Sudden--Troubleshooter (A Sudden Western) #5 (13 page)

The two men spent the next
hour and more choosing supplies for their homesteads, and loading
the big, awkward spools of fencing wire into the bed of the wagon.
A couple of bags of flour, some treacle, dried apples, a side of
bacon, Arbuckle’s coffee, some bags of chili beans. They covered
the load with a tarpaulin; the wire spools were too bulky to cover
properly.

‘Hell with it,’ Johnstone
said. ‘Lash ’em down. If they won’t take a few drops o’ rain on the
way back they ain’t goin’ to be much use as fencin’, are
they?’

They lashed the tarp down,
then stumped back into the store to settle their bill. When their
business was completed Johnstone pounded his smaller companion on
the back and said, ‘Come on, Stan, an’ I’ll buy y’all that
drink.’

Newly peered nervously down
the street towards the lights of Tyler’s saloon, already bold in
the soft twilight easing its silent way into the valley. He
squinted up at the Yavapais again.

‘I’m worried about that
storm, Reb,’ he told the Southerner. ‘If she rains afore we leave
town we’ll never get across Borracho with the wagon. We’ll haveta
detour all to hellangone around the edge o’ the Badlands
afore.’

‘It won’t rain afore we
leave,’ Johnstone told him. ‘I got the word from one o’ those
rainmaker fellers on’y this
mornin’
.’

Newley hesitated still.
‘Mebbe we oughta skip it, Reb.’

‘Dang me if yu ain’t wuss’n
an ol’ broody hen!’ exploded the tall Virginian. ‘Worry, worry,
worry! Lissen: I’ll tell yu what we-all goin’ to do. We-all goin’
to wander down to Tyler’s, right? If we-all see any hosses at the
rail belongin’ to Saber we turn aroun’ an head straight home. If
they’s no Saber nags we take our drink. Fair enough?’

Newley smiled for the first
time, relief showing on his narrow face. ‘Sounds fair,’ he
admitted. ‘I just don’t want no trouble.’

‘Hell, Stan,’ laughed
Johnstone, ‘yu oughta know by now it’s allus the feller who says
that who gets the most. Come on, cheer up! One li’l drink ain’t
goin’ to hurt yu none!’

A quick inspection of the
horses at the hitching-rail revealed that none of them bore the
Saber brand, although both men noticed a badly used bay standing,
head down, and remarked on it.

Shaking their heads at the
way some people treated good horse-flesh, the two homesteaders
pushed into the saloon. The place was packed, with a heavy knot of
people at the far end of the bar noisily celebrating, clustered
around someone they couldn’t see. Newley hesitated on the
threshold, sensing the tense, brittle atmosphere of the place. A
quick inspection of the room showed him no reason for this rising
of his hackles and he shrugged and followed his friend into the
bar. Johnstone called for drinks for both of them, and when Tyler
had poured them said, ‘Yu know whose that bay stallion outside
is?’

The bartender cringed visibly, and an abrupt
silence fell upon the entire saloon. Johnstone looked about him in
amazement, unable to understand the reason for this cessation of
all conversation, and unaware that his words had caused it.

As he stood, open mouthed, the knot of
people at the end of the bar parted and a medium-sized, compactly
built man pushed through the crowd towards him.

‘Hoss is mine, mister,’
said the man
coldly
.
‘What
of
it?’

Johnstone, still nonplussed
by the bated silence about him, regained a measure of his composure
as he smiled
down at the man in front of
him. The man lounged easily against the bar, and there was no
threat in his stance.

‘Well, hell, mister …
meanin’ no offence … but he’s shore
in
need o’ rubbin’ down. That’s a
mighty fine an—’

The words froze on his lips as the man
tossed a silver dollar on to the bar. It rang in the silence as it
spun and slowly settled on the polished wood.

‘There’s a dollar,’ the man
sneered. ‘Yu look like yu need it. Go out and rub the hoss
down.’

Johnstone stood stock still
for a moment, then took a step forward. As he did so, two things
happened: he saw for the first time the cut-away holster low on the
man’s hip; and the saloon-owner, Tyler, laid a hand on his arm,
blurting out, ‘No, Reb! That’s Wes Cameron!’

The Virginian stopped as if
he had walked into a wall. Stan Newley, making sure that Cameron
could see his hands plainly, touched his friend’s arm.

‘Come on, Reb. Reb – let’s
get out o’ here,’ he whispered.

Johnstone looked around
uncertainly. He didn’t want to back down from such a calculated
insult, yet at the same time he was far from being so foolish as to
think he could match this satanic killer.

‘Ah … Ah’m beggin’ yore
pardon, mister,’ he mumbled, hating himself for saying the words.
‘Ah shore didn’t mean nothin’ personal.’

Cameron did not deign to acknowledge the
apology; the sneer on his face merely sharpened a fraction.

‘What’s yore name, Reb?’ he
grated.

‘Name’s Johnstone. Got a
small place up in the Mesquites,’ the big man stammered.
‘Thisyere’s m’ neighbor, Stan Newley.’

‘Yu men run big outfits?
I’m needin’ a job.’

‘We only run small spreads,
mister,’ blurted Newley. ‘We couldn’t pay … I mean we ain’t got no
need of…’ He fell silent as he realized the construction that might
be placed upon his words by a man spoiling for trouble.

Cameron shrugged. ‘Pity.
I’d admire working for a man who
worries
about horses the way Reb here
does. I bet he thinks some animals is better than men, don’t yu,
Reb?
^’

With a flash of his old
spirit Johnstone retorted, ‘There’s plenty o’ men no better than
animals.’

Cameron looked up at him
sharply, and Johnstone fell back a pace. Once again Newley tugged
at his sleeve, and he half turned to go. Cameron moved to place
himself alongside Johnstone. ‘Mebbe I’d better take a look at this
hoss yo’re so het up over,’ he said.

The onlookers watched in
silence as he shepherded the two men towards the door. Many of
those watching would frankly not have been at all upset if a couple
of the homesteaders were given a lesson in manners – at best they
were only tolerated in Yavapai. Even if you didn’t have anything
good to say about Wes Cameron, they told each other, at least he
was a cattleman.

As the trio pushed through
the batwings there was a concerted rush for the windows. Wide-eyed,
the patrons of Tyler’s watched Cameron duck under the hitching-rail
and start to look over his mount, allowing Stan Newley to half
pull, half push his tall friend up the street towards where their
wagon and team stood patiently awaiting their return. Newley
clambered into the seat, and the Virginian took the bit of the lead
horses in hand in order to swing them around on the street to point
them north, where the first rumbles of thunder were threatening the
rain-clouds over the mountains. As Johnstone swung the team out
into the street the lights of the saloon fell upon him and the
wagon with its half-covered load. It was at this moment that
Cameron looked up, as if coincidentally, from his task.

‘Yu! Nester!’

Cameron’s voice cut the
night like a north wind. The Virginian looked around, startled;
Newley went rigid in the wagon seat. Behind Cameron, whom they
could only just see against the bright blaze of the saloon’s
lights, the two men could see the entire patronage of Tyler’s
saloon awaiting their further discomfiture. Reb Johnstone’s lips
set in a thin line, and his back went straight.

‘Reb, don’t yu start
nothin’ now,’ pleaded Newley. ‘Please don’t yu get into nothin’,
Reb!’

‘Yu! Nester! What yu got in
that wagon?’ Cameron’s voice was flat and accusing.

‘Wire,’ Johnstone told him,
equally flatly. He stood facing the gunman, his hand still holding
the bit in the lead horse’s mouth. His attitude was one of calm
fearlessness.

‘Wire? Yu stringin’ wire in
cattle country? By Gawd, where I come from yu’d be hung for
that.’

‘We ain’t where yu come
from,’ Johnstone said tonelessly. ‘Is that all yu wanted to
know?’

‘No,’ Cameron said evilly.
‘There’s one more thing. How come a man who strings wire in cattle
country has got the nerve to tell a cattleman how to take care o’
his hoss?’

Johnstone shrugged.

‘Cameron, Ah know who yu
are an’ Ah know what yore reputation is. Yu ain’t goin’ to prod me
into no gunfight. If yu’ve said yore piece Ah’m about ready to
leave.’

Cameron nodded. His voice
was soft and hardly carried as far as Johnstone; most of those
inside the saloon did not hear it at all, so quietly were the words
spoken. But Johnstone heard them. Cameron said, ‘No wonder yu’s
lost the war.’ With a muted curse the
big
Southerner dropped his hand from the bit and pawed for the gun at
his side. Cameron did not move until Reb’s hand had closed on the
butt, lifted the gun clear, and cocked it. Before Reb could
complete the last part of his draw, and bring the gun level to
fire, Cameron made his play. Nobody watching saw his hand move, but
there was his gun belching fire: once, twice, three times. Reb
Johnstone was hurled backwards against the horses by the force of
the bullets, and the horses shied violently. They reared upwards
and away from the sound of the shots, throwing the half-paralyzed
Newley into the street. Johnstone half rose on his elbow as Newley
scrabbled towards him on hands and knees while the wagon and team
thundered down the street. Unthinkingly Newley reached towards his
hip pocket for a bandanna with which to staunch the great gouts of
blood staining his friend’s chest, and in a cold, clear split
second realized as he did so what he had done.

‘Don’t touch it!’ he heard
Cameron yell, and then he heard the shot that hammered him
backwards.
His last
thought was that he had given the gunman a permit to
shoot him and the last word he uttered was
‘stupid’.

Cameron stood by the
hitching-rail, his body tense, half-crouched; the two bodies lay
still and silent in the dust. Tom Appleby came racing up the
street, gun in hand. He slid to a stop as Cameron wheeled around,
the light glinting on the ready gun, and for a cold instant the
lawman braced himself against the shock of a shot as the thought
touched his mind: ‘He’s killin’ mad!’ Then the light behind
Cameron’s eyes died, and he straightened slowly, holstering his
gun. A cold smile played about his mouth.

‘Pure self-defense,
Marshal. There’s about sixty people here saw the whole thing. The
tall one went for his gun first. When I downed him the other one
tried to draw on me.’ He waved a hand at the still-silent watchers,
a few of whom were edging out into the street for a closer look at
the scene of the killing. ‘I’m bettin’ all these folks’ll tell yu
it was self-defense,’ Cameron repeated.

‘I’m aimin’ to ask every
one o’ them,’ Appleby told him. ‘If it was self-defense yo’re
clear. But don’t think o’ leavin’ town for a few days.’

Cameron grinned with evil
enjoyment. ‘Why, Marshal, yu know I wouldn’t dream o’ disobeyin’
yu.’

Appleby stood for a moment
regarding Cameron. He knew that the witnesses would swear it was
self-defense: Cameron had bought enough drinks to ensure sympathy,
and he had no doubt that Johnstone and Newley had made the first
move. Cameron would have seen to that. A wave of disgust touched
his face for a moment, and then he turned away to get help in
moving the bodies off the street. As the crowd returned to the
saloon the first real thunder rolled down from the Yavapais like a
rock slide and the sticky rain started to fall.

AS SUDDEN pulled Midnight
to a stop at the crest of yet another rise he realized that the big
stallion was tired. He knew that the black would go on until his
big heart
gave out, but to push him too
hard would not only be cruel but downright foolhardy.

‘Man on foot’d last about a
day at most in these parts,’ he muttered. ‘Shore is
cold.’

He had been investigating each of the
canyons that lay in the spur of the mountains, so far without any
indication at all that there were any other forms of life up here
at all except wild animals. The ground was hard and bare; even if a
large herd had been driven across it there would have been only the
faintest of tracks.

‘Shore looks like a
wild-goose chase, Night,’ he told the horse, and then, with an eye
scanning the lowering cloud over the peaks to the west, ‘an’ if we
ain’t under cover afore long we’re goin’ to sleep wet
tonight.’

The big horse brought his
head up sharply as thunder crashed among the peaks. There was a
misty, damp feeling in the air that struck to the rider’s
bones.

‘If this is mountain
livin’, give me the desert every time,’ he shivered. ‘Come on, boy.
One more, an’ then we’ll bed down for the night.’

The light was becoming
increasingly bad as he headed the horse down the slope and along
the floor of yet another of the arroyos. This one looked no
different to the many others he had already investigated. The peaks
towered ahead, shrouded in grey mist. Once or twice lightning
flickered, lighting the mist with sinister colors. On both sides of
the rider high hills rose sharply, their outlines vague. He peered
ahead disconsolately.