‘What, to remove any other marks?’
‘That’s a pretty good reason.’ Jordan paused to take another drink. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘A couple of his boys brought me in. I thought I might pay a visit to the Bar Nothing tomorrow.’
‘You were lucky they found you,’ Jordan replied.
Tulane was reluctant to say anything further about what had happened to him, but he sensed that the time had come to tell the ostler about subsequent events. When he had finished Jordan whistled beneath his breath.
‘Hell,’ he said, ‘Buried alive! That’s a new one even for old Skip Malloy. I hope he don’t make a habit of nailin’ folks down before their time.’
‘It ain’t an experience I’d like to repeat,’ Tulane said.
They were both silent, temporarily lost in thought. Tulane glanced up and down the street. It was empty now and it came as a surprise to hear the shuffling sound of footsteps. A figure appeared, framed in the doorway.
‘Pocket!’ the ostler exclaimed. ‘What are you doin’ out at this time? Does Miss Winona know where you are?’
‘It ain’t late. Miss Winona don’t mind.’ The diminutive figure of the boy edged past the doorframe and into the stable.
‘Allow me to introduce a friend of mine,’ the ostler said. ‘This is Pocket. Pocket, this is Mr Tulane.’
‘We’ve already met,’ Tulane said. ‘Hello Pocket.’
‘Hello Mr Tulane. Hope you’re feelin’ better now. I mean, now that you’re not dead any more.’
Tulane grinned and turned to the ostler. ‘Pocket was acting as assistant to Malloy,’ he explained.
‘Oh, I see. Yes, Pocket is a good boy. He sometimes helps out here with the horses.’
‘Can I have a turn of your pipe?’ Pocket asked.
‘No. You can’t have a drink either, but if you look on that shelf in the corner you might find something.’
The boy ran to the shelf. ‘Sarsaparilla!’ he shouted. ‘Thanks, Mr Jordan.’
‘Go right ahead and give the horses a groomin’,’ Jordan said. ‘If that’s what you’ve come for.’ The boy made his way to the stalls and they could hear him whispering.
‘Pocket kinda belongs to the town,’ the ostler said to Tulane. ‘His mother died and no one knows who his father was. Miss Winona Purdy – she runs a boarding house – she kinda takes the main role.’
‘The Sumac,’ Tulane said.
‘Sorry? Oh yeah, the name of the guest house. Seems like your memory ain’t so bad after all.’ Jordan finished his drink and took up his pipe again.
‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘If you’re plannin’ to ride all the way out to the Bar Nothing, why not take Pocket with you? He knows the way. He knows most things round here. I sometimes think he knows more than the rest of us. I’d come myself except I got a busy day. Still, you kinda got me intrigued. To tell you the truth, I’d be interested in knowin’ more about Marsden Rockwell myself.’
Tulane smiled. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘If the boy wants to.’
‘It’ll keep him out of mischief. But have a word with Miss Winona first. The Sumac is right behind Main Street.’
Tulane rose a little unsteadily to his feet and made to hand back the corncob pipe.
‘Keep it,’ Jordan said. ‘I got a few of ’em. Like I said, all the way from Boonville, Missouri. They don’t make ’em like that anyplace else.’ He called the boy, who came running up to them. ‘Mr Tulane is ridin’ out to the Bar Nothing tomorrow. How would you like to show him the way?’
‘Sure. Could I take one of the horses?’
‘I reckon you’ll need one if you’re goin’ to get anywhere. Have you brushed and combed old Dan?’
‘No. I’ll go and see to him now.’
‘You can take him.’
‘Thanks, Mr Jordan.’
‘I’ll come over to the Sumac early tomorrow mornin’,’ Tulane said, ‘and make sure it’s OK with Miss Winona.’
The boy looked eager. ‘I’m sure glad you ain’t dead, Mr Tulane,’ he said.
‘Yeah, so am I,’ Tulane replied. ‘See you tomorrow, partner.’
When Tulane got back to his room and had time to think about things, he wasn’t sure he had made the right decision to take the boy along with him. He thought he detected the influence of the whiskey both in Jordan’s suggestion and his own ready acceptance of the idea. Still, he reflected, it could work out for the best. Pocket knew the area; he should prove a useful guide. His presence might serve to alvert any possible awkwardness in approaching Marsden Rockwell. At the same time, he had to admit to a frisson of excitement at the prospect of paying a visit to the Sumac. All he knew of Miss Winona Purdy was her name but, like Jordan had said apropos of Marsden Rockwell, he was intrigued. He wouldn’t have been able to give a reason, but he intended cleaning up his wound and putting on a clean shirt for the occasion.
Chapter Two
Mr Eldon Garrett, attorney-at-law, was sitting at his desk when there was a knock on the door. It opened to admit his secretary.
‘Mr Rockwell to see you.’
Garrett hesitated for a moment but before he could say anything the bulky figure of Rockwell appeared behind the woman.
‘What’s all this? I don’t believe in standin’ on ceremony,’ Rockwell blustered, passing the secretary. He dropped heavily into a chair facing the lawyer.
‘Thank you, Miss Fawcett,’ Garrett said. The door closed softly behind her and he turned to the rancher.
‘We don’t often see you in town,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘I bet you weren’t,’ Rockwell said. ‘I won’t beat about the bush. I want to know how things stand with my latest offer for the Pitchfork L.’
Garrett shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I have put your offer to Mr Loman but I’m afraid his attitude remains the same.’
‘Attitude? You mean he’s being as stubborn as ever.’
‘I have hopes that he might be persuaded—’
‘So have I,’ Rockwell interrupted. ‘I can tell you, I’ve just about reached the end of my tether with Loman. I intend to adopt a different approach.’
The lawyer looked at him questioningly.
‘Time is of the essence,’ Rockwell resumed. ‘Now I’ve acquired the stagecoach company, I need the quickest route from Water Pocket to Sageville. And that goes clear across Pitchfork L range.’
‘I think that a further offer might just . . .’
‘I’ve made my last offer,’ Rockwell said. He sprang to his feet. ‘Well, I consider that was a waste of time. I don’t expect to be billed for it. Just make sure those papers confirming my ownership of the Valley Line Stage Company are ready when my foreman stops by later.’
‘You don’t need to concern yourself about that. In fact, I have them ready.’ The lawyer rose from his seat, walked to a safe standing in a corner, unlocked it and produced a sheaf of papers. He relocked the safe and returned to his desk.
‘There you are, Mr Rockwell. All in order. Certified and legal, you might say.’
Rockwell took them and laughed. ‘If you ever get tired of pushin’ a pen,’ he said, ‘you can apply to me for a shotgun guard.’ Still laughing, he spun on his heel and stamped across the room.
‘Don’t bother seeing me out,’ he rapped as he opened the door. ‘That secretary of yours can do it a whole lot better.’
The door closed on him and Garrett sat down. He remained motionless for a moment staring into space. Marsden Rockwell put some good business his way, but he resented the rancher’s arrogant approach. His keen instincts told him that there was more to Rockwell’s interest in acquiring the Pitchfork L than securing the easiest stagecoach route and he resolved to find it out. If his hunch was right the information might prove useful.
As Rockwell passed through the outer office he gave the secretary a wink. She looked demurely down but he thought he knew the signal. Sometime, he thought. Right now he needed to get to the stage depot. Strange to
think the stage line and everything appertaining to it was now his. He owned the stagecoach on which he was expecting Lonnie Spade to arrive.
His lips twitched in an involuntary smirk. Hiring a man like Spade wasn’t cheap. You had to expect to pay top dollar for someone with the sort of reputation he had. Maybe it hadn’t been wise to let him in on the real reason he wanted the Pitchfork L, but he doubted that he would have gained his services otherwise, even allowing for the money he was paying. Still, if things worked out, there would be money and to spare. If Spade ever decided to get awkward, there were ways of dealing with him.
Yes, his decision to hire the gunman was justified. Lonnie Spade was exactly the sort of man he would need now that lead was about to fly. It was time Loman and the Pitchfork L were brought to their senses and made to see things his way.
The Sumac boarding house was easy to find. Even before the door opened to his knock Tulane could smell the tantalizing aroma of frying bacon. The door was opened by a lady wearing an apron over a checked gingham dress. Her hair was drawn back in a bun, emphasizing the fine high lines of her cheekbones.
‘You must be Mr Tulane,’ she said in a soft voice which bore a slight southern burr. Tulane was taken aback and she quickly added: ‘Pocket has told me about you. You seem to have made an impression.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Jordan and I must take responsibility if he got back kinda late last night.’
She uttered a little, rippling laugh. ‘No need for apologies. Pocket tends to be a law to himself, but he’s got sense. At least, I think so.’ She ushered him inside the house. Two doors opened from the hallway and she indicated one of them. ‘Would you care for some breakfast? Only bacon, beans and grits, I’m afraid. Oh, and I pride myself on my coffee.’
‘That would sure be welcome,’ Tulane replied.
When he entered the parlour, he was surprised to find the room empty although two places were set. He took a seat at the table and after a short while the door opened and a man came in. Tulane opened his mouth to speak but something about the newcomer deterred him. The man ignored him and as he took his seat Tulane took the opportunity to observe him more closely.
He didn’t like what he saw; the man’s appearance seemed to match his manners. He was about thirty years old but his face had a strange, babylike quality about it. It was smooth and somehow unformed and his hair was thin and wispy, like a child’s. There was a blankness about his features, an unnerving absence of expression, and the eyes were cold.
Just at that moment Tulane’s thoughts were interrupted as Miss Winona appeared, carrying a tray on which were a breakfast platter and a pot of coffee. She placed it on the table beside him with a smile and then turned to the stranger.
‘Yours is coming right up, Mr Spade,’ she said.
The man turned a bleak eye on her but his only reply was a faint nod. As she turned away she gave Tulane a look that signalled her own distaste for the stranger. Tulane started in on his breakfast and had almost finished when the door opened and Pocket appeared.
‘Ready when you are,’ he said, without ceremony.
‘What about your breakfast?’ Tulane replied.
‘I’ve already had it. I’ve just got back from takin’ Mr Stimson’s dog for a walk. Mr Stimson is kinda lame and doesn’t get around much himself any more. He’s teachin’ me to play the banjo in return.’
‘The banjo? Well, that’s quite somethin’. Why don’t you bring it along?’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I expect we’ll be stoppin’ along the way. You could play me a tune.’
Pocket hesitated for just a moment, glancing towards the other guest before springing for the door. He reappeared, carrying his banjo, at the same moment as Miss Winona came in with the stranger’s breakfast.
‘Now you aren’t going to bother Mr Tulane with that old thing,’ she said.
‘It’s fine,’ Tulane replied. ‘In fact I suggested he bring it.’ He finished the last of his coffee and stood up from the table. ‘That was real good,’ he concluded.
‘Any time,’ she replied.
Tulane turned to the boy. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’s about time we got goin’.’
Pocket grinned. As they left the room together Tulane glanced towards the stranger but he was preoccupied with eating his breakfast. Miss Winona had disappeared into the kitchen. Tulane hesitated for a moment in the doorway, feeling an odd inclination to follow her and say something, but Pocket had already reached the front door and was holding it open for him. Together, they passed out into the street.
As the stagecoach drew to a halt outside the depot the shotgun guard jumped down and held the door open for the passengers. Rockwell watched closely as they began to alight, but Lonnie Spade was not among them. He felt irritated. What was Spade playing at? He should have arrived by now. He turned away and began to make his way towards the marshal’s office. He strode rapidly along, scarcely taking note of the people he passed. He was thinking hard. He would give Spade until the arrival of the next stage. If he hadn’t come by then, to hell with him. Spade was only the icing on the cake, after all. With or without him, he was ready to take action against the Pitchfork L.
He continued walking along Main Street and it was only when he reached a corner that he pulled up and realized he had walked straight past the marshal’s office. With a shake of the head, he turned and retraced his steps, barely stopping to knock on the door before entering.
The marshal was sitting back with his feet on a table. Immediately he saw Rockwell he swung his legs down and sat up straight. The chair legs scraped on the floor.
‘Things busy around town?’ Rockwell commented.
‘Just taking a break,’ the marshal replied. He was a gaunt man with a thin, straggling moustache.
‘Don’t worry, Keogh. I know you’re doin’ a good job.’
‘Thanks, Mr Rockwell. Nice of you to say so.’
‘Yeah. Don’t go overdoin’ the gratitude though. Fact is, I’ve got a bit of a favour to ask.’
‘Sure. What can I do for you?’
‘I think you know how things stand between the Bar Nothing and the Pitchfork L. I’m afraid to say that Loman is still proving obstinate.’ Rockwell paused but the marshal did not respond. ‘To such an extent, in fact, that I feel the time has come to adopt more stringent measures. Not to beat about the bush, I intend taking a firmer line.’
‘You mean . . .’
‘Yes. If Loman can’t be persuaded to sell, despite my more than generous offers, he will have to be forced into doing so. That might involve – how should I put it – more physical methods. That’s where you come in. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not requiring you to do anything that’s not compatible with your role as representative of the law. All I’m asking is that you understand the situation. It would certainly be a help to me to know that the law is sympathetic towards the cause of the Bar Nothing.’
A light dawned over the marshal’s face. He grinned. ‘Go right ahead and do what you think best,’ he drawled. ‘I got faith in you. The law ain’t gonna stand in your way. No siree. You can count on me.’
Rockwell nodded. He reached into an inner pocket and produced a wad of banknotes.
‘Here, take this,’ he said. ‘A little contribution in the name of law and order.’
‘Thank you, Mr Rockwell. That’s sure appreciated.’
‘Glad to support such a worthy cause.’ Rockwell started for the door where he stood for a moment with his hand on the knob. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said.
The marshal sat still for a few moments after Rockwell had gone before reaching into a drawer and producing a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He poured himself a stiff drink before swinging his legs back up on the table and tilting his chair so that its back rested against the wall. He pulled out a pouch of tobacco and slowly rolled himself a cigarette.
It took longer than Tulane had reckoned for him and Pocket to reach the boundary line of the Bar Nothing. He had begun to hav
e doubts about the boy’s knowledge of the terrain when he pointed to a sign swinging from an elaborately constructed wooden frame.
‘Looks like a fryin’-pan, don’t it?’ the boy said.
‘Yeah, I guess it does. Or a bit like your banjo.’
They passed underneath the sign and after riding a little further began to see cattle, singly and some in small groups. Recalling what Jordan had said about their ears, Tulane observed them closely but it seemed the ostler was wrong. The ones he saw were earmarked with an underhack.
They continued riding till Tulane drew his horse to a halt and pointed to something in the distance. ‘What’s that?’ he asked. At first the boy didn’t seem to know what he was referring to. ‘A long way ahead and over to the right,’ Tulane said. ‘Somethin’ kinda blue and shimmery.’
‘Oh,’ Pocket said. ‘That’s Sawn-Off Mountain. It’s the only one around here.’
‘I guess it’s a butte,’ Tulane replied. ‘Does it lie on Bar Nothing land?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. That way is more towards the Pitchfork.’
‘The Pitchfork?’
‘The Pitchfork L. It’s quite a big spread. Not as big as the Bar Nothing.’
‘Who runs it?’
‘I’m not sure. I think it might be a man called Mr Loman.’
Tulane allowed his gaze to rest upon the distant butte for a while longer before he turned back to Pocket. ‘Have you ever been up there?’ he asked.
The boy shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I ain’t never been that way.’ He hesitated, looking somewhat uncomfortable. ‘Some folks say it’s haunted.’
Tulane smiled. ‘I guess that’s as good a reason as any for stayin’ away.’
He had just raised himself in the stirrups to take another look around when his attention was attracted by a group of three horsemen who had appeared behind them, in the direction from which they had just come. The boy twisted in his saddle; he had seen them too.
‘Looks like a welcomin’ committee,’ Tulane remarked. He wasn’t surprised; he’d been expecting to be apprehended at some point. So why, as the riders got closer and he had a clearer view of them, did he anticipate trouble?
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