. ‘Dear God,’ he began. ‘What kind of animals are. . . ?’ – then whelped like a whipped dog as the back of the masked man’s hand smashed across his face, loosening his front teeth and sending a trickle of blood from his mouth.
‘You were told to keep quiet,’ the boss man said. ‘Now, you and the drummer empty your pockets.’ He glanced at Pratt’s wife. ‘An’ woman, if’n you’ve got anythin’ hidden in your clothin’, now’s the time to hand it over, lessen you want one of my cahoots to strip you an’ check.’
He gripped Becky’s arm and drew her across to his horse. He pulled her up on to the animal so that she was sitting astride in front of him, skirt bunched up around her waist, his hand firmly around her middle.
Two of the outlaws went through the luggage, removing cash, trinkets and other valuables. Another of the men relieved the Pratts and the drummer of their cash, watches and jewellery. Pratt was found to be concealing a money belt under his shirt.
‘Just “a few dollars”, eh?’ the outlaw frisking him grabbed him. ‘Liar!’
And he gave Pratt a second backhander, loosening more of the little man’s teeth.
Fifteen minutes later the six outlaws rode away, but not before smashing two wheels of the stagecoach and scattering the horses. The driver and his three remaining passengers stood in a bewildered group under the hot sun, their ransacked baggage strewn around them.
Chapter Two
Clay could feel the intensity of the man’s stare, although he avoided looking in the hombre’s direction. The man was sitting on a stool at the bar across the other side of the saloon, a whiskey in his hand and a half-smile on his face. He was playing solitaire on the bar top.
He had been watching Clay for the past fifteen minutes. Over the past two years Clay had learned to suspect any unasked-for attention paid to him by strangers. A stranger who might have seen his youthful face on a law dodger. The fact that he’d grown a stubbly beard and allowed his hair to get to near shoulder length, may not have been a sufficient disguise for some lawman or bounty hunter with a sharp eye. Or even the fact that this particular saloon in this particular town – Weslake – was close on two hundred miles from Adam’s Creek. He had been going under the name of Chet Adams since he’d been on the run, but maybe none of these things had been enough. So a curious stranger always rang an alarm bell in Clay’s head.
Maybe it was time to move on again, to another town. He sighed. More bumming drinks, cheating at cards, cleaning out livery stables or working as a swamper. Nickles and dimes jobs. Living hand to mouth and always looking over his shoulder. What he needed was a way of making some real money. Enough to get him to Canada, maybe.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Hell, his whole life was a succession of maybes these days!
‘You plannin’ on dealin’ those cards anytime soon, kid?’ The old grizzled guy sitting across the table from Clay was getting impatient. ‘Reckon you’ve been shufflin’ ’em for the best part of five minutes now.’
‘OK, OK!’ Clay turned his attention to the game of poker, aware of the hostile gazes of the guy’s two younger companions. Clay sensed that getting out of this game was not going to be easy, particularly as he had benefited from a lucky streak. But it had to be done. The man at the bar was worrying him and the sooner he was out of this place the better. ‘Matter of fact though,’ he said, adopting a casual tone, ‘it’s time I made a move to go.’ He placed the pack of cards on the table. ‘Thanks for the game, fellahs. Let me buy y’all a drink before. . . .’
‘Now hold on, kid,’ the grizzled guy said. ‘You ain’t goin’ anyplace until we’ve had a chance to get some of our money back.’ As if to emphasize the point, he placed a hand on the sawn-off shotgun that had sat in his lap throughout the game.
‘That’s right,’ agreed on of his compatriots. ‘Be right unfriendly of you to walk away now.’
Clay tried to figure the odds. Could he get a hand to his .45 before the grizzled old man triggered the sawn-off shotgun.
As it turned out, he was saved having to make a decision. It was at that moment the man at the bar chose to put down the pack of cards he’d been playing with and move off from his stool.
He ambled over to Clay’s table and stood at Clay’s shoulder, looking from one to the other of the three men. ‘Mornin’ fellahs.’ His voice was a soft drawl which could not disguise an undertone of menace. ‘Everythin’ OK?’
Clay was aware of a shift in the atmosphere.
‘M-mornin’, Mr Riggens,’ the old grizzled guy said, quickly moving his hand away from his lap. ‘Sure, sure.’ His two fellow card players avoided the eye of the newcomer.
‘Some sort of problem here?’ Riggens enquired.
‘No problem, Mr Riggens. The kid was plannin’ to leave afore we had a chance to win back a few of the dollars he took off us, that’s all.’
‘He win them fair and square?’ Riggens asked.
‘Well, yes. . . .’
‘Then I reckon he can choose to leave whenever he wishes, don’t you?’
Riggens stared at each of the three men in turn, challenging them to argue. None did.
‘You reckoning on staying in Weslake, kid?’ Riggens asked, turning his attention to Clay.
Clay shook his head. ‘Just passin’ through.’
‘Been helpin’ out here for a coupla days, Ray,’ the barkeep called across. ‘Swamper, part-time barman.’
‘That so, Harry?’ Riggens said without looking away from Clay. ‘You lookin’ for somethin’ better, kid? Maybe I can help.’
‘Well, I guess . . .’ Clay hesitated. He was quickly coming to the conclusion that the kind of work this hombre had to offer would put him on the wrong side of the law. But what the hell, he was already in that precarious position, wasn’t he? So what was there to lose? Besides, whatever the work was, it would beat cleaning up bar slops.
‘Let me buy you a drink while you consider it . . . Clay,’ Riggens said.
Clay felt his innards do a somersault. ‘The name’s Chet,’ he said, dry-mouthed all of a sudden. ‘Chet Adams.’
‘Oh, sure,’ Riggens said. ‘Well let’s find another table and have a talk, Chet.’
Clay followed Riggens over to a corner table, his thoughts whirling.
How did this guy know his real name? Was he a bounty hunter? But, no. The three card players knew him, so he had to be local to Weslake, didn’t he?
One thing was certain. The three hadn’t wanted to argue with him. Something about the man had unnerved them. And Clay was beginning to feel the same way.
When they were seated, Riggens motioned to the barkeep and moments later a bottle of whiskey and two glasses appeared on the table. Riggens poured two shots, then pushed one glass across to Clay.
‘Thing is . . . Clay,’ Riggens said. ‘I pay special attention to any law dodgers I come across.’ He gave a crooked grin. ‘For one thing, there’s always a chance I’ll see a picture of myself.’ He tossed back the shot of whiskey and poured himself another.
Clay’s remained untouched.
‘And the thing is,’ Riggens resumed, ‘I’ve a good memory for faces.’ He lowered his voice and leaned across the table. ‘Even when that face has grown a beard
and let its hair grow down over his neck. Got me . . . Clay?’
Clay steadied his hand sufficient to pick up his glass. He swallowed a mouthful of red-eye. ‘What d’you want, mister?’ he said.
‘To do you a favour,’ Riggens said. ‘A chance to make some real money.’
‘Why me?’ Clay said.
‘I’ve been watchin’ you, an’ I judge you to be the kinda kid who might not be afraid of usin’ a gun.’ He glanced around to ensure nobody was paying them any attention. The three card players had upped and left, and there was only the barkeep, and he was polishing glasses that didn’t need polishing. ‘You ever heard of the Pike Gang, kid?’
A cold hand seemed to crawl up Clay’s spine. ‘Yeah,’ he said after a moment. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of then.’
‘Thing is,’ Riggens said. ‘Somebody like you, who ain’t fussy about usin’ a gun on a fellah. . . .’
‘I only ever killed one man, and it was an accident,’ Clay put in quickly.
‘Yeah, well, it put you on the wrong side of the law,’ Riggens chuckled. ‘So that makes us sorta kinfolk, kid. An’ we – the gang – are a mite short-handed after a couple of our bunch decided to high-tail it down south. Seems they wanted to set up on their own an’ decided, sensibly, not to go into competition with Eli and Silas Pike. ’Cause that would have been fatal, know what I mean?’
Clay nodded. ‘Look, I appreciate the offer, Mr Riggens, but I ain’t sure . . .’ he began.
Riggens’ expression hardened. He put a hand across the table and took hold of Clay’s wrist in a vice-like grip, making Clay cry out. ‘It don’t pay to refuse a proposition like this, kid, ’specially when a word to our local lawman could see you headin’ for a hangman’s noose.’
‘OK, OK!’ Clay gasped. ‘I . . . I do need work. So, yeah, OK.’