Pale Rider (5 page)

“Yup,” Hull replied easily. “Soon as we put together a couple ounces, I’ll bring ’em in.”

Blankenship pursed his lips and pulled a hardbacked ledger from the shelf behind him, drawing it forth with the speed and skill of a gunfighter drawing effortlessly on his opponent. He laid the ledger flat on the counter in front of him, opened it, and began flipping through the tall pages until he came to the one he wanted.

“It’ll take a damnsite more’n a couple of ounces, Hull. Last payment of any kind that you folks made was—let’s see.” He flipped a page and ran a finger down an unseen column. “Eight months ago, when old Lindquist brought in a small bag of dust.” He looked sharply up at his visitor, regarding him narrowly. The bridge of the visor he wore shaded his eyes but did nothing to soften his stare.

“Ever occur to any of you people there ain’t no gold left in Carbon Creek? Not every river in the Sierra’s full of gold, you know. Might be you folks lit on a poor one.”

“If that’s so, then why’s Lahood so set on drivin’ us out? That man never did anything didn’t have money behind it. ’Course, I suppose he could just be plain cussed mean. Probably is, but if that’s all that was settin’ him to harassin’ us, I’d think he’d of got his satisfaction by now.”

“Might be,” Blankenship allowed. “But one thing’s sure: he means to have that canyon to himself, whether there’s any gold in it or not. Maybe he ain’t doing it for any gold. Maybe it’s the principle of the thing to him. Might be he wants it just ’cause you folks are saying no to him.”

“Might be, Mr. B., except for one thing.”

“What might that be?”

“We all know Coy Lahood ain’t got no principles. Anyways, you’re wrong about the gold. There’s color in the creek and plenty of it. You’ve had some of it yourself, in payment for goods received.”

Blankenship let out a derisive snort. “Dust! Color! Every sourdough in California finds color.”

“Not just color then. Nuggets, too. Spider panned one out this morning that was big as your fingernail. You don’t find nuggets like that in played-out streams.”

That made Blankenship sit up and take notice. “Spider Conway?”

Hull nodded. “The same.”

Again the gunfighter glanced downward. “Found a nugget big as a fingernail, did he? Well then when you get back you tell that son-of-a-bitch I’ve got him down for eighty-five dollars and thirty-three cents. That’s just what he owes me. I can’t even imagine what he owes you and the others by now, for picking up supplies for him and those two idiot boys of his.”

Hull selected a small bottle from a rack filled with narrow-mouthed containers and added it to the growing pile. “
Forty-
three cents. He wanted some arsenic to bleach his dust.”

“That tears it!” The storeowner rose from his seat and jabbed a warning finger in Hull’s direction. “I’m a Christian man and I do my best to be understanding, but every man’s got his limit and by thunder, I’ve reached mine! You tell Spider and the rest of ’em that this is the end of the line. The teat’s gone dry. No more credit, y’hear? No more until you pay up on what you all owe me. Hull, are you listening to me?”

By way of reply Hull grinned at him while casually adding a roll of oilcloth, two small panes of glass, and several two-by-fours to the pile that was accumulating in the middle of the floor. Lifting as much as he could carry safely in one trip, he started for the door.

“You’re a decent man, Mr. B. That’s why we’ve always brought you our trade. You know that I, that we all appreciate—”

Blankenship cut him off. “Don’t try coddling me with words, son. Words ain’t fit for much and payin’ bills certainly ain’t one of ’em.” But the merchant’s rage had already abated, just as Hull knew it would. Slowly he sat back down on his stool.

“I ain’t doin’ this for you,” he muttered. “Hell, I’m the only merchant in town that Lahood doesn’t own. Oh, most of ’em have got their own names out on their shingles, but we all know which piper they pay so’s they can stay in business. It does my soul good to see a few other horns in his hide.”

“Besides which maybe bein’ so busy with us keeps him from figurin’ out how to buy you out?” Hull ventured.

“That’ll be the day!” Blankenship wagged that finger at his customer a second time. “But I’m serious this go-round, Hull. I can’t afford to keep carrying you folks forever.”

“We know that, Mr. B.” Hull paused in the doorway long enough to look back at his aggrieved benefactor. “One day we’ll hit it big up there, you’ll see, and when that happens I’ll pay you off in full myself. With interest.” He nudged the double doors wider to make room for his load.

“Barret.” Hull turned a last time. “You get your goods in the wagon and skedaddle. Just keep moving, no matter what they say.” He nodded significantly toward the window and the unkempt trio lounging outside the Lahood building.

Hull nodded briskly, then made his way through the portal. Blankenship followed his progress anxiously. Damn fool, he murmured to himself. Good man but a damn fool.

Ma Blankenship craned her neck, trying to watch the street outside while simultaneously tending to her kitchen. Her thoughts as she watched Hull Barret load the wagon were similar to her husband’s, though she viewed the miner in a more charitable light.

As for the single stranger she was serving, there was no telling what he thought of the minor drama that had just transpired. He sat quietly and sipped at his coffee.

Hull dumped the supplies in the back of the buckboard rather more hastily than he intended and hurried back inside for the rest. The last double armload contained Conway’s arsenic as well as a small but precious vial of mercury. He put the two bottles in his pocket, then arranged the load as best he could before he began to tie down the tarp over the pile.

Across the street the three men exchanged a silent glance. Then they rose, one on the heels of the next, and started to saunter over toward the buckboard. Noting their approach, Hull tried to work twice as fast without appearing to. He didn’t make a very good job of hiding his concern, and this served to amuse the three who spread out to confront him.

Their leader was one of Lahood’s foremen. Hull recognized him immediately; a not too bright but thoroughly nasty bastard name of McGill. The foreman was a useful animal of the sort that Lahood was fond of employing. He was also just intelligent enough to be amused by his own wit.

“We got a beef with you, Barret.”

Hull finished securing the supplies, then deliberately walked over to the hitching rail to untie his horse. This gave him a chance to identify the foreman’s companions, a pair of mean-tempered gully-whompers named Jagou and Tyson. Innocent souls compared to the foreman, but just as capable of causing trouble if they thought they could get away with it.

McGill knew the miner recognized them. That was the idea. They had neither the need nor the desire to keep their identities a secret. It was important that Barret know that.

They closed in around the miner, the other two seemingly oblivious to his presence. They didn’t appear in the least interested in what Hull might do, secure as they were in the knowledge that he could do nothing. McGill stepped between the miner and the wagon.

“You know, you ain’t very polite, Barret. When we rode through the canyon this morning you plumb forgot to say hello.” Tyson let out an evil snigger while Jagou just smiled, showing bent and broken teeth.

“We told you to stay out of town a while back, seems to me,” the smiler told him, awash in fake amiability.

“Yeah, you ain’t got much of a memory.” Tyson grinned as he kicked at the dirt. “I remember that clear as day.” He cast a doleful eye on the foreman. “Last time he come through, ‘stay outta town,’ you said. Then you kicked him in the head. Must’ve popped his memory.”

“Or somethin’ like that,” McGill agreed.

Jagou looked thoughtful. “Maybe if we kicked him again, it’d all come back to him.”

Hull stepped past McGill and mounted the buckboard, taking up the reins. If the wagon had been positioned differently, he would’ve taken a chance by whipping the reins, but with it pointing towards the store instead of the street and with the hitching rail and watering trough directly in front of him there was no way he could move in a hurry. Damn. He should have thought of that when he’d pulled in. Too late for it now.

McGill moved around to one side of the wagon while Tyson and Jagou remained on the other, grinning up at the miner.

“You ain’t real talkative today, are you, Barret?” McGill feigned disappointment. “What’s wrong? Nothing new up in the canyon? I thought after this morning you’d have plenty to talk about. Don’t you want to tell us about how you’re doin’ up there?”

“Yeah, how about them Wheeler women?” Jagou leered up at him. “You hump the growed one, or you hump ’em both?”

Hull’s fingers tightened on the reins until they whitened and the tendons in his neck went taut. Delighted at having hooked his fish on the first cast, Jagou continued to play the line.

“That little one’s just out o’ knickers, ain’t she?” He chuckled. “Bet she’s juicy as a freshwater clam, huh?” He leaned close, his eyes bright, broken teeth gleaming. “C’mon, Barret, you kin tell us. Don’t you want to share with your friends? Why, we might want to get us a little some time, and I’d be grateful for some pointers.”

“Yeah, Barret.” Tyson rushed to join in. “Tell us: when you hump ’em, you have the little one on top or on the bottom?”

Somehow Hull kept control of himself, seated on the narrow seat, his back rigid and his hands trembling. McGill pushed back his hat and stood surveying the miner in disbelief.

“You just beat all, Barret. What’s it take to get you down off that seat and fight like a man? We have to bust your goods again?” He gestured toward the back of the wagon and the stack of irreplaceable supplies.

Hull’s lips parted. Words emerged, easy with enforced calm. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

McGill nodded disgustedly, looking as though he’d been anticipating such a reply. “That’s what wrong with you. You and the rest o’ them tin-pan squatters. You ain’t got no balls, none of you.” Turning, he walked around to the rear of the wagon and flipped up the unsecured back edge of the tarpaulin.

Hull whirled. “Leave ’em be!”

A broad smile creased McGill’s face. “Well now, what about this? Seems as how you can talk when you’ve a mind to, though I don’t think much of a man who worries more about his supplies than his women.” He studied the pile. “Don’t see why you’re so damn concerned about this junk anyways. Not much here but tarpaper and wood. Good makin’s for a fire, though. Right, boys?”

“Oh yeah, a fire,” said Tyson quickly.

Jagou rubbed his hands together in expectation. “Sure is, boss. It is a mite cold out today.”

McGill reached into a pocket and brought out a match, then struck it alight on the side of the buckboard. He spoke as it flared to life, watching as it burned down toward his fingers.

“Better get down from that seat now, Barret. It might get hot all of a sudden, though if what I hear tell about them Wheeler women is half right, you’re probably used to that by now.”

So saying, he flipped the match onto the oilcloth. Hull was out of his seat instantly, flailing at the incipient bonfire with the unfastened edge of the tarp. He just managed to extinguish the flames before McGill grabbed his ankles and yanked hard.

Overbalanced on the back of the wagon and without anything to brace himself against, Hull struck the side of the buckboard and fell over into the street. The three men were on top of him before he could regain his footing. The flat sound of fists striking flesh seemed preternaturally loud in the clear mountain air.

No one saw the hand that silently removed the big oak bucket from its hook next to the watering trough. It was dipped into the icy water and the contents then dumped onto the back of the wagon. There was more than enough in the single bucketful to douse the smouldering remnant of the fire.

The bucket was a solid, no-nonsense piece of work. It made a loud
crack
when it slammed down against the back of Jagou’s neck. The roustabout went down as if he’d been poleaxed and his two companions looked up in shock. They barely had enough time to register their surprise before the bucket descended a second time. It smashed Tyson’s hat flat against his skull. He fell over on top of the unconscious Jagou.

McGill raised a hand to ward off the coming blow, and the bucket splintered against his jaw, sending him sprawling in the mud.

It was all over in less than a minute.

Jagou lay on his belly while Tyson started rolling and moaning, clutching at his skull. McGill slowly worked his jaw, which miraculously had remained in place. None of the three had any thoughts of fighting back.

Ignoring them and whatever they might choose to do, the stranger lifted the remains of the bucket and eyed it critically. There wasn’t much left except the wire handle.

“Don’t make ’em like they used to,” he murmured to no one in particular.

Hanging the wire strap back on its hook, he bent and got both arms under Hull Barret’s, lifting the stunned miner to his feet. Hull said nothing as the stranger helped him remount the buckboard. This done, his mysterious benefactor then mounted the gelding tied up nearby, turned, and gave Hull’s animal a whack on its rump. The buckboard lurched forward, then to the side as the stranger guided it out to the middle of the street. Together they rode toward the far end of town.

Hull had completely forgotten his own injuries. The tall man riding alongside the wagon appeared none the worse for wear. He didn’t look back and he wasn’t so much as breathing hard. But Hull looked back. He had to. It was the only sure way he had of convincing himself he hadn’t dreamed the last five minutes.

He could see a shaky McGill standing over his cronies, who were still down in the dirt. They were in no condition to walk across the street, much less mount any kind of vengeful pursuit. Thus reassured, he removed his bandana from a pocket and began wiping at the blood that covered his face.

He tried to see everything a second time in his mind. Everything was fairly clear up to the point when the stranger had intervened. Then a brief blur of action, the bucket whizzing through the air like a medieval mace, and suddenly he was back on the buckboard instead of lying there in the street having the beejeesus knocked out of him.