Riders West

by Matt Chisholm

Dwyer said: ‘Like I wrote you, Mr. Brack, we’ve had us a little trouble here.’

  ‘I thought you had trouble down on Three Creeks.’

  ‘That’s right, Mr. Brack, but—

  ‘You can kindly explain why you got six men loungin’ around here when the trouble’s down there.’

  The three hardcases sat on their horses, faintly amused.

  ‘I can explain that, Mr. Brack. You see—’

  The owner ignored him and turned to the three mounted men. ‘Throw your horses into the corral, boys, and go get yourselves some chow.’ To Dwyer, he snapped: ‘Come up to the house.’

  He strode towards the house. Dwyer followed, one stride to his two, hating him like he had never hated a man before.

  To look at, Brack was one of those men who look almost noble on the back of a big horse. He had the greedy eyes, the thrusting jaw and the resentment of an empire builder. But now, on foot, he had the look of a petulant spoiled boy with an ageing face. He was aged about forty and they said that he got his start from his father who had made money making arms for the north during the Civil War. It was said further that his father had been a man much like him and that Ed’s mother had run off and left him for a travelling salesman with a thin moustache and that kind’s smooth talk. Ed’s own wife, who had been a renowned beauty, had run off with a play-actor not three years after she married Ed, who told the world she was trash and concentrated his mind, as he had always done, on the making of money and the obtaining of land and influence. It was common talk that he had several men of political power in his pocket.

  Brack hated more than anything to be slighted. The Storms had done that by thinking they could squat on his land. The fact that the valley was public range meant nothing to him. He had decided that it was the place where he wanted to winter his cows and there they would winter.

  He strutted into the house, went to Dwyer’s desk, swept the papers on there aside, sat in Dwyer’s chair and put his dusty booted feet on the desk-top. Dwyer stood there shuffling his feet like an erring schoolboy.

  ‘You will explain,’ Brack said, ‘why the Storms are still on Three Creeks. I take it they are still there.’

  ‘They’re there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They wounded two men.’

  Brack looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘You mean two wounded men were enough to turn you chicken?’

  ‘They’re your men, Mr. Brack. I didn’t think it advisable to risk anymore.’

  ‘Men’re cheap.’

  ‘Not the one I hired.’

  Brack fixed his eyes on Dwyer.

  What’s this? You hired a man? A gun-handler?’

  ‘The best. I paid him to kill Mart Storm and Joe Widbee. I thought with them dead, Will Storm would fold.’

  ‘Who’d you hire?’

  ‘Ira Murdoch.’

  Brack whistled appreciatively and said: ‘They don’t come better’n that.’ He seemed slightly mollified. ‘You showed initiative. I like that fine. So what’s the position now? You waitin’ for word from Murdoch?’

  ‘No, sir. Murdoch’s dead.’

  That brought Brack’s feet off the desk with a crash. He sat bolt upright and stared at his foreman.

  What?’

  ‘They dumped his body in the yard two nights back. Mr. Brack, if you want the Storms out of Three Creeks it’s goin’ to cost you men and money.’

  The look Brack gave him silenced Dwyer.

  The great man went deadly still. He sat for a while, leaning on the desk, his head down, clenching and unclenching his right hand. Dwyer watched it, fascinated. Finally, when Brack looked up, he said: ‘Dwyer, this is sure goin’ to break the monotony. I had things my own way long enough. It’s time I had a little setback to keep me on my toes. I’m goin’ in there an’ I’m goin’ to burn their house over their heads, then I’m goin’ to hang ’em. Nobody can do this to Ed Brack.’

  Dwyer said: ‘Two things, Mr. Brack. First, the house is worth keeping. We could do with a line-shack down that way. Second, they have women along.’

  Brack smiled.

  ‘All right, Dwyer. That’s good thinkin’. We keep the house. So they have women along, do they? Funny, ain’t it? Men with women along always think they’re safe. These bastards’re goin’ to learn different.’

  Dwyer thought of Kate Storm and he felt a little sick.

  Brack said: ‘You see those three men I brought in with me? George Bright, Jim Longman and Henry Shultz. All good men who know how to use a gun. I bought ’em. They like to fight. They’re not just executioners like Murdoch. They like to fight:

  Dwyer said: ‘If they’re goin’ to get the better of the Storms, Mr. Brack, by God they’ll have to.’

  ‘I’ll see this through, Dwyer, then I’ll stay for round-up. For your sake, I hope the calf yield is satisfactory.’

  Dwyer paled.

  The rest of that day Brack took it easy. The hard riding had tired even his powerful body. But the day after, he took his three hardcases and rode down to Three Creeks to look over the land. Dwyer warned him against going into the valley and that he might get shot for his pains, but he waved the warning aside and went off in high spirits. There didn’t seem to be any fear in the man.

  He returned at nightfall, dusty and triumphant, declaring that he had ridden the length and breadth of the valley without a single shot being fired at him. The hardcases seemed to think that the whole affair was a storm in a teacup. Brack gave orders for all the riders to be called in and declared that in two days’ time he would move in on Three Creeks in force.

  That night, he told Dwyer that he had planned his campaign with all the thoroughness of a skilled general. He had a map of the country firmly in his head and he knew beforehand every move he would make. He would take the Storms and he wouldn’t lose a man.

  ‘No heroics, Dwyer,’ he declared. ‘Just outflank them and swamp ’em with superior fire-power.’

  The following day was occupied in preparation, guns were cleaned and supplies packed ready. He would divide his small force into two parts, each would be independent of the other for supplies. Each would have its own small pack-train. Dwyer would command a force made up of the bulk of the hands and would march down the valley in full view of the house and would halt out of range. He didn’t doubt that the Storms would believe that this was the whole Broken Spur strength. He himself would lead a smaller force of picked men down the valley to the west of Three Creeks and cover the house from the western ridge. The Storms could surrender or be starved out. It would be simple enough to cut them off from their water supply. During the day a few rifles would cover them from the ridge; during the night Broken Spur men could move in close to the water. He would have the three hired guns with him.

  The Storms would be overwhelmed. They had women with them and they wouldn’t want to endanger them. The result, he thought, was a foregone conclusion.

  Dwyer thought that the strength of Brack’s force would certainly decide the issue, but he couldn’t help feeling that all would not go as smoothly as Brack thought. Mart and Joe were dangerous men and even the quieter Will had looked like a mighty obstinate man to him.

  Brack was in a rare good humor and looked like a man who was really enjoying life. There was, he declared, nothing like a little opposition to make a man feel a zest for life.

  The top-hand, Hank Tristem, smiled lugubriously when he heard this.

  ‘The ole man,’ he said, ‘don’t know he has a rattler by the tail. But he will.’ He had been chosen to move in from the west with Brack’s party and he didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about it.

  Chapter Ten

  They were saddled and ready to move out at first light. Every man had a good horse, a rifle and revolver. There was enough ammunition to fight a war. The pack-train carried ample supplies for a week. Ed Brack mounted and surveyed his men. Some of them didn’t look too warlike, but he didn’t let that put him off. You couldn’t tell from the way a man looked
how easy he found it to plant a thirty-thirty slug in a man’s guts. His three hired guns would add the stiffening that was needed. He noticed that the three men kept to themselves. The cowhands despised and walked warily around them. The gun-hands looked upon themselves as a kind of elite.

  Ed Brack gave the word to move out. They rode at a steady trot down the valley towards the pass, leaving nobody behind except the cook. He was a Chinese and regarded them all as crazy barbarians. They covered five miles and halted. Brack gave Dwyer his final instructions, then the main body moved on directly south and Brack led the way into the west, angling south.

  Brack looked at the sun, inspected his watch and stepped up the pace. He didn’t care about his horses being worn down. They weren’t going to be chasing anybody. A bullet moved faster than a man on a horse.

  After several miles, the country itself slowed him and he started to champ at the bit a little. He hadn’t bargained for such rough going. It was noon before they started their tired horses up the last ridge. And he hadn’t forgotten to send a man out on scout like a good general. This was Hank Tristem who now signaled that the ridge top was clear of opposition. They halted their horses below the top, unsaddled and continued their climb on foot. They were all very breathless when they reached there and threw themselves down to regain their breath.

  When he was breathing naturally, Brack joined Hank Tristem on the ridge top and looked out over the house.

  ‘How’s it look to you?’ Brack asked.

  Too damn quiet,’ Tristem said.

  Brack looked across the valley and saw Dwyer’s party. They must have been in position for some time. He could see where the horses and supplies had been left. The men were strung out on foot in skirmishing order. The sun glinted on a rifle barrel here and there. They were stationary as Brack had ordered.

  ‘They’re overawed,’ Brack said. ‘They can see Dwyer and the men yonder just as well as we can.’ He chuckled. ‘Give ’em time and they’ll make a break this way. Then we have ’em. We’ll knock ’em over like ten pins.’

  ‘If they’re there,’ Tristem said.

  Brack looked at him in astonishment and anger.

  ‘What the hell do you mean? If they’re there?’

  ‘I reckon they lit out.’

  ‘You’re crazy. What’s all this about? Why did they wound two of my men? Why’d they kill Ira Murdoch? You think they did that and now they suddenly changed their minds?’

  The possibility of Tristem being right disappointed him sadly. It also enraged him.

  He glared back at the house and pointed—

  ‘See there? They have horses in the corral.’

  ‘Two,’ said Tristem doggedly. ‘They have a fair-sized remuda. And they left enough feed and water there for some time.’

  Brack stared.

  Finally, he said: ‘I can see a rifle-barrel at a window.’

  Tristem said: ‘You got a glass with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take a good look at that rifle-barrel.’

  Brack shouted for one of the men to fetch his glass from his saddlebags. One of the hands slid down the ridge and then came pounding up it, panting, with the glass in his hand. Brack snatched it from him, extended it and took a look.

  After a long hard stare, he exclaimed: ‘Well, I’ll be goddamned. You know what that is? It’s an iron rod.’

  He hated to admit another man was right and he was wrong. He stood up and said: ‘We’ll go down there and take a look.’

  ‘Take it easy,’ Tristem said. ‘Could be a trick. That Joe Widbee sure is a smart hoss. He could be hid out anywheres around here waiting to cut down on us.’

  ‘One man,’ snorted Brack, took a small mirror from his pocket and signaled across the valley for Dwyer to advance. When the long line of men was on the move, Brack led the way down from the ridge.

  They went slowly and they watched the house, every man ready to fire. When they reached the first creek, Brack told off a couple of the gun-hands to work their way north and come at the house from the rear. The rest of the men he told to fan out and advance with care from the north and west.

  The crossing of the creek presented some difficulty, for in most places the water proved to be deep. Most of the men waded in chest-deep and one who couldn’t swim fell in and would have drowned if Tristem hadn’t been near and hauled him out. Brack bellowed at the man not to play the fool, this was serious business and if anybody else acted that way he was fired.

  They advanced cautiously across the open ground between the two water-courses, but no shot was fired from the house. The silence played upon their nerves even more than a shot could have done. Even Brack was sweating as he came up alongside the corral. Now the men stopped. Brack yelled at them, but they didn’t budge. Finally, he laid down his rifle, took off his gun-belt and walked boldly towards the house, yelling: I’m unarmed. I’m coming in to talk.’

  A couple of dozen paces from the house he stopped and stayed still for a moment as if even the bold Brack had lost his boldness. Then, no doubt aware of the eyes of the men were on him, he once more advanced to the house and opened one of the doors. Every man there stood with his gun held ready, expecting a shot. They knew that with Brack dead the fight could be as good as over.

  But no shot came.

  Brack disappeared for a few minutes, then stamped outside and bellowed: ‘Gone - all gone.’

  Men ran forward now. There was an extraordinary eagerness about them as if they were gaining some victory over the Storms by reaching the house. Men burst in the door of the west side of the house, ripped blankets off the bunks, threw cups and plates on the floor, scattered clothes. It was all childish, but they felt tough.

  Hank Tristem didn’t take part in all this. He just stood outside and watched.

  Charlie Dwyer came panting up with rest of the crew. He came up to Tristem and said: ‘You mean they ain’t here at all?’ Tristem nodded. The question seemed a waste of breath to him.

  ‘They ain’t here,’ the top-hand said, ‘but I ain’t too sure they ain’t around here some place.’

  Dwyer cast uneasy glances around and hunted up Ed Brack.

  The great man was giving orders.

  ‘Burn the place down.’

  Dwyer said: ‘It’s a nice house, Mr. Brack. We could use it.’

  ‘So could the Storms. Burn it.’

  Dwyer knew better than to argue. He started giving orders too, found the cans of coal-oil, instructed how it should be splashed around. The two horses were let out of the corral and sent away with the lash of a quirt.

  The men started to enjoy themselves. There was some laughter; they ran around a little and shouted. Ed Brack smiled indulgently. A little fun would do the boys no harm. He strutted about among them, tolerantly, showing his teeth.

  ‘Do a good job, boys,’ he cried. Maybe he thought of that moment when he had been alone there out in front of the house wondering if he was going to receive a bullet through his guts. The wagon was still where the Storms had left it, alongside the corral. They must have got out of there light and fast. He gave orders for the vehicle to be broken and burned.

  There were flames now in the house. The curtains caught quickly and the orange flames flickered hungrily out of the windows. Something caught inside with a light whoosh. Suddenly it was very hot around the house and men retreated from the heat. The men stood watching the flames with a kind of innocent pleasure, nodding to each other, pleased, smiling a little.

  Brack walked off from the others, thinking, wondering if he should take any more steps against the Storms. They had defied his name and maybe they should be taught a lesson. On the other hand, they were gone and he was rid of them forever. After all they had only wounded a couple of riders and killed a hired killer. Murdoch took risks when he hired out his gun. His death was no skin off Brack’s nose.

  By the time the Storm’s roof fell in with a crash, he had made up his mind - he would forget the Storms. He was faintly disappointed
. He had keyed himself up for a fight.

  He dismissed them from his mind. They proved no more than a minor nuisance. He would now head back for Denver where he had some business to transact. He owned a fair amount of real estate in the city. He told Dwyer to get the horses. He wanted the men back at their work. The round-up could start. They had wasted enough time already. Some of the men were sent on the run to fetch the horses. Pretty soon they were mounted and Brack was leading the way back to headquarters. They climbed up into the pass and there was a gala mood among the men, a great relief that none of them carried lead in them. Knowing the men they were up against, they were only too well aware that they were lucky not to be toting dead men home.

  It was in the pass that Bob Dickson who had ridden on ahead, stopped his horse and pointed into the valley below.

  ‘Look yonder.’

  They rode forward and looked.

  It was several seconds before they took it in.

  ‘Jesus,’ one said, eyeing the column of smoke, ‘it’s the house.’

  Brack looked at the man as if the words couldn’t make sense. Then he stared at the smoke again. He had the look of a man quite unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. Just the same, he was the first to recover himself. He lashed his horse with his quirt and rode down out of that pass like all the fiends in hell were after him. As one man the crew and the hardcases took out after him.

  By the time they reached the house, there wasn’t much of it left. The bunkhouse was already nothing more than charred lumber. They sat their horses with the smoke teasing their nostrils looking at the same devastation that they had themselves perpetrated in the southern valley.

  Tristem seemed to find something grimly amusing in the situation.

  ‘An eye for an eye,’ he said.

  Brack heard and gave him a terrible look.

  He swallowed very hard, gave a great shudder as though he had been hit by a sudden chill and said softly: ‘They’ll hang for this.’

  The destruction looked incongruous against the background of the rolling green valley and the blue mountains beyond. They looked around them. The corrals were empty, the horses driven out. The Chinese cook came running from the brush in which he had hidden, gabbling incomprehensively. Brack looked at him with impatience and anger. Then he demanded that the man be brought to him. It took them a long time to calm him down and to question him in a language which he neither spoke nor understood readily. Finally, they learned, to their disgust that one man had done all this. And a black man to boot. That seemed to them to be the final insult.