Feud at Broken Man

by Frank Callan

  It was two in the morning now, but Will Ringo rode hell for leather into town and hammered on Doc Potworthy’s door. He was expecting to find Carney dead when he got back to the ranch.

  By the time Elias Hole reached home again, he had taken to the bottle. Having to be abstemious all night and wear an ill-fitting suit had been a strain, and as it turned midnight he started on any available bottle of hooch. In fact, it was Happen Boodle who invited him to stay for some drinks, after everyone else had gone to their beds; though there was one other person inside the now locked doors of The False Start, and that was Joe Dane, who had sneaked off out of sight and was waiting in a dressing room used by Perdy until it was quiet. When he was sure everyone was asleep, he crept out and walked along the landing. From there, in the half light, he could see and hear Boodle and Hole, the latter now decidedly inebriated.

  ‘You know, Mr Boodle, you ain’t such a bad sort. At one time I thought you was no more a man than a yelpin’ cur, kicked about by the lowest drover. But you surprised me. I mean, you run this place real professional like, and let’s be honest, mister, you got Perdy to warm your bed, eh?’ With his last words he reached across the table at which they both sat, pushing back their chairs, and slapped Boodle on the arm.

  ‘Now I have to tell you that you’re wrong, Mr Hole. The lady and myself are simply business partners.’

  ‘Well now, you believe that if you like. But fact is, there’s stray dogs around this town, sniffin’ out women day and night, and one is that no-good kid, Dane. He thinks he can have my girl . . . but he don’t know that I got plans for him, mister Boodle, oh yes!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Dane said to himself, ‘Get up to bed, Boodle. Throw out the drunk!’ But Boodle was drinking as much as the other, and they were clinking glasses and laughing at nothing, finding every remark each one made incredibly amusing. Dane heard noises behind somewhere and had to move quickly to stand behind a door as it opened. It was Perdy, telling them to shut up.

  This seemed to get through to Happen Boodle, and he told Elias that it was time for bed. He led him to the bolted door and said goodnight. Any minute now he would be climbing the stairs, and that, thought Joe Dane, would be his walk to heaven or hell.

  Chapter 11

  There was another citizen of Broken Man who couldn’t sleep that night: Hal Bornless. He was so fixed on his career as an entertainer and humourist that he spent most of his spare time researching the papers and periodicals, looking for markets. He saw himself as a comic artist, and to see his name in print was his ultimate dream. He sat in his pokey little room at the back of the Hoyt place, which he rented for next to nothing, and pored over back issues of the Mid West papers. This night, in the midst of his cursory reading, something caught his eye. It was a familiar face. Looking out at him, with the only difference being a lack of a beard, was the face of Lord Harry Lacey, and the headline above the face read, ‘Lawman guns down the Munter Boys.’ Hal Bornless read the piece, so astounded that his jaw dropped:

  The sheriff of Silver Float, Lord Harry Lacey, the English aristocrat gun-slinger, faced up to the Munter brothers yesterday and shot both men dead. The Munters had run a reign of terror across O’Neill’s Valley, instilling fear into local miners and their families, and they showed no respect for the law. Only last month, Carey Munter rode his mare into the Silver Flat stores and crushed a man against a wall. ‘I don’t regret taking lives when the dead in question are scum, almost as low as the scavenging rats of the back yards,’ said Sheriff Lacey. . . .’

  Hal checked the date. It was just two years back. He chewed over in his mind the consequences of this news, and wondered who should be told. The man of peace was not what he seemed. Now he definitely couldn’t sleep, and he read the piece over again, beginning to believe it now. How many more men had Lacey killed, he asked himself. Here was this fine-living, upright literary speaker, a man apparently beyond the reach of the scandal-mongers, a man with all the cultivated personality of the old-time lords of the manors, and here he was, living a lie! They had to be told, the club members, they had to know about this impostor. He had come out west with his civilized values and his fancy talk, and all the time he was a man of straw, he was no better than a spectacle at a zany show in the travelling feast. He was that hollow. They would have to be told about him.

  At the Big Question, Carney now had the attention of Doc Potworthy, who resented being dragged out of bed at such an hour. He had Carney carried from the floor, where he lay when the Doc and Will arrived, to the bed, and there he examined him.

  ‘You’ve prodded every damned inch of me, Doc, and now you need to do . . . somethin’ as I’m, I’m fightin’ for breath here, mister!’

  ‘Mr Carney, you have a faulty heart. The outlook is not good. Fortunately I have some of my Golden Medicine with me. . . .’

  ‘Oh, not that again, Doc. You gave me that last time and I was sick for days . . . the room stank with it. Can’t you try something else?’

  The Doc stroked his chin. ‘Mr Carney . . . I’ll take some blood. Too much blood surgin’ through the guts, that’s bad. Your poor heart has too much work to do. Now I have some wonderful little fellers, these leeches, in my bag here. . . .’

  ‘Go ahead . . . Will, bring some whiskey, quick.’ Carney accepted his fate. But inside he was planning and scheming. It was going to be a big face-up, a confrontation. No more back-talk and little brawls. It was time to put an end to it all. Soon, after some blood was taken and some of a nasty brown brew was forced down his throat, he went into a half-sleep and he waited till the Doc had gone before calling for Will, who came to sit by him.

  ‘Will, we have to learn from this. I’m not gonna live for ever. I’m gonna be on my feet tomorrow, and then the day after, we’re taking the boys into town, all of ’em except the minders for the steers and the old-timers spitting baccy into dust. We’re gonna end it.’

  ‘If that’s what you want, boss, then yeah.’

  ‘Well, I been thinking of Red . . . I mean how he died. To think of him dying there, stretched on the floorboards of McCoy’s rank old jail! To think of it, Will! Now I’m gonna sleep, and I’m getting up in the mornin’ to work it out, then the next day, close it all, you wait and see.’

  Will just told him to sleep, but he knew his boss from years back, and he knew that this time he meant it. Too long the old man had simmered and stewed that need for revenge, that rancid taste of being wronged, and the urgent desire to get even – it had been seeping through him for far too long. If he had a bad heart, then it was down to that damned sheriff and his cruelty.

  In The False Start, Joe Dane was standing behind the open door that led to a corridor. Coming up the main stairs, the worse for drink and singing to himself, was Happen Boodle; he was moving slowly, then stopped altogether and looked around, waiting for the strength to move his legs. In that instant on the stairs, there was absolute silence in the hotel; everyone slept, from the musicians in their lodging to the girls at the far end of the building, and his own dear Perdy in her room. How he wished he could go to her bed. He was thinking of her as he stopped. Then in that silence he could distinctly hear breathing.

  Behind the door, Dane was waiting till the footsteps came close, then he would step out and lunge at the older man, pushing him backwards. If the fall didn’t kill him, then a pistol-whipping would.

  Boodle sensed the presence of someone or something. He whispered, ‘Who’s that? What kind of rat is skulking there? Show yourself.’

  There was no reply, and he made the mistake of moving up to the top step and then stretched a leg towards the door. In seconds the door was swung closed and it slammed Boodle in the face. He staggered, but didn’t fall back. Dane came at him and kicked him in the belly. Boodle lost all control of his body and there was no time to grasp anything to cling to. He rolled back and tumbled down the stairs, hitting the bottom rail hard with his head – and then his body lay on its back, his eyes staring up towards the high ceiling.
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br />   Luckily for Dane, it had not been a noisy fall. He went down, quick, and checked that the man was dead. There seemed to be no pulse, but he wasn’t certain, so slammed a sharp blow with the grip of his pistol on the temple. Then there was no time to lose. He made for the main door, unbolted it and ran off. There was no sound anywhere, and no sign of anyone moving around. It was an occasion when he was grateful that the town lawmen were so useless at their work. A bunch of comancheros could have ridden into town, cut throats, robbed coffers and ridden off without a lawman stirring.

  There was a roll of dollars in Joe Dane’s pocket, and room enough for another roll now that it had been earned. Nothing quite so easy as takin’ a life he thought, as he made for the Big Question and another satisfied customer. People would find a poor old drunk who had fallen down the stairs. Terrible shame, they would say. Yes, life is so fragile. No, he thought, nothing quite so easy as taking a life.

  When he reached the ranch, Will Ringo was waiting for him, aiming to make sure that he knew the score regarding Carney’s plans. He took care of the horse and then took Dane to one side.

  ‘Tomorrow . . . it’s a day for working out the way to win . . . then the next mornin’, my boy, we’re rubbin’ out McCoy and his boys for good.’

  ‘No, no. I have to take care of McCoy. I been employed for that. He’s my business . . . I resolve him. The pay’s for me.’

  ‘Sure. That will be in the plan, my friend. Clean your barrels. Steady your hands. You got tomorrow to think it through.’

  Dane had no need. It would be the usual professional job, with no risks. McCoy would be shot in the back. Nobody paid him for heroics. They paid for results.

  Chapter 12

  The Literary Club were meeting after breakfast the next day, and they gathered outside The False Start – only to be greeted by Perdy and a group of workers, who led them to the body of Happen Boodle, still lying on the floor, with Doc Potworthy bending over him. As the crowd gathered, and questions were asked, the Doc said, ‘Had a fight, I’d say, and either fell or was pushed down the stairs . . . full of booze. I can smell it now.’

  Voices muttered, ‘No, he was always moderate in his drink’ and ‘Surely Boodle wouldn’t go that way . . . he was a cautious man!’ He had been well liked, and everybody, as they heard about his death, wanted to be there, to be near where he was, and to find out the circumstances. Alby Groot, always a stirrer and a lover of trouble, added, ‘I never saw Boodle down more than four long drinks at a sitting, he was so moderate a character!’

  Preacher Hoyt put an arm around Perdy, and sat her down. Her sobs filled the room, echoing across the silent dance floor. Her girls stood around, offering help and giving soothing words.

  Into this scene came Harry Lacey, and he had been troubled as soon as he woke up that morning. This was his last day in Broken Man before he was due to move on west, but he had been profoundly affected by the shooting of Lydia and by the problems besetting the town. Now, as he dressed and thought about food, he was asking himself some questions about what he could do to help. It was clear to him that the place was caught in a situation he knew well. He had seen it before. At the core of the dissension there was one burning hatred, and everything else was edgy, apprehensive all the time, every minute of the day.

  The moaning and weeping before him as he walked into the saloon did not help at all. There was a crowd around a body – he could tell that, because a pair of legs was visible. Only as he went closer could he make out that it was Mr Boodle, and he saw Perdy, still crouched over her man’s chest, sobbing and moaning.

  A death, and a violent one: he knew then that somehow, beyond rational explanation, he had been expecting this. It was down to something in the atmosphere of the place – bad blood infects. He always thought that.

  Doc Potworthy came to him and explained the situation. ‘Fell down the stairs . . . probably drunk. Tragic . . . tragic, my Lord Harry . . . typical of this barbarous wasteland. . . .’

  Harry moved closer and ranged his look over the body: something he had done a hundred times. He had lived close to death for so long, and he knew all the signs that the Grim Reaper left, to show his route into the snatch of the body into his own dark realms beyond what men knew. His gaze stopped and fixed on some blood on the floor and on Perdy’s hand as she lifted Boodle’s head to kiss his face.

  He moved around to stand behind Perdy and sure enough, there it was – a wound, showing clearly that the man had been hit very hard by something, and that something left a mark familiar to Harry. He had been bludgeoned by a pistol grip. Chances are he had received the blows when he hit the floor, probably after fighting or being attacked on the stairs. The signs of that included the placing of his arms, which were as they would be when we try to break a fall. But then, he could have struggled with someone first, up at the top. All that mattered though, is what was obvious, Harry thought: he had been bludgeoned by something, most likely a pistol.

  ‘Doc . . .’ he said, turning to Potworthy, who was cleaning his glasses and paying no attention to anything. ‘Doc . . . this man was murdered.’

  ‘What . . . murdered you say?’ The Doc realized that heads had turned and everyone had heard what was being said.

  ‘You didn’t look too close, Doc. See the back of the head . . . been whipped by a gun. I’d say a solid sort of pistol . . . maybe army issue . . . makes a good clubbing weapon.’

  When Perdy heard this she got to her feet and moved from sorrow to rage. ‘Killed? My only good friend, murdered did you say, Lord Harry?’ She came to him and looked him in the eyes. ‘I’m afraid to say, ma’am, that I seen plenty of these wounds. Most killers are cowards, and that’s the coward’s way . . . I’d say he did fall down the stairs . . . most likely pushed by the killer.’

  Perdy shouted and wailed and thumped her fists on the strong chest of the tall aristocrat, her head finally resting on his shirt as she had sobbed until it seemed her heart was worn out and her anger calmed. Harry held her and tried to find some words to console her, but there was nothing that would help.

  Perdy then pulled away. Wiping her face clear of tears with the bandana that Harry had offered her, she snapped out, ‘If he was killed, then there’s a killer, and I want his neck stretched. Do we have law in this town or not?’

  Hal and Chet tried to take her close and say comforting things, but she pulled away. Voices started whispering names, all related to Itch Carney. ‘He wouldn’t do this himself, folks . . . but well, we know how he works. He had no time for Happen!’

  Suddenly Perdy called out, as if a stab of truth had wounded her. ‘ ’Course . . . I’ve just turned the man down! I told him . . . I mean, I told him that Happen was . . . was a better man, that I might marry Happen . . . and now!’

  ‘Don’t jump to wild conclusions, Perdy,’ Harry said.

  ‘They’re wild conclusions because they’re about a wild man!’ she said, wiping away tears.

  Finally, after a long gap of time, McCoy arrived, having been told about what had happened. He was about to offer a weak apology when Perdy yelled at him, ‘Where were you when this happened? You’re not a lawman . . . you’re not even a real man, McCoy. Do they pay you in pieces of silver?’

  McCoy did the only thing he could do: he ignored her and moved across to look at the body. The Doc now took his new information and made more of it. ‘Sheriff, this is the work of the bastard who pesters this town like fleas around a carcass . . . Itch Carney. It’s a plain case of murder, Sheriff . . . see the wound there?’

  McCoy bent and took a close look, then nodded and groaned something about making an arrest but having no proof. He asked the crowd in general, ‘Anybody see this?’

  At first there were no answers, but then Chet Two Winds said, ‘I could say that I saw it, boss!’ A chorus of other voices said the same thing.

  The mumbles continued, with Carney’s name being repeated and maligned. Harry, who had been deep in thought and feeling the tugs of conscience about doing s
omething in the town, which was obviously languishing under a dark star, now needed some time to think, and he needed a drink or two as he did so. Chet Two Winds saw his expression and asked what he could do. Soon they were at the bar along the street, the beer-shop with a few benches and sawdust on the floor. A fat old man put large whiskies in front of them and resisted an urge to smile.

  Chet spoke first, after the whiskies were downed. ‘I’m supposed to be at the literary club meeting any time now, Harry. But I wanted to be sure you’re all right. I mean, you’re leaving us in the morning, I believe?’

  ‘We’ll see. Just leave me to think now, eh?’ Leaving the place didn’t seem right, he was thinking. He had never run from trouble.

  Chet Two Winds left him to his thoughts.

  At the other end of town, as the sun was now up and beating on every little corner of Broken Man, Lydia had decided to pay her monthly visit to her father’s grave in the little fenced cemetery by the one-room cabin that was the makeshift church for the town. In fact, locals called it the worship place, as the term church was too grand a title for it. But the Hoyts had grand plans and were trying to raise funds for the building of something that was unmistakably a church or at least a chapel.

  Lydia was bending by her father’s wooden cross which had his name written on in white paint: just ‘Here lies Rico Santo.’ She had been coming to the spot ever since he died, sitting there every month and talking to him, as she was doing today. She put just one little envelope in the dust. It was a letter written to his spirit, and Lydia believed in spirits; she believed that one day she would meet him again and they would talk and hug. Now she said the things that had been running through her mind during the night: ‘Pa, I hope your soul is now in Paradise, where it should be, and that you see what’s going on down here in this vale of tears . . . for that is what it is now. Pa, sadness fills this place like a slow flood. But there is one good thing to tell you . . . Liza di Buco has found her Bonneville! Oh yes, he’s tall, fair and gentle. He’s a lord from over the great ocean, and I think he’s the one I have dreamed of. . . .’