The Last Waterhole Page 3

  ‘Bobbie Lee, you say three men are arriving some time today?’ Chip Morgan said quietly.

  Will Blunt knew nothing of this. He flashed Bobbie Lee a quick glance.

  ‘Before nightfall,’ Bobbie Lee said.

  ‘Which could mean any time at all,’ Blunt said.

  ‘They get here,’ Morgan said, ‘it’s over. Finished. We can maybe handle one man, but four hard-bitten characters with well-oiled six-guns. . . .’ He shook his head.

  ‘Between us,’ Blunt said, ‘we can do it, but we have to act now.’

  Morgan stepped into the shaft of sunlight, then turned away and walked back into the store. His face betrayed grave misgivings.

  ‘It’s all come hammering out of the blue. Too fast for me. And it’s a long time since I’ve seen my pistol, never mind pulled the trigger.’

  ‘I’m willing to try,’ Blunt said from the doorway, ‘but the best I can do is an old percussion rifle coated with a couple of years’ rust.’ He looked across at Bobbie Lee who had followed Morgan, a question in his blue eyes.

  ‘Van Gelderen’s slug put paid to my shotgun,’ Bobbie Lee said, and heard Blunt’s exclamation of chagrin. Or maybe it was disbelief. ‘I’ve got a gunbelt tucked away somewhere in my room. . . .’

  ‘Damn right you have,’ Blunt said, under his breath, as he gazed into the dazzling sunlight.

  ‘The man’s in your home, enjoying your hospitality, Bobbie Lee,’ Chip Morgan said, his face alight with hope. ‘He’ll expect you to be there, so you get over there now. Go up and dig out that gunbelt. Buckle it on. Then you come walking down the stairs, and you shoot that murdering sonofabitch in the back.’

  From behind the counter there was a gasp. Alice had emerged from the rear of the premises. She had her hand to her mouth. But despite her obvious shock at what she’d heard, her mild eyes were expressing a different sentiment. She was nodding as she gazed at Bobbie Lee.

  And she had already placed a heavy Dragoon pistol on the counter.

  Chip Morgan managed a sheepish grin.

  ‘I guess it wasn’t too far away after all,’ he said. ‘You get over there, Bobbie Lee. I’ll give you a couple of minutes. Then I’ll stick that big old shooting iron down the back of my pants, and wander over. If you don’t get him from the back, I’ll get him from the front.’

  ‘Nobody’s doing anything,’ Will Blunt said from the doorway, ‘because it’s already too late. Three riders’re coming in from the east right now. In ten minutes or so we’ll be outnumbered and outgunned. You’ve got time to take Van Gelderen, but those riders’ll blast us off the face of the earth.’

  Chapter Five

  It was decided that Will Blunt would head home to the farm and warn Cassie. Chip Morgan would go with Bobbie Lee the short distance across the square, the Dragoon pistol tucked in his waistband at the small of his back.

  Alice would do nothing. The aim for all of them was to give the impression that life in Beattie’s Halt was continuing as normal.

  And doing nothing was pretty much all that ever went on in the Halt.

  Blunt left the store by the back door. Bobbie Lee and Chip went out the front. From halfway across the square they could see the riders Blunt had spotted, still a mile away but clearly visible in the brilliant light, bright metal flashing in the sunlight, the horses trailing a plume of dust.

  Van Gelderen had gone back into the saloon.

  When Bobbie Lee led the way inside, the gunslinger was sitting at a table close to the window. He’d undoubtedly watched their approach. His eyes held a wicked glint.

  ‘I guess you’re feelin’ pretty smug,’ Bobbie Lee said.

  ‘Satisfied,’ Van Gelderen said. ‘Everything’s going according to plan.’

  Chip had made his way behind the bar and was pouring himself a glass of beer. He raised the jug to Bobbie Lee, who shook his head as he climbed onto a bar stool.

  ‘It’s the plan that interests me,’ Chip said, propping his elbows on the bar. ‘You said something about a couple of days; we’re well into the first: are we going to be told?’

  ‘Told?’ Van Gelderen smiled thinly. ‘My plans are no concern of yours.’

  ‘I’d say something that warrants the death of a young boy concerns all of us.’

  Van Gelderen shrugged. ‘That’s in the past. The kid’s dead. You draw your head in, there’ll be no more trouble. Before you know it, we’ll be out of here.’

  Bobbie Lee and Chip exchanged glances.

  Van Gelderen saw the look.

  ‘I say something funny?’

  ‘We had it figured different, that’s all,’ Bobbie Lee said.

  ‘What figured – and different how?’

  ‘We had you staying on. You and your cronies. Your compadres.’ Bobbie Lee let that sink in then paused, treading carefully. ‘Seems like you’ve made your point, staked a claim here. Why keep on riding when you’ve made yourself an alternative?’

  He’d taken Van Gelderen by surprise. The surprise registered. Then the implications.

  ‘You think I’m an outlaw? You think those men riding in are outlaws?’

  ‘If you tell us we’ve got the wrong end of the stick,’ Chip Morgan said, ‘we’ll apologize.’ He took a slow drink, his eyes never leaving Van Gelderen.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying: you’re wrong.’

  Bobbie Lee took a deep breath. His arm made a sweeping gesture.

  ‘Two six-guns, tied down with rawhide thongs. Lightning fast, two-handed draw. A different target with each pistol.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Sounds to me,’ Van Gelderen said, ‘like you’re talking from personal experience. I guess a saloonist sees all kinds, but that’s not the way I’m reading it. Maybe you’ve spent time as a lawman. Or could it be that what you see in me is a reflection—’

  He broke off as a rattle of hooves announced the arrival of the three horsemen. Clouds of dust drifted across the saloon’s windows, obscuring the view across the sunlit square. Moments later the doors banged open and the newcomers clattered in.

  Outlaws, Bobbie Lee thought, despite Van Gelderen’s denial. Gunslingers every one of them. Expressionless eyes accustomed to taking in surroundings at one sweeping glance. Gloved hands never straying far from the butts of pistols carried in low-slung holsters.

  All but one. The third man looked different. He wore a mountain-man’s hat, a fringed buckskin jacket, soft Indian moccasins tied at the knees. On the face of it, the odd one out – until the gaze rose to meet his eyes, and then it was clear that there was no difference at all. This was another man out of the same mould, but made to look different. Bobbie Lee found himself wondering why.

  He turned to the bar to face Chip Morgan as the newcomers joined Van Gelderen at his table and chairs scraped on the boards as they sat down. The fresh stink of dust and horses was in the saloon. The men spoke in low voices. There was some laughter, then one of them called for drinks and for the next few minutes Bobbie Lee was kept busy.

  Back at the bar, he looked at Chip.

  ‘Why the odd one out?’

  Chip shook his head. ‘Doesn’t fit, does he.’

  ‘But he’s there, one of them, so there must be a reason.’

  ‘There’s a reason behind all of this, but so far we’ve not figured it out.’

  ‘You believe Van Gelderen?’

  ‘That they’re not outlaws?’ Again Chip shook his head. ‘They’re a bad bunch. Owlhoots. But it’s Van Gelderen has me puzzled. Something about him, I don’t know. Hard, yes, as hard as nails, but there’s a lot of hard men out there and they ain’t all bad. One possibility is he’s hired these fellers to do a job, but then we’re back where we started because he killed your boy and I’d say that makes him as bad as them.’

  The low murmur of conversation washed over Bobbie Lee as he thought about that. He knew they’d figured wrong: Van Gelderen and the new arrivals were not in the Halt looking for a permanent outlaws’ retreat. They had to think again, and Chip Morga
n’s fresh theory made a lot of sense. The trouble was, they were no better off. While mulling over possibilities they’d already established that there was nothing of worth within 100 miles of Beattie’s Halt. So if these men were hired guns – then what was the job? What were they going to steal – because, in the end, didn’t it always boil down to money.

  ‘The odd one out’s leaving,’ Chip said quietly.

  Bobbie Lee slid awkwardly down from the stool as if he had a crick in his back, stretched, turned to lean back against the bar and forced a wide yawn.

  The man dressed in buckskins was already pushing through the door. He stopped on the gallery, donned his hat, stamped his moccasined feet and was gone. Hooves clattered as he departed in a hurry.

  The outlaws had ridden in from the east. This man spurred his horse in a westerly direction. Bobbie Lee wondered about that. Wondered if, when the two days were up, Van Gelderen and the rest of them would also head west. That, too, would make sense, because if they were after rich pickings then much lay in that direction. But a hell of a long way in that direction – and it still didn’t explain the stopover in the ghost town that was Beattie’s Halt. Nor did it explain why one man had ridden away, yet the others remained; why Van Gelderen had specified a two-day stop in Beattie’s Halt.

  Then, suddenly, Bobbie Lee became aware that a silence had fallen over the room.

  Behind him, on the business side of the bar, Chip Morgan said tensely, ‘Watch yourself, Bobbie Lee.’

  ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

  The man who had spoken was unshaven, heavy-set. His eyes were pale. He had left Van Gelderen and the other man at the table and moved to the centre of the room. Now he stood with legs braced in the centre of the sawdust-covered floor, hands loose close to his gun butts, those pale eyes fixed on Bobbie Lee.

  ‘Somewhere’s a big place,’ Bobbie Lee said.

  ‘How about Laredo? Tucson, maybe?’ The man was prodding his own memory while his eyes drank in Bobbie Lee’s appearance.

  ‘Go back to your drink, give your mind a rest,’ Bobbie Lee said, and he deliberately turned his back on the outlaw.

  A big mistake.

  ‘Godammit!’ the man said. ‘Knew of a feller used to do that. He’d get involved in an altercation. Turn his back like it was finished. Only it never was. . . .’

  Slowly, Bobbie Lee again turned to face the man. And now he realized his mistake, and also knew that he had gravely erred by not going upstairs for his gunbelt.

  ‘Anything else?’

  The man’s grin didn’t reach his cold eyes.

  ‘Knew his name.’

  ‘Mine’s Bobbie Lee.’

  The man shook his head. ‘That’s not all of it.’

  ‘It’s enough.’

  ‘Enough for a man who wants to hide. Only thing is, the initial letters’re a giveaway. Because the feller who had a habit of turning his back before he drew his pistol and killed a man stone dead was B.L. Janson – the Caprock Kid.’

  ‘You’re dreaming—’

  ‘Killed a friend of mine.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The man’s eyes had narrowed. They swept over Bobbie Lee, took note of the slim hips, the absence of a weapon. ‘Another trick the Caprock Kid had. He’d leave his gunbelt someplace. So it’d look like he was unarmed. Only—’

  ‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ Bobbie Lee said, and half turned, gesturing, anxious to put an end to the incident.

  The gesture was another mistake.

  The outlaw saw it. Misread Bobbie Lee’s intentions. And went for his six-gun.

  It cleared leather in a blur. The hammer snapped back. Then the pistol cracked.

  Bobbie Lee was driven back by the bullet. It was as if he’d been hit by a battering ram. The blow to his chest slammed him back against the bar. Through the singing in his ears he thought he heard Chip Morgan scream in anger. Then he slid down the bar into a bottomless pit of blackness and silence.

  Chapter Six

  ‘If you’re right, then my luck’s in,’ Van Gelderen said. ‘I had my suspicions, thought I recognized him and so I tested him out with a few comments.’ He shook his head. ‘The man didn’t blink, so maybe rumour is right and he’s got no idea what happened that day.’

  He was at a table talking to the man who had gunned down Bobbie Lee. With the buckskin-clad man riding hard to the west and the third newcomer over at the bar, they were alone.

  ‘I am right,’ the gunman said. ‘The Caprock Kid. Had that trick of turning his back to put the other man off his guard. Or he’d leave his gunbelt off, rely on a hideaway tucked in his boot. Or in a holster back of his shoulder so’s he could look like he was scratchin’ his neck, make the draw. A single shot derringer was all he needed. . . .’

  Van Gelderen nodded acceptance. He trusted this man. His name was Cleet. That’s all he’d offered, and it was enough for Van Gelderen. He had gone to this man first, met him in a filthy cantina with broken shutters and a dirt floor, been served mescal by a one-eyed Mexican barman then asked Cleet to find him another three men. Hired guns. But there was a stipulation: one of those men had to be dressed in a certain way, and be capable of carrying off a deception.

  ‘So now we wait, and we hope he lives, because now that I’ve found him I want him for myself,’ Van Gelderen said. He let that sink in, then went on, ‘The other man, the man we’re here to stop – you see him on your travels?

  ‘Last I heard is we lost touch. But news travels slow.’

  ‘Yeah, but is he heading this way?’

  ‘This is his home. Why would a man pass up the opportunity of visiting his folks? Yeah, he’s heading this way, and if he keeps on ridin’ the way he was doin’ he’ll be here before sundown.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Van Gelderen said.

  Cleet grinned. ‘You want me to remove him?’

  ‘No. I want him brought down before he gets close to these peasants, these ignorant campesinos. I want him dead before he has the chance to open his mouth so wide he gives the game away.’

  ‘That’ll be a chore to Sangster’s liking.’ Cleet jerked his head at the man drinking at the bar. ‘And after that, when this man’s dead?’

  ‘We’re finished here. We ride west, offer our services. Or maybe we stay out of sight. Keep off the skyline. Watch and wait. Observe from a distance while Callaghan does what he’s being paid to do.’

  Callaghan. A killer dressed in worn buckskins. The man who was not what he seemed. The man who would, by his deception, deliver to Van Gelderen the big man who had destroyed his dreams.

  But before that. . . .

  ‘Is Sangster still nursing that big buffalo gun?’

  ‘Always,’ Cleet said, and grinned. ‘If he had a wife, she’d sleep on the floor.’

  ‘Tell him to get out back now. Find a clear view and a support for that long barrel – then set, wait and watch.

  Chapter Seven

  Bobbie Lee came awake to greenish sunlight. It shimmered like the yellow rays from an oil lantern seen by a man lying wide-eyed at the bottom of a weed-clogged water hole. He felt as if he was lying on soft, warm mud. His next conscious thought was that he had died and was lodged on a slippery shelf somewhere between Heaven and Hell. Then the notion of a water-hole snapped him into full wakefulness that brought with it recognition and true awareness of his situation: he was in bed, in his room above The Last Water-hole’s bar.

  After that it was easy. The soft mud was his corn-husk mattress. Someone had cut out most of the harsh sunlight by closing the pale green curtains – probably Cassie, who was sitting in the wooden chair by the bed. He tried to sit up and she placed her hand flat on his chest and effortlessly held him down. The light pressure caused an immediate bolt of red-hot pain.

  ‘You took a slug in the shoulder,’ she said as breath hissed through his clenched teeth. ‘The man who pulled the trigger thinks we carried you up here to bleed to death. Boy, is he going to get a shock when you go s
triding down the stairs.’

  ‘Is that going to happen?’

  ‘It’d better. Without you, there’s no purpose or direction in what they do.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Chip, and my pa. They’re concerned because you’re their friend – but this is happening to you, Bobbie Lee. Your boy died. Your saloon’s been taken over by a bunch of owlhoots and it’s you lying gunshot and helpless.’

  ‘I thought I was about to stride downstairs and frighten that gunman to death.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we’ll have to work that out.’ She smiled grimly. ‘The slug went straight on through. Chip sewed you up with a big needle from his store. You’ll be weak, but able to get around. But what I’m saying is, if you give up, Chip and my pa will go about their business with their eyes turned the other way, fingers crossed, hoping those fellers with their fancy six-guns ride away just like they rode in.’

  ‘They’ll do that,’ Bobbie Lee said, ‘but not before they’ve finished what they set out to do.’

  ‘Which is?’

  He shrugged, and at once wished he hadn’t as pain lanced down his arm so that his fingers folded into a tight fist.

  But it was his left arm, and at that realization he felt the first resurgence of optimism.

  ‘If we knew that,’ he said, ‘stopping them would be a lot easier.’

  ‘Stopping them is never going to be easy.’

  He lay without speaking for a moment, aware of his parched mouth, the weakness that was like a full-grown steer lying on his chest. He must have licked his lips. Cassie put her hand behind his head and fed him cool water from a tin cup.

  ‘I can’t lie here.’

  ‘You run a saloon on the borders of Hell. Chip’s down there serving drinks to killers. You want to take over?’

  ‘Two days is all we’ve got, Cassie,’ Bobbie Lee said. He levered himself onto an elbow and swung his legs off the cot. The room went black. He felt himself sway. He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them the room tilted, then steadied. He took a deep breath, and grinned weakly.