The Killing at Circle C Page 7

  ‘Not sick,’ Cajun Pride said. ‘If it’s that obvious, Daniel, then you’ll know you’re lookin’ at a dying man.’

  ‘Every damn one of us is going sooner or later,’ Sagger said, and looked critically at Cajun Pride. ‘So, tell me, how close are you?’

  ‘Months. Weeks?’ Pride shrugged. ‘I won’t see this year out.’

  He was standing outside the cabin in the warm sun, looking off across the valley towards the eastern ridge. Sagger, behind him in the doorway, was aware that his words were harsh, probably painful – Lordy, the man in front of him was nothing more than skin and bone, resplendent in his freshly washed yellow shirt and rakish black hat but a shadow of the gunman Sagger had ridden with when blood ran hot in their young veins and the quest for excitement was an unquenchable thirst. But that was a long time ago and he’d been dragged most of the way to Hole In The Wall by a filthy scoundrel who’d murdered his wife in cold blood – ridden the rest of the way out of a burning curiosity that was still unsatisfied. And just like the man in front of him – but for different though no less important reasons – time was not on his side: he was still convinced that Will would come after him and, with precious hours passing in monotonous inactivity, he knew that before long all hell would break loose.

  ‘Where are O’Brien and Weiss?’

  ‘There’s a cabin deeper in the Hole, up the slope a ways.’ Pride turned to Sagger, an enigmatic smile on his thin face. ‘They’ve been up there since before dawn. When they get back, you’ll get your news.’

  Sagger studied the thin man’s face, looked deep into his eyes. ‘I heard riders in the night. Three, maybe four men. I think they rode straight on by, but I can’t be sure. Was that something to do with you? Are they gunmen you’ve brought in, up there now at that cabin?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I don’t think maybe’s good enough, Cajun. The day I rode in I told you what happened to my wife, how one of your men slit her throat and left her in a pool of blood for my kids to find. He’s paid for what he did, I told you that, too, but I was wasting my breath because it was like talking to one of those logs.’ He jerked a thumb at the cabin wall as Pride turned to face him.

  ‘And I told you I was sorry, but that terrible tragedy had nothing to do with me—’

  ‘So it was Amos Skillin’s idea to come after me?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Whose, then? O’Brien’s, Weiss’s?’

  ‘Leave it be, Daniel.’

  ‘Leave it be?’ Sagger laughed harshly. ‘Maybe that ain’t such a bad idea, Mister Cajun Pride because, by Christ, I’m racked by the grief of what you’ve done to my family and I’ve seen nothing here to impress me.’

  ‘That’s because here’s not where it’s going to happen,’ Pride said. He sank down on to a rickety stool up against the cabin’s resiny log walls, squinted up at his old partner. ‘I told you, I’m sorry about your wife, I feel your pain like it was mine – and, Jesus, there’s enough of that. But don’t you see, what happened to her, the effect it’s sure to have on your kids, makes what we’re going to do in the next few days all the more important?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Sagger said, ‘can bring her back.’

  ‘But there’s something waiting out there on those plains can make the pain a whole lot easier for you and your family to bear, my friend,’ Pride said.

  ‘Out there?’ Sagger moved past Pride, slid his back down the cabin wall close to the window until he was hunkered down, then reached into his shirt pocket for the makings. ‘Now what,’ he said softly, ‘could be out there that would interest me?’ And without looking at Pride he began rolling a cigarette – and patiently waited.

  ‘A whole heap of cash, that’s what,’ Pride said after a while, and there was a tremor in his voice.

  With a faint, harsh, scraping sound, Sagger dragged the match-head across the sole of his boot, applied the bright flame to the cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  ‘There’s no big towns close,’ he said, the words pushing out a cloud of smoke, ‘and in any case I can’t see even you trying to take one of those modern banks with their fancy safes. The stage? – Hell, they stopped using them to move worthwhile amounts of cash years ago.’ He glanced sideways at Pride, saw him with his eyes squeezed shut as he fumbled in a pocket of his black vest then delicately drank from the metal flask.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Laudanum.’ The thin man’s voice was tight.

  Sagger nodded, looked away and off into the distance with a hollow feeling in his stomach. ‘One last throw of the dice,’ he said, and lowered his gaze to study the end of his cigarette. ‘What is it, Cajun? The cancer?’

  But Pride was tucking the flask into his hip pocket and looking up the slope. He came off the stool, stretched, yawned and, as he did so, Sagger caught the sound of hoofbeats and knew the night riders were coming down from the cabin.

  Then, even above the rattle of hooves on hard ground, the crack of a shot came rippling through the warm air. As the sharp sound reached them and echoed away up the barren valley that was Hole In The Wall, Cajun Pride swung around with apprehension and something that might have been suspicion in his eyes as he looked at Daniel Sagger.

  ‘Smithy’s waving to us,’ O’Brien said. He’d gone into the cabin for the field-glasses and had them trained on the rocks high above the distant notch.

  ‘One shot, that’s all,’ Pride said with emphasis.

  Weiss chuckled, and stroked his beard. ‘I guess the lawman who figured he was comin’ in ain’t gonna make it,’ he said.

  Four horses were tied to the short hitch rail alongside the cabin, a fifth had its reins looped around the branch of a stunted tree on the stony slope. The three men who had ridden down the hill with O’Brien and Weiss were squinting off into the distance, and Sagger reckoned he’d never seen a rougher, sorrier-looking bunch.

  But they were the least of his worries. The hollow ache of sadness that had stabbed at the pit of his stomach when he saw Pride using a flask to drown the sudden flare of pain was still there, but it was now overpowered by an uncomfortable itch between his shoulderblades that he hadn’t experienced for years. Scratching would do no good, even if he could reach: the itch was a warning that had more than once saved his life during his years riding on the wrong side of the law. He was astounded that it had returned almost as soon as he took the fatal step over that thin line between good and evil – and he knew it was telling him the single shot that had split the morning stillness was the one he had been fearing.

  Swiftly, he looked across at O’Brien. The glasses were still clamped to the big man’s eyes. Then he grunted, took them down.

  ‘That’s it, I guess. Smithy’s settled, everything back to normal.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sagger said, ‘I should go take a look.’

  ‘No sweat, Daniel,’ Pride said. ‘All taken care of.’

  ‘Give me something to do after settin’ around for so long.’ Sagger kept his voice casual, immediately began to walk towards the small corral out back were the other horses lazed. ‘I’ll send Smithy down for coffee, spell him for a couple of hours.’

  ‘All right, you do that,’ Pride said. ‘A couple of hours . . . give me time to talk to these fellers. . . .’

  ‘Who the hell’re you?’

  The snapped words stopped Sagger. He looked back at the sullen man with ice-blue eyes and the lithe, lazy movements of a cat who had led the newcomers down the hill. His companions held back, watching him, and Sagger guessed he was the leader, the man with the fast gun, the ice-cold heart to match his bleak eyes.

  ‘The man I was telling you about,’ Pride said, and Sagger realized his old partner knew this dangerous man, had probably ridden with him, stood alongside him as they used their pistols to kill – maybe stepped outside to talk to him last night when Sagger was half asleep. ‘This is “Cold Hand” Sagger, Harry. Daniel, shake hands with Harry Tracy.’

  Sagger nodded, but curled his lip at the invitati
on. ‘From his manner, I’d say you didn’t tell him enough, Cajun,’ he said, and casting a look of thinly veiled contempt at the blue-eyed gunslinger, he continued towards the corral.

  The terrible nagging itch between his shoulders persisted, strengthened. He knew the lean gunslinger’s cold eyes were boring into his back; knew the distant rifle shot had aroused suspicion in the pain-dulled mind of Cajun Pride and that the merest flick of his hand – however repugnant to him that act might be – would signal the end for his old partner, Daniel Sagger. So when Daniel walked away he was listening for the quiet word of command followed by the soft hiss of metal on leather, the click of a hammer cocking, the rattle of boots as men hurriedly stepped out of the line of fire – but heard nothing. Then a murmur of conversation broke out. Behind him, stones did rattle under hard leather, but the feet were moving without haste. By the time he had saddled his horse and turned it towards the distant notch, the cabin door was closed, the flat ground outside the cabin deserted.

  Sagger rode hard, pushing down the slope and following the meandering line of the stony creek towards the notch. It took him no more than fifteen minutes to get there, another five to bring the man called Smithy down from his ledge and convince him he was relieved and could go back to the cabin.

  ‘Keep your eyes skinned,’ Smithy said, stepping up into the saddle. ‘One man rode up, got hisself plugged, but I think I saw a couple more watching him from a half-mile or so back.’

  Then, remembering O’Brien and his liking for field-glasses, as the man rode away Sagger yelled after him, ‘If O’Brien can’t see me and gets the wind up, tell him so’s I can watch those hombres out there I’ve moved to a better position with more cover.’ He waved vaguely at the high cliffs as the man looked back, added, ‘See you back here in a couple of hours,’ received a nod of acknowledgement and watched the grateful lookout point his horse towards the distant cabin and the thought of hot coffee.

  ‘Goddamn!’ Jake Cree said.

  They’d barely made it to the thin line of stunted trees and tethered their horses when Slim Gillo’s sharp eyes caught the puff of white smoke high on the cliffs. Instantly, he grabbed Cree’s sleeve and both men snapped their eyes to the distant mounted figure pushing up the steep defile towards the notch leading into Hole In The Wall.

  The sound of the shot was the faintest of cracks – yet it filled the watchers with horror.

  ‘He’s winged,’ Cree said, in a strangled voice.

  ‘But still in the saddle,’ Gillo said, squinting. ‘Looked like he’d bite the dust, but he’s hangin’ on, and with enough sense to hightail out of there.’

  ‘Your eyes are younger than mine – but if Will’s turned around like you say, he’s risking a shot in the back.’

  ‘No. That lookout’s up there to issue blunt warnings. If the intruder get’s the message and turns back, his job’s done.’

  ‘But what about ours?’ Cree said. ‘This is one hell of a mess, Slim. We’re still pinned down outside the Hole, no nearer to finding Daniel Sagger and now his son’s carrying a slug.’ He shook his head. ‘I blame myself, we should’ve—’

  ‘I know!’ Gillo’s jaw was tight with tension. ‘As a lawman, you think I ain’t aware of what we should’ve done? But that’s over, Will figured the responsibility was his and took off on his own, and we let him go. So now we put things right.’

  ‘If it’s not too damn late.’

  Gillo’s smile was bleak as he kept his eyes pinned on the returning rider. ‘He’s upright, Jake. I reckon the shock of that bullet knocked him sideways, but if he can recover that fast he can’t be too bad hit.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Jake Cree said, bitterly directing the curse at his own stupidity and helplessness. ‘I’m twice your age and half as wise. Better if I’d stayed behind with Cath and Becky, you had Dave Lee Nelson riding with you.’

  ‘Your time’ll come, old man,’ Gillo said with dry humour.

  And then he said, softly, but with a tautness that grabbed Jake Cree’s attention and sent his hand leaping instinctively but futilely to his six-gun, ‘There’s a rider comin’ down from the notch.’

  ‘The hell there is! I thought you said that lookout was dealing out warnings?’

  ‘I’ve been wrong more than once in my illustrious career,’ Gillo said. ‘Besides, he ain’t chasing too hard after Will and there’s something about him that’s got me wondering. . . .’

  His voice trailed away. Cree watched the gangling lawman ease his six-gun in its holster and step through the gnarled trees to meet Will Sagger and realized he had seriously understimated Cliff McClure’s deputy. His lean and lazy demeanour hid a razor-sharp mind, and he was meeting this sudden setback with quick thinking made all the more impressive by his calm assurance.

  Deliberately emulating that excellent example, Cree moved with a slow, measured gait through the trees and watched Gillo walk to Will Sagger’s horse and help the young rider down out of the saddle. He seemed OK, able to walk, dazed but tossing Cree a weak grin. And beyond him, closer now so that Cree’s eyes could see him more clearly, the second rider was coming fast across the grassland.

  ‘You know who that is?’ he said, as Will Sagger limped towards him with his hand tight on Gillo’s shoulder.

  ‘Knew it all along,’ Gillo said, answering for the white-faced Sagger. ‘I’ve watched Daniel Sagger ride into town so many times I’d recognize him six mile off in a real bad mist.’

  ‘Pa?’ Will turned on shaky legs, wobbled, clung on to Gillo. ‘Hell, you mean all that was wasted effort?’

  ‘For the answer to that, and how the hell your pa got in and out of that hell hole so easy,’ Cree said, ‘we’ll have to wait a while longer – but what about you, son, how bad is it?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Gillo had walked over to the tethered horses and was digging into his saddle-bag. On the level ground below the trees Will Sagger sank down on to the grass, put a hand gingerly to the wet blood soaking through his shirt at the left shoulder. ‘I caught a ricochet, came howling off a rock, by the time it reached me it was a hunk of metal no more bothersome than a tired old hornet.’

  ‘You say,’ Cree said, ‘but I know how you feisty youngsters like to brag. Let Slim have a look at it, patch you up. . . .’

  But he was listening to the thud of approaching hooves as his words tailed off, walking back up the slope to the trees and through them into the sunlight, only vaguely aware of what was happening behind him as Gillo returned from his horse with a spare shirt, the sharp ripping sound as he tore it into strips.

  Then he was watching the lean figure of Daniel Sagger swing down from the saddle with reckless haste, a look on his face that was apprehension laced with a strong measure of fear reflected in clear grey eyes that brushed across Cree then raked swiftly beyond him to the slope on the far side of the trees.

  ‘Your boy’s in good shape, Daniel,’ Cree said, and stepped in front of his old friend. ‘He caught a ricochet, and Slim Gillo’s about to strap his shoulder.’ He reached out to shake hands, the gesture made deliberately to slow the man down, to reassure him. ‘He’ll be fine, you can count on it.’

  Sagger took his hand almost absently, released it quickly, then made to walk on by. Cree stopped him with his arm.

  ‘Wait a while,’ he said, looking into Sagger’s eyes. ‘There’s no rush, Daniel. The last time I saw you – hell, the last several times – you were lookin’ at me kind of bleary-eyed over an empty whiskey bottle. Now this, you ridin’ in and out of a nest of rattlesnakes like it’s home sweet home, your boy picking up a slug in his haste to track you down. So before we go down and talk to him, would you mind telling an old friend what the hell’s been going on?’

  ‘It’s something you should all hear,’ Daniel Sagger said, and firmly moved Jake Cree out of his path. ‘And as I’ve got less than two hours to do the telling, I think we’d better get on down there.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The small fire was smokeless, clear flames crac
kling in a hearth of white rocks gathered in the hollow beneath the trees. Along with the smell of the burning mesquite logs there was the rich odour of fresh coffee, and the hot sun and the low murmur of voices added to the atmosphere of lazy tranquillity.

  But the peaceful aura masked tension that was like the precursor of an imminent, violent storm and, his back against the rough bark of a stunted tree, Will Sagger sat with knees drawn up a few yards away from the main group, listened without seeming to, awkwardly massaged the gleaming Winchester ’73 with a soft cloth as he nursed his wounded shoulder and drew his own conclusions.

  The meeting between Will and his pa had been unbearably painful, an emotional coming together after a shared tragedy with fumbling explanations from the older man that offered few surprises, followed by apologies that were swept aside by a son who showed deep if silent satisfaction when he learnt of the death of Amos Skillin.

  They had embraced while Jake Cree started the coffee brewing, talked brokenly but with gradually strengthening voices about what had transpired since the flight from Circle C until, with a spoon clattered loudly against tin cups, the gunsmith and the deputy had called them over. And those mundane tasks that brought immense comfort through familiarity – the gurgle and splash of water, the rattle of the pot, the hiss of flames – had been done by compassionate men working with cool efficiency but a deal of haste, for right from the start it had been impressed on them by Daniel Sagger that he had but two hours.

  And now, with time running out like sand through a holed bucket, it was much less.

  ‘. . . is that he wants me in with him, and I don’t know how to walk away from a man expressing a dying wish.’

  Daniel Sagger talking, the words cutting through Will’s musing, his pa expressing sentiments that seemed outrageous to a young man brought up by his dead mother to respect Christian values and the law of the land, yet spoken with genuine indecision by the man he now knew to have been the Utah Kid’s sidekick.