The Last Waterhole Read online

  ‘This time,’ he said, ‘I’m strapping on my pistol.’

  She helped him to slip his shirt on over the heavy bandages, held his boots as he stepped into them. He struggled, and the sweat was cold on his brow. But when he buckled the gunbelt around his waist its weight announced the strength of the weapon it carried and he knew it was an equalizer.

  ‘All right,’ he said huskily. ‘Let’s go down and scare the hell out of those fellers.’

  He was making his way unsteadily towards the door when the bellow of a big gun split the quiet and knocked him back on his heels.

  Over at Will Blunt’s farm the shot was heard as a distant boom that sent chickens fluttering across the yard. Beth Blunt was feeding them. She looked up as they flapped and cackled. Then the shot’s detonation registered in her mind and she looked quickly towards the house.

  Will was on his way out, his eyes fixed on the open land to the south.

  ‘Saw a rider comin’ in,’ he said. ‘Now all I see is a horse.’

  ‘Oh, my Lord!’ Beth whispered. ‘What have they done now?’ and she covered her mouth with a work-worn hand.

  ‘I’ll go see. You get inside out the way, keep your head down.’

  Blunt’s skinny blue roan was saddled. He swung aboard, used the loose ends of the reins to whip it into a gallop and cut through a gap in his unfinished fence. The horse he’d spotted was standing lathered and head-hung some 400 yards away, its outline shimmering in the heat haze. Will covered the distance from farm to horse at a dead run. Before he was even halfway there he could see the dark shape lying crumpled in the clumps of dry grass.

  As he drew close the waiting horse lifted its head. Blunt saw its nostrils flare. It backed away uneasily, showing the whites of its eyes.

  Already got the smell of death in his nostrils, Blunt thought, and his jaw tightened as he slid the roan to a halt and swung down.

  His arrival had brought a fresh swirl of dust that drifted across the fallen man. Blunt coughed, spat, then dropped to his knees.

  ‘Easy, boy,’ he said softly, absently, as the man’s horse snorted nervously. But already Blunt was reaching out to grasp the fallen rider’s shoulder. The man was face down. Blunt noted the faded buckskins. He frowned as instinct told him something was terribly wrong. Then he heaved the man over onto his back and horror knocked him back on his heels.

  There was a single black hole in the front of the fringed jacket. No blood. The man had died instantly. But Will Blunt was no stranger to violent death. The horror had hit him hard and knocked him sick because when he turned the man over he had at once recognized the young face, the sightless grey eyes, and he knew he was faced with a chore no man alive could look forward to without trepidation and despair.

  Bobbie Lee was making his slow way across the square to Chip Morgan’s store when the sound of hooves reached his ears and he glanced away to his right to see Will Blunt spurring his horse through his broken-down fence and out across the open land to the south. Then the parched timber structure of The Last Water-hole got in the way and nothing could be seen of Blunt but the settling trail of dust.

  Chip Morgan was out on his gallery, smoke curling from his corn cob pipe. He’d left the bar to look after itself when Van Gelderen slapped a handful of coins on the bar. There had been no need to count the money as he scooped it noisily into the tin box. Chip had seen at a glance that there was enough cash to pay for more beer than twice as many men could drink in a single afternoon.

  ‘What the hell are you doing out of bed?’

  ‘It was my intention to give those fellers a fright, show them a dead man up and walking,’ Bobbie Lee said. He leaned against the hitch rail. His left arm was supported by a sling, the bandage a dazzling white in the sunlight. ‘But I guess they’ve brushed all thoughts of me aside like a heap of useless trash and moved on. What d’you suppose that shot means?’

  ‘Seems to me a feller like the Caprock Kid,’ Morgan said with a speculative glance at his friend, ‘would already have the answer figured out.’

  ‘You’re wasting time ruminating on the past when we’re facing big problems here and now, Chip.’

  ‘But that gunslinger was right about you. Hell, your name’s there for all to see: B.L. Janson, but here in the Halt you’ve always been Bobbie Lee and I never put two and two together to get the right answer.’

  ‘You saw what happened in there. The man he was facing was unarmed because he’d put a name and a reputation behind him. In twelve months that former self has already become a faint shadow. I’d like to think the shadow died when that shot was fired and what’s left now is a man who’s older, humbler—’

  ‘And more peaceable – but still sensible enough to strap on a well-used six-gun when circumstances call for it.’

  ‘Put it any way you like, but for now put it behind you, because it sounds like Will’s on his way back.’

  Despite the talk, Bobbie Lee’s mind and senses had been only half with Chip Morgan as he climbed the steps to the general store’s gallery. In his memory he was still listening to the echoes of a shot that, for some reason he couldn’t explain, had chilled him to the bone. Now the rattle of approaching hooves told him that Blunt – still out of sight – was heading back into the Halt. But because of his experience the sounds told him more than that. They told him that Blunt had ridden out alone and was coming back with a second horse. They told him that second horse was stepping nervously, erratically, backing off then abruptly picking up the pace. And when Blunt came around The Last Water-hole and started across the empty square, the reason for that second horse’s fright and its curious gait became clear to both of the watching men. Will Blunt was leading the horse on a short rope tied to his saddle-horn. Across that second horse’s saddle a dead man was draped face down and slack.

  ‘Buckskins,’ Chip Morgan said, as the two riders, one alive, the other dead, drew near. ‘Wasn’t that what that feller who rode out was wearing?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bobbie Lee said. ‘But why would they kill one of their own?’

  Then Will Blunt was across the square and drawing to a halt in front of the store. He swung down from his horse, loose-tied the reins to the rail as the second horse backed and jerked its head against the tight rope, and came up the steps. His blue eyes were troubled. He looked beyond the two waiting men to the store’s open door, saw Alice Morgan at the counter back in the shadows. Then his gaze fixed on Chip Morgan.

  ‘Chip,’ he said softly, ‘there ain’t no easy way to say this, so I’ll say it fast before Alice comes out and hears what’s goin’ on. That man lyin’ over the horse I brung in is your boy, Ed. He got took by that single shot. He must’ve been dead when he hit the ground.’

  Chapter Eight

  By late evening there was an air of disbelief hanging over Beattie’s Halt. Twelve months ago, Bobbie Lee’s mother had been a tired old woman and her death had come as no surprise, but in the space of two days the citizens of the Halt had found themselves gathering at the cemetery to bid farewell to a simple, innocent boy shot down at close range in The Last Water-hole, and a strapping youngster who had ridden in out of the blistering heat to be blown out of the saddle by a bullet from a powerful buffalo gun.

  For the men of the Halt, that disbelief was larded heavily with loathsome feelings of guilt. The man called Van Gelderen had murdered Bobbie Lee’s son and – of this Bobbie Lee had no doubt – had ordered the killing of Ed Morgan. Yet it had surely been within the power of Bobbie Lee, Chip Morgan and Will Blunt to avert the second of those deaths.

  Jason had died as the direct result of a gunman’s skill with a deadly weapon. Two pistols had been drawn. The gunman’s left and right hands had been a blur, the killing had happened in the blink of an eye. Onlookers had been caught cold, but they were experienced men and should have learned from the boy’s death. It was a warning, a harbinger of what would almost certainly follow, yet they had done nothing but offer to the killer the hospitality that was in their nature. Bo
bbie Lee had given Van Gelderen a room in The Last Water-hole, and sat with him at breakfast. He had stood by with scarcely a protest when three more men rode in. And Chip Morgan had served them all drinks; had been serving drinks to Ed Morgan’s killer as Van Gelderen and the man called Cleet sat at a table planning the murder.

  So it was with feelings of bitter regret that Bobbie Lee stood back from the small cluster of mourners gathered at Ed Morgan’s fresh grave. But that regret was steadily being swamped by anger and a fierce determination. Cynics would say that he was experiencing a decent man’s natural reactions that had come much too late, but Bobbie Lee knew full well that while it would always be too late to breathe life back into the dead men, it would never be too late to go after their killers.

  Even as that growing resolve to see justice done was being strengthened by the sad sound of Will Blunt murmuring a final farewell at the edge of his son’s grave, Bobbie Lee’s attention was caught by the rattle of hooves. And when he turned to look down the slight incline from the cemetery to The Last Water-hole, it was to see three riders cantering without haste out of Beattie’s Halt in the pale light of a rising moon: Van Gelderen, Cleet, and Ed Morgan’s killer. The two days were up. The three killers were leaving town.

  They were heading west, in the wake of their buckskin-clad compadre. If two deaths were to be avenged, Bobbie Lee knew he must follow the three riders.

  But first there was some hard thinking to be done.

  What better place to meet than in the familiar bar room at The Last Water-hole?

  If the ghostly memories of gunsmoke lingered there, and in the moonlit open area out back where Van Gelderen’s man had hunkered patiently to gun down Ed Morgan, then that was fitting. They were meeting to discuss what they should do about the men who had ridden in from the desert, killed two of their loved ones, and moved on as if they had done nothing worse than squash a couple of flies. And if the women of the Halt – Alice Morgan, Beth and Cassie Blunt – found themselves in an environment from which they were traditionally barred (though not as strictly as they might have been in a town of more importance, or temperance), they could console themselves with the knowledge that they were there to help right terrible wrongs and their opinions and suggestions would be welcomed.

  ‘First off is that same vexing question,’ Bobbie Lee said, looking at those gathered around the table. ‘What the hell has been goin’ on, what is still goin’ on – if you ladies will excuse my profanity.’

  ‘The real profanity is what’s been done to this town,’ Chip Morgan said, puffing at his corn cob. ‘As far as I’m concerned you can swear your damn fool head off provided it gets us somewheres, and gets us there fast.’

  All three women nodded agreement. Alice Morgan was red-eyed from weeping, and sitting close to Chip. Beth Blunt appeared to be in shock. Cassie was composed and thoughtful and seemed to be in tune with her pa, who was also doing some deep thinking. Looking at Ed Morgan’s bereaved parents, Bobbie Lee had already decided that he would be relying on Will Blunt when the time came to go after the killers. Chip would have been his second choice for a companion at the best of times, but not now, with Alice so clearly in need of comfort and the presence of her husband.

  ‘What’s going on,’ Cassie Blunt said, cutting into his thoughts, ‘is those three men who rode into the Halt have got business somewhere to the west of here. Could be as far away as El Paso. Could be no more than ten miles down the trail. But that business is connected to or dependent on a man wearing buckskins’ – and here she looked with sympathy at the Morgans. ‘That’s what Ed was wearing when he got killed, and that’s what that nameless outlaw was wearing when he rode out.’

  ‘If you’re right, they knew Ed was coming,’ Chip Morgan said bitterly. ‘Seems like the only reason they rode in here was to kill my boy and replace him with one of their own.’

  ‘Why?’ Bobbie Lee said. ‘What was so special’ – and now it was his turn to look apologetic – ‘about Ed?’

  ‘Stop pussyfooting around,’ Alice Morgan said. ‘Nothing’s going to get solved if you all back off every time Ed’s name’s mentioned.’ She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a ’kerchief. Chip fumbled for her hand on the table and gave it a squeeze. ‘For what it’s worth,’ Alice said, ‘I’ll tell you two things special about Ed: he knew cattle, and he knew this area.’

  ‘All right.’ Bobbie Lee nodded. ‘I don’t know if that tells us anything or nothing, but it’s given us something to work on. Any thoughts, Will?’

  ‘Only one,’ Will Blunt said, his eyes glinting. ‘Charlie Goodnight.’

  For a moment there was silence. Bobbie Lee knew Will’s reference to Charlie Goodnight meant he was seeing links between the knowledgeable Ed Morgan’s ride to Beattie’s Halt, and the Goodnight-Loving cattle trail. In 1866, ranchers Charles Goodnight and Oliver Loving had blazed a trail from Texas through New Mexico with the aim of reaching the Colorado country. They hit trouble in an eighty-mile dry region that drove the cattle mad with thirst and halted the drive. Goodnight received compensation from government agents on a Navajo reservation who paid gold for the steers, and he returned home with the cash. Loving pushed on northward to Denver in Colorado with the cows and calves, but later died from an infected Indian arrow wound.

  That had been but a few years ago, and it was that eighty-mile stretch of parched land that interested Bobbie Lee: part of the Llano Estacado, the Staked Plains. If there was a rancher out there planning on using the same route to drive his cattle northward to Colorado. . . .

  Bobbie Lee looked at Alice Morgan, saw her nod, and pursed his lips.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bobbie Lee said softly, ‘I reckon if a rancher brought his herd up the Goodnight- Loving trail and wanted to take it all the way across the Staked Plains, Ed would make as good a guide as any.’

  ‘So why kill Ed?’

  Bobbie Lee looked at Chip, chewed his lip while he did some more thinking, then said, ‘A good guide was replaced by a bad one because someone somewhere is bearin’ a grudge.’

  ‘Name names, Bobbie Lee,’ Will Blunt said.

  ‘Why? You saw the man. If you want a name, try Van Gelderen.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Not before the last two days. But he’s the clear leader, mean as a sick rattlesnake, so, yes, I’d say it’s him got it in for this rancher.’

  ‘What about the man who plugged you?’

  ‘Nope, never set eyes on him – though I’ll admit I’ve had enough mal hombres in my sights to have forgotten a good half of them.’

  ‘All right,’ Chip said, ‘so we agree on Van Gelderen. But what about the rancher? The grudge. Aren’t we shootin’ in the dark?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Morgan said impatiently. ‘This is not about Bobbie Lee, and it’s not about some rancher and a big herd you fellers have plucked out of your imagination. Pure and simple, this is about a gunslinger called Van Gelderen who killed Bobbie Lee’s son, another who used a long rifle to knock my boy out of the saddle.’

  ‘And a third man who damn near killed me,’ Bobbie Lee said softly as he gently massaged his shoulder through the white sling.

  He knew they were wasting time talking when killers were eating up the ground to the west, putting miles between them and possible pursuit. But he was also pretty sure Will Blunt had got it right about the Goodnight-Loving trail, and with that accepted, everything fell into place. Van Gelderen ordered the killing of Ed Morgan, and replaced him with one of his own men dressed in identical clothes. That was no coincidence. There was a big herd out there. The owner would soon be pointing the lead steer towards the Staked Plains, and he would be putting his trust in an impostor, a man who would guide him not to prosperity, but to ruin. Somewhere along the line, the rancher – whoever he was – had crossed Van Gelderen. For that mistake, he would see his herd perish.

  But then again, Bobbie Lee thought, so what? What did that – if it were true – have to do with anyone at Beattie’s Halt? Sure, another man�
�s misfortune was regrettable and should be prevented if at all possible, but truth was he could think all night, add what he knew to what he surmised and still arrive at the same inevitable conclusion: Chip Morgan was talking plain common sense. This was not about ranchers who could be figments of lively imaginations, nor of herds of ghostly steers being led blind into a searing wilderness. It was about two murders, and the outlaws who had committed those terrible crimes.

  ‘All right,’ Bobbie Lee said at last. ‘Let’s quit talking, saddle up and hit the trail.’

  It sounded simple enough, but the population of Beattie’s Halt comprised three men and three women and only one of the six could be described as young. Common sense told Bobbie Lee he was ruled out of the chase because of the fresh bullet wound in his shoulder. But he’d already admitted that eliminating himself from the males left Chip Morgan – a grieving father armed with a Dragoon pistol that’d take most of his strength to hold steady – and Will Blunt and his percussion rifle that was so rusty it would probably blow to pieces in his gnarled hands.

  After his call for action, Bobbie Lee put those thoughts to the group gathered in The Last Water-hole’s lamplit room and met with stiff opposition. Both Morgan and Blunt insisted Bobbie Lee should ride with them because of his experience on the wrong side of the law – that last endorsement given bluntly by Will Blunt who, it appeared, had always known more about Bobbie Lee’s darker side than he’d let on.

  But it was the ‘ride with them’ that was troubling Bobbie Lee: the wide gunfighting experience he was blessed with – poor choice of word, he thought wryly – had already warned him that Chip Morgan should remain behind, and the shortage of reliable weapons suggested Will Blunt might also be a liability.

  The matter was in part settled by Cassie Blunt.

  ‘Pa’s rifle’s in fine working order,’ she said, when Bobbie Lee voiced his concerns. ‘He doesn’t know it, but every time I clean and oil my Henry I do the same to his old Sharps.’