The Killing at Circle C Read online

  It was an unanswerable question, and it stayed Daniel Sagger’s hand. In the cold and wet of a hideous night, he had ridden with Amos Skillin to pull him away from Circle C, his sacrifice had put Becky out of immediate danger, and no man would condemn him if he now used his six-gun on the murderer to exact a terrible justice. But that would not be the end of it. Cajun Pride seemed driven and tormented by a terrible desperation, the dead Skillin would be replaced by another hard man, then another, and the danger would return tenfold. The only course open to Sagger was to ride on and confront his old compadre – and when he came to that decision he was comforted by the conviction that the gleaming Winchester ’73 he had left resting on its hooks would speak to young Will Sagger far louder than any words, and bring the boy in hot pursuit.

  He would ride like the very devil, and he would not ride alone. And as Daniel Sagger climbed into the saddle, the half smile that lingered on his face sent Amos Skillin into a rage that was like a stick of dynamite on a short fuse hissing dangerously between the two men.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘What they’re doin’,’ Red Keegan said through his teeth, ‘is goin’ after Will Sagger’s pa. Now, if you ain’t got the brains to work that out for yourselves—’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Hell, they rode off to Circle C to pick up supplies; if they moved fast they’re most likely gone by—’

  ‘How many?’

  Behind his bar, furiously wiping a glass to keep from hurling it at Beebob Hawkins, Keegan glanced across to the table at the back of the room where Texas Dean was idly playing solitaire, then back at the coiled figure of Hawkins.

  ‘Figure it out,’ he said tightly. ‘You cross the road to get your gun fixed, you’ll find Cree’s door locked. Walk down the street and ask McClure where you can find Slim Gillo, you’ll get a blank look.’

  ‘Those two? That long streak figures he’s a deputy lawman? A gunsmith old enough to be my grandpa?’

  ‘Them, and Will Sagger.’

  Hawkins sneered. ‘A kid, carryin’ a fancy rifle makes him a man.’

  Keegan stopped wiping, narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s right, a Winchester ’73 – but how do you know that?’

  Without answering, Hawkins swung away and strode to the table at the back of the room. Texas Dean watched his approach, swept the cards together then tossed the deck on to the table where it scattered, spilling cards on to the sawdust covering the dirt floor. He filled the two jolt glasses, slid one to Hawkins as he sat down, watched the tall man with the scarred knuckles and the cross-draw outfit as he downed the drink.

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Likely. But that don’t matter. Circle C’s due north. We head north-west we’ll cut them off.’

  ‘I heard you talkin’. An old man, an excuse for a deputy and a kid wet behind the ears – right? But what if Dave Lee Nelson’s with them, maybe a couple of Circle C hands?’

  ‘No. They’ll be lookin’ after the kid, makin’ damn sure nobody gets near her.’

  Dean shook his head, his eyes glinting. ‘The kid’s in town.’

  Hawkins, absently playing with the scattered cards, went still. He thought about what Dean had said, about the possibility of Dave Lee Nelson and the Circle C hands riding with Will Sagger. Keegan had figured on three men riding after Daniel Sagger, but he could be wrong. If he was wrong, the odds were unfavourable, and he and Dean needed something to give them an edge.

  ‘Where in town?’

  ‘Cree and his wife live over the shop. A while ago a buckboard pulled up outside.’

  ‘Let me finish for you,’ Hawkins said. ‘It was Dave Lee Nelson and the girl – and they went inside?’

  ‘Close. The girl, but with one of the Circle C riders.’

  ‘But he didn’t stay?’

  ‘Buckboard left soon after. . . .’ Dean shrugged, waited.

  Hawkins again fiddled with the cards, flipping a king, a knave, the ace of spades. His eyes were on the unshaven, black-clad rider across the table, but his mind was roaming the sun-drenched prairie, seeing two men, tired and dusty as they flogged their horses towards the smudge of hills to the west; behind them – a long way behind – three men riding hell-for-leather. That was what he’d envisaged, but now . . .

  ‘Texas, what you saw tells me a couple of things,’ he said. ‘First off, it wasn’t Nelson brought her in so, yeah, he could’ve ridden with Sagger, Cree and Gillo like you said. That shifts the odds their way somewhat. But, second off, if that Circle C rider did head back to the Sagger spread, then there’s only Cree’s wife watchin’ over the kid.’

  ‘If that’s the way it stands,’ Texas Dean said, ‘then wherever Nelson is he’ll be figurin’ a job’s been well done, Will Sagger will be chasin’ after his pa believin’ he’s got no worries back home—’

  ‘When, in truth,’ Hawkins said, ‘they’re just pipe dreams because right now we’ve got the chance to snatch ourselves one mighty sweet hole card—’

  And, breaking off in mid-sentence, Beebob Hawkins snatched at the scattering of loose cards and with a flick of his powerful wrist sent them skimming across Red Keegan’s saloon.

  Tow-headed and petite, Rebecca Sagger was a young girl who hid surprising wiry strength in a small, slim frame. She had ridden her first pony almost before she could walk, and had always enjoyed donning faded denim shirt and pants and helping out at branding times. Not, Cathy Cree recalled with amusement, that the little girl had done much more than run about looking busy amid the dust and bawling calves and sweating, good-natured Circle C cowboys – but everything Daniel and Mary Ann Sagger had taught her or allowed her to do had prepared her for a life that was rewarding, but uncompromisingly tough.

  Now, watching the tow-head ten-year-old eat her supper, Cath Cree patted her own greying hair somewhat nervously and wished, as she had many times that afternoon and evening, that Jake had remained behind. She had a loaded Smith & Wesson Pocket .32 revolver within easy reach on the dresser, but she was not happy with the arrangements worked out by her husband and Will Sagger and felt that, if they had been left to a woman, they would have been very different.

  If Will Sagger believed Becky was in danger, why entrust her to the care of a middle-aged woman? Why move the grieving young girl from the familiarity of her home, when Circle C was a good hour’s ride away from the ruffians hanging out in Ten Mile Halt and, there, she would have her own room and the round-the-clock care of Dave Lee Nelson and the other tough cowboys?

  And, once again, why, why, had Jake ridden with Will Sagger? Common sense told Cath that Dave Lee Nelson was the man for that job, one of the other cowboys could have taken over the foreman’s job while Nelson was away, but instead of that an elderly gunsmith had taken it upon himself to act as bodyguard, guide, mentor, and the Lord knew what else.

  Well, Cath thought, it’s far too late now to grumble. . . .

  ‘Bed for you, Becky, as soon as you’ve finished.’

  Becky nodded. She’d finished eating the beef and vegetable stew and had pushed her plate away, but Cath knew she was listening to the noise exploding through the swing doors of Red Keegan’s saloon across the street – coarse laughter, the occasional tinkle of a glass breaking, the hard high shrill of a woman’s voice; sounds that would be new and exciting to a young girl accustomed to the night-time silence of an isolated ranch.

  Lips tight, Cath went to the window. She’d left it open during the heat of the day, but now with darkness upon them she pulled it to, reached for the curtains – and stopped.

  A cigarette glowed in the shadows at the back of the opposite plank walk, a little way down from the saloon. When Cath narrowed her eyes and allowed them a few seconds to adjust she saw Beebob Hawkins and Texas Dean.

  They were watching her.

  And even as she returned their gaze – even as she stepped to one side of the window, heart thumping – they came out of the shadows and set out across the street. An alleyway ran down the side of the gunsmith’s premises, and the ex
terior stairs to the living quarters were on that wall. But Hawkins and Dean were crossing at an angle, heading away from Jake Cree’s shop.

  ‘Aunt Cath, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.’

  Quickly, realizing fear had caused her to speak sharply, she pulled the curtains across and turned to the young girl with a forced smile.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ she said in a softer voice. ‘I was just thinking that the noise from Red’s is going to stop you sleeping.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Of course you will. Now, you run along and get ready for bed while I clear the table.’

  The living-room door closed behind young Becky Sagger. Cath Cree stood looking at it, frozen. Fear came screaming back like a wild animal, tearing at her throat, bathing her in perspiration. Her legs had turned to water. Ears straining for every faint sound, she forced herself to move to the table, forced herself to gather together the dishes.

  But their clatter blocked out other sounds.

  Terrified, she left them alone. Listened.

  Through the thin door the clink of washbasin and jug, the splash of water. From the street, even through the closed window, the hubbub from the saloon.

  And footsteps.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she moaned.

  Somebody was in the alley, climbing the outside stairs. Their booted feet were heavy, thudding on the treads. There was no attempt at stealth, and for an instant that gave her reassurance. Then she was stricken by despair, and panic. Wildly, her gaze flew to the dresser, the gleaming revolver. Her hands were fluttering at her apron, wiping away grease, twisting, turning. She opened her mouth to cry out, to warn Becky – but her throat was dry, and all that emerged was a rattling croak.

  The footsteps had stopped.

  No, not stopped; she’d imagined them.

  A smile pulled at stiff lips – and she swore softly, forced her legs to move her across the room to the dresser. She picked up the revolver, felt the cold, heavy metal; turned to face the door.

  They had stopped, of course. They were at the door, now, listening. If she listened hard, she would hear their hoarse breathing: Beebob Hawkins and Texas Dean.

  With both hands, Cath Cree gripped the pocket pistol and her thumb pulled back the hammer. She lifted it. Pointed it towards the door. Tried, in vain, to still the trembling.

  And a boot slammed against the door and it exploded inwards in a shower of white splinters that rained on the two armed men who burst into the room.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Two days’ start on us,’ Will Sagger said. ‘We could ride like devils, end up with spurs drippin’ blood and horses dead on their feet – but we won’t catch Skillin and my pa. So what we’ve got to figure out is, how the hell do we bust into Hole In The Wall when the best lawmen in the West have admitted defeat – and what do we do if we make it, ride into that hell-hole and come up against Cassidy’s Wild Bunch? They’re not going to take kindly to us bein’ there, even if our business doesn’t concern them and we turn a blind eye.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Jake Cree said, ‘we should think of today and leave the rugged times ahead to take care of themselves.’

  Sagger grunted, tossed a pine log on the fire and watched the sparks fly into the dark canopy of trees to scatter and die amongst the leaves; listened to the hiss and crackle as the flames hungrily took hold of the resiny wood; felt the chill on the side of his face as the night breeze cut in from the river, the icier chill deep inside that came from fear for his sister’s safety, and of the unknown.

  Slim Gillo was dozing, a still figure cocooned in blankets with his head on his saddle and glazed eyes half closed as they stared unseeingly up into the darkness. A cigarette glowed between his fingers, and suddenly he spat a curse and fiercely shook his hand as the glowing tobacco burned down to sear his skin. Awake now, aware of what had broken into his dreams, he came up on an elbow and looked sheepishly towards the two men at the fire.

  ‘Coffee still hot?’

  ‘What’s left of it.’

  Cree poured what was mostly grainy black dregs into a cup, rose from his log and carried it across to the deputy, then returned to the blazing fire.

  ‘Will’s worrying about what lies ahead.’

  ‘And behind me,’ Sagger said. ‘Cath will look after Becky, I know that – but in town they’re too close to Hawkins and Dean and that puts your wife and my sister in danger.’

  ‘One day at time’s tough enough,’ Cree said, ‘without dwelling on tomorrow’s troubles.’

  ‘The troubles ahead I can handle, it’s the ones I left behind that bother me.’

  ‘We decided town was the safest place for Becky, planned it that way, went ahead and did it. Now leave it be.’

  ‘She’s my kid sister, Jake, and I’ve got a terrible foreboding—’

  ‘If trouble arises Cath’s armed, and tough enough to handle it one way or another.’

  Gillo swung to a sitting position, elbows on knees, both hands clasping the hot cup.

  ‘If I spoke like that, Cliff McClure’d take away my badge for bein’ an optimistic fool.’

  ‘You didn’t look like you were doin’ too much planning.’

  ‘He’s got it all figured,’ Will Sagger said. ‘That right, Slim?’

  ‘No, it ain’t. But I did some cogitating in the saddle, and it seems to me no self-respectin’ bunch of owlhoots would associate with the likes of Amos Skillin. So this talk of the Wild Bunch—’

  Will looked at Cree. ‘We thought you were asleep, Slim.’

  ‘A good lawman,’ Gillo said, ‘never rests.’

  Cree chuckled his appreciation. ‘So you reckon this feller who’s almighty keen on having Will’s pa come up and talk to him is no Butch Cassidy, no Kid Curry, just some over-the-hill owlhoot lookin’ for . . . lookin for what, exactly?’

  ‘Past glory. Easy money. I’ve gone part way, now you tell me.’

  ‘Pa never talked about his past in front of us kids,’ Will said, ‘but there was a time, some years back, when I almost caught him out.’ He hesitated, gathering his thoughts, remembering with more ease than he had expected but forced to dig deep for details grown hazy with time. ‘It was night, something woke me, a big clap of thunder maybe, and I came charging out of the bedroom when he was talking soft and low with Ma by the flickering light of the fire. If I’d been quick, quieter, I could have held back behind the door and listened. That way, I’d have got the whole story. But I was half asleep and scared and I barged straight in, so all I got was a name and then he clammed up and Ma bundled me back to bed.’

  ‘This is the first time you’ve mentioned a name, Will.’

  Sagger looked at Cree, smiled wryly. ‘So already something good’s come out of Slim’s cogitating and your musing. That name stuck with me: Cajun Pride—’

  ‘The Utah Kid.’

  Sagger and Cree exchanged glances, then looked across at Slim Gillo. He levered his gangling frame up off his blankets, ambled over to the fire and sat on a log with his arms and legs all over the place and his hands spread to the flames.

  ‘Comes of having piles of yellowing Wanted dodgers atop McClure’s safe and nothing else to read,’ he said. ‘Cajun Pride, the Utah Kid, wanted for robbery down in southern Texas. I figured he’d be dead by now, plugged by some stinkin’ bounty hunter in a Mex cantina, or caught and strung up by a mean posse.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ Sagger said cautiously, ‘all we’ve got is a name from the past.’

  Cree shook his head. ‘It’s something we can get our teeth into. We know from Slim this Pride was an outlaw, and you heard your pa telling your ma about him on a stormy night not too long after he rode home for good. There was a connection then, so why not now?’

  ‘In that case, wouldn’t Pa be on one of those dodgers?’ Will looked enquiringly at Gillo. ‘Did you come across any bearing the name Daniel Sagger?’

  ‘None that I can recall,’ Gillo said. ‘The one I saw with Pride on was goi
ng back, oh, twenty years or more. The picture was a bad one, but even then this Utah Kid was no spring chicken.’

  The fire spat and crackled. Gillo again climbed awkwardly to his feet, lifted the coffee pot out of the flames with the help of his folded Stetson and walked off into the darkness to where water bubbled from a cluster of rocks. The coffee pot rattled as he filled it from the spring. When he returned and placed it hissing over the flames, the badge on his vest glinted in the firelight.

  Watching him, Jake Cree said, ‘Maybe Daniel Sagger was a lawman. That might link him to the Utah Kid and, if it is Pride up there at Hole In The Wall, it’d explain why he’ll stop at nothing to get ahold of your pa.’

  For a while, Will said nothing. All three men were listening to the blackened coffee pot as it came to life and began to sing, their eyes drawn by the hypnotic flickering of the flames, their senses lulled by the warmth and the lateness of the hour. But a different kind of warmth was enveloping Will Sagger. Since the discovery of his mother’s body he had been tormented by a terrible fear. He had watched his father transformed from a clean-living rancher and family man into an unshaven drunkard, and when he disappeared leaving behind his murdered wife, logic told Will that there could be but one answer: Daniel Sagger was an evil man who, after twelve years of toeing the line, had returned to his evil ways.

  The one jarring note was the shiny Winchester ’73 left hanging on its hooks. And now the wisdom of Jake Cree had come up with this: a lifeline, a feasible explanation that was so obvious it was impossible to see how it had been missed; the answer to all their questions that in a flash cleared Daniel Sagger’s name and explained his mysterious past, and the puzzling present.

  ‘Thanks, Jake,’ Will said softly.

  ‘Not now, not yet,’ Cree said ruefully. ‘Because if your pa was a lawman who tangled with this Utah Kid in the past, I can see only one reason for his bein’ dragged up there to Hole In The Wall – and that’s the Kid harbourin’ some crazy notion of revenge.’