Chapter Nine
Mart, sleeping in the half of the house which he shared with Joe, awoke in the way that he had, coming from deep sleep into total consciousness. He awoke, too, knowing that something was up and reached for the butt of the gun that lay beside him. He was aware that he was not alone.
‘Joe,’ said a voice softly near him.
Mart swung his legs over the side of the bed.
What’s up?’ he asked in the same low tone the Negro had used.
‘There’s somebody nosin’ around,’ Joe told him..
‘You see him?’
‘Heard him up on the ridge.’
‘Only one?’
‘Ain’t too sure.’
Mart got off the bunk and started pulling on his pants. In the dark he searched for his moccasins and found them. He knew that there was work ahead of him that called for silence. He thrust his revolver into the top of his pants. You couldn’t creep around with a holster catching in everything. He found his rifle, knowing that it was loaded and ready.
‘Where’s he at?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know that,’ Joe replied. ‘He knows his business. I lost him. He come over the ridge an’ he crossed the cricks. After that, I lost him.’
‘Hid up some place,’ Mart said. ‘Waitin’ for first light, maybe.’
‘That’s what we have to think,’ Joe said.
‘I’ll go warn Will,’ Mart said. ‘How you goin’ to play this?’
‘Ain’t too sure. Maybe he’s around, close. No good us all bein’ near the house. I’m goin’ back across the cricks an’ on to high ground where I can see what’s goin’ on.’
‘All right. Look where you’re shootin’, boy. I don’t want you shootin’ my butt off.’
Joe chuckled in the dark and slapped him lightly on the shoulder to wish him luck and to tell him that he was going. Mart stood in the dark and heard the wooden latch lift, felt the light brush of night air and knew that Joe had gone.
A moment later, he himself stood outside the door and looked at the sky. Dawn wasn’t far off. He was a little worried, for he didn’t know what he should do for the best. He turned left, went past the dog-trot and entered the other half of the house. He tried to wake Will without disturbing the others, but he heard Martha wake and her sleepy voice demanded to know what was happening. It was no use lying to her because she knew that Mart wouldn’t enter their private sleeping place unless there were something seriously wrong. He heard Will grunt and sit on the side of the bed.
‘Joe heard somebody come over the ridge,’ he told them.
Will pulled his boots on. When he’d stamped his feet into them, he asked: ‘How many?’
‘Joe thinks one, but he ain’t sure.’
Will said: ‘Let’s go find him.’
Mart said: ‘Leave this to Joe an’ me. You stay in the house with the women. Maybe this feller’s just waiting for somebody to come out into the open to shoot.’
‘You ain’t givin’ orders around here yet,’ Will told him, indignant.
‘Somebody has to hold the house,’ Mart told him. ‘I don’t aim to do nothin’ but stick around with a gun. Joe’s goin’ to hunt this jasper down. It’s Joe’s kinda work and you know it.’
Martha said: ‘He’s right.’
Will knew his brother was right, but that didn’t help his early morning temper much. But he did as Mart wished. He found his rifle and loaded it, demanded coffee and told Kate and Melissa to keep their voices down when they woke and started asking questions. He consented to Mart going outside and agreed to drop the bar on the door behind him when he’d gone.
Outside, Mart entered the dog-trot, moved to the rear of the house and bellied down. He Indianed along to the rough ground at the rear of the house, then started carefully towards the creek. He found here a clump of brushwood and took up his position there.
Meanwhile, Joe had worked his way north through the grass until he thought he was out of sight of the house. He crossed both creeks and worked his way up the nearest ridge, going along it south until he was above the house. He settled down and waited for the dawn to come up.
When dawn came, Mart, a short rifle shot north of the house, came to the conclusion that he had chosen a poor position and could do better. He needed to be somewhat higher. He looked around and spotted what he wanted: a knoll on the floor of the valley to the east of the house. From there he could view a fan-part of the front and back of the house and would also have sight of the ridge beyond. He therefore broke cover and, on hands and knees, started to move to his new position.
Up on his ridge, Ira Murdoch woke with first light and automatically checked his arms. He was chilled and stiff. Not wanting to expose himself to the view of anybody who might be below, he lay on his back and worked his arms and legs until he had the blood flowing. He gave brief thought to the delights of a good breakfast and promptly dismissed them. He had work to do.
He was feeling confident, though wary. He knew that there had been some movement at the house during the night. Though he had failed to spot the fact that Joe had passed him in the dark, he knew that men had come and gone from the west end of the house in the dark. Sound carried easily on the still air of the valley. He knew also that somebody had moved away from the house and worked his way north. He had glimpsed him once in the moonlight and then lost him. Hence his wariness. He suspected that the Storms knew that there was a stranger in the valley. Possibly he was mistaken, but it was always best to play safe. He knew that their awareness would not save them. At least one of his victims was going to die that day.
His guess was that the man he had spotted was either Mart Storm or the Negro, Joe Widbee. He had a dangerous man somewhere on his left flank. So he moved silently northward along the ridge to counter this move. He did not think that the man had crossed the creeks, or he would have heard him. It stood to reason therefore that the man was hidden somewhere in the brush to the north of the house.
Then he had a piece of luck.
He had just taken up his new position when his sharp eyes caught movement below him. From the opposite side of the second creek, a man stole from the cover of brush and started on his hands and knees through the long grass going east.
Murdoch wondered who it was. He reached into his pocket for his glass, extended it and put it on the figure below. The man’s back was to him and for a while he thought that he would never get a useful view of his face, but after a while, the man turned and looked back towards the hills.
At once Murdoch recognized Mart Storm.
He had seen him some years before in El Paso. He had grown a beard since, but the added hair was not enough to disguise him. So this was his chance. The range was rather long, but he was confident that he could make it. He put away his glass and picked up his rifle. Keeping his eye on the man below him, he levered the Henry, estimating the light breeze and the angle.
Glancing towards the house, he checked that there was nobody else in sight. He was slightly puzzled that the man should be working away from him, but he put this down to the fact that Storm must have misjudged his position. He sighted, held his breath and squeezed the trigger.
He never saw the result of his shot.
Something hit him in the back of his head, the world seemed to explode in an eruption of more pain than life could hold. Ira Murdoch fell forward dead.
When he had made the shot, Joe waited a moment, not sure that there wasn’t another hidden marksman near. He knew that Mart was hit. He looked quickly around him, searching for telltale movement.
When he glanced back at the valley again, he saw a figure running. Will going to aid his brother. Joe started out from cover, going down the hillside, nimble as a goat. By the time he had reached the first creek, Will had reached Mart.
Something inside Joe’s head kept shouting that Mart was ‘dead. Joe waded through the creek and ran across the flat to the second water-course, straining. He couldn’t see Will now. Martha and the two girls were running
from the house. Joe groaned. The whole damn family was now out in the open, asking to be shot at.
They were all around Mart when Joe reached there. Will turned a worried face to the Negro.
Mart was lying on his face and the back of his shirt was all bloody.
‘How bad?’ Joe asked.
‘He’s alive,’ Will told him.
Joe dropped to one knee. Will had cut away the shirt from the right shoulder. The flesh looked ugly, as if it had been churned open.
‘Get him back to the house,’ Will said.
I’ll tote him,’ Joe said and handed his rifle to Kate. Will gave him a hand and Joe set off for the house, knees buckling under the weight. Mart was unconscious and didn’t make a sound. Joe took him into the family’s part of the house and laid him out on the table. Martha took charge. Wounds were her province. She gave orders, the men and the girls obeyed her. There was lead buried deep and it would have to come out if Mart was going to live. Will stood around, white-faced, scared that his brother was going to die, calling himself all the fools under the sun because he had risked his family through his stubbornness. Martha lost patience with him and told him to go outside and smoke.
Outside Joe found him and said: ‘The missus’ll fix him. Don’t you fret none.’
Will said: ‘I should of cleared out, Joe.’
Joe said: ‘I killed the bastard ‘at shot him. Let’s you’n me tote him down from the ridge.’
‘Tote him down? What in hell for?’
‘Broken Spur sent him in. They kin have him back.’
They made their way across the creeks to the ridge. On the way, Will asked: ‘You know who he is?’
‘Didn’t get a good look at him. I was stalkin’ him. Just had time to see him take aim at Mart. Got him through the head.’
When they reached the corpse in the rocks, Joe turned him over on to his back and looked at the features frozen in death.
‘You know who he is?’ Joe said.
‘Never seen him before in my life,’ Will told him.
‘Ira Murdoch,’ Joe said. ‘Shows that Dwyer sure is takin’ us serious. Murdoch, he just about the best that comes. Lucky he didn’t kill us all.’
They lifted him between them and carried him with some difficulty down to the bottom of the ridge. Then Joe fetched a horse and lashed the dead man to its back. He didn’t take the dead man near the house because he didn’t want the women to see him. He saddled one of his own horses, enjoined Will to stay close to the house and keep a gun in his hand and rode out, leading his grisly load behind him. Will didn’t approve at all. They had more important things to do than dump dead men in Broken Spur’s lap. But he knew there would be no altering Joe’s mind. He had his way of doing things and he’d do it.
That night, Charlie Dwyer was in his room doing the paper work he hated. Ed Brack liked such matters just so and Dwyer usually did the work with great care. But tonight his mind wasn’t on it. It was to the south in the valley of the Three Creeks. He kept thinking to himself: ‘Are they dead yet?’
Ira Murdoch had said that he would bring word quietly in the night of his success to Dwyer. He would receive the second half of his fee and quietly ride out of the country.
The place was quiet except for the buzzing of the insects around the light of the lamp. The men who were not out in the line camps were in the bunkhouse.
Gradually, as he sat there thinking, Dwyer became aware of the soft roll of approaching hoofbeats. There was a rider coming in from the south. Dwyer rose and went to the door of the house, listening. After a few moments, he knew there were two horses out there. Slowly, his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness after the lamplight and he made out the dim form of a horse and rider coming up to the bunkhouse. The second horse, he guessed, was a pack-animal.
The rider halted. There was a slight pause followed by a dull thud. As the rider wheeled his horse and spurred away into the night, Dwyer started forward.
Men were coming out of the bunkhouse. He heard a shouted exclamation and saw the men coming together in a bunch. He started to run. When he reached them he started to thrust his way through them.
One of them turned and said: It’s a stiff, Charlie.’
‘Bring a lamp,’ he said.
Dread fingered down into his bowels.
A lamp was brought and he held it so the light shone on the face of the dead man. He started back. The dead eyes of Ira Murdoch stared blankly back at him.
‘You know him?’ one of the men asked.
Dwyer shook his head. He fought to bring out his words clearly and steadily.
‘I never saw him before in my life,’ he said.
‘Why here?’ the hand demanded. ‘Why dump him here? Any of you fellers know him?’
No, none of the men knew him. Wait a minute said one of them. He peered closely at the dead man.
‘Jesus,’ he whispered, ‘you know who this is?’
‘Who?’
‘Ira Murdoch.’
For a moment, they were stunned. There wasn’t a man there who hadn’t heard of the famous gunman. Then the questions started. Who was the rider who brought him in? Again the question - why bring him here?
‘Hell,’ said a man. ‘He don’t have nothin’ to do with us.’ Then he turned to Dwyer. ‘Does he have anythin’ to do with us, Charlie?’
Dwyer said: ‘The man’s dead is all that matters. Get shovels and plant him.’
Bob Dickson said: ‘That musta been one of the Storms brought him in.’
Dwyer snarled: ‘What Storm could kill Ira Murdoch, if that’s who he is?’
Bob said: ‘Mart or Joe Widbee. Either. Looks like somebody sent Murdoch against ’em.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ Dwyer said weakly. But it didn’t matter what he said. The crew knew that Murdoch was a man with a reputation and had been killed. It looked too that the Storms had killed him. This was going to shake the men when they got to thinking what this meant.
He walked towards the house, leaving the men staring after him. When he was inside he found himself a bottle and poured himself a generous helping of whisky. He had never needed it so much before in all his life.
He sat down and stared beyond the circle of light. They’d killed Murdoch. He couldn’t believe it. He just couldn’t take it in. All that money wasted. Ed Brack would have his hide. But there was a lot more to it than that. Maybe the Storms had had some luck, but it looked to him they were stronger than he thought. Anxiety cut through him. Good God, maybe, they were planning to hit him here. Who could tell with two hardcases like Mart Storm and Joe Widbee?
He wondered how long his men would stand up in a hard fight. Maybe he should send for Brack.
But he didn’t make up his mind that day or the next. He tried to think his way through to a solution. If only he could come up with something smart. But all he could think to do was to go down into the Three Creek country and drive them out with guns. And that, plainly, was not as easy as it had first seemed.
The following day, although nothing was to be gained by it, Dwyer had one of the hands trail the man who had dumped Murdoch’s dead body in the yard. The man trailed the night-rider through the pass into the Three Creeks valley and there he was met by two rifle shots that passed, he swore, no more than a couple of inches over his head. Discretion being the better part of valor, as his old daddy had taught him, he beat a speedy retreat. He suggested that if Dwyer wanted somebody to ride down to Three Creeks, he might consider going himself.
That was a sign of the way matters were going. The men were losing some of their fear and respect for their foreman.
For two days, Dwyer did nothing, because he did not know what to do. He thought of a number of things, such as firing the grass of the southern valley and burning the Storms out. But that wasn’t possible. This time of the year, the grass was too green to burn. Once, when his temper got the better of him, he almost gave the order for the men to saddle-up and storm the valley headlong. But when he thought of
the execution Mart Storm and Joe Widbee would perform on his riders, he thought better of it.
Then, Ed Brack arrived.
There was little warning of his coming. One of the hands who had been riding line to the north, came in raising the dust to tell Dwyer that he had spotted four riders on the Denver trail.
Just in case this meant trouble, Dwyer told the half-dozen men he had kept at headquarters to stand by their guns. He scattered them around the place in defensive positions and waited for the four riders to come in.
He felt a bit of a damn fool when one of the riders turned out to be the owner, Ed Brack. Dwyer didn’t have to look twice at the men with him to know they were hardcases. Brack had imported his own guns. Dwyer was both relieved and angry. He was relieved because the boss could now take the responsibility, angry because he hadn’t resolved the trouble before Brack arrived.
Brack was a small man. In stature that was. But that was all he was small in. He had the air of a man who was faintly surprised that he didn’t own the whole world. He also indicated that he was working his way towards that goal. Men said that he ran cows in every state of the west. That was a slight exaggeration, but not too far from the truth. Whichever way you viewed him, he had money and he had power. Economically it might not pay him to expend money on eliminating the Storms, but, if the whim took him, he’d do it.
When he stepped down from his horse (no easy task for him on account of his short legs) he looked as if his temper was held with some difficulty on a pretty short rein. He’d ridden a long way and he’d ridden hard. Dwyer waited to see whether the temper was directed towards him or the Storms. He feared that it was both.
At the sight of him, the men came out from cover, their weapons in their hands.
Brack gave Dwyer no greeting (he reserved such weakness for equals and where could he find equals?), took one look at the men and growled out: ‘What in hell’re all these men doin’ around here? Ain’t there no work to do on this ranch?’
Riders West Page 7