Dead Man's Range

by Paul Durst

  He was riding by starlight two hours later when he came down the gentle slope of the shallow valley set in the plateau and saw the yellow square of lamplight among the cottonwoods. He had taken longer than he expected. There had been a detour – a stretch of barbed wire that seemed endless as he rode to get around it. Barbed wire, he thought with regret, had spread fast in the past eight years. He had been surprised to see how much there was on the train ride from Huntsville. Too much. He didn’t like it. And he liked this particular stretch less when he came to the corner where it veered suddenly off to the north and had read the sign. ANVIL RANCH. BOOTH ANSON, PROP. KEEP OUT!

  As he splashed across the creek and rode through the cottonwoods he saw the Merriweather woman framed in the lamplight in the doorway, brought there by the sound of his approach. Then, closer, another figure raised itself. A man, with a rifle in his hand.

  ‘Hold it right there, mister!’ a voice called.

  Carmody reined in.

  ‘It’s all right, fella – I come peaceable,’ he said quietly. At the sound of his voice the woman stepped out of the house. ‘Is that you, Mister Connelly?’ she said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Carmody said. ‘I brought something for your little girl.’

  She caught her breath. ‘Not – not the pup!’

  Carmody handed the squirming bundle down to her. She caught it and turned to the man with the rifle and said quickly, ‘Caleb, you can put your gun down. This man’s a friend. Mr Connelly, this is the foreman and entire crew of the Merriweather ranch, Caleb Stockbridge.’

  Caleb, Carmody saw as he leaned down to shake hands, was in his middle sixties or thereabouts. ‘Howdy, Connelly,’ the man said.

  ‘Jeff’ll do, Caleb,’ Carmody said, surprised at how easily he was growing into his alias.

  Caleb motioned to him, saying, ‘Water trough’s over this way – Carmody.’

  Jeff felt himself tighten all over. ‘The name’s Connolly, Caleb,’ he said, trying to make it sound casual.

  ‘Not unless you changed it in the last eight years, it ain’t,’ Caleb answered quietly.

  For a moment their eyes met and held in the starlight. ‘Does she know?’ Carmody said.

  ‘I don’t reckon she’d’ve given you such a howdy-do if she did. She ain’t never got over it.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Carmody said with considerable feeling. ‘But I didn’t kill him, Caleb. Maybe you won’t believe that, after the trial I had and all, but it’s the truth.’

  A flurry of excitement prevented Caleb’s reply as Penelope burst out of the house wearing a nightgown, carrying the pup who was barking his head off with enthusiasm at the reception he’d had. ‘Jeff!’ Penelope shrieked with delight. ‘Jeff, he’s almost like new.’

  Carmody tried to smile but realized he was making a bad job of it after what Caleb had just said. ‘I think Doc did a pretty good job. I’ll tell him you’re pretty well satisfied.’

  ‘Penelope, you’re supposed to be in bed now,’ her mother called.

  The girl put the pup on the ground and ran toward the house with it following at her heels. ‘G’night, Jeff!’ she called.

  ‘You weren’t thinking of leaving tonight?’ Penelope’s mother said. ‘Why can’t you stay over?’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Merriweather, but I’ve got to get back to.…’

  He felt Caleb’s elbow dig him in the ribs. ‘He don’t neither, Anne,’ the old man said. ‘He’s just tryin’ to be perlite. Why, just before you come out he was tellin’ me how tuckered he was after ridin’ all day. Besides,’ he added, turning to Carmody. ‘I was kind of lookin’ forward to finishin’ that chat we’d started.’

  ‘You’ll stay then, Mister Connolly?’ Anne said.

  Carmody nodded. ‘Much obliged, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said with a smile. ‘You look tired. Caleb, show him where to put his horse then you two wash up and come on in. I’ll go put supper on the table.’

  Caleb led the way to the pole corral, and when Carmody’s mount had been watered and turned inside the two of them washed. Caleb indicated that Carmody, as guest, should wash first, then said, ‘I know you didn’t kill Clint Merriweather, son.’

  Carmody paused in the act of rolling up his sleeves and glanced at the leathered old face peering earnestly at him in the starlight. ‘Do you really mean that?’ he asked bluntly.

  Caleb nodded.

  ‘Does she think I killed him?’

  The old man heaved a sigh and stood up, nodding. ‘If she thought you was who you are.… I told her all along that it didn’t make sense. Why would a complete stranger like yourself want to kill a man you ain’t never seen before?’

  ‘The jury believed it,’ Carmody said with a tinge of bitterness.

  Caleb snorted. ‘Jury, hell!’ he said in disgust. ‘That bunch of hammerheads was picked just because they’d believe what somebody wanted ’em to believe.’

  ‘I spent eight years in Huntsville,’ Carmody said quietly. ‘Eight years breaking up granite boulders in a sun so hot it makes Hell look cool by comparison – or in the wintertime shivering in a cell when the only thing to keep you warm was the memory of the exercise you’d had breaking those boulders. Eight years, Caleb. Eight years paying for a killing somebody else did.’ He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘Who was it, Caleb?’

  Caleb shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t know, son. If I did I’d have gone after him long ago, old as I am, for killin’ Clint.’

  The house was only a few yards away and a shadow fell across them in the pale lamplight as Anne came to the door. ‘Caleb! If you keep Mister Connelly out there talking all night his supper’ll be cold.’

  Before they got to the door Carmody asked, ‘How long has Booth Anson been in these parts?’

  ‘Since away back. But if you’re thinkin’ he might’ve done it, don’t. Not that I’d put it past him – it’s just the kind of thing he’d enjoy doin’. Especially since he’s been tryin’ to get hold of this place for a long time. Killin’ Clint might’ve looked like one way to get it.’

  ‘Then what makes you so sure he didn’t?’

  ‘He was down in Canadian the night it happened. Twenty miles away.’

  ‘He might have said he was down in Canadian – or got somebody else to say it. Money talks.’

  Caleb sighed. ‘That’s just the hell of it, Jeff.…’

  Carmody caught his elbow. ‘You’d better learn to call me Jeff,’ he said, glancing toward the door. ‘If she finds out.…’

  ‘I’d better watch that, all right. Good thing you picked a name that sounded like the other. It might cover a slip of the tongue sometime.’

  ‘You were saying something about Anson,’ Carmody said as he moved away again.

  ‘Oh, yeah … well, he was down in Canadian that night. I saw him. I was there.’

  After supper that night Carmody and Caleb went outside and sat on a bench in the starlight.

  ‘Pretty nice spot,’ Carmody commented. ‘Nice sheltered valley, good running water. Spring?’

  Caleb nodded, puffing his pipe. ‘Good spring, too. Rises ’bout two miles up the valley. I’ve never seen it run dry, even in the longest drought.’

  ‘This creek runs on east across Anson’s place, I guess?’

  ‘Nope, that’s the funny thing. There’s a piece of bogland down the creek a few miles. The creek spreads out over a bed of quicksand and marsh grass and just plumb disappears. Goes underground. Don’t come out again till clear down on the Canadian ten miles below. That’s one reason Anson’s so hot about tryin’ to get hold of this place. That creek sinks out of sight just about a hundred yards short of his fence.’

  ‘He short of water?’

  ‘He’s got a few lakes. You know what that’s like. Go bone dry just when you need ’em most.’

  ‘You said that was one reason,’ Carmody said. ‘He’s got others?’

  ‘Yep. He owns ’bout fifteen sections to the east of here, and pretty near
the same size range to the west of us. We’re right smack dab in the middle, cuttin’ his range right in two.’

  ‘How’d that happen?’

  ‘Well, it goes back a long way. Anson bought up a place ’way east of here years back to begin with. Then he started spreadin’ out. Bought some. Stole some. Leastwise, he pushed people until they moved and sold it for next to nothin’.’

  Carmody was silent for a long time, moody with thought. Finally he said, ‘That makes it look all the more like Anson’s the man I’m looking for – the man who killed Clint Merriweather.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Caleb sighed, ‘I tried to figure it that way, too. But I seen him in Canadian with my own eyes just before the time Clint was bein’ bushwhacked.’

  ‘He could have paid somebody to do it for him.’

  ‘I’ve often wondered about that, too,’ Caleb said reflectively. ‘Only there wasn’t a single man in this part of the Panhandle that wasn’t a good friend to Clint Merriweather. An’ damn few who didn’t hate Booth Anson’s guts. If he hired it done, it had to be a stranger.’

  Carmody looked at him. ‘What makes you so sure it wasn’t me that did it, then?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘I can’t explain it. But in sixty-five winters I’ve learned a little about human nature. You just ain’t the kind, that’s all.’

  Carmody fell silent, thinking. He thought of the spur rowel and dug it out of his pocket. ‘Ever see this before?’ he said, handing it to Caleb. The old man studied it for a long time, turning it over and over, before handing it back. ‘No. Can’t say I have. Where’d you get it?’

  ‘Found it laying on the trail beside Clint’s body the night he got shot.’

  ‘It wasn’t Clint’s, I can vouch for that.’

  Carmody nodded. ‘That was the first thing I checked.’

  ‘Then you figure it belonged to the man who shot him?’

  ‘I’m dead certain.’

  ‘You showed it to Mose Dalmas when he arrested you, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yep. All he said was, “Carmody, there’s maybe sixty-thousand men in the state of Texas wears spurs. Any one of them could’ve lost that rowel.”’

  Caleb puffed awhile in silence. ‘The hell of it is, son, he’s dead right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘For that matter, he might’ve thought you’d planted it there yourself to throw him off.’

  ‘Yeah – he mentioned that, too.’

  The old man shook his head and stood up. ‘Clint was a mighty fine man, son. I hope you find whoever did it. But it looks like you’ve got a cold trail to follow.’

  Carmody stood up slowly. ‘But I’ll find him, Caleb,’ he said quietly. ‘If it takes me the rest of my life and ten thousand miles of riding, I’ll find him.’

  Carmody walked off, making his way past the corrals and toward the cottonwoods beside the creek. He found a deep pool and sat down beside it, resting his back against a tall cottonwood. The night was still warm here in the little valley; it would be cooler up on the plateau above, but down here it was sheltered. A good spot to winter stock in, he thought. The creek probably never froze solid, so there’d be plenty of water. And the slope of the hills would cut off the worst of the northwesters.

  CHAPTER 3

  The following morning, Carmody had finished breakfast and was rolling a cigarette to go with his second cup of coffee when he asked, ‘Penelope around this morning?’

  Anne smiled. ‘She’s down along the creek.’

  Carmody drank his coffee and stood up. ‘I’ll ride by and say goodbye to her on my way out.’

  ‘You’re leaving us?’ Anne said, her disappointment showing plainly in her voice.

  Carmody looked at her. ‘I didn’t aim to become a star boarder just on the strength of a mongrel pup.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it that way,’ she said quickly. ‘I just thought – well, you don’t seem to be tied down. If you’re looking for a job.…’

  The offer came as a surprise. He had no idea of how big a spread she had but it seemed reasonable that it would be a small one since Caleb was her only hand. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might need help.

  Anne misinterpreted his hesitation. ‘I suppose you’re like all the rest – you hate the idea of working for a woman.’ There was no bitterness in the remark, but he thought he detected a note of despair.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he said firmly. ‘Your money’s as good a pay as anybody’s. I didn’t know you needed a hand, that’s all.’

  ‘Need a hand? I need half a dozen. When Clint was alive we had the bunkhouse full and two extra bunks in the barn. But since he died – well, like I said … most men seem to hate the idea of working for a woman. It does something to their pride. I’ve had a few, off and on, but they soon drift. Old Caleb’s stuck with me through it all, but the two of us can’t manage alone. I’ve had to cut down on the herd until we can just barely pay our way at the bank. And between that and Booth Anson.…’ She broke off and turned away.

  Carmody was lost in thought. A job here would have its advantages. Caleb already knew who he was and what he was after. That could be a big help. Besides, Anne Merriweather was already having trouble with Anson. A job here would provide Carmody with a convenient excuse to keep an eye on Anson – for some reason he still felt certain that Anson was behind the killing of Clint.

  There were two disadvantages, and Carmody marked them well in his mind before reaching a decision. If he took a job here he would be taking on somebody else’s troubles and it might mean, if his hunch about Anson was wrong, that his own cause would suffer. But the second disadvantage bothered him most. Living this close to Anne Merriweather increased the danger that she would find out his true identity. A slip of the tongue, a chance visit by somebody who might recognize him, and the secret would be out. For some reason he didn’t want her to know who he was until he had cleared his name.

  ‘You’ve got a hand,’ he said suddenly.

  She turned away from the window. ‘I don’t want you to take the job just because you feel sorry for me,’ she said evenly. ‘But you’ve got a right to know, if you’re going to work here. I have got troubles. You’ve met Booth Anson, so you know what you’d be up against. He’s trying to get me off this land.’

  ‘Caleb told me.’

  ‘And you still want the job?’

  ‘I don’t scare easy, Mrs Merriweather.’

  ‘You’d better learn to call me Anne, Jeff. Mrs Merriweather makes me feel my widowhood too much.’ Then, as if this sounded too sombre, she added with a smile, ‘And everybody thinks of a widow as being at least fifty. Female vanity, I guess. No woman likes the thought of growing old.’

  That was something she wouldn’t have to worry about for a long time, Carmody thought. But the ground was too personal to tread just now and he avoided it. Changing the subject he said, ‘You’ve got horses, I suppose? I ought to take that livery mount back to town.’

  ‘Caleb will help you pick your string.’ Then she smiled bemusedly. ‘You’re a funny man, Jeff. You ask about horses, but you didn’t bother to ask about your pay.’

  Carmody shrugged. ‘Thirty and found. That’s usual, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sixty.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘You could hire two men for that.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said with a firm smile. ‘You’ll do two men’s work on this range.’

  Carmody looked at her in new appraisal. There had been no sarcasm in the remark. Just a plain statement of fact. He felt a warm admiration for this woman who refused to knuckle under to Booth Anson, despite the odds.

  She put out her hand. ‘Is it a deal, then?’

  He took her hand and found the grip was surprisingly strong for one so feminine. ‘It’s a deal,’ he said.

  When he stepped out of the house he noticed a commotion down by the corral and saw it was Caleb crowding a bunch of saddle stock inside the bars. He crossed the yard and leaned against the corral to peer inside while Caleb closed the gate and got down to light his pi
pe.

  ‘Not a bad looking bunch,’ Carmody commented.

  ‘Clint always kept a pretty good saddle stock,’ Caleb said, puffing at his pipe. ‘Held onto a good stud and a few good brood mares and culled out the rest.’ He stabbed his pipestem at the corral. ‘Most of them was colts when Clint got killed. ’Fraid they ain’t been exactly gentled – I’m a little too old for that kind of work and we ain’t been able to keep a good wrangler on the place. But if you ain’t afraid to take the rough edges off a few of ’em you ought to make up a pretty good string with the best of these.’

  Two hours later Carmody got down stiff-legged from a sweating bronc, jerked off the saddle and dumped it over a corral rail. ‘I reckon that’ll do, Caleb. I’ll keep those last five up here and turn the rest out.’ He wiped the sweat from his face. ‘I sure got rusty in eight years.’

  Caleb dug an elbow into his ribs and said quietly, ‘Here comes Anne. She hears you talkin’ like that she might start wonderin’ where you been them eight years.’

  Carmody glanced up as Anne approached. He’d never seen a woman in men’s garb before and it jolted him a little. Especially since the voluminous calico dresses in which he had previously seen her had only hinted at what he saw now.

  Anne noticed his look and smiled her amusement. ‘You didn’t expect me to work in skirts, did you, Jeff?’

  Carmody stirred out of his trance. ‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ he said.

  She turned to Caleb. ‘Anson said yesterday that my cows were still wandering through his fence. I know where they’re getting through, but it’s his fence, not ours. If he wants to keep them out it’s up to him, not us. But I think I’ll ride down and have a look anyway. Jeff has to take that livery mount back to town, so he can ride that far with me.’