by Neil Hunter
‘That’s what Merrick is counting on,’ Ballard said. ‘He’ll be waiting for you to step away from Lazy-C this time.’
Conway put an arm around his wife. Glanced at her strained expression. Any decision he made was going to tear him apart. He was going to lose whichever way he chose if things went bad.
‘Can you get her back?’ Helen asked, her gaze fixed on Ballard.
‘You trust me?’ he asked.
Helen smiled tiredly. ‘You know the answer to that, Chet Ballard. Same goes for Jess.’
‘Then you go talk to Merrick. Tell him whatever he wants to hear.’
‘You mean lie to him?’
McCall smiled. ‘All the way down to the toes of your boots, ma’am. Play his game and let him think he’s won.’
‘Go bring Chris back,’ Helen said. ‘We’ll go to town and make Yancey Merrick a happy man – for as long as it takes for you to get back and knock the smile off his face.’
‘You heard the boss,’ Henry Conway said. ‘Let’s pray we can do this.’
As they made for the stable to get fresh horses Laney Chancery walked with them.
‘Anything you boys need?’
‘Extra ammunition. Couple filled canteens. Plenty of luck,’ McCall said.
‘First things I can do,’ Chancery said. ‘Can’t do more than wish you the luck.’
‘That’ll have to do,’ Ballard said.
They were saddling up when Ballard glanced at his partner.
‘How close is this guess of yours?’ he asked.
‘Pretty thin as guesses go, but it’s all we got.’
‘You want to explain.’
‘I don’t figure Merrick is going to hold Chris in town. Not with Ray Bellingham around. He’ll want to stay on the right side until he has Henry’s name on a legal document.’
‘Sounds sensible. So not Beecher’s Crossing. Where else?’
‘Laney said they rode out to the west.’
‘Don’t make me keep asking.’
‘Chet, what’s out there?’
‘Not a lot. Empty country after you get by those deserted spreads. Jess, you don’t think they have Chris locked up in one of the abandoned ranches?’
McCall shook his head. ‘Not after they tried it with you at the Morrissey place. Now, I’m thinking they’ll take here where they’ll have plenty of backup. A bunch of guns around them.’
Ballard’s expression changed the moment he saw what his partner was getting at.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he said. ‘The railhead?’
Chapter Thirteen
By mid-morning Ballard and McCall were in position behind the construction site. They had ridden through the darkness, circling around the camp, well away from any possible watching eyes. At one point they had spent some time observing the place under cover of a scrub-topped ridge. Apart from a couple of casual guards, obviously bored by the routine of watching over sleeping men and cook fires, there was no movement. The guards seemed more inclined to keep topping up their coffee mugs and rolling fresh cigarettes than doing their job.
‘Doesn’t seem your visit left them feeling threatened,’ Ballard said dryly.
‘I guess I forgot to say boo and pull a fierce face. That might have made the difference.’
They stayed and watched the camp for a little while longer, observing the layout as best they could in the darkness. When they moved on, leading their horses, they continued to circle the area until they were well behind the place. They chose a spot, out of sight and tethered their horses in a deep thicket. In the time before dawn they made sure their rifles and handguns were fully loaded.
‘We’ll only get one chance at this,’ Ballard said. ‘There isn’t going to be much time for reloading. So make your shots count.’
‘I’m guessing the construction gang isn’t going to be armed,’ McCall said. ‘As long as they stay out of it no need to get righteous with them. Just watch for that big feller, Bell. Boss man with the gun crew. Bad disposition to go with his size. Top man is Collhurst. Smooth looking hombre with a fancy way of dressing. Makes out to be friendly, but I wouldn’t turn my back on him.’
The locomotive, with the coupled cars, was building up a head of steam as dawn broke. McCall noted that the rear car looked like a personal coach, most likely Bruce Collhursts. It was painted in a fancy color scheme and gleamed under the thin layer of Texas dust.
‘You thinking that might be where they have Chris?’ Ballard said.
‘I can see Collhurst playing the host,’ McCall said. ‘Putting on all the airs and graces for her. Being a gentleman.’
The way McCall spoke the word he made it sound downright crude.
‘Hey, partner, look who just crawled out of his blanket,’ Ballard said.
McCall followed the pointing finger and saw Rafe Kershaw emerging from one of the crew tents. From the way he was arching his back it didn’t appear he’d had a comfortable night.
‘Boss Collhurst didn’t invite him to share the coach,’ McCall said.
They watched Kershaw cross to Collhurst’s rail car. The man himself appeared to stand on the small platform, talking to Kershaw. When Collhurst retreated back inside the car Kershaw made his way across to the cook fires and helped himself to a mug of coffee. A familiar, massive figure showed and joined Kershaw.
Cleve Bell.
‘That the one you were telling me about?’ Ballard asked. ‘I see what you were saying. That is one big hombre.’
While the construction crew and Bell’s gunhands helped themselves to the food prepared by the cook and his helper. Ballard and McCall worked their away around the stacked building materials. The piles of steel rails, the heavy wooden ties. Wooden casks of iron spikes, construction tools. They took up a large area. It was easy for them to stay hidden behind the mass of goods. At the far end of the material stored was a wooden shed with a black painted sign on the door.
Danger. Explosives. No naked lights.
McCall studied the legend, a slow smile creasing his face.
‘Nice way to start the day with a bang,’ he said.
‘Get their attention,’ Ballard agreed.
They snapped back the bolt on the door and peered inside. The hut was packed with casks of explosive powder and cases of dynamite. McCall picked up a thick coil of fuse.
‘While they have their chow we work, he said.
They carried out a number of casks and moved around the stacked construction materials. Placing the casks they opened the lids and inserted lengths of fuse. Once this was done McCall placed a final cask just inside the door of the hut. They paused a number of times to check that the feeders were still eating and no one was paying any undue attention.
‘Start with the furthest cask,’ McCall said. ‘Light the fuses and then we get the hell back into cover.’
They took out the Lucifers they carried to light their cigarettes, then separated to set the fuses. Ballard understood the principle of fuses having a burn time but he didn’t feel entirely comfortable with the actual operation. Even so he did what was expected, then pulled back through the material stacks and was hard on McCall’s heels when they exited the area. He didn’t feel completely safe until they were both back behind the cover they had chosen earlier.
It seemed a long time for the fuses to burn down. McCall was beginning to wonder whether the idea was going to work and even though they were both anticipating the blasts the eruptions caught them unaware.
The first explosion shattered the morning stillness. It was far louder than McCall had expected. The ground shook. Though they couldn’t see it, the blast threw earth and rocks into the air, along with steel rails. Other explosions followed in a chorus of noise. One after the other the planted casks of powder ripped the day apart. The steel rails were followed by splintered ties, the shredded timber flying in all directions. Iron spikes were turned into deadly missiles that were hurled around in a whistling shower.
The final explosion, as the powder store blew, wa
s the largest of all. When the stored powder and dynamite blew the blast roared skywards in a huge ball of flame and accompanying smoke. The fireball rose to a surprising height, heat and the shock wave freezing everyone in the area as it spread out. Even Ballard and McCall, sheltered by the rocky ridge that hid them, were battered by the effect. The ground under then rippled like it was fluid and they were engulfed by the thick cloud of gritty dust that followed. The rumble of the explosions echoed around them as they fought to get to their feet and move in on the camp before Bell’s men recovered their wits.
Debris was still dropping from the swirling dust as Ballard and McCall reached the camp. Men were scattering back and forth, yelling and calling to each other.
‘I’ll go and see if Chris is in that fancy car,’ Ballard said. ‘Go and get your hands on Kershaw.’
McCall nodded, turning in the opposite direction as he strode through the wrecked site. The last sighting he had of Kershaw was by the cook fire.
The Texan saw figures emerging from the dust cloud. A dust-caked man loomed up, blinking his streaming eyes. He was clutching a handgun, and the moment he saw McCall he raised the weapon and fired. The .45 slug burned past McCall. The Winchester in McCall’s hands snapped out a shot and the shooter stumbled back, the slug in his chest.
Behind the falling man another shape emerged from the dispersing dust. McCall didn’t need a second look at the hulking form. He knew instantly who it was.
Cleve Bell.
Chapter Fourteen
The man moved fast, reaching McCall before he could bring his rifle on target. A huge hand slapped the Winchester aside, sending it spinning out of McCall’s grip. Bell’s big hands caught hold of McCall and dragged him close, sliding up to clutch at his throat.
‘Glad you could make it, bucko,’ Bell said. ‘I just knew you’d come back.’
McCall felt thick, powerful fingers clamp around his throat, cutting off his ability to breath. He dropped one hand to his holstered revolver, hauling it free, but Bell, anticipating the move, reached down with his left hand and crushed the Texan’s fingers against the weapon, preventing him from using the Colt. The hand still gripping McCall’s throat tightened. With the span of his single hand Bell was able to engulf McCall’s throat easily.
Mrs McCall, your boy is in trouble, McCall thought.
The Colt dropped from numb fingers. McCall used both hands to pummel at Bell’s thick body. Nothing seemed to have any effect and as Bell increased his grip McCall felt his strength fading. He was staring into Bell’s face, seeing the caked dust. Blood sliding down the man’s cheek from a gash. Bell’s eyes were wide open, staring, wild with the rage that was burning behind them. He used his free hand to punch McCall and those blows were bruising McCall’s ribs prior to breaking the bones.
McCall managed to land a telling blow over the bleeding cut in Bell’s cheek. It tore the flesh further and blood welled from the wound. Bell flicked his head sideways like a man chasing off an irritating insect. McCall repeated the blow, spreading more blood across Bell’s face. He knew his punches were weakening as the lack of oxygen affected him. McCall knew if he didn’t do something drastic he was going to pass out.
Drastic, his brain was telling him. Do something he isn’t going to expect. The man is going to choke you. You have to …
McCall held Bell’s wild stare for a couple of seconds.
Then he raised both his hands, clamped them against the man’s face, and jabbed his thumbs into Bell’s eyes. He dug them in hard, working the extended digits in deep. He ignored the feel of warm fluid that burst free, closed his ears to Bell’s agonised scream as pain rose. McCall felt the slippery mass of the eyeballs as they were forced from the sockets, the spurt of liquid streaming down Bell’s face.
The hands around McCall’s throat released their grip. He stumbled back, sucking air into his aching lungs, dropping to his knees as he reached for the gun he’d been forced to let go. Closing his hands around the Winchester McCall swung the rifle around as he saw one of Bell’s gunmen moving toward him. He didn’t hesitate. McCall triggered the rifle and saw the man fall back. A second gunhand stepped aside as the man went down. McCall worked the Winchester’s lever and fired off a trio of shots that put this one down as well.
A harsh roar from Bell reached McCall’s ears. The big man, blood running down his face from his eyes, was lurching forward blindly, his own revolver in his hand. He was waving the weapon back and forth and it fired without warning, the slug burning the air to one side. Bell cocked and fired again and McCall felt the slug clip his sleeve. He didn’t hesitate, turning the Winchester and putting a shot into Bell’s head, inches over his sightless eyes. Then a second.
‘Son of a bitch,’ McCall heard.
McCall recognised Rafe Kershaw’s voice. The man was a few yards away, watching as Bell went down, snatching at his own handgun. It was only halfway out of the holster when McCall put a .44-40 slug in Kershaw’s left leg, above the knee. Kershaw gasped, letting go his gun and clutching both hands to his thigh. Blood wet his pants’ leg, squirting through his fingers. Slumping to the ground Kershaw suddenly lost interest in what was going on around him.
The activity around McCall had slackened off as Bell’s gunhands moved back, seeing Bell go down and realising that their employment was fast fading. McCall understood the way their minds worked. They were paid to work for the railroad. Once the incentive was removed they were unemployed and being who they were they would see no profit fighting for a lost cause.
McCall watched as the remaining gunhands faded away, making for the picket line on the far side of the camp. He maintained his stance, the Winchester held ready if any of them suddenly had a change of heart. He didn’t believe that would happen. They were already out of pocket and bullets cost money.
He touched his sore throat. That was going to hurt for a time and he’d have one hell of a bruise.
Behind him he heard a crash of sound coming from the rail car.
That, he figured, would be Ballard.
Chapter Fifteen
Ballard was in no mood for distractions. He used his rifle to clear a way to Collhurst’s rail car, emptying the full magazine at the gunhands who briefly blocked his way. By the time he reached the ornate car there were no more gunhands and his Winchester was empty. Ballard let the rifle go and took out his Colt. He hauled himself up the steps and onto the platform at the back of the car. The door swung open and a lone figure filled the entrance, a shotgun held across his chest. Ballard didn’t even pause for breath. He thrust the Colt forward and put two shots into the man, reaching out to pull him clear. The bodyguard, dead on his feet, crumpled to the platform, and Ballard stepped inside.
The first thing he saw was Chris Conway. Slumped in a padded seat she looked angry as a wet hen. Her clothes were creased, her hair mussed and she had a bruise across her right cheek. When she recognised Ballard’s dust-caked form a weary smile crossed her face.
Bruce Collhurst, urbane and seemingly unruffled by the recent events, was leaning against the oak desk that filled the far end of the expensively furnished private car.
‘Is this your knight in shining armor?’ Collhurst said peevishly.
Ballard kept moving as he cleared the door, his long legs carrying him down the car. As he passed Chris he dropped his Colt in her lap.
‘Hold this.’
He increased his pace as he closed in on Collhurst. The railman must have realised he was in trouble, raising a hand to ward off the Texan, but it was a useless gesture. Ballard slammed into him, the impact carrying them over the desk. They crashed to the floor on the far side, knocking the leather chair aside. Ballard swung himself upright, hands gripping the front of Collhurst’s shirt as he dragged the man to his feet. He drove a bunched fist into Collhurst’s face. Blood spurted from crushed lips as the railman was sent reeling. Ballard stepped in close and delivered blow after blow, pushing the man across the car. Collhurst made an attempt to fight back but he was no matc
h for the big Texan’s fury. He drove Collhurst back and forth across the car, the man spilling blood down his front in a glistening stream. In the end he didn’t even attempt to block Ballard’s blows. It came to an end when Ballard took hold of Collhurst and swung him round, hurling him head first through the side window of the car.
As Collhurst disappeared in a shower of broken glass Ballard leaned against the desk, flexing his bloody fists, and glanced across at Chris.
‘You been hurt in any way, Chris?’
The young woman managed a smile as she handed the Colt back to Ballard
‘Apart from the bruises, no, and especially not in the way you’re concerned about.’
Ballard holstered the revolver. ‘Good to hear, young lady.’
When they emerged from the car they were met by McCall.
‘Before you ask, Jess, my modesty has not been sullied,’ Chris said.
‘More than can be said for Collhurst,’ McCall said. ‘Looks like he landed hard.’
The railman’s head lay at an unnatural angle from where he had hit the hard ground.
‘Will you take me away from here, please,’ Chris said, turning away.
Chapter Sixteen
An hour before dusk the inhabitants of Beecher’s Crossing were witness to the group of riders coming into town and reining in outside The Golden Lady. Ballard, McCall and Chris Conway, with a semi-conscious Rafe Kershaw clinging to his saddle. Ray Bellingham, summoned from his office, met them along with Henry Conway and his wife. There was a brief reconciliation when the Conways recognised their daughter.
‘What happened to you?’ Helen Conway asked when she saw the state they were in.
‘It got a little dusty,’ Ballard said.
They hadn’t been able to clean up since leaving the rail camp and the dust and grime was still clinging to them.
‘Merrick still inside?’ McCall asked.
‘Feeling pretty pleased with himself,’ Henry Conway said.
‘He believes the paper he we signed hands him Lazy-C on a plate,’ Helen said.