Ballard and McCall 1

by Neil Hunter

  ‘Okay,’ Rio said. ‘Leave it to me. I’d like to work on it my way.’

  Temple nodded. ‘Suit yourself, Rio. But do something soon.’

  Rio slid off the desk and crossed to an oak cabinet that held a few bottles of whisky. He picked up a glass and poured himself a drink.

  Temple went back to the window. He was conscious of the gun-rig around his waist and the heavy pull of the gun on his thigh. He hoped desperately that he would never have to use the weapon.

  He forced himself to look down on the crowd who still milled about the body. Standing over Quince was the town’s sheriff, Ernie Peckard, an old timer who was just the kind of lawman that Temple could tolerate. A man who was too old and weak to do anything that could harm Temple.

  As Temple gazed down into the street he saw without paying due notice, a figure crossing the street. The man’s name was Dicken Hodges, a one-time buffalo hunter who spent most of his time now in the town’s saloons. But at the moment the man was hurrying across the street, carrying a pair of saddlebags and a battered hat. He mounted the boardwalk and went into the Bonanza restaurant.

  Then Temple’s mind turned to other matters and he left the window and crossed to his desk. Had he stayed he would have seen two men carry Quince off to the undertaker’s parlor. He would have also seen Ernie Peckard leave the dispersing crowd and make his way slowly across the street and head for the Bonanza Restaurant.

  Chapter Three

  As McCall followed Ballard into the restaurant he glanced back over his shoulder. The crowd had, if anything, become larger. McCall saw the bouncer called Pink, and his partner, crawl from beneath the feet of the crowd. The two staggered to their feet. Supporting each other they made their unsteady way inside the King High.

  McCall continued on into the cool, clean interior of the restaurant. The place was deserted, though a good few of the tables held partly eaten meals.

  ‘You sure do have a good way of clearing a place,’ Ballard said.

  McCall grinned. He joined Ballard at an empty table. He glanced over towards the counter and the curtained doorway that obviously led to the kitchen.

  ‘Hey! Anybody home?’ he called. To Ballard he said, ‘I hope they ain’t gone far. I’m damn near fading away. I ain’t eaten in nearly two days.’

  ‘No time?’

  ‘No money,’ McCall said.

  Ballard gave a loud laugh at McCall’s dour tone.

  ‘What started all the fuss back there?’

  McCall growled, ‘All over a damn game of poker.’

  ‘You winning?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And?’

  McCall shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘You know what these saloons are. If they’re winning everything’s all right. But let a feller take some of their money and they get sore. I’d played a good game with the house and won a roll. We’d played most all night. So I decided to quit. But the dealer got nasty. When I tried to leave he called in reinforcements.’ McCall grinned. ‘That’s when I made my big entrance.’

  ‘How much did you win?’ Ballard asked.

  ‘Reckon it was about six or seven hundred. Hell, I had to borrow five bucks off an old feller I met to get in the game.’

  At that moment Dicken Hodges came into the restaurant. Spotting McCall he gave a shrill yell as he came over to the table.

  ‘Hey, you sure do hop around some, feller,’ he said.

  ‘That’s me,’ McCall said.

  Hodges slid into chair. He dropped the saddlebags he was carrying onto the floor. Then he handed McCall the battered hat he held.

  ‘You kind of left in such a hurry you forgot your stuff,’ Hodges said.

  He shoved a leathery hand down the front of the greasy buckskin shirt and drew out a roll of banknotes, handing it over. McCall held the roll in front of his face.

  ‘Son,’ he said, ‘take a long look at that because it will be a hell of a time before you see another roll like it.’

  Hodges gave a dry chuckle. He said, ‘That card player tried to grab it when they tossed you out. I give him a whack on the head with a bottle and got out by a side window.’

  McCall pulled a few notes from the roll and thrust them into Hodges’ hand. The old man stared at the money.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I only lent you five. There’s more than that here.’

  ‘You earned it, feller,’ McCall told him.

  Hodges grinned all over his brown face as he stuffed the money down the front of his shirt.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ he asked, glancing at Ballard.

  McCall introduced the two men. Hodges nodded hello, then asked, ‘You from Texas too?’

  Ballard nodded. ‘Place called Duckett.’

  McCall asked, ‘Think you could find the owner of this place before I waste away?’

  Hodges got up. ‘Sure thing.’ He moved swiftly across the restaurant floor. Going behind the counter he pushed through the curtained doorway.

  ‘You down here special?’ Ballard asked.

  ‘No,’ McCall replied, ‘I just drifted this way from Colorado. How about you?’

  ‘I got reasons,’ Ballard said gently.

  Before either of them could say more a shadow fell across the table. McCall glanced up and saw a tall, lean, deeply tanned man. He wore a silver star on his faded shirt. He was an old man, thick white hair and a neat white mustache that stood out vividly against his brown skin. His eyes, of blue, a pale, piercing blue, were fixed unwaveringly on McCall. He was Ernie Peckard.

  ‘Morning, Sheriff,’ McCall said as Peckard sat down.

  ‘Reckon you know why I’m here?’ he said. His voice was dry and soft. The well-trained voice of a man who would never betray his emotions by the tone of his voice. ‘It’s only routine. I saw the whole thing from my office.’ He glanced towards Ballard. ‘That was a pretty smart move, mister. Glad to see someone in this town with a few guts.’

  ‘Call it my good deed for the day,’ Ballard said lightly.

  Peckard nodded. ‘When you’ve eaten, come over to my office and I’ll take statements for the records.’

  McCall glanced at Ballard, who nodded. ‘We’ll be there,’ McCall told him. ‘Sheriff, I’m sorry it had to happen. He gave me no choice.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ Peckard said. ‘Quince had been heading for it a long time.’

  ‘Don’t take offence, Sheriff,’ Ballard said, ‘but I can’t help thinking that maybe this town doesn’t deserve what McCall did. Hell, not one man in that crowd made a move to help when Quince went for his gun.’

  Peckard sighed deeply. He pulled off his hat and placed it on the table, staring at it for a time.

  ‘This is only a small town we’ve got here,’ he said. ‘The people who live around here are either ranchers or farmers. They can plant corn or brand a steer, but when it comes to bracing a hired gun, well, it’s a little out of their line.’

  ‘Who did Quince work for, Sheriff?’ McCall asked.

  Peckard glanced at him. ‘I forgot you fellers are new in town,’ he said.

  ‘Would his name be Wade Temple?’ Ballard asked. Peckard nodded, and the Texan’s face hardened, his jaw muscles bunching tightly.

  The old lawman studied Ballard for a few seconds then asked, ‘You know him from somewhere?’

  ‘Texas,’ Ballard replied. ‘Been looking for him a couple of years. Now I’ve found him.’

  ‘Can you tell me?’

  ‘Temple and his sidekick, Rio, killed a family I knew. I stopped a couple of slugs myself. It laid me up for a few months.’

  Ballard outlined the story for Peckard and McCall. He talked softly. But he was not able to keep hidden all of the deep feeling he carried inside him. When Ballard finished there was a moment of silence around the table.

  ‘A man must be pretty low to go round killing kids,’ McCall said.

  ‘It fits his character,’ Peckard said. ‘Anything hurts him, he’ll get even no matter what.’

  Briefly, the lawman des
cribed Temple’s position in Gunner Creek.

  ‘Like I said before,’ he finished, ‘the folk in this valley just wouldn’t stand a chance against Temple’s crew of gunslingers.’

  ‘How many men has Temple got?’ McCall asked. ‘I owe him too. Never did like being thrown out of a saloon.’

  ‘Near a dozen,’ Peckard told him.

  ‘What are you going to do? Take them on single-handed?’ Ballard asked.

  ‘Hell, no,’ McCall grinned. Then added, ‘At least, not until I’ve had some food. Fighting on an empty stomach ain’t good for a man.’

  Peckard smiled as he stood up. He put on his hat.

  ‘I better go see about gettin’ Quince put under the sod,’ he said. ‘See you boys later.’

  As Peckard stepped out onto the boardwalk, Dicken Hodges burst through the curtained doorway behind the counter. He was followed by a tall, blonde haired woman wearing a pale-blue calico dress and a white apron.

  Ballard and McCall rose from their chairs as the woman came across the floor towards them. Beneath the simple dress, which she wore like a silk gown, moved a lithe, sleek body. High, full breasts thrust at the cloth of the bodice, which swept down to a small waist and trim hips. She was brushing a stray lock of hair from her smooth, tanned brow with long, slender fingers.

  ‘I found her,’ Hodges said. ‘Gents, this Connie Ward. Owner of the Bonanza.’

  ‘Howdy, ma’am,’ Ballard said.

  Feeling somehow like a steer that had wandered into the middle of a wedding party, McCall muttered, ‘Ma’am.’ You been spending too much time chasin’ cows and not enough chasing girls, he told himself as he stood there feeling uncomfortable in his worn and dusty clothing.

  Connie Ward gave him a quick smile as she said, ‘Howdy, yourself, Mr. ....?’

  ‘Jess McCall, ma’am. And this is Chet Ballard.’

  ‘Welcome to the Bonanza, fellers,’ she said. ‘Though to look at it now you wouldn’t think it was the best eating place in town.’

  ‘I reckon you can blame me for that, ma’am,’ McCall said.

  Connie smiled. ‘Well, if I have to eat my own cooking to get rid of it, I will. But with two big fellers like you to feed I won’t need any other customers at all.’

  ‘I’d better wash off some of this dust before I eat,’ McCall said. He slapped at his worn shirt and Levis. Dust powdered off at his touch.

  ‘Maybe you’d better,’ Connie said. She took him by the arm and led him across the restaurant. ‘Sit down, Mr. Ballard,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Hodges said, ‘See you later, I’m gonna get me a drink.’

  McCall followed Connie into the well-ordered kitchen. As he passed stoves that held pans of steaming food, his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for a long time.

  ‘There’s a pump out back,’ Connie said. Then her tone changed. ‘Dicken told me what happened. I’m glad you’re all right.’

  ‘So am I, ma’am,’ McCall said.

  Connie smiled again as she handed him a towel and a piece of soap.

  ‘Go get washed, cowboy,’ she said.

  ‘Yea, ma’am.’

  McCall headed outside into the bright sunlight, saw the pump and began to strip off his shirt.

  About five miles to the north of Gunner Creek lay a tall ranch. It was owned by a man called Phil Lansing. The ranch lay in a good section of land, through which ran the creek that gave the town its name.

  The three hands Lansing employed were up in the east section of the spread, doing the last of some late branding. Lansing and his wife had been expecting a quiet day alone. So it had been up until ten minutes ago. Now, their peaceful home had been turned into a place of terror.

  While one of the men held her, Mary Lansing watched with horror as two other men beat her husband round the living room of the house. She gave a choking sob as her husband fell. One of the men began to kick Lansing in the stomach.

  ‘Stop it. You’ll kill him, you’ll kill him,’ she screamed.

  The men took no notice of her. They were all drunk. Very drunk.

  They all worked for Wade Temple. Bad enough company when sober. But drunk they were vicious and ugly. Earlier in the day they had ridden out of Gunner Creek, bored by the lack of action in the town. In the pouches of their saddlebags they had carried whisky bottles. As they had ridden they had emptied the bottles. By the time they had reached the Lansing ranch, all three of them were in a dangerous state. They had entered the house by kicking open the door. When Phil Lansing had tried to throw them out, they had attacked him.

  The man holding Mary Lansing was called Sam Dugan. At the present time his mind was on something other than concentrating on his companions working over Lansing. The cause of his distraction was Mary Lansing. Even in his drunken state he was able to realize what an attractive woman she was. The feel of her young body against him had aroused his needs for a woman.

  ‘I’m gonna have me a little fun of my own,’ he called to his companions. ‘Keep him busy.’

  Mary Lansing realized his intention when Dugan began to drag her towards the open door of the bedroom.

  ‘No!’ she screamed, struggling against Dugan’s arms.

  Dugan reached the door and shoved her through. Then he slammed the door with a loud crash.

  When Dugan finally emerged from the bedroom his two companions were waiting outside the house. Phil Lansing lay motionless on the floor of the living room.

  Dugan grinned knowingly at his companions as he mounted up. He led the way and they moved off, heading for the trail that led to Gunner Creek.

  Chapter Four

  By the time Ballard and McCall had finished their meal, customers were beginning to drift back into the restaurant. McCall collected his saddlebags and went over to the counter to pay for the meal.

  As she took the money, Connie said, ‘I hope you boys stay around for a while.’

  McCall smiled. ‘Might just do that, ma’am.’

  Suddenly serious she said, ‘Jess, be careful. Temple won’t think very kindly of you after what you did.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t seen the feller yet myself and I don’t cotton to him, so I reckon we’re even.’

  He turned and threaded his way across the restaurant, oblivious to the stares and whispers from the customers at the tables. As Ballard followed McCall out the door he turned and raised a hand to Connie Ward and she returned his wave.

  Out on the boardwalk McCall paused and said, ‘You know where there’s a place a body can get some sleep around here?’

  ‘There’s a hotel down the street a piece. Got me a room when I rode in this morning,’ Ballard said.

  Together they headed along the boardwalk, reaching the hotel after couple-of-hundred yards. Like a thousand other trail-town hotels it was in need of paint on its high false front, and the lobby had the same musty smell, with the inevitable potted plants and over-stuffed chairs.

  McCall headed for the desk and rang the bell.

  ‘No good that way,’ Ballard advised. ‘Desk clerk’s doesn’t hear too well.’

  McCall used his fist this time, rattling the shades of the oil-lamps that hung from the ceiling.

  From somewhere in the darkness behind the desk a door opened and a tall, thin man shuffled into the light. His face and hair were practically the same faded shade of white. His big owl-like eyes blinked as he raised them to the level of McCall’s face.

  ‘Room?’ he asked.

  ‘He catches on fast ,’ McCall said. He picked up a pen and signed the register.

  ‘How long you figuring to stay?’ asked the clerk.

  McCall scratched his chin. ‘Don’t know right off. Better put me down for a week.’

  ‘Pay in advance,’ the clerk said. ‘That’s a dollar a day.’

  McCall hauled out his roll of bills and passed across a ten dollar bill.

  ‘Any chance of a bath?’ he asked. ‘Be extra,’ the clerk snapped.

  McCall sighed. ‘Take it out of the ten.�
��

  ‘Give a yell when you’re ready and I’ll have it filled for you.’

  ‘Then you’d better get fillin’, slim, ‘cause I’m ready now. You give me a yell when it’s waitin’.’

  The clerk gave a faint smile. ‘Yes, sir, right away,’ he said.

  Ballard led the way up the creaking stairs to the first floor.

  ‘What room you got?’ he asked.

  ‘Number nine,’ McCall said after he had a look at his key-tag.

  ‘Here you are,’ Ballard Raid. He tapped the door with the toe of his boot.

  McCall opened the door and had a quick look round the room. ‘Ain’t exactly overpowering, is it?’ he remarked.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get prettied up,’ Ballard said.

  McCall nodded. ‘Okay. See you later on.’

  Ballard closed the door as he left.

  McCall dumped his saddlebags on the bed and tossed his hat after them. Seating himself on the edge of the bed McCall opened one pouch of the saddlebags and drew out a cloth-wrapped bundle. He unrolled it and exposed a rolled gun rig. The leather of belt and holster, though scarred and worn was supple and oiled. The holster held a .45 caliber Colt’s Peacemaker with smooth wood grips. McCall gave a sigh as he withdrew the gun from its sheath. The chamber and frame of the Colt were twisted and gouged. The barrel was offset. McCall eyed the gun sorrowfully. He’d had it a long time, and it had got him out of some tight spots. Then a month ago, in Laramie, a big-mouthed teamster had got into a fight with McCall. Fists had swung, then guns had roared. The end result was that McCall’s gun had been hit by a bullet intended for its owner. And the teamster had finished up in the nearest horse trough.

  Someone knocked on McCall’s door.

  ‘Your bath’ll be ready in ten minutes, Mr. McCall,’ the clerk’s voice said.

  ‘Okay, slim,’ he replied.

  Stepping into the hot glare of the morning sun Ballard glanced up the street towards the King High debated whether or not to go that way but decided against it for the present. Instead he walked the other way and found himself passing another saloon after about fifty yards. Turning, he pushed through the batwing doors and went in.