Ballard and McCall 1

by Neil Hunter

  He was about to move off when there was a tug at his sleeve. Ballard glanced down. McCall stood gazing up at him.

  ‘You want me to come along?’ McCall asked. He looked a fearsome sight, with the side of his face scraped raw and bloody from contact with the rough rock.

  Ballard shook his head. ‘Thanks, Jess, but this is my job. I’d be obliged if you’d let me handle it myself.’

  McCall nodded. ‘Sure thing. Only you watch out. That hombre is loco .’

  Ballard swung the horse’s head round and kicked in his heels. The horse moved off cautiously. Ballard set it on Temple’s trail.

  Fear, desperation, the will to live. These were the things that caused Wade Temple to throw caution aside in his headlong flight across the rock-bed. Under normal circumstances he would have never even considered riding at such a pace. It was a miracle that the speeding horse didn’t fall. Somehow it kept its feet as it clattered across the treacherous surface.

  Temple rode in this manner for a full half hour. Then he began to notice that the rook was giving way to easier ground. He realized he was coming to the end of the rock-bed. Shortly, then, the horse crossed the last stretch of rock and its hooves struck dry, powdery earth again.

  With a sigh Temple reined in his sweating mount. As he let his taut nerves relax, his head dropping onto his chest. He closed his eyes. He could feel his heart pounding, slanting against his ribs. His face and body ached. As he calmed down, he began to think that maybe he’d come out on top after all. He was alive. He had his money. And he had a horse. Ahead lay open country, and new prospects, challenges. He could make a fresh start, somewhere he wasn’t known. He began to feel better. Hell, he thought, things aren’t so bad. His only regret was that he’d been unable to kill Chett Ballard. At the memory of the Texan, his disposition soured a little. But Temple didn’t’ allow himself to dwell on the subject for long.

  He raised his head. Now was the time for looking ahead, he told himself. He kicked his mount into motion. As the horse moved off Temple had a quick look at his back trail.

  An angry curse burst from his lips as he saw a horse and, rider come into view some distance back. At such a distance Temple couldn’t make out the rider’s features; but even so he knew it was Chet Ballard. Knew it as sure as he sat his horse.

  ‘Damn you, Ballard,’ Temple yelled out loud.

  Temple lashed his horse into a gallop. His mind raced as he strove to keep a level head. His only way out was to get far ahead of Ballard and keep it that way.

  If only he’d had Ballard dealt with back in Gunner Creek. He wouldn’t be running now if he had. One man, he thought bitterly, had ruined his hold over a town. Had cost him his kingdom, his men, his power. And almost his life. One man. One vengeance-seeking man, with the persistence of a web-spinning spider, and the durability of a grizzly bear. Ballard had slogged and fought his way through every obstacle to get at his enemy. And he was still trying. Temple had the sudden, shocking realization that Ballard would carry on with his pursuit until one of them was dead.

  Urged on by this he forced his horse on; the animal was straining its resources to the utmost now. And it was tiring very fast.

  The path it was taking led along the bottom of a narrow valley. On both sides the land rose sharply. Temple saw this and realized he might suddenly find himself at a dead end. He swung the horse round and forced it to climb one of the steep valley sides.

  The slope underfoot was loose shale. And halfway up the horse stumbled. Unable to regain its balance it reared up, then twisted sideways. Temple threw himself from the saddle, falling to his knees. He heard the horse scream in terror. The animal rolled and slithered down the slope. It thrashed about wildly in a vain attempt to stop its plunging fall. It crashed to a bone jarring stop far down the slope.

  Panting heavily, Temple slid down the slope. His hands were raw and bleeding from clawing at the shale. By the time he reached the horse he was gasping for breath. There was a searing, burning pain in his chest. He saw at a glance that the horse was dead. Temple sank to his knees beside, the carcass and reached for the money-filled saddlebags. Frustration heaped upon frustration as he saw that one pouch was pinned beneath the dead horse. It was no use trying to move the animal himself. After a few ineffectual tugs at the saddlebags he tore open the exposed pouch and began to transfer the bundles of bills to his pockets.

  The sound of pounding hooves cans to his ears. Turning, he was in time to see Chet Ballard urging his own horse up the base of the slope.

  Grabbing the rest of the money in his arms Temple rose to his feet and began to struggle up the slope. Great panting sobs came from his throat as he stumbled and fell, up the slope. It was a nightmare task. The loose surface made it hard going. His feet kept on slipping. His legs ached.

  A glance over his shoulder showed Ballard on foot himself, plunging wildly up the slope. Temple glanced up. The top was close. If he could reach there he might have a chance. Any kind of chance would do.

  One of the bundles of bills fell from his arms. Stopping to pick it up Temple dropped another. The retaining band of this one broke and bills blew in every direction. Temple watched the flying bills for a second, then turned and struggled on. More bills fell from his grasp as he struggled on. On his knees he saw a shadow fall across the slope just ahead of him. He spun round. It was Ballard.

  In the instant his eyes met Ballard’s, Temple saw the Texan as the cause of all his troubles. If it hadn’t been for Ballard he would still be in Gunner Creek, not out here in this empty, hot, wasteland, struggling for his life.

  With a tormented scream Temple let go of his money and threw himself at Ballard. As he crashed against the Texan, Temple closed his hands around Ballard’s throat. Off balance the two man hurtled backwards and rolled down the slope in a tangle of thrashing arms and legs. Dust billowed up in great thick clouds as they struggled.

  Ballard fought to get Temple’s hands off his neck. His breath was being choked out of him. His eyes bulged, his head pounded. He could see Temple’s face, wild-eyed and twitching, and that face became a blur as his eyes went out of focus. Kicking and twisting Ballard rolled Temple off him as they slid further down the elope. The swirling dust caked them and got into their eyes and mouths, choking and blinding them.

  Ballard’s clawing hands finally found Temple’s wrists. Jerking Temple’s hands from his throat Ballard slammed his fist into Temple’s face. Blood spurted from split lips.

  Temple hooked his foot round and got it against Ballard’s stomach. He shoved and the Texan was tossed aside. Temple scrambled to his feet, and Ballard pushed himself upright, too. He moved in on Temple, his fists clenched.

  But it was Temple who landed the first blow. A body-jarring punch to the jaw that rocked the big Texan and put him off guard long enough for Temple to land three more punches.

  Ballard reeled but stayed on his feet. He tasted blood in his mouth. He saw Temple’s fist coming again and blocked it. Then he threw a punch of his own. It opened a two-inch gash on Temple’s cheek. Blood streaked hotly down Temple’s face. Again Ballard slammed his fist into Temple’s face, ignoring the fact that his knuckles were torn.

  Temple was almost out on his feet. He swayed drunkenly. His face was an ugly sight now. A mass of swollen, bloody flesh. He made no attempt to fight back. He just held himself upright while Ballard hit him.

  Ballard, his strength almost gone, summoned all his strength in a final punch. It was a shattering blow, that landed on the point of Temple’s jaw with a loud, solid crack. Temple’s head jerked back with a whip-like motion. He fell back, and hit the slope on his side. He twisted and rolled down the elope, almost reaching the bottom. Streams of banknotes fluttered from his pockets, littering the slope in their hundreds.

  For a time Ballard didn’t move. When he did, he walked down the slope like a man in a trance. He reached Temple and bent over him. The moment he saw the ugly, twisted position of Temple’s neck he knew it was all over. Temple was dead.
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br />   Ballard’s long search was over. He had avenged the deaths of his friends. It made no difference. They were still dead. Nothing would bring them back. But now the score was even. The man who had killed them was dead himself. And Ballard was satisfied.

  He sat down beside the body and closed his eyes, let his head fall onto his chest.

  He was still in that position when Jess McCall rode up some time later. He had the dead outlaws’ horses roped together and following up behind his and Ballard’s. McCall surveyed the scene in silence. He dismounted. Crossing over to where Ballard sat he halted, shoved his hat to the back of his head.

  ‘Chet, you alright?’ he asked. He had to repeat it twice before Ballard raised his bloody face.

  I am now,’ he said.

  He pushed to his feet.

  ‘I buried Dicken and the other two back there,’ McCall said. He glanced down it Temple. ‘Reckon we’d better do the same for him.’

  Ballard nodded. ‘Man should have a grave, no matter what he’s done.’

  They had no tools so they dug a shallow, hole with their bare hands and the heels of their boots. And when the task was completed they covered the mound with rocks.

  ‘One hell of a lonely place for a man to die,’ McCall said.

  ‘I guess when you die, anyplace they put you is lonely,’ Ballard said. Between them they removed the saddlebags from the dead horse. Then they collected up as much of the scattered money they could. It was a long job.

  Ballard finally said,’ ‘Let’s get away from here.’

  They mounted up and rode. They paused, later, beside the grave of Dicken Hodges, long enough for Ballard to pay his respects. Then they headed out.

  It was dark when they finally halted and made camp for the night. They had a swift meal, then rolled up in their blankets.

  Neither of them felt like talking.

  And it took Ballard a long time to get to sleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Two days later they rode slowly up Gunner Creek’s’ main street and reined in before the jail. McCall climbed down from his saddle and gazed with tired eyes at the people moving up and down the boardwalks.

  ‘Sure looks different to when we first came,’ Ballard said as he dismounted. Behind his own horse stood four other mounts and Ballard waved a hand in their direction. ‘I’d better get these over to the livery stable. They need some rest.’

  McCall ran a hand over his unshaven face. ‘Don’t we all,’ he said. He handed the reins of his horse over to Ballard.

  As Ballard led the horses away McCall stepped up on the boardwalk. Over one arm he carried the two sets of saddlebags that held the money Wade Temple had died for. McCall ignored the curious stares he received from passersby.

  Pushing open the door he stepped into the office. As he closed the door a figure rose from behind the desk. It was Phil Lansing. The rancher wore a holstered revolver and had a badge pinned to the front of his shirt. Lansing came round the desk as he recognized McCall.

  ‘You don’t look too good,’ he said.

  McCall took off his hat and threw it on the desk.

  ‘Rough?’ Lansing asked.

  ‘Enough that Dicken Hodges didn’t make it,’ McCall told him.

  Lansing shook his head slowly. ‘Dicken? Dead? God, I never thought I’d live to hear that.’

  Depositing the saddlebags on the desk McCall went across to the fresh-water pail and filled the tin cup. He swallowed four cupfuls straight off.

  ‘Where’s Ballard?’ Lansing asked.

  ‘He took the horses over to the stable.’ McCall caught Lansing’s questioning expression. ‘They’re all dead,’ he said. ‘Temple, Dutch, Nels, Weston.’

  ‘And Dicken,’ Lansing added bitterly.

  McCall nodded. ‘Yeah. Dicken, too.’

  For a moment there was an uneasy silence. Then McCall asked: ‘I don’t see Peckard. Where is he?’

  Lansing smiled. ‘Doe Burkett finally got Ernie to go to bed and stay there. Ever since you left, Ernie and Burkett have been goin’ at it like a couple of wild-men. Doc won in the end, though. I took over here when Ernie asked me. It’s the least I could do after what happened.’

  ‘By the way, how’s the missus?’ McCall inquired.

  ‘It’ll take time but we’ll get through. Doe Burkett’s wife is looking after her over at the Doc’s house.’

  ‘How about the characters in the back’ McCall asked, waving a hand in the direction of the cells.

  ‘No trouble,’ Lansing told him. ‘They seem to have lost the urge to fight. Our telegraph is still out of action since the storm, so Ernie got someone to ride to over to Thompson’s Crossing and get a message to the U. S. Marshall office in Dodge. So all we have to do now is wait for the law to come and sort the mess out.’

  ‘Well, I’d better go round and see Peckard before he starts in to hoppin’ around again.’ McCall patted the saddlebags. ‘Take good care of these,’ he said. ‘There’s a hell of a pile of cash in then.’’

  He put on his hat and went out of the office. He headed across the street, making for the hotel at the other end of town. As he stepped up onto the boardwalk Ballard fell in step beside him.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked McCall.

  McCall told him what Lansing had said and Ballard grinned., ‘I can imagine Burkett had a hell of a job gettin’ Peckard to stop in bed.’

  They reached the hotel and walked into the lobby. The skinny desk clerk was talking to a middle-aged, over-dressed woman and, as Ballard and McCall came up to the desk, he glanced at them. His lips drew back in a look of disgust as he took in the filthy state of the Texans and their clothes. He began to speak, then paused as he recognized then.

  ‘Why, Mr. McCall and Mr. Ballard, isn’t it? Nice to see you again. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Which is Ernie Peckard’s room, ‘McCall asked.

  ‘Why it’s number four, just at the head of the stairs. Is there anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘Yep. You can get some hot water ready for a bath,’ McCall said. ‘I smell worse than a pile of buffalo-dung.’ The woman gave a feeble moan and put a hand to her mouth. McCall glanced at her. Then he raised his hat. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but if you’d ever smelt buffalo-dung you’d know I was right.’

  McCall followed Ballard up the stairs. At the top they found number four and Ballard knocked on the door. From inside the room Packard’s voice yelled, ‘Come in, damn you, I ain’t comin’ to the door!’

  ‘He sounds as though he’s better already,’ McCall said as Ballard opened the door.

  As Packard saw who his visitors were he gave a relieved sigh.

  ‘God, I thought it was another of then damn women. They keep comin’ to visit me. Keep comin’ to sit with me so l won’t get lonely. Honestly it’s enough to drive a man loco ‘

  Ballard leaned against the end of the bed whilst McCall dragged a chair from against the wall and perched himself on it. Peckard scratched his head and cleared his throat.

  ‘Hell, you don’t want to listen to my moaning’,’ he said. ‘I sure am glad you boys got back. How’d it go?’

  The old man listened in silence as Ballard gave him a complete report on what had happened. When the Texan had finished Packard remained silent for a while.

  ‘You give Dicken a proper burial?! he asked.

  McCall nodded. ‘Wasn’t fancy,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the old feller would have wanted anything fancy.’

  They spent a while discussing the recent events. Then McCall brought up something that had been at the back of his mind ever since Ballard and him had talked it over on the ride back to Gunner Creek.

  ‘Sheriff,’ he began in a tone that caused Peckard to glance at him sharply.

  ‘Something bothering you, boy?’ Peckard asked.

  Ballard said, ‘I reckon I know what Jess is going to say. We had a talk when we were riding in and...’

  Peckard held up a hand. He nodded his head slowly.

 
‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘I can guess. You reckon you’ve done all the badge-toting you want for now, huh?’ He gave a sharp sigh. ‘Somehow, I hoped l might persuade you to stay on . This town could use a good hand to keep the law.’

  ‘It has a good hand,’ McCall told him. ‘Once your leg heals up you’ll be okay.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment, Jess, but hell, I ain’t too good at the job anymore.’

  ‘You damn sure were fine when we took on Temple’s crew. I hate to think what the result would have been if you hadn’t been there.’

  Ballard nodded, said, ‘Jess is right. ‘You don’t have to worry any about not being good enough. You get yourself a young feller who wants to make the law his life and you’ll be better off than if you had a couple of saddle tramps like Jess and me.’

  ‘I like you too,’ McCall said. ‘He puts it a funny way, Sheriff, but he’s right. I ain’t cut out to settle down anywhere for long. After a while I get itchy feet. I just like to drift. Come the day I’ll settle but not yet.’

  Peckard held out a hand and the Texans removed the badges from their shirts and handed them to him. Packard gazed at the tin stars for a while.

  ‘One of these does sort of tie a man down, don’t it.’ He smiled. ‘To tell you the truth I always wanted to see what was on the other side of the hill. Guess I left it too late.’

  Ballard caught McCall’s eye and nodded towards the door. McCall rose from his chair

  ‘I better go get cleaned up,’ he said. ‘See you later, Sheriff.’

  Packard glanced up. He asked, ‘When you leaving?’

  McCall shrugged. ‘Maybe tomorrow. We’ll drop in before we go.’

  Packard nodded and lay back on his pillow. Ballard followed McCall out into the corridor, closing the door of the room behind him.