The Hanging of Charlie Darke

by Will DuRey

  CHAPTER NINE

  Chet Barton was sleeping when I left the Darke place. Duke had made the necessary arrangements for the recovery of the bodies out towards Blackwater, including, at my suggestion, searching for spent shells at likely ambush locations. Also, he had sent for Annie’s neighbour, Mrs Lowe, to come and nurse Chet while the rest of us got on with the things we needed to do. Chet looked weak but there was no fever and he slept peacefully.

  Annie, anxious to know what was happening in town, had her bonnet on and was slapping the reins across the rumps of her team while I was still working my way through a platter of eggs and bacon. She was over the ridge and out of sight before I’d drained the coffee from my mug. I’d’ve appreciated a refill but didn’t want her to get too far along the trail without me. I’d promised to go into town with her and I didn’t mean to let her down. She’d set her horses off at the gallop, they would soon put distance between themselves and the ranch. I unhitched Red and set off in pursuit.

  The trail from the top of the ridge ran straight for half a mile before disappearing through a gap in some low hills. The rig was out of sight by the time I’d gained the high ground, only a hint of dust hanging in the air where it had been. I put Red to a steady gallop. We soon reached the gap where I pulled Red to a halt. Annie was still beyond my sight. The trail climbed into a heavily wooded slope which hid her from me but the muffled sound of hoofs told me she wasn’t far ahead.

  I was about to urge Red forward when the sharp bark of a rifle cracked the air. Then another. Red was in full stride seemingly without instruction from me. Another shot sounded as I swung around the road between high-branched trees. I could see the rig ahead, the horses spooked and running free. I couldn’t see Annie.

  A fourth shot kicked dirt from the ground a hundred yards in front of me. I stopped Red and looked up the slope to my right. There were too many trees for me to pinpoint the shooter’s position by means of rising smoke, but the sound gave me the general area. I dropped the reins, took my saddle gun and slipped in among the trees, hoping that whoever was up there wasn’t yet aware of my presence.

  The next shot struck rock. I heard it ricochet followed by a squeal from Annie. Whether her reaction was from surprise or pain I couldn’t tell. Until that moment I hadn’t been able to see her but now, her white blouse as plain to see as smoke signals against a blue sky, I spotted her curled and cowering near two small rocks. No doubt the angle from which I could see her gave me a clearer view than that which her attacker had, but she couldn’t lie in such a cramped position for long. Wherever the gunman was he apparently had a clear shot if Annie showed herself. Ideally, I wanted to circle round behind the man and get the drop on him from above, but now, knowing how precarious Annie’s position was, I had to prevent him shooting at her again. I figured if he knew I was around he would hightail it out of the wood.

  Off to Annie’s right, less than ten yards from her, a fallen pine offered more cover. It was long and high, and, once behind that, the shooter would have to make his way down to the trail if he wanted to finish off the job. But there was no way Annie could reach it without me diverting the gunman’s attention. Nor did I know if Annie was able to make a dash for the tree. Perhaps she’d been hit. She certainly lay very still.

  I retraced my steps back to Red and went behind him, removing my hat and hanging it on the saddle horn as I did so. I was on Annie’s side of the trail; with luck I wouldn’t have to reveal myself before I could assess her situation. Hopefully I’d be able to give covering fire while she made a dash for the greater security of the fallen pine. If the gunman fired again before I reached Annie then I would have to return fire wherever I was.

  There was less cover on this side of the trail but the land did slope away so I kept as low as possible, confident that my dirty buckskin was good camouflage against the landscape. I covered the first forty or fifty yards at a crouched run, hoping that my head remained below the level of the trail. From there, where the trail straightened out and ran past the rocks where Annie lay, the slope became less pronounced and I was forced to crawl and snake my way towards her. No shots came from the hillside, aimed neither at me nor at Annie. I began to wonder whether I had got here too late. Whether the last shot had killed Annie and the gunman had fled.

  I chanced a look across the trail. I could see why that spot had been chosen for the ambush. There was no gentle, wooded slope at this point, just a jagged hillside, like a cake with a huge mouthful removed. No doubt there were ledges and boulders enough to provide a commanding view of the trail below. I looked for some sort of movement up there but nothing presented itself. I put my head down and crawled on.

  The situation changed when I was ten yards from her cover. I could see that she was almost curled around a third boulder which was behind the two I had been able to see earlier. Her feet were nearest me and one of them moved, slowly, as though needing to be stretched but wary lest it become a target for the gunman.

  ‘Annie,’ I called across to her in as low a tone as possible.

  I heard her gasp, surprised by the closeness of a voice, afraid I was the person trying to kill her.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. It’s Wes. Wes Gray. Are you hit?’

  She began to turn her head, lifting it slightly so that her hat must have shown above the rocks. At the same time I heard a rush of tumbling stones and rubble from the hillside. He was moving, coming down to the trail to finish off Annie. Then he shot, the bullet again striking rock, causing Annie to flatten her cheek against the ground.

  I got to one knee and answered with three quick shots. Judging by the direction the shot had come from he hadn’t come down the open face of the hillside but had circled round to use the cover of the trees on the slope to our right. I had the satisfaction of hearing him diving through bushes to escape my bullets.

  ‘Annie,’ I called, this time the need for secrecy removed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you move?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When I open fire again I want you to make for that fallen tree. Get behind it and wait until I come for you. OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I raised my head. Everything was quiet. I scanned the slope hoping to catch a movement, a glint from a gun barrel, the scrape of a boot upon rock. I needed to know his whereabouts. Did he intend to finish what he had started? Was he still coming towards us, or had my presence changed his mind? I fired a shot at the same place that I’d fired the other three. There was no response, but further up the slope I sensed a movement through the trees, a shape, a shadow, nothing more. ‘Go,’ I yelled at Annie. As she made a dash for fresh cover I stood and fired at the movement I’d seen, then followed behind but leapt the fallen tree and made for the hillside across the trail. As I passed her I dropped my handgun at her feet. She’d proved yesterday that she knew how to handle guns, if things went wrong for me on the hillside she now had the means to protect herself.

  I set off up the hill, darting from tree to tree, carefully, though pretty sure there was too much wood between us for him to get any sort of a clear shot at me. It didn’t take an Indian tracker to identify the bush he’d dived into when I’d snapped off those rapid shots at him. He’d gone in clumsily and heavily. Round about I could see broken stems and twigs, and here and there, boot imprints, showing the route he’d taken back up the slope.

  I also found the spot where he’d fired his last shot at us. The ejected shell case lay near a heavy boot-print. I picked it up and looked for the scratch that had distinguished those that Hawk had found on the ridge above the Darke ranch house. It was there. I put the empty case into a spare loop on my gunbelt.

  I followed the tracks, a bit more wary now. If he knew I was trailing him he could have found some advantageous position to wait for me. Whoever he was, he favoured bushwhacking when it came to removing opponents. I was three-quarters of the way to the summit when the first shot came, splintering
twigs and scraps of bark from the tree I was passing. I stepped back behind it and waited for the flash of another shot before replying with two of my own.

  After some seconds of inactivity I drew another shot by risking a look around the tree. The bullet whined away down the hill but not before sheering off a splinter that dug into my face just inches from my left eye. I pulled it out and used a kerchief to dab at the blood that flowed down my cheek. He had me pinned down. Going forward wasn’t an option. To my left was the open hillside that offered no cover and no advantage to me. I needed to get deeper among the trees to my right, but even then there were stretches sparse of cover. Crossing them would make me a clear target. However, if I succeeded I would be able to circle behind him and the advantage would be mine.

  I lay on the ground and wormed backwards in such a manner that a tree always obstructed the gunman’s view. An elderberry bush was my first target and from there I moved further downhill but off to the right, taking me further away from the shooter. It had been several minutes since we’d exchanged shots and I knew my adversary would be becoming suspicious. I stayed on my belly and began the long crawl round the trees and back uphill until I came to the first of the clearer stretches I had to cross. The grass was lush here and quite long. I’d crept up on buffalo in shorter grass than this. To prevent the possibility of sunlight striking the barrel of my rifle I kept it tight against my right side as I squirmed slowly through the grass. I paused every so often, checking the direction I was taking and throwing looks towards the spot I’d last known the would-be killer to be. On one occasion I caught a movement, saw a branch moved by a rifle and figured that if I moved quickly I could draw a bead and hit whoever held it. But it was too risky. If I hit him but only winged him he would see me out in the open and would have a clear shot at me; alternatively I might shoot and kill him, which wasn’t what I wanted either. There were questions to be asked. For the moment I wanted this man alive. I moved on.

  When I reached the edge of the second clearing I paused and assessed my position. I couldn’t cross the clearing in less than six strides, a long time to be in the open with a marksman waiting to kill you, but beyond lay the high ground I sought. The ground-cover here was more sparse than had been available at the earlier clearing, nothing more than a thin carpet of moss clinging to the rocky surface, minimizing the appeal of trying to cross with stealth. Still, whichever way I chose to reach the higher tree-cover, bold or cautious, was a gamble with odds only in my favour if the ambusher thought he still had me pinned down behind the tree further down the hill.

  I chose bold. I broke from cover and ran in a crouch across the clearing. A bullet whistled over my shoulder before I’d completed my second step. Perhaps he’d seen me before I began the run, if not, his reactions were as sharp as a war tomahawk. I dived forward and rolled and rolled and rolled, almost colliding with the tree I’d mentally marked as my safety target. Two more shots were fired, each bullet striking rock that I had barely left behind, but now I had the high ground and good tree-cover, and I could go after my man.

  He knew that, too. Foresaking his ambush position he began moving away through the vegetation. I could hear the rustling of leaves and branches ahead of me and, occasionally, the sound of boot on rock as he scuffed his way up the slope. He wasn’t trying to disguise his flight so it occurred to me that perhaps his horse was close at hand.

  Rather than blindly follow him I set course for the top of the hill, hoping to intercept him where the trees were more sparse. I ran along the ridge, straining to hear some tell-tale sound that would give away his location. I was sure he was still somewhere among the trees below me but I could no longer hear his progress through the undergrowth. I stopped, lay flat and put my ear to the ground. It gained me nothing. Then I heard it, the cry of a surprised horse some short distance ahead through the trees. Then there was a man’s voice, urging the horse to an immediate gallop and hoofbeats heading my way. I ran on, my rifle in my hand ready for use.

  They were below me, man and horse, following a trail on the far side of the hill. I couldn’t see his face, his back was all but to me and he was bent forward over the horse’s neck, huddled, like an Indian in his blanket when the snows have come. He was wearing a black hat and a brown jacket and still carried his rifle in his hand. The horse was nothing more than a rangy, dull brown cow pony, but its trappings made it unique. The saddle was of the Mexican style, a high cantle with silver workings in the bridle and breast-belt, and down the leg-leathers for the stirrups. I fired a shot after them. Not in the expectation of hitting anything, just to let him know I’d seen him and to make a promise that we’d meet again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It seemed the sensible thing to do to make plenty of noise when I came back down the hill and called Annie’s name before I got within revolver range. I also whistled for Red who skipped along the trail like a rodeo pony about to do tricks.

  Annie showed herself with, I thought, a degree of apprehension, and I noted that she kept the revolver cocked until she was sure who was coming across the trail towards her. She began to smack the dust from her jeans and blouse, and brushed her hair roughly with her hands to get it into some sort of order. Part-way through asking if I got the gunman she noticed the blood on my face. She poured some water from the canteen on my saddle on to her own neckerchief and bathed my cheek. Meanwhile I told her that her assailant had got away but looked to be heading into town.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that trail joins with this one about a mile from Beecher’s Gulch.’

  Tending my face wound took her mind off the attack but when she got behind me and she wrapped her arms around my waist I could feel tiny tremors of shock passing through her. She rested her cheek against my shoulder. ‘Who’s doing this,’ she asked, her voice so hushed I wasn’t sure if it was meant for me to hear. ‘Why is someone trying to kill me?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ‘but we’re going to find out.’

  We came across the buggy a mile or so down the road, the horses standing in shade chewing on the leaves of a purple-flowered shrub. I handed Annie up on to the long couch seat, tied Red to the rear, then got in beside her and took the reins. My rifle slotted nicely between us, butt down on the floor, barrel resting against the seat. I didn’t hurry the horses, Annie needed some time to compose herself before we hit town. Still, there were questions to be asked and this was a good opportunity to ask them. Perhaps between us we could figure out what this business was all about.

  ‘Seems it took people by surprise when you married Charlie Darke,’ I said.

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘General expectation was that you would marry Chet Barton.’ She looked at me as though she were about to tell me it was none of my business. I shrugged. ‘Perhaps it’s something to do with what’s happening,’ I explained.

  ‘Don’t see the connection,’ she said. ‘Chet didn’t get Charlie arrested and Charlie didn’t shoot Chet.’

  ‘None the less,’ I said, ‘I’d be interested to know why you changed your mind.’

  Perhaps I was digging too deep into personal stuff, but she’d come to me during the night needing someone to talk to: I didn’t think I was taking the conversation much further. She was quiet for a moment or two, then told me the full story.

  ‘Duke Barton has been in this valley longer than anyone else. His folks settled here when he was younger than I am now. He married a girl from Ohio, the daughter of his father’s friend. She hadn’t seen Duke for ten years when she came out here. They were just children when they’d last seen each other. Didn’t know if she’d still like him or he her. But she came and they married and raised two sons before a fever took her off. And Duke and she were as happy as any of the other couples who came to Beecher’s Gulch.’ She tucked a wisp of hair under her hat, a gesture, I thought, to give her time to put her thoughts in order. ‘As you know, the Bartons have the biggest range hereabouts. Frontier people are jealous of their property, careful about straying over bound
ary lines. When you’re one of the smaller ranchers you’re always aware of the power that the bigger rancher wields. If he wants your land he brings his own law to bear to get it. It had happened to my father in another county. I’m not saying that Duke Barton ever tried to cheat my father. They were good neighbours, even friends to a certain degree, but my father was always cautious when it came to trusting Duke Barton. So, when Chet and I started seeing each other, Pa wondered if Duke would allow his son to marry me. “Probably want some girl from the East for him. Someone brought up a lady, not a local ranch girl.” I know he was thinking about Duke’s wife coming special from Ohio but Chet had never suggested that that would be the way with him.’

  I knew Annie’s pa had been mistaken. Duke himself had told me that he’d expected Annie to marry his son.

  ‘Then, a few months ago,’ she continued, ‘Chet and Duke went East without any explanation. They were gone some time and I heard nothing from Chet. Charlie Darke hadn’t long been in town and he and Pa seemed to hit it off straight away. And he was nice. To me. You know what I mean?’ I smiled and nodded, heck, it wouldn’t be difficult to be nice to Annie. ‘Then he got into that trouble with the foreman from the Silver Star. Killed him. Pa brought him out to the ranch to work. One night, setting on the porch after dinner, Pa started wondering about Duke Barton. What had taken him East and kept him from his ranch so long. Charlie said he’d overheard Wade Barton telling folks that they’d gone to find a wife for Chet. Some family friend. Same as Duke’s pa had done for him.’ Annie breathed deeply, holding on to her emotions.

  ‘And you believed Charlie?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I? Pa had suspected something like that.’

  ‘And you?’

  Her voice went small. ‘I was surprised. Hurt, to be truthful. But Charlie had no reason to lie, and if that was what Wade was telling people it left little room for doubt.’