The Last Waterhole Page 6

  ‘Told by who?’

  ‘A certain Marshal Earp – no relation, he tells me, to the other one up in Ellsworth.’

  ‘Someone,’ Bobby Lee said, ‘has been pullin’ your tail.’

  ‘Maybe,’ the big man said. ‘My name’s Harlan Gibb. The lean man’s Hobbs, Smoky’s the feller trying to fatten him up with good grub. Why don’t you move into the lamplight and tell us your side of the story.’

  The cook wore a wool shirt, a derby hat and a long white apron covering most of his clothes. He was sitting on a box on the far side of the Dutch oven, leaning back against the chuck wagon. The shotgun he had cocked rested across his thighs. The long-limbed man called Hobbs was sitting cross-legged near the fire, smoking a cigarette. Maybe by accident or intent, his gunbelt had twisted around so that his hand rested carelessly against the butt of his six-gun. Bobby Lee had him pegged as the trail boss, figuring Gibb trusted him to make most of the decisions on the long drive.

  Gibb sat down on a small keg and fired up a cigar. He pointed to the oven.

  ‘Help yourself. Plates on the table.’

  Up against the wagon, the cook spat his disgust into the fire.

  Bobby Lee and Will Blunt collected plates and eating irons from the table, heaped the plates with grub from the pan in the Dutch oven and hunkered down near the fire. While they were eating like starved wolves the lean trail boss unwound his long frame and got up to pour two tin cups of coffee. He placed them on the grass close to Bobby Lee and Will, then wandered away from the fire to look down towards the herd and the moonlight gleaming on the Pecos.

  The move wasn’t lost on Bobby Lee. He and Will were now between the cook with his cocked shotgun and the trail boss and his worn-looking .44. Harlan Gibb was also taking everything in with an amused glint in his eyes.

  He had a pistol, too, Bobby Lee noticed. If trouble started, they’d be caught in a three-way crossfire – and their own weapons were hanging from saddles thirty yards away.

  ‘So don’t start anything,’ Harlan Gibb said, and Bobby Lee realized the rancher had been following his thoughts with uncanny accuracy.

  ‘I don’t know what else Marshal Earp told you,’ Bobby Lee said, as he put the empty plate down by the full cup, ‘but one of the men we’re hunting robbed a bank in Amarillo, killed the marshal.’ He looked steadily at Gibb. ‘Seems to me that’d be one way of getting hold of a badge they could sort of pass around between ’em.’

  ‘Why are you hunting them?’

  ‘A man called Van Gelderen murdered my son. Another by the name of Cleet plugged me.’ He touched his shoulder. ‘A third murdered the son of a friend of mine, Chip Morgan. The son’s name was Ed.’

  ‘Ed Morgan’s here, so you must be mistaken,’ Gibb said. ‘Ed will be guiding us across the plains.’

  Bobby Lee ignored him.

  ‘Ed Morgan was buried earlier today. Or maybe we’re already talking about yesterday.’ He shrugged. ‘He was shot out of the saddle by a man who favours a long rifle. A buffalo gun.’

  Out on the edge of the lamplight the trail boss snorted and turned to face the group.

  ‘Smoky, you said you’d know him if you saw him.’

  The cook grinned under his raking moustache.

  ‘Yeah, and I’m loooking at him right now. B.L. Janson, the Caprock Kid. I seen him kill a man in a San Angelo gunfight. A stray bullet took a young girl’s life – only the Kid was already hightailin’ when she bit the dust—’

  ‘What we’ve got,’ Hobbs cut in, ‘is one story from a man wearing a badge, an officer of the law, another from an outlaw who operates on the wrong side of that law and survives by lies and deception.’

  ‘What you’ve got,’ Will Blunt said, ‘is some decision-makin’ to do – but before you get started, would someone please tell the feller in the oversized apron to uncock his scattergun and point it the other way.’

  Harlan Gibb smiled. ‘Smoky.’

  The hammers were lowered with an oily snick. The cook again spat into the fire. Then the shotgun was lifted and propped against the wagon.

  ‘I was on the subject of conflicting tales,’ Harlan Gibb said. ‘The first, coming from a man with a badge pinned to his vest, tells me to watch out for a man called B.L Janson. Janson bears me a grudge, the lawman says. He tells me I’d be well advised to watch out for my herd, and offers to provide an escort.’

  ‘We’ve no reason to doubt him,’ the lean trail boss said.

  ‘The second comes from the aforementioned B.L. Janson, an outlaw,’ Gibb continued. ‘He tells me the lawman is not what he seems. Apparently he’s a man called Cleet, who robbed a bank in Amarillo, killed a town marshal and over the past couple of days has been involved in two more murders.’

  ‘One of them was my son,’ Bobbie Lee said. ‘The other was the man you hired to guide you across the Staked Plains. The man in buckskins who rode into your camp was hired by Van Gelderen. He’s an impostor.’

  Gibb pulled a face. ‘There’s no way I can check that. Ed Morgan’s name came to me word of mouth, I hired him through a third party so, until yesterday, I’ve never set eyes on him.

  ‘One way out of the dilemma,’ Harlan Gibb said, ‘is to bring the two sides together. Hobbs, you know where Earp bedded down?’

  ‘Nope. Last I saw, they were ridin’ out.’

  ‘How many is they?’ Bobbie Lee said.

  ‘Two. The marshal, and his companion with the long rifle.’

  ‘The man with the long rifle murdered Ed Morgan. What about the marshal? Describe him for me.’

  ‘Thickset. Unshaven. Pale eyes.’

  ‘His real name’s Cleet,’ Bobby Lee said. ‘He’s the one put a hole in my shoulder.’ He looked at Gibb. ‘If they rode out, they’re reporting back to Van Gelderen.’

  He waited. It was the third time he’d dropped the outlaw’s name into the conversation. On neither occasion had Gibb shown any reaction. Either his memory was short, or during the feud – if there had been one – Van Gelderen had been living under a different name.

  ‘Impasse,’ Gibb said. ‘A classic stand-off. The only thing we know for sure – about you or the marshal, or whatever or whoever he is – is that Earp rode out. So now we set and wait. We settle this with you and him face to face.’

  ‘Do that,’ Bobbie Lee said, ‘and you’ll have cattle scattered halfway across three states.’

  ‘You telling me there’ll be gunplay?’

  ‘Hah!’ Bobbie Lee’s laugh was a short bark. ‘I’ve attended two funerals in as many days. Both victims were gunned down in cold blood, and you expect me to talk to the killers.’

  ‘That’s what you’ll do,’ Hobbs said, walking back into the firelight. ‘From where I stand, you’ve got no choice.’

  ‘From where I sit,’ Will Blunt said, ‘I’d argue the point. Stand-off’s right, always has been. With that herd restin’ easy out there but liable to jump at the slightest sound, gunplay’s always been out of the question. Cookie’s shotgun’s useless; he knows it, you all know it – and that gives my puny little weapon the power of a goddamn cannon.’

  And for the second time that night a weapon was cocked. This time it was by Blunt. As he was talking he had casually pulled a Remington over-and-under .41 from his right boot. Now, with a broad grin on his face and his finger on the trigger, he was pointing it towards the star-lit skies.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bobbie Lee and her pa had been gone fifteen minutes. In that time the night fluttered with sound, but those sounds brought to Cassie the comfort of familiarity. Branches rattled overhead in the soft breeze. Leaves whispered. From time to time the undergrowth rustled at the passing of a small animal, and the distant keening of a coyote floated like a lament on the night air.

  Cassie was unconcerned by the solitude, her only problem being how to pass the time until the two men returned. Knowing that Van Gelderen or one of his men might be out there, she used her blanket as camouflage. When she lay down on the dry grass and pulle
d the drab covering up over her head she knew that, tucked away in the hollow in deep shadows cast by the thin moonlight, she was just another bald, dun hummock.

  Underneath the blanket, she felt safe and cosy. If anything, she was too hot. From time to time she poked her nose out to sniff the cool air. After the second or third time, blanket once again pulled over her, the heat and the quiet lulled her into a doze.

  The different sound, when it came, was not startling. At first she thought it was Bobbie Lee and her pa riding back up the trail. Then, when she slipped the blanket down off her face and listened she realized that, although the sounds were undoubtedly made by a horse, this was no rider moving his mount with purpose.

  He was moving slowly; pausing for some reason; then again coaxing his mount into a slow walk.

  Puzzled, but still not alarmed, Cassie slipped completely out from under the blanket. She reached for the cold metal of the Henry, then wormed her way across the hollow. She reached the stony bank facing the trail. Eased her way close to the top. Stealthily cocked the Henry as she held her breath, poked the barrel over the bank then lifted her head, looked, and listened.

  The very trees that had afforded concealment now blocked her view. She knew the trail was lit by moonlight – but she could see nothing. Her ears were her eyes. All her hearing was concentrated on the horse. She followed the unseen animal’s erratic progress, her head turning slowly as she tracked movements she could not see.

  The horse was moving to her right. Cassie flicked her eyes ahead. She saw a gap in the trees, through it a pool of wan moonlight lighting the trail. Her pulse quickened. The trail was no more than fifty feet from her. If the horse walked across that gap. . . .

  Concentrating on that opening, on the patch of bright moonlight, she followed the horse’s steps with her ears, listened as it drew closer, closer. . . .

  Then – there it was! A head appeared, drooping to the trailing reins. Then the horse.

  Riderless!

  Cassie gasped. The horse was moving, unaccountably ignoring hanging reins that were meant to keep it ground-hitched. But why? Why was the horse continuing to walk, despite those trailing reins? Why would a man ground-hitch a horse when there were trees in abundance to which it could be tied?

  And – where was the man?

  Her skin prickled – and then she froze.

  A cold ring of steel touched the back of her neck.

  Cassie cried out.

  An arm snaked round her neck. A rough hand clamped over her mouth and nose.

  Overwhelmed by panic, careless of the pistol at her neck, Cassie began to fight. She whipped her head from side to side. Opened her mouth wide, moaning. Her teeth snapped shut – too late: the hand she was trying to bite was snatched away. She swung an elbow backwards. Her arm jarred against hard muscle. Then a leg was thrown across her. Weight bore down, pinning her to the bank. Whimpering, Cassie kicked her legs wildly. She writhed in the V of the man’s straddling legs. Twisting, sliding, she squirmed around so that her back was hard against the bank.

  The man straddling her was Van Gelderen. He was sitting back on his heels, his teeth bared in a savage grin. The muzzle of his six-gun was a black hole that seemed to be drawing her hypnotically into its gaping maw. Then, carelessly, knowing there was nothing she could do to save herself, he tilted it back so that it pointed up into the trees and eased down the hammer. His other hand reached out to pluck the Henry from her grasp and, with a quick flip, he tossed it end-over-end into the bushes.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was Will Blunt who found the rifle. From the moment they got back to the hollow he was a wild animal on the prowl, first picking up the crumpled blankets as if expecting to find Cassie beneath them and looking stunned when she wasn’t, then studying the soft ground inside the hollow and the faint imprint of horses’ hooves on the hard, dusty trail before crackling his way back through the woods with his eyes sweeping to left and right.

  When he stopped suddenly and bent to pick up the Henry it was with a muttered exclamation that could have been triumph or despair. Eyes flashing fiercely, he brandished it aloft so that the barrel glittered in the moonlight, then cut across to where Bobbie Lee was waiting in the hollow with the horses.

  ‘Tells us nothing we didn’t already know,’ Bobby Lee said. ‘Van Gelderen used trickery and caught her cold.’

  ‘The only way she could be caught,’ Will said. ‘From the signs I’d say the bastard crept up behind her when she was distracted by something or someone.’

  ‘But why? Why take her?’

  ‘A hostage. They think by holding her under threat of death we’ll stay well clear while they deal with Gibb and his herd.’

  ‘And they’re wrong?’

  ‘Damn right they are. Oh, the threat’s real, but we’re going after her.’

  ‘No, we’re not.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Bobbie Lee—’

  ‘All right, go after her where?’

  ‘I don’t know. We ride, we search—’

  ‘Where? Where do you start?’

  ‘Where do I start? I thought we were in this together?’

  ‘We are. But chasing shadows gets us nowhere. Hell, they’re not even shadows; Van Gelderen could be just about anywhere—’

  ‘Then we search anywhere and everywhere until we find her. And if you’re out of it, then I’ll go alone.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea.’

  Blunt had already turned away and started for his horse. But Bobby Lee knew his friend had the kind of anger that could disperse as fast as thin mist in a high wind, and an inqusitive nature that would never let him walk away from an intriguing statement.

  He stopped, half turned, his eyes guarded.

  ‘It’d better be good.’

  ‘It is. What we do is, we play along.’

  Now it was Blunt’s turn to ask the questions, and the humour of the situation didn’t escape him. A thin smile flickered across his lean countenance.

  ‘All right. Play along how?’

  ‘If they’re holding Cassie to keep us away, then that’s what we do.’

  ‘I’m ahead of you. I know how your mind works. Your idea is to track the herd, but stay out of sight.’ He shook his head. ‘Won’t work.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cleet and the feller with the buff’ gun will stay with the herd, so foolin’ them should be no problem. But what about Van Gelderen? He’s the one holding Cassie, and you said yourself we have no idea where he is. He could be a mile away, a hundred yards away, and we’ve no way of knowing.’

  Bobbie Lee nodded thoughtfully. High clouds had drifted across the moon. In the hollow it was as if the flame of an oil lamp had been blown out. He sat down on a log and pulled out the makings, rolled a cigarette then tossed the sack and papers to Blunt. While the other man rolled his smoke and paced restlessly across the hollow, Bobbie Lee took a closer look at the situation.

  Blunt was right. The herd would string out across the Staked Plains, with the man in buckskins leading the way and Cleet and his murderous compadre tagging along. Van Gelderen had to stay out of sight for fear of being recognized. But – and this was where Bobbie Lee could see a glimmer of hope – if Van Gelderen was going to be in at the kill, the stampede, then he had to stay close.

  But then, as a match flared and the flat plains and angles of Blunt’s face were thrown into harsh relief, Bobbie Lee found himself questioning their own flimsy planning. Their objective was to apprehend the killers of Jason and Ed Morgan, yet they’d left the Halt without any idea of how they were to going to achieve that aim.

  ‘We’ve been riding blind, so to speak,’ he said softly, and caught the movement in the gloom as Blunt lifted his head and looked across at him.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘We’re after the killers. We rode out of the Halt with clear intentions, but no plan. We found the herd, explained the situation to Harlan Gibb and he’s neither for us nor against us because he can’t be sure who�
��s telling the truth. But who the hell cares what he thinks? When that herd starts across the Staked Plains, Gibb and his crew will have their own worries looking after two thousand thirsty animals heading north under a blazing sun. Seems to me we can do what the hell we like, when we like—’

  ‘Not any more we can’t.’

  Bobbie Lee’s mild tirade was cut short. He looked down at the glowing tip of his cigarette, his eyes narrowed – and he knew that, once again, Will Blunt had got it right. It didn’t matter what their plans had or hadn’t been: Van Gelderen had changed everything by snatching Cassie.

  They were back where they were when they rode into the hollow and found it empty of life, and at least then Bobbie Lee had been thinking straight: they didn’t know where Van Gelderen was holding the woman, and they had no idea how to commence looking for her. Until they got that solved, their hands were tied.

  ‘So what now, Will?’

  Blunt’s cigarette glowed as he took a long pull.

  ‘Maybe Cassie can do something.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Remember what I did back there?’

  ‘Sure. Pulled a pistol from your—’

  Bobbie Lee stopped and took a deep breath. When he let it out, it had turned into a chuckle of delighted disbelief.

  ‘Please, tell me you’re joshing, Will.’

  ‘Nope. They came as a pair, those beauties. The second of ’em is down in my little girl’s right boot – and she’s always been a sight faster than I am at pulling that little .41 out into the daylight and firing off both barrels.’

  They spent the night in the hollow, Will Blunt wrapped in his own blankets but with Cassie’s close enough for him to touch. From his position tucked in against a hummock on the other side of the dying embers of the fire on which they’d cooked their supper, Bobbie Lee watched him several times hold those blankets to his nose, his big fist white-knuckled. He didn’t know whether his friend could detect in the crumpled folds his daughter’s scent, but he knew for sure that merely holding them close was a comfort to the other man.