Back From Boot Hill

by Colin Bainbridge

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Miss Winona said, and Tulane was surprised to see that her face was slightly flushed. She turned to him and smiled. ‘You haven’t told us what happened to you at the Bar Nothing.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell,’ Tulane responded. Quickly, he gave a brief sketch of what had occurred, making sure to tone the whole thing down so as not to cause any alarm. When he had finished he glanced at Pocket. There was a questioning look on the boy’s face but, observing Tulane’s cautioning expression, he didn’t add anything to what Tulane had just said.

  ‘I had a feeling things weren’t altogether right between the Bar Nothing and some of the other ranchers,’ Miss Winona said. ‘But from what you’ve said, it seems things might be coming to a head, at least so far as the Pitchfork L is concerned.’

  ‘I guess that’s their affair, not ours,’ Tulane replied. Tulane and Jordan exchanged glances. The atmosphere was warm but the main topic of concern had not been broached. It was Miss Winona who broke the awkward silence.

  ‘You must be wondering exactly what happened here after you left. Well, let me tell you.’

  Like Tulane, she wasted few words in recounting what had occurred. ‘And that’s all there is to it,’ she concluded in a steady voice. ‘There’s no real damage done.’

  ‘It’s lucky Pocket got back when he did,’ Jordan remarked.

  Miss Winona turned to the boy who looked embarrassed.

  ‘Yes. Pocket did well. His arrival was timely. It was enough to scare off Mr Spade.’

  ‘He probably didn’t realize it was only a boy,’ Jordan commented.

  Tulane had not mentioned Spade’s name in connection with the Bar Nothing. He wondered whether he should bring the matter up and decided against it. Later, he might mention it to the ostler. For the moment, however, there was nothing to be served by referring to it. He was angry with himself for having left Miss Winona alone with the man when he left for the Bar Nothing with Pocket. He hadn’t liked the look of Spade. He should have trusted his instinctive dislike for the man. Making an effort to stay calm in view of what Miss Winona had said, he vowed inwardly that he would gain revenge for what had happened. His thoughts were interrupted by her voice.

  ‘Pocket, why don’t you get your banjo and play us a tune?’

  They all looked at the diminutive figure of the boy. Pocket smiled.

  ‘Are you sure? It’s gettin’ kinda late.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Miss Winona replied. She turned to Tulane. ‘That is, not unless Mr Tulane needs to get back to the hotel.’

  ‘No ma’am,’ he replied. ‘I reckon that coffee has freshened us all up.’

  Jordan looked at Miss Winona. ‘Maybe Mr Tulane could stay on here,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t have to stay at the Blue Front.’

  ‘Yes, that would be real good,’ Pocket said eagerly.

  Tulane was trying to gauge the atmosphere. He had a feeling that the ostler was speaking for Miss Winona. He sensed that she still felt vulnerable and might appreciate having someone she trusted around.

  ‘Sure, so long as Miss Winona doesn’t mind having me as a lodger.’

  ‘I would like that,’ she replied, regarding him candidly. Her words were simple but Tulane sensed that they carried more weight than was apparent.

  ‘Then it’s arranged,’ Jordan said.

  There was a moment’s silence till Miss Winona turned her attention back to Pocket.

  ‘We haven’t forgotten that tune,’ she said. ‘Go and fetch your banjo.’

  Chapter Four

  Dom Loman and his foreman, Hellawell, sat their horses and looked out over the range in the direction of the neighbouring Bar Nothing.

  ‘When do you figure they’ll come?’ Loman said.

  ‘Soon. Not more than another couple of days.’

  Loman’s eyes roved across the narrow stream that separated the two ranges. It was in spate but not so as to provide a barrier.

  ‘We’ve done everything we can,’ Hellawell continued. ‘The boys are ready. They know what to do.’

  ‘It shouldn’t have come to this. A range war isn’t what they signed up for.’

  ‘They signed to the brand. You can count on ’em.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I should just have accepted Rockwell’s offer and sold up.’

  ‘You know that wouldn’t have been any solution. The boys know how things stand. They got a stake in all this. They know their livelihoods are on the line.’

  ‘They could find work somewhere else.’

  The foreman didn’t reply. Instead he turned in his saddle and looked over to where the blue monolith of Sawn-Off Mountain raised its ponderous mass against the skyline.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I still figure a bunch of cattle could be hid in there.’

  ‘Maybe so. I know you got your theories about those missin’ beeves, but we ain’t got any proof they were rustled, never mind Marsden Rockwell bein’ involved.’

  ‘It would make it a lot easier for him if he had the Pitchfork L. He’d have good access to Sawn-Off Mountain then.’

  ‘That ain’t why he wants to get hold of the Pitchfork. Apart from anythin’ else, now that he owns the Valley Line Stage Company, he wants the quickest route clear through to Sageville and the railhead east. I won’t lie. Things are not lookin’ too good. Rockwell has some fast guns on his side and I’m not convinced Lonnie Spade ain’t among them.’

  ‘Me neither. I reckon it was always a long shot that the feller Blake and Johnson bushwhacked was Spade in the first place.’

  ‘Well, whether it was him or not, we’re gonna just have to accept that we could be in for a hell of a fight.’

  With a last long look over towards the Bar Nothing, the two men turned their horses and began the ride back to the Pitchfork L.

  Old Jupe Stimson looked out of his window to see the familiar figure of Pocket approaching over the fields at the back of his cabin. Ahead of him the dog romped and played. The old man grinned. Although he couldn’t manage to walk the dog himself any more, it gave him pleasure to see the two of them. Leaning heavily on his stick, he moved slowly to the door and opened it wide. The dog came running up to him, jumping at his leg, shaking off drops of water.

  ‘Good boy,’ he muttered. ‘Good dog. Have you been for a swim?’ He looked up as Pocket approached. ‘Come on in, boy. I figure you could do with somethin’ warm inside you. I got coffee on the boil and biscuits.’

  ‘Could I have a glass of sarsaparilla?’

  ‘Sure, son. Whatever you want.’

  They went inside. Pocket sat down with the dog at his feet. The old man came in with a tray on which were glass of sarsaparilla, a mug of coffee and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said.

  There was silence for a few moments while they ate and drank. Stimson leaned across and stroked the dog.

  ‘I hear you’ve been a brave boy,’ he remarked. Pocket looked puzzled. ‘I heard somethin’ about how you came to Miss Winona’s rescue.’

  ‘Oh that,’ Pocket replied. ‘It was nothin’. I didn’t do anythin’.’

  ‘Don’t run yourself down. We’re all real proud of you.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I gather the man involved was lodgin’ with Miss Winona. I think she’s goin’ to have to be very careful in future. I’ve noticed some real mean lookin’ folk around town just recently. I figure Marshal Keogh should do somethin’ about it. I got a theory. I figure there’s a nest of the no-good varmints somewhere and if I had to say just where I’d make a guess at Sawn-Off Mountain.’

  Suddenly the boy was attentive. ‘Sawn-Off Mountain?’ he repeated. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Oh, it ain’t anythin’ definite. Just a feelin’ I got. It’s a long, long time since I was ever up there, but from what I can remember the place would make an ideal hole in the wall. It’s a mass of canyons and hidden valleys. I’m just puttin’ two and two together and maybe comin’ up with five, but that’s the way I fig
ure it.’

  ‘Mr Tulane said he might take a ride out there. I told him the place is haunted.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Tulane?’

  ‘Oh, he’s a friend of Mr Jordan. He wanted to visit the Bar Nothing and I showed him the way there.’

  ‘Now that’s interestin’,’ the old man replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason. It’s just that I never liked Marsden Rockwell. He’s the owner of the Bar Nothing. I figure he ain’t to be trusted.’ Stimson looked at the boy and smiled. ‘Well, that’s no concern of yours or mine either. How about we top up that glass of sarsaparilla and then get down to some banjo playin’? I got a new song for you to try. It’s a song they sing to quiet the dogies when they’re on a trail drive.’

  ‘What’s a dogie?’

  ‘What, you don’t know what a dogie is?’ The oldster stroked his grizzled chin. ‘Well, a dogie is just a little calf that his mammy died and his daddy ran off with another cow.’

  He got to his feet and moved to the kitchen. Pocket, stroking the dog’s head, heard his gruff voice singing tunelessly as he poured the drink.

  Skip Malloy sat on a chair tilted against the wall outside the somewhat tumbledown building in which he conducted his business. Undertaking was slack. Even when he had a corpse to bury it came back to life. He couldn’t help grinning as he thought about the affair with Clay Tulane. Not that there was anything amusing about it at the time. Clay Tulane had every right to be annoyed: furious in fact. However, he had come out of it OK and, he reflected, all’s well that ends well. He could do with things picking up, though. For a few minutes he looked back nostalgically at the good old days in Ellsworth, Newton and Dodge City. Ah, the old cow towns. He hadn’t lacked for business in those days, no siree. In fact, the sound of shooting was so customary that he put his loss of hearing down to it, at least in part. He had never lacked respect for his customers either, rarely failing to take off their boots and place them under their heads for a pillow. Yes, those were the days.

  He was so deep in memories that he didn’t realize he had a visitor till he was being shaken violently by the shoulder. He hadn’t seen him, never mind hear him. Rudely awakened, he looked up to see the unwelcome figure of the lawyer, Eldon Garrett. He was surprised. He and Garrett moved in different circles and only rarely did their paths cross. The lawyer was shouting. The sounds registered on Skip Malloy as an indistinct babble of sound, sufficient nonetheless for him to be able to pick up the sense of it. By looking at Garrett’s lips he could understand what he was saying: he was asking if Malloy could hear him. Just to exasperate the lawyer, he leaned forward, allowing his chair to right itself, and cupped his hand over his ear.

  ‘Can you hear me, old man?’

  Malloy strained forward even further, tilting his head as if in a final determined effort to catch the sound of Garrett’s voice.

  ‘I say, can you hear me?’ Garrett’s voice dropped but Malloy’s observant eyes registered his final comment: ‘Stupid old fool.’ He looked enquiringly at the lawyer and shook his head. Garrett opened his mouth and began to bellow again.

  ‘I’m askin’ about Sawn-Off Mountain? Do you know anythin’ about Sawn-Off Mountain?’

  Malloy shook his head again and this time pointed at Garrett’s lips. He opened his mouth wide and then pretended to talk in a much exaggerated fashion. After a moment the lawyer began to speak in a similar way, following his example. Malloy was finding it difficult to suppress a chuckle.

  ‘I’m interested in Sawn-Off Mountain. You’ve been around a long time. Have you ever been up there?’

  Malloy looked blank.

  ‘I’ve heard some stories. Maybe you’ve heard them too?’

  ‘Stories?’ Malloy said. ‘You got a story? What about?’

  ‘Not me. I haven’t got any stories. I’m talkin’ about Sawn-Off Mountain.’

  Malloy pointed down the street. ‘It ain’t me you want to see if you’ve got a story,’ he said. ‘You’d be better off takin’ it to the Enterprise.’

  Garrett gathered himself for one last effort. He opened his mouth but then closed it again without speaking. He gave Malloy a withering look and seemed to mutter something under his breath, which the old-timer didn’t catch because Garrett began to turn away as he was saying it.

  Malloy watched as the lawyer passed down the street before turning a corner. Then he spat in the dust and gave vent to a hearty chortle. When you were old you had to make the most of whatever opportunities life provided for a bit of amusement. He tilted the chair back again and began to build himself a smoke. As he did so, he started thinking. Why would Garrett be interested in Sawn-Off Mountain? There must be something behind it, especially if he had been desperate enough to seek information from an old lag. No doubt he had already tried more obvious sources – such as the Water Pocket Enterprise. It was worth thinking about further. Who was to say? There could even be something in it for him. In fact, it might be an idea to have a talk himself with his old friend Tad Whale at the Enterprise.

  Lonnie Spade woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of snores. The bunkhouse smelled of stale leather and sweat. His reception at the Bar Nothing wasn’t quite what he had expected and he felt resentful. Hell, who was Rockwell to try and give him orders? He obviously didn’t realize just who he was dealing with. He raised his head and then lay back again in the swirling darkness, thinking about the woman at the Sumac and feeling a prick of desire. He had been foiled there too, but he meant to get even. There were plenty of women to be had in any bordello, but this was personal. She needed to be taught some respect.

  The more he considered things, the more infuriated he felt. Hell, didn’t anyone know who he was? It seemed not. Very well, he would have to teach them all a lesson. By the time he had finished, none of them would forget his name in a hurry. The only question was; how to go about things? Rockwell was offering good money. He already had a wad of notes to prove it. Maybe he should just settle for that, take what he had and light out. On the other hand, there was likely to be plenty more where that had come from.

  And then there was the whole business concerning Sawn-Off Mountain. Rockwell had told him enough to whet his appetite. Maybe he’d do better to just stick around. He lay awake for a long time turning things over in his mind before his eyes eventually closed and he fell into a fitful sleep.

  Skip Malloy wasted no time, but went to see the proprietor of the Enterprise the next morning. Whale was in his office, writing up an editorial, when he was informed of the oldster’s arrival.

  ‘Do you want me to show him in?’

  ‘Old Skip Malloy, eh? Now I wonder what brings him here? Sure, I figure I can spare some time for the old buzzard.’ He leaned back in his chair as the doorframe filled with the lean shape of Malloy.

  ‘Thanks for seein’ me,’ Malloy began. ‘I know you’re a busy man.’

  ‘You don’t need to go tryin’ to butter me up,’ Whale replied, making an effort to enunciate clearly for the oldster’s benefit. ‘Just say what you got to say.’ Malloy seemed hesitant and the newspaperman rose to his feet. ‘I got a little something that might help,’ he said. He crossed the office to a small cabinet, drew out a bottle and two glasses, and poured a couple of drinks.

  ‘This is good whiskey,’ he said, handing one to Malloy. ‘Not like the rot-gut you’re used to.’

  The oldster took a swig. ‘Yeah, that sure goes down well,’ he said.

  Whale raised his glass and took a sip himself. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Go on. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s kind of hard to know where to begin.’

  ‘Keep it brief,’ Whale prompted.

  ‘OK. I’m here because I was wonderin’ if you could tell me anythin’ about Sawn-Off Mountain—’

  ‘Sawn-Off Mountain,’ Whale interrupted. ‘Now there’s a thing. You’re the second person to ask me that question.’

  The oldster grinned. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘The other person; could i
t have been Eldon Garrett?’

  ‘You ain’t as dumb as some folks take you for,’ Whale replied. ‘In fact, I figure you probably know more about Sawn-Off Mountain then anyone else around these parts.’

  ‘I know somethin’. But the way I see it, you’re the man who knows most about the territory. You’re the one keeps everyone informed about what’s goin’ on.’

  Whale took another sip of his drink before getting to his feet again. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  Without waiting he passed through the door and walked across a room where the printing press was being operated. He went through another door and Malloy followed, to find himself in a kind of storeroom, in the back corner of which stood a large cabinet. Whale took a key from his pocket and opened one of the drawers. Inside was a motley collection of files and papers.

  ‘These files contain all kinda things,’ he said, ‘all the background material we might need when we’re writin’ things up for the newspaper. You’re welcome to take a look. You might find somethin’.’

  ‘Did you do the same for Garrett?’ Malloy enquired.

  ‘What do you think? I figure we both feel the same way about that snake-oil seller.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Malloy said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘Just make sure you put everythin’ back where you found it.’ Suddenly Whale laughed. ‘Hell, what am I sayin’? That stuff ain’t been sorted for years. Might as well just throw the whole lot up in the air and see where it lands.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Malloy said, ‘I’ll be careful with it.’

  The newspaperman nodded and walked out of the room. Malloy waited for a few moments before turning hungrily to the contents of the drawer.

  He spent some time riffling through the papers and had just about given up hope of finding anything of relevance when he discovered what he was looking for. It could easily have been missed: a grimy page torn from a diary containing two entries. Holding the page towards the light coming in through a dusty window, the oldster screwed up his eyes in order to decipher the faded lettering. The first one read: Up early to run the sluice. Ran it all day and think we have some gold. Hard work toting dirt but it will all be worth it.