The Last Waterhole Page 2

  Sixteen years back, he’d been a young married man. But a difficult childbirth had snatched his wife from him and left him with a damaged son who never would put much distance between himself and childhood. That prospect was clear from the outset. For Bobbie Lee, it was too much to take. His wife had died. His son needed constant care. And so he left one-year-old Jason in the care of his grandmother, and spent the next fifteen years roaming the West pursued by an awful guilt that changed his character, turned him into a different man. A violent man. A man feared by all, but respected only by those outlaws who envied his prowess with a gun.

  And then – then what? After fifteen years, what had gone wrong? Or, to put it in a more favourable light, what had gone right?

  Bobbie Lee stirred uneasily on the hard mattress. He could hear the clink of bottle and glass through the thin wall, and knew that in the next room the stranger was lying awake. His kind would not be tormented by guilt. He would be looking back on a job well done; the first phase of a plan successfully accomplished; a base established in a small, cowed community on the edge of the Staked Plains.

  But a base from which to launch – what?

  What the hell, Bobbie Lee thought, is going on here?

  Easier by far, he knew, to explain what had happened twelve months ago to put an end to his own fifteen years of hell-raising. That was an easy one: his mother had died. A death had changed his life. Made everything right. Brought him home. Given him the ownership of the saloon once run by his father.

  Left him, for twelve months, caring for a son he had never succeeded in knowing. Or, God help him, in loving.

  Now he’s gone, Bobbie Lee thought bitterly. And all he had left was the settlement of Beattie’s Halt and an establishment called The Last Water-hole on the edge of a great white desert, and if the stranger who had ridden in was planning on taking any of that away from him, well, he could think again.

  A death had brought Bobbie Lee home to a year of contentment. A senseless death had shattered that calm and taken away his only son. And if it took more deaths to restore order and enable Bobbie Lee to hang on to what he had left – and let his neighbours go on living the life they had chosen – well, fifteen years of riding the owlhoot would make him a very hard man to beat.

  And, as he drifted into sleep, Bobbie Lee had a sneaking suspicion that blonde Cassie was already well aware of that fact.

  Chapter Three

  Around about that same time, the stranger was lying back on his bed in the next room, hands clasped comfortably behind his head. He was somewhat muzzy-headed. The whiskey bottle stood empty on the table. He’d drunk it dry while listening idly to the murmur of conversation from downstairs without deciphering a single word; heard the girl leave, the rattle of hooves as she rode the short distance to her pa’s farm; followed Bobbie Lee’s footsteps in his mind as the man came upstairs, entered his room and shut the door.

  He was reasonably happy, the stranger.

  Hell, he had reason to be.

  He had set out from the land on the southern reaches of the Nueces river with a purpose, with everything clear in his mind. Days later, within a few short hours of arriving in Beattie’s Halt – a hamlet that just happened to be in the right place – he was some way towards achieving his aims.

  Had the killing been necessary?

  He supposed not. But the kid had annoyed him, his skill with the six-guns in the gunbelt now hanging from the chair had made a big impression on the two men in the bar – and for some time he’d been operating on a short fuse. It was that same simmering anger that, a clear six months ago, had crystallized his intentions, turned those intentions into a viable plan and seen that plan evolve from a vague idea into a campaign that would see wrongs righted, see a powerful man pay for his sins.

  The stranger chuckled in the darkness.

  The beauty of it was, the powerful man was completely unaware of the blow that was about to fall. He had plans of his own, big plans, but those plans would fail, what he was setting out to do would come to naught – and all because the stranger had decided enough was enough.

  The twelve months needed in the planning had passed quickly, but twelve months could never be considered a long time when compared with the time that had been stolen from the stranger when his life was torn apart, destroyed. That stolen time amounted to five years of back-breaking toil that had seen a dream realized. That dream had been shattered, taken from him by the powerful man who, in the space of a single year, spring to spring, had squeezed him dry.

  So now it was fitting that the powerful man’s life would also be destroyed in the space of twelve months. And that twelve months, the stranger thought with deep satisfaction, had but two short days to run.

  In the darkness he rolled a cigarette. The match flared. Smoke drifted. The cigarette’s end glowed.

  Tomorrow would see the arrival of the others. Strangers, three of them. Strangers who were costing him money. And again the stranger chuckled in the darkness. Costing money, yes, but the money could in no way be considered his. The money to pay for the necessary manpower and guns had come easy, because once the plan had begun to evolve, inhibitions had fallen by the wayside; the law had become an annoying hindrance to be brushed aside. If he was to succeed, the stranger had realized, the morals of the decent citizen had also to be cast by the wayside.

  Now it was almost over.

  In two days, the powerful man who had torn the stranger’s dreams to shreds would meet his own, personal hell.

  Chapter Four

  Bobbie Lee was woken by the rumbling of the wagon that had arrived with supplies for Chip Morgan’s general store. Dust drifted through the open window. He could hear the mules stamping and blowing, the laughter as the driver jumped down to josh with Chip, the lighter, feminine tones as Alice came out to offer the man hot coffee.

  The room adjoining Bobbie Lee’s was silent. As he rolled out of his blankets and pulled on pants and shirt, he caught the scent of frying ham. His jaw tightened. When he stamped downstairs he found the man with the two six-guns belted around his lean hips sitting at the table in the kitchen at the rear of the saloon. He was bent over, tucking into a plate heaped with ham and eggs. A coffee pot bubbled on the stove.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ Bobbie Lee said.

  ‘Yeah, well now, I sorta figured this place is café as well as water-hole, but I couldn’t locate the help.’

  ‘People hereabouts live at home, cook their own breakfasts – work hard.’

  ‘That puts me at a disadvantage.’ The stranger looked up, grinned wolfishly. ‘Work of any kind makes me a mite queasy. I’m in your home, and ten minutes ago you were snoring so mightily I thought I’d leave you be.’

  Bobbie Lee was accustomed to preparing the food, and eating alone. A glance told him this man understood that, and had left everything close to the stove ready for his eventual appearance. But this morning Bobbie Lee’s appetite was blunted. Maybe that was because of the gunslinger’s disturbing presence. More likely, it was because he knew with deep sadness and regret that, when he had eaten, he would not be going to the stairs to call his son Jason down for his breakfast.

  For that unexpected emptiness in his life, this man was entirely to blame.

  ‘How long before you do that?’ Bobbie Lee said.

  ‘Leave you be for good?’ The man shrugged. ‘Let’s call it a couple of days, then wait and see what happens.’

  ‘Two days,’ Bobbie Lee mused aloud. ‘I can understand that, but this wait and see what happens has got me baffled. You awaitin’ a message from the Lord?’

  The man set aside his plate with a clatter, settled back, fixed a pensive gaze on Bobbie Lee.

  ‘Some time today you’ll be getting another three unwelcome guests.’ He waited, saw Bobbie Lee’s frown, lazily tugged the makings out of his vest pocket. ‘The man wearing buckskins has got some Irish in him. He’s called Murphy. A second you’ll remember by the big rifle he never lets out of his sight. That’s Sangs
ter. The third is called Cleet.’ The stranger grinned at Bobbie Lee. ‘You be very careful when that feller’s around.’

  ‘Sounds to me like you’re movin’ a whole damn army in here, piece by piece,’ Bobbie Lee said, and saw the man’s eyes narrow and harden. ‘Maybe you’d best tell me your name before the war starts and you get yourself killed.’

  The man blew a cloud of smoke from the freshly lit cigarette.

  ‘Van Gelderen,’ he said softly. His eyes were thoughtful. ‘But what about you and that woman?’

  ‘Cassie Blunt?’

  ‘Yeah. I heard you two talking down here last night, for quite a while. You two real close? Maybe figurin’ on getting hitched?’

  The question took Bobby Lee by surprise, sent his thoughts flying wildly in directions he had never allowed himself to consider. For a few moments he was flustered as Van Gelderen watched him, his eyes strangely speculative. Then Bobby Lee shook his head.

  ‘Leave Cassie well out of it—’

  ‘Another thing I can’t figure,’ the man called Van Gelderen cut in. ‘I rode in here, and before you even knew my name I’d pulled a gun and your boy’s lyin’ dead on the floor. Yet here you are, next morning, standing there large as life and talking to me as if I’m one of your best friends.’

  ‘Hah!’

  ‘Now if that was me,’ Van Gelderen said, ‘and it was my kid who’d been gunned down – I think I’d be doing something to put things right.’ His pale eyes were watching Bobbie Lee. ‘I mean, it’s not as if you don’t know the killer’s name, where he’s at; it’s not as if you’ve got to make the effort to go looking for him an’ all. . . .’

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ Bobbie Lee said, as he swung abruptly on his heel. ‘You’ve got cronies coming to back up any play you make, Van Gelderen, but nothing can change the fact that you walked in here and shot dead a helpless young boy – my boy or someone else’s son, that don’t alter the facts. You pulled the trigger. That makes you a cold-blooded killer. I’d suggest instead of philosophizing, from now on you spend time watching your back.’

  Bobbie Lee’s head cleared as soon as he stepped down off the gallery into the morning sunlight and crossed the dusty square to the general store. The goods ordered by Chip Morgan had been off-loaded. There was no sign of the driver, but as Bobbie Lee ran up the steps he could hear the murmur of voices, the clatter of a cups.

  The interior of the store was cool and dim, the air larded with the various aromas of the goods Chip Morgan offered for sale. Alice was behind the hardwood counter, her round face pink and cheerful. That cheerfulness changed to concern when she saw Bobbie Lee. Chip was off to one side, dressed as always in undershirt and work pants, sitting on newly arrived sacks of grain. The driver was holding a steaming cup.

  Without preamble, Chip Morgan said, ‘Where is the sonofabitch?’

  ‘His name’s Van Gelderen,’ Bobbie Lee said as Alice tutted her disapproval of her husband’s language. ‘He’s out of bed, in my kitchen eatin’ my food, and I can expect three more of his kind before the day’s out.’

  The look of disgust on the driver’s face told Bobbie Lee he would have spat if he hadn’t been enjoying Chip’s hospitality.

  ‘Name rings a bell,’ the driver said, in tones made gravelly by the black tobacco he chewed. ‘Heard of a Van something or other, robbin’ a bank down around Amarillo, not that long ago, either. Killed the town marshal. Gelderen could’ve been it.’

  ‘Already know he’s a killer,’ Chip said.

  ‘Chip, you leave that while Bobbie Lee’s around,’ Alice said softly.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Bobbie Lee said. ‘Jason’s at peace, probably for the first time in his . . .’ He broke off and spread his hands helplessly as he realized what he’d been about to say. Recovering, he went on, ‘What we’ve got to figure out is what this Van Gelderen’s up to, and why he needs another three men to do it.’

  ‘There sure as hell ain’t no bank here for him to bust into,’ Chip said.

  ‘Nothing within a hundred miles of here,’ Alice said.

  ‘Yet, accordin’ to this Van Gelderen, before this day’s done there’ll be four of them here kickin’ their heels.’ Bobbie Lee looked around him for enlightenment, saw none, quietly accepted the cup of coffee Alice had slipped away to pour.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m off,’ the driver said. ‘I’ve a way to go, and I’ll ask around. But you folks here know what it’s like: no stage, no telegraph.’ He shook his head in resignation. ‘If I pick up word of trouble brewing it’ll be history by the time I make my next round.’

  And then he was gone, Chip coming off his grain sack to see him out then returning to the counter where Bobbie Lee was now eating a slice of hot, greasy ham clamped between two thick slices of bread.

  Alice had disappeared out back to carry on with her chores. As the wagon rumbled away across the square, Bobbie Lee took his breakfast to the grain sack and sat down. Chip leaned against the counter and began packing a corn-cob pipe with dark tobacco. He looked pensively at Bobbie Lee.

  ‘So let’s add up what we’ve got that’d draw a bunch of gunslingers to Beattie’s Halt,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a saloon selling strong liquor and weak beer, that ain’t averse to letting rooms to gunslinging drifters. We’ve got a general store with a limited stock of basic goods to supply trappers and ranchers and horse traders who ride into town’ – he chuckled at the grand title he’d bestowed on the Halt – ‘when loneliness drives ’em crazy. There’s Comanche out there on the Staked Plains. And then there’s Will Blunt’s farm.’

  ‘Nothing of any value,’ Bobbie Lee said, ‘and I’m including the saloon my pa built up from nothing and let slide into ruin when he got too old to care.’

  For a few moments there was a silence as Chip Morgan puffed on his pipe. Bobbie Lee finished off his coffee and slabs of fresh bread, wiped his palms on the seat of his pants as he stood up and paced restlessly.

  As far as he could see, they were out of ideas. They were the inhabitants of a remote settlement on the edge of the barren wilderness that was the Staked Plains. The nearest town was more than 100 miles off to the East, boasted a population of 250 and a town marshal who emerged from year-long torpor only when he was up for re-election. The county seat, with its sheriff, was even further away.

  The wagon driver had emphasized their isolation: there was no stage, no telegraph. They were cut off from civilization, a dot in a wilderness bounded by the Cap Rock to the east, Mescalero Ridge to the west. The Llano Estacado was a daunting barrier to the north.

  Did that tell him something?

  ‘You know, the only possible attraction Beattie’s Halt could have,’ Bobbie Lee said thoughtfully, ‘is its lack of attraction.’

  ‘I wondered when you’d figure that out,’ said a tall, thin man who’d come in unnoticed out of the blazing morning sunlight to cast a long shadow in the doorway. ‘Only possible reason outlaws’d make for a place like this is because it’s a haven. The saloon’s already been taken over. And they’ve established a powerful presence by murdering Bobbie Lee’s boy.’

  ‘I think Will’s got a point,’ Bobbie Lee said drily. ‘And I reckon I know who gave him the idea.’

  ‘Yeah, Cassie was working things out while she talked to you last night. And she always was the Blunt family’s deep thinker,’ Will Blunt said.

  ‘Well, this ain’t no fortress,’ Chip Morgan said, ‘but it sure as hell has its good points. A man can see for miles in most directions. Any posse heading this way’d have a hard time catching outlaws with their pants down.’

  Blunt wandered across to the counter, plucked a stick of candy out of a jar and winked at Bobbie Lee.

  He was as thin as a dry stick, Will Blunt and, like most of the inhabitants of Beattie’s Halt, dressed for comfort in old work clothes. Thin greying hair drooped over a lined forehead. Deep set blue eyes peered out at the world with mild amusement, but there was an unmistakable hardness in the man.

  Lik
e all of us, Bobbie Lee thought, he’s either a loser or a survivor – or both; has to be, to stay put in this Godforsaken spot. But that, Bobbie Lee knew, was now irrelevant. Yesterday a dangerous man had appeared out of the shimmering heat-haze, had committed a brutal murder, and now they were all threatened. Maybe life in the Halt was precariously balanced between indolence and the struggle to survive, but it was all they had and, within its limitations, they were comfortable.

  But if they didn’t act, and act fast, a lazy, aimless existence that had always seemed to stretch into eternity would be brought to an abrupt and violent end.

  ‘He’s out there,’ Chip Morgan said, breaking into Bobbie Lee’s thinking.

  All three men hugged the store’s deep shadows as they rushed to peer through the open door across the dusty expanse to The Last Water-hole.

  Van Gelderen was on the gallery. The matched six-guns were deadly weapons of destruction on his lean thighs. Much as Bobbie Lee had done yesterday, he was up against the rail squinting into the distance.

  Then, as they watched, he clattered down the steps and crossed to where his horse was dozing at the hitch rail. He squinted up at the blazing sun, then placed his hands flat on one of the bulging saddle-bags as if feeling the contents.

  ‘What the hell’s he playing at?’ Bobbie Lee said.

  ‘Maybe he figures the jerky he’s got stowed in there will go bad in the heat.’

  ‘Jerky breaks a man’s teeth,’ Blunt said, ‘but I ain’t never seen it go bad.’

  Van Gelderen was now round the horse’s other side, feeling the second bag. Then, with a shake of the head, he quickly unbuckled both bags, draped them over his shoulder and went back inside The Last Water-hole.

  ‘Taking them to his room,’ Blunt said.

  But the little incident was over, and interest had faded.