Back From Boot Hill

by Colin Bainbridge

  ‘They’re gettin’ kind of tired,’ Folsom replied. ‘I figure they could do with a break.’

  ‘It’ll be dark soon,’ Rockwell muttered. ‘It might be difficult to follow Loman’s trail.’

  ‘We could head for the line shack. Dravitt and Staunton should be there. Now we’ve trailed Loman to the mountain, we don’t need to worry. There ain’t anywhere much he can hide, leastways not for long.’

  Rockwell let out a deep sigh. He was in no mood to be making decisions.

  ‘You got a point there,’ he said. ‘There’s nothin’ to be gained by rushin’ things now. We could set up camp but there doesn’t seem to be much point. I figure we’ll head for the line camp.’

  ‘I hear it ain’t much,’ Folsom replied, ‘but it’s sure got to be better than this.’ His glance swept the river and its muddy banks.

  ‘OK. Once the men are over, tell ’em what’s happenin’.’

  As Folsom rode away Rockwell considered another possibility: abandoning the enterprise and riding back to the Pitchfork L. They would certainly be comfortable there. What was to stop him simply taking over the ranch? It was an appealing idea but he realized he wasn’t really thinking straight. A little further thought was enough to persuade him that to do so would only be putting off the inevitable confrontation. Loman would not be content to leave it at that. At some point he would have to come down from the mesa and eventually mount a counter-attack. Better to carry on and deal with him now. His men were prepared and they hadn’t come all this way for nothing. To turn round would be to invite dissension. Strike while the iron’s hot, he reflected.

  As he sat his horse, he became conscious that Lonnie Spade had ridden up near by and his eyes were resting on him. There was something creepy about that man with his baby face and silent ways. He wanted to return the man’s stare but made an effort to resist, as if doing so would somehow be a sign of weakness. Instead, he self-consciously reached for his tobacco pouch and began to roll himself a cigarette. He lit up and took a few drags. When he looked again, Spade had gone.

  It was a steep climb to the top of the coulee and by the time they had reached it Loman and his men were feeling the strain. The trail levelled off and they came out on a grassy shelf. The men dismounted and stretched out on the grass. While they did so, Loman and Tulane carried on riding till they reached just below the final crest. They climbed down from their saddles and inched forwards, taking care not to skyline themselves, till they had a view over the other side. Below them lay a shallow bowl and dotted around were small groups of cattle. They glanced at each other before taking a closer look. For a few moments they could see nothing else, but then they were rewarded with the sight of a small structure away on their right, partly screened by trees.

  ‘Looks like we were right,’ Loman said. ‘This must be where Rockwell keeps the stolen cattle. They’ve even built a kind of line shack.’

  ‘There must be other ways in,’ Tulane remarked. ‘There’s no way he could have driven them up the way we’ve come.’

  ‘I wonder how many men he’s got down there? We’re already well outnumbered.’

  ‘Not many,’ Tulane replied. ‘That shack is little more than a hogan. Those cattle are well protected. There’s plenty of grass. They can pretty much look after themselves.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think we need to go any further,’ he concluded.

  ‘Why not? I thought we were lookin’ for a place to take on Rockwell.’

  ‘I figure we’ve found it. What could be better then this? Chances are that Rockwell will head for this place through whatever passage gives access to it.’

  ‘If he follows our trail he’ll come up the canyon same as we did.’

  ‘He might well do that, but either way we’re in a good position. Just a couple of men could hold this spot.’

  Loman nodded, considering Tulane’s words. ‘I reckon you’re right,’ he concluded. ‘Come on. Let’s get back to the others.’

  Skip Malloy wasn’t taking any unnecessary chances. He unhitched the horse and then, with Pocket’s help, set about concealing the wagon. Once he was satisfied that the wagon was well hidden and no one would be likely to find it, he lifted some of the supplies from the back of the wagon and stuffed them into his saddlebags. He took the rifle and stepped into leather, hauling up the boy behind him.

  ‘What are we doin’?’ Pocket asked.

  ‘Puttin’ distance between ourselves and whoever fired those shots,’ Malloy told him. ‘And anyone else in the vicinity.’ He touched the horse’s flanks and it stepped forward. Neither man nor boy spoke further.

  The night was clear but the oldster needed to have his senses about him as they followed a rough path along the floor of a narrow canyon. The horse picked its way carefully and as it progressed the oldster kept looking up at the cliff face. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, but he had seen caves that might offer sanctuary if they weren’t so high up.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Pocket said. ‘I’m scared.’

  There was no reply from Malloy. He obviously hadn’t heard. Pocket hunched down. He felt cold but he wouldn’t have been able to say whether it was the night breeze or his fear of the unknown that caused it. At times they rounded a corner and the breeze blew suddenly louder, echoing round the rocky walls of the canyon like the whispering of ghosts. People had told him that the mesa was haunted and it seemed like they were right. His nerves were on edge but gradually the rhythmic motion of the horse began to lull him. He was just beginning to drift into sleep when he was aroused by a sudden exclamation from Malloy.

  ‘Look! The very spot.’

  Pocket could hear the faint sound of running water. Startled, he raised his head and began to look around. They were in an open space; starlight flickered on a narrow stream and in the darkness he could dimly discern a strange structure whose main feature was a large broken wheel.

  ‘There’s a mine up there,’ the oldster said, pointing to a rock wall. He drew the boy’s attention to the wheel. ‘That there is for crushin’ the rock. They woulda used horse power.’

  With some difficulty the oldster dismounted and stretched his legs. After a few moments he reached out a hand to help Pocket down.

  ‘I think we’ve found a good place,’ he said. Pocket was shivering. ‘Don’t worry,’ the oldster continued, ‘we’ll be safe enough here.’

  He reached into his saddle-bags and produced a candle. Then he took the youngster’s hand and moved towards the pot-holed cliff face, stopping at the entrance to a tunnel where he bent down to peer inside.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ Pocket asked.

  Malloy stood upright, struck a match and lit the candle. Again he strove to reassure the boy.

  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just stay close to me.’ Taking Pocket’s hand again, he stepped forward and led the way into the tunnel. The floor was uneven and led gently downwards. Just ahead of them they could see a rock fall. They continued slowly, planting one foot in front of the other. At intervals wooden struts supported the walls and roof. The atmosphere was musty; when Malloy touched one of the walls there were patches of damp. Beyond the rock fall the tunnel took a slight bend. Shadows thrown from the flickering candle ran along the walls but failed to penetrate far into the darkness.

  ‘We don’t need to go any further,’ Malloy said. ‘Let’s go back to the tunnel entrance and see about building a fire.’

  The boy’s teeth were chattering and Malloy figured the best thing was to get him occupied doing something. When they were back at the tunnel entrance he assigned him the task of collecting some materials together to make a fire just as he had done previously. The boy was tired and hungry. The priority now was to get him warmed and fed and then let him sleep. He would be in a better position to face their difficulties when morning came. There certainly were plenty of them, but through all his worries Malloy couldn’t help being buoyed up by the feeling that he had come upon the very thing he was looking for. If h
e was right, the tunnel they had found must be the entrance to the mine he had read about in the newspaper archives. It was true: he really was on to something.

  Chapter Seven

  If Rockwell’s mood had been bad the previous night, it was far worse the next morning when his foreman approached him with the news that Lonnie Spade was missing.

  ‘What the hell do you mean, missing!’ he shouted.

  ‘Just what I say. His horse has gone. Looks like he decided to quit during the night and rode away.’

  ‘I’ve paid him good money. What sort of example is that for the rest of the men? Most of them are hired. They don’t owe any real loyalty to the Bar Nothing. Hell, this could trigger a whole heap of trouble and disaffection.’

  ‘They know which side their bread’s buttered,’ Walbrook replied. ‘They’ve come all this way. They ain’t goin’ nowhere but after Loman. Spade is one man. What difference can it make?’

  Rockwell was quivering with rage but he didn’t say anything to Walbrook about the real reason for his fury. It had been a mistake to say anything to Spade about Sawn-Off Mountain. Maybe he was wrong, but there was at least a chance that the gunslick had departed not because he simply wanted out, but because he fancied his chances of finding the mine. But then what could he expect to do about it even if he did? Rockwell was slightly comforted by this consideration, but not much. Men like Lonnie Spade were not reasonable. They didn’t weigh things up logically. More often they acted on impulse. His suspicions, vague as they were, were not unfounded. It would pay to get moving as quickly as possible to deal with both Loman and Spade. He climbed into leather and gave the signal to ride.

  Skip Malloy awoke in a pool of sunlight which flooded into the entrance to the mine. He raised himself up one elbow and looked about for Pocket. The boy was lying beside the ashes of the fire, fast asleep. Malloy rose to his feet and stepped outside to take a look around. At some little distance there was a dilapidated headframe indicating where a shaft had been sunk into the ground. He walked across and peered down it. It was impossible to see how deep it was. He found a stone near by and dropped it down the shaft. After a few seconds he heard a faint splash.

  Hell, he thought, that’s deep.

  He wondered whether there might be other shafts. There was no indication of any. Had the person who had written the diary page sunk the shaft? It seemed unlikely. More likely this shaft and the one leading into the cliff face dated from an earlier period and the writer had simply come upon it, just as Malloy himself had done.

  Turning his back on the mine shaft, he walked back to the tunnel entrance. The boy was still asleep. Curious to see further into the tunnel, Malloy lit his candle and retraced their steps of the previous night as far as the rock fall. Beyond this point the tunnel was very gloomy but he could see enough to pick his way.

  He didn’t have far to go before it ended in a small chamber. He held out the candle and instantly recoiled with a shock of fear. Propped against the far wall there was a seated figure. Malloy’s instinctive reaction was to turn and run, but he managed to resist the urge. Trying to steady his nerves, he drew in some deep breaths. The air in the chamber was quite fetid. When he had calmed down a little, he drew his gun and edged towards the seated figure. As he got closer the man’s face seemed to gleam with a strange pallor and stare back at Malloy with a fierce intensity. Still struggling to steady himself, Malloy saw that it was not eyes that regarded him so fiercely, but the empty sockets of a leering skull.

  At once Malloy let out a sigh of relief and began to relax. He was an undertaker. There was nothing unfamiliar to him about a cadaver. He bent down to take a closer look. The skeleton was still dressed in the tattered clothes it had worn in life, which held the bones intact. There was a large hole in the side of the skull. The man had been shot in the head.

  Malloy paused to think. The entry in the diary had used the word ‘we’. Two men working together had discovered the gold, but only one had emerged to enjoy its benefits. By the dead man’s side lay a rusted pick, and when he looked up Malloy could see that the rock wall was rough and pitted. It didn’t take a lot of thought to realize that the marks had been made by the implement.

  It was then he saw something which really set his pulses racing. Embedded in the rock wall were patches of a different blue-black colour. Malloy reckoned he knew enough to think that it probably contained silver.

  Satisfied with what he had found so far, he turned away and began to make his way back along the tunnel. The boy must be stirring by now and he didn’t want him to be alarmed by his absence. He stepped by the rock fall, still carrying his guttering candle. Daylight was peering in through the mouth of the cave when it was suddenly darkened by the shape of a man. For a moment Malloy assumed it was Pocket but something about it’s form was different. He took a further step before he saw a flash of flame and felt a surge of pain rip through his body. His ears detected only the faint reverberation of a gunshot before darkness flooded over him and he sank into oblivion.

  Tulane drew out his field glasses and put them to his eyes. A number of horsemen had appeared, riding down the narrow valley towards them. The early morning sun glanced from their accoutrements.

  ‘Looks like Rockwell finally got here,’ he remarked, handing the glasses to Jordan. The ostler took a long look.

  ‘Do you reckon that’s all of ’em?’ he asked.

  Tulane took the glasses again. ‘Nope,’ he replied, ‘There’s another bunch right behind. I guess we’d better let Loman know what’s happenin’ here.’

  As if in response to his words the figure of Loman himself hove into view over the crest of the hill. He came sliding down the slope towards them.

  ‘We got trouble,’ he said. ‘Rockwell’s men have arrived and there’s more of ’em than we expected.’

  By way of reply, Tulane pointed over his shoulder.

  ‘Hell,’ Loman said. ‘Just what we didn’t want. Rockwell is hittin’ us on both fronts. We’re gonna be mighty thin on the ground.’

  ‘Me and Jordan can handle things here, at least for a time,’ Tulane replied. ‘They might have the numbers, but they can only ride up here one at a time. We should be able to hold ’em off for a whiles.’ He turned to Jordan. ‘What do you reckon?’

  The ostler smiled grimly. ‘Whatever you say,’ he replied.

  Loman looked unconvinced. ‘Get word to me if you need more men,’ he said.

  Tulane nodded and the rancher went slithering off again. Tulane and Jordan watched him depart before facing each other.

  ‘Well,’ Jordan said, ‘I figure the time’s come to be puttin’ your theory to the test.’

  Tulane looked away towards the approaching riders. They were getting quite close, riding slowly, their eyes scouring the valley as they rode.

  ‘Just one thing I ask,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. What’s that?’

  ‘If the varmint who tried to rape Miss Winona is ridin’ with that bunch, leave him to me.’

  His words seemed to steel them further to the task in hand. Without further ado, they took up their positions.

  The riders came on. They were still out of reach and moving very slowly. They were obviously aware of danger. They had followed the tracks made by Loman’s party and they knew that the enemy must be near. The leading two riders were looking closely at the ground. They came to a halt and began to consult with one another.

  Tulane guessed they were discussing what might have become of the Pitchfork L men. His lips curled in a slow grin. They were puzzled. Did they know the terrain any better than Loman? Probably not. In all likelihood only a few of Rockwell’s inner circle were privy to the cattle rustling. If that was the case, they must be wondering what had happened to the men they were following.

  The leader looked up at the mountainside. The track that Loman had followed by the side of the stream offered the only possible way up, but would he realize that? When they got close they should be able to see the sign left by Loman’s
men, even though they had been riding in single file. How good were their tracking skills? Maybe they would turn round and go back.

  Tulane licked his lips and glanced across at Jordan. The ostler was on one knee, his rifle raised. Did he realize the horsemen were only just within range? He signalled to the ostler to hold his fire and Jordan gestured back. He seemed to understand the situation. Tulane looked back at the riders. The second group had now come up and the whole bunch were sitting their horses, looking about them, uncertain about how to proceed. Time seemed to slow.

  Then the hiatus was broken by the muffled sound of rifle fire coming from the far side of the hill. There was an instant reaction. Jordan’s rifle cracked and Rockwell’s gunnies began to break up in confusion. Some of them did indeed turn their horses and ride away while others slid from their saddles and took cover. Shots started to ring out but the shooting was speculative.

  Tulane held his fire. He watched the scene closely, trying to see if any of the gunmen had moved forward. If they did, they would surely detect that there was a way up the hillside. He saw a flicker of movement below him but resisted the urge to squeeze the trigger of his Winchester. He didn’t want to give away their position, although he realized that Jordan’s reaction meant it was probably already too late. When he had a momentary glimpse of a figure screened by bushes he guessed that at least some of the gunnies were beginning to ascend the hillside.

  ‘They’re comin!’ he yelled to Jordan.

  He and the ostler had been hoping the gunnies would attempt to ride their horses up the trail; it would have made them easier targets. Still, they were prepared for the onslaught and had command of the top of the climb. It was unfortunate that the outburst of gunfire had commenced when it did. The noise of battle still reverberated from the other side of the hill. Obviously Loman and his men had engaged with Rockwell’s gunnies. It was imperative that he and Jordan give a good account of themselves and prevent Rockwell’s men from gaining the hill and attacking Loman from the rear.