A Colt for the Kid (7 page)

Johnnie stood for a moment gazing down on the man he had felled. He was so filled with satisfaction at having punched this man to the ground that he failed to notice either that the dawn was steadily spreading across the sky or that there was now no sound of guns. It was Sam’s shouts that jerked him to the present and turned his head towards the veranda. There he saw Sam and Lucy standing with Burt Sanders and Abe Thomas. All four had rifles in their hands but their grips were relaxed as if they no longer needed the weapons. Johnnie saw the reason why as he moved towards them and he sickened a little at the sight of four obviously dead men sprawled a few paces from a dead horse. Of the four on the veranda, only Lucy was not entirely jubilant at their victory. She had little to say but watched Johnnie critically as the others slapped him on the back and proclaimed him as a great fighter. It took Johnnie a few minutes to understand that it was his pulling to a standstill of the horse and rider that had really turned the battle in their favour. In his own excitement he had not seen the confusion it had caused among the other riders or been aware that Sam and Lucy in the doorway had been provided by his action with easy targets. The Regan brothers coming up to the veranda made it necessary for a fresh telling of Johnnie’s efforts and in the middle of that the rider who had been knocked out got uncertainly to his feet. He saw the group on the veranda, hesitated for a moment, then walked
towards them.

Sam eyed him grimly. ‘Jeff Talbot, I didn’t think to see you in on a business like this. I’ve a notion to drop you where you stand.’

Talbot eyed the ground in front of him. ‘Didn’t want to come, Sam, but you know how it is. Donovan gives orders and we’re kinda scared to refuse to carry them out.’

‘Even if it means someone’s death. Maybe your own as well,’ Sam said sourly. ‘Well, there’s a message you can take to Donovan and anyone else that fancies clearing us off the range. You won’t have to say anything, just take these four dead men back to MD and everyone will understand what I mean.’

‘There’s two more a little ways out,’ Mike Regan cut in. ‘Me and Sean got ourselves one each.’

‘Six dead!’ Sam exclaimed. ‘That makes the price of land grabbing pretty high. Talbot, how many were in your raiding party?’

‘Ten. Harper was supposed to be leading us.’

Sean’s eyes ranged over the four corpses in front of the house. ‘Harper ain’t among that lot. I’d know those fancy stitched boots of his a mile off. He ain’t one of those we got either. Looks like Harper will be able to tell the news to Donovan himself.’

‘Just the same, we’ll load these bodies into a rig and Talbot can drive them back to MD. Digging graves might cool down any others who want to carry out Donovan’s orders.’

‘I’ll go harness a rig up,’ Johnnie said.

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Lucy told him sharply. ‘For a man who’s only just gotten over one mauling, you’ve done enough for the time being. You get inside the house and I’ll bathe as many of those bruises on your face as I can count.’

Johnnie grinned, then his face set into hard lines. He
faced about to Talbot. ‘I’ve got a message for Donovan as well. Tell him that Johnnie Callum had almost forgotten about his parents until the other day. Then say that I’m taking up their old patch of land as soon as I can locate it.’

Harper reached the MD spread just after dawn. There were three other riders with him but none of them had anything to say to him. They were ordinary range hands with no pretensions to being gunmen and had little liking for the night’s business they had been engaged on. They had gone to the Stevens’ place because Donovan had given the order and they considered range warfare as part of their ordinary job, but now they were filled with disgust both for themselves and for Harper who had been their leader in what was supposed to be the comparatively simple job of cleaning up a small timer. Shooting up the place so that the occupants of it would turn and flee in terror they thought of as comparatively harmless, although of course there was the chance that someone would get killed in the process, but using dynamite did not amount to fair play. The three had been genuinely shocked when Harper had produced the dynamite from a sack he carried and told them of his intention to blow, first, the horse barn and then the house, and had refused to have anything to do with the idea. Harper had threatened and cajoled, then finally turned the job over to Morris, with Dayley and Savage to give him covering fire. Morris had died terribly in the attempt and the only result had been shattered windows and doors to the house. Still, it
looked as if it had made it easier to throw enough lead into the house to scare the defenders into running and the three had taken their part in circling the place and pumping shots into it, then out of it had come the madman who had pulled one horse to a stop and thrown the rest into a confusion. A confusion that had left three dead men. Harper had been elsewhere when the dynamite exploded prematurely and was similarly out of the way when the three riders had been shot down. It looked to the men who climbed from their saddles at the same time that Harper did, suspiciously like cowardice.

Harper himself knew it was cowardice and wondered how he could explain the failure of the enterprise to Donovan without disclosing the fact. It was a peculiarity of Harper’s make-up that although he could stand with an unwinking stare within ten paces of any man who wanted to draw against him, he could not face up to the wild shooting that went on in a general battle between men. Conscious of the hostility of his companions, Harper left them and walked across to Donovan’s huge, stone and log-built house. Donovan stepped out on to the porch at his knock on the door.

‘Well?’ There was neither friendliness nor compromise in the rancher’s booming tones.

‘We didn’t do too good, Boss.’

‘How’d you mean? You didn’t do too good.’

‘There was more men than we expected. I guess a dozen. There was five or six of our men killed and—’

‘Five or six! Hell’s bells. Don’t you know what went on? How many men rode back with you?’

‘Three, Boss, but it was that dark—’ Harper realized he had made a trap for himself.

Donovan took a step forward until he was almost against Harper. ‘Four of you came back, eh? and ten of you went and you don’t know for certain whether they’re alive or dead? Harper, that makes you a lily-gutted coward, the sort I don’t
want around here. Now get the hell off my ranch.’

Harper’s face went livid and immediately he made a lightning grab for his gun. ‘No man calls me coward—’ he began, when Donovan’s massive fist smashing into his mouth ended both the quick draw and the speech at the same time as it sent him grovelling in the dust.

Donovan, moving quickly in spite of his bulk, drove a boot into Harper’s ribs then stooped and snatched the six-gun from his holster. He stepped back a pace and cocked the gun.

‘Now get going before I drill a hole between your ugly eyes.’

Harper picked himself up painfully and hobbled away and Donovan stalked towards the bunkhouse. He found the three riders who had come back with Harper and wrung from them a halting story of the night’s events as far as it was known to them. In a black rage at the seemingly easy defeat of his men, he went back to the house and flung himself heavily into a chair on the veranda. For a while he chewed on an unlit cigar then after a time the anger faded from his face. Of course, he had acted too quickly, that was all. Stevens, after the way he had threatened the man, had got himself help from somewhere to guard his place. He had only to wait, perhaps a week, perhaps two, and the guards would get tired of sitting around and go back to where they came from. An alternative was to find out who they were and arrange raids on their places. A night firing or something like that would send them scuttling fast enough. He tossed away the chewed cigar, took another from his pocket and lit it. Yes, a little patience was all that was needed and he would superintend the next raid on the Stevens’ place himself. He smoked for a while then jerked his head round at the sound of wheels rumbling nearby. His first impulse was to curse at the driver of the rig for bringing it so close to the house, then he saw Hennesey riding alongside the rig and he got to his feet. Hennesey, a rare
enough visitor, could only spell trouble of some kind.

The rig stopped a few yards away and both the driver and Hennesey got down to the ground. They covered the remaining space slowly, like men with something heavily on their minds. Hennesey spoke first.

‘Mr Donovan, there’s six of your riders in that rig. All of them dead from gun shots, except one. He was killed in an explosion and there isn’t very much left of him. Talbot here gave me the story and said they were acting on your orders. I’m asking you if such is the case.’

‘You’re asking me! Well I must say you’ve got more sand in you than I ever reckoned on. What makes you think you’ll get an answer from me, Mr Marshal?’

‘I didn’t think I would get an answer. Just hoped, that’s all. If I can’t get an answer I’ll have to leave it to higher authority. I’ll make myself plain, Mr Donovan. If you were any other man I’d take you in and charge you with promoting a range war and attempted murder.’

‘But being me, you’re afraid.’

‘I guess you could put it that way. I know darned well I can’t arrest you and if I could I wouldn’t be able to hold you.’

‘You’re damned right you couldn’t. What the hell made you come here?’

‘To give you a chance to quit on this range war before I send for State help.’

‘State help! So that’s your game. I suppose you reckon on that so-called judge backing your plea. Well, you can get to hell from here and tell Bohun that I can block any of his attempts to bring troopers this way. As for you, Talbot, I’ll find ways of teaching you that it doesn’t pay to go snivelling to the marshal.’

‘You’ve got things the wrong way round,’ Hennesey said. ‘Bohun isn’t backing my idea for State help and Talbot didn’t come snivelling to me. I saw him coming through town with
that rig and forced the story from him.’

Donovan grinned. ‘So you’re on your own, eh? Talbot, you take that rig away and have some men help you with the burying. I’ll see you later. Hennesey, I advise you to get to blazes out of this and think things over.’

As Hennesey mounted and rode away, Donovan dropped back into his chair. For almost an hour he sat thinking. Hennesey, since Belle had regained control of the saloon, was a different man, a man to be reckoned with. He would undoubtedly ask for State help and Donovan was not at all sure that he could block the application in spite of the fact that he was paying certain officials heavily not to pry too closely into his land grabbing dealings. The thing to do was get rid of Hennesey before he sent his message asking for help. The odds were that that message would go by the stage, in three days from now. Could he find a way of getting rid of Hennesey before that happened? For a moment, Donovan regretted his hasty dismissal of Harper. He would have been just the man to force a quarrel on the marshal then beat him to a quick draw. Either one of the other three gunslingers would have been equal to the task, of course, but as he had not seen them he presumed they formed part of the rig’s grisly load. A pity he himself had lost control of the Silver Dollar. If he had hung on to that it would have been easy to have Hennesey fired. The notion set his mind on a fresh track. Why should whoever owned the saloon have the hiring and firing of the town’s marshal? Only because the remaining property owners in the town were either too poor or too disinterested to pay the marshal’s wages. Suppose he, himself owned most of the property, that would give him a right to a say in the marshal’s appointment or his dismissal. Donovan got to his feet and strode towards the horse corral. There he saw Talbot and called the man to him.

‘Get that big sorrel saddled for me. I’m going into town.’

Talbot said: ‘Yes, Boss,’ then hesitated.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Donovan snarled.

‘I had a sort of message for you, Boss. I forgot ’til now. Sam Stevens said that you or anyone else that fancied clearin’ him off the range would understand what those six dead men meant. Then a youngster named Johnnie Callum said to tell you that he’d almost forgotten about his parents until the other day, and he’s goin’ to take up the patch of land they held as soon as he can locate it. I didn’t understand what he meant but that’s about what he said.’

Donovan grunted. ‘I understand all right, the conceited young pup. Now get that horse saddled.’

Donovan reached town an hour before noon and pulled up outside Judge Bohun’s house. He looped his reins over the picket fence and thudded his fist on the door. Bohun, freshly shaved but without his collar, opened the door. He gave Donovan a surprised look in which there was a hint of fear. He stood aside to let the rancher enter.

‘You got my message, then?’ he said as he led the way into the parlour. ‘I thought you’d know my handwriting.’

‘Message! What message?’

Bohun paled, realizing that something had gone wrong. His first thought on seeing Donovan was that he had had the message, had recognised in spite of the lack of signature that it had come from him and that Donovan was here to thank him for it. He said nervously:

‘I guess it doesn’t matter seeing as you didn’t get it.’

‘What the blazes are you talking about?’ Donovan barked, ‘Come on, out with it.’

The judge swallowed hard then reeled off a detailed account of how he had attempted to send a warning message to Donovan between the boxes of cigars. ‘I didn’t sign the note, fortunately,’ he concluded.

‘Fortunately, maybe,’ Donovan said drily. ‘Whoever got
the note will most likely recognise your handwriting but won’t be able to prove it yours. The thing is, will the fellow need proof or will he go after you with a gun? Supposing the note got into the hands of Stevens? Do you think he would need more proof than he got from his own eyesight? Anyway, you did your best and had the right idea in your head. A range war is no part of the town’s business. I guess if you had the running of the town, you’d fire that Hennesey feller.’

Bohun nodded. ‘I reckon I would. It doesn’t make sense to me to plague the biggest outfit in the district when the town’s dependent on it for its trade.’

‘Then run it for me,’ Donovan urged. ‘Listen, I need a man like you, one who knows the law and can use it for me. Tell me. How would I stand, supposing I bought all the property I could lay my hands on. Would that give me a say in appointing a marshal?’

Bohun took time to consider the question. ‘In the absence of any other authority, the owners of property have a right to appoint a marshal. That’s the way it’s been here only that Carter owns the biggest block of property, the Silver Dollar, and no one else has bothered. There have been cases where a town has had two marshals. Not for long, of course.’

‘Just as long as it took one to shoot the other,’ Donovan said. ‘Well, maybe it’ll turn out that way in this town. I want you to act as my agent. Buy every piece of property you can. Offer a good price and let me know if there are any non-sellers.’

Bohun drew in his breath sharply. ‘You mean buy up the town? Hell, that’ll cost you plenty. No matter how quietly I go to work it’s bound to come out that you’re buying then the prices will jump a mile high.’

‘Pay them, whatever they are, and I want it all done in the next two days. Make it clear to everyone that they can stay on at a nominal rent, promise anything but get me the town.’

A nervous sweat broke out on Bohun’s forehead. He asked
a few questions concerning the supply of cash, managed to think of a suitable percentage for himself then, as Donovan was impatient to be gone, showed the rancher to the door. Closing the door after Donovan, the judge hastened inside again to put on his collar and shoestring tie. A few minutes later he was on his way to the Silver Dollar feeling that nothing but a large sized glass of real whiskey would still the excitement he was feeling. He had redeye in the house but felt it was hardly the proper drink for one who in a few days’ time would be the most influential citizen in Carterville, except perhaps for Luke Carter.

Belle Clancy, Carter and Hennesey were in conversation with the youth that Bohun remembered had hired to Stevens when Bohun rolled his bulk up to the bar. He gave them an all-embracing nod as he ordered his whiskey, but wanting to savour both the drink and his excitement, made no attempt to join the group. Carter, however, hailed him with:

‘A moment, Judge. There’s something you might be able to set us right about.’

Bohun frowned but took his whiskey and joined the group. ‘Something about law?’ he asked.

‘Not quite,’ Carter answered. ‘This is Johnnie Callum, Judge. Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘Callum, Callum. Let me see now. Yes, I’ve got it. There was a family of that name who homesteaded south-east of here. Be about seven or eight years back, I guess. You looking for them, young feller, relations of yours, eh?’

Hennesey cut in before Johnnie could frame an answer. ‘Just exactly where was the place, Judge?’

Bohun took a gulp of whiskey. ‘Easy enough to find, Marshal. You know that place the boys call Chimney Rock? The river sort of bends sharply round it and there’s a way to climb down to the water. Well, it was just about there. Shouldn’t be surprised if there’s signs of the soddy there yet.
Although I guess Donovan’s—’ Bohun stopped suddenly, flushed and then went on. ‘What the heck does anyone want to know that for, anyway?’