The Last Waterhole Read online

  Will Blunt brewed coffee, Cassie broke out some of the jerky she had in her saddle-bags, and after a while Bobbie Lee again went to the river bend and refilled the water bottles. When he returned, he joined the others by the fire with a cigarette glowing in his fist.

  ‘First subject to discuss is the herd,’ he said. ‘Will, you mentioned the Goodnight-Loving trail back in the Halt, and that pointed us in the right direction. But as far as I can see, they’re off course. Charlie Goodnight came up the west bank of the Pecos. He took his herd across the river somewhere near Santa Rosa and pushed on to the Canadian and Colorado. He would have been making for Pueblo, or Denver, dependin’ on whether he was aimin’ for the Atchison, Topeka, or the Kansas Pacific.’

  ‘The bogus Ed Morgan’s calling the shots,’ Will said. ‘Staying on the east bank of the river puts the herd deeper into the Llano. Way I see it, that feller—’

  ‘Murphy,’ Cassie said. ‘I told you, I listened to their talk.’

  Will nodded. ‘Well, if I’m right, this Murphy’ll be talkin’ to the trail boss and suggestin’ they let the cattle gradually drift east. That’s away from the river. The stampede’ll come when they’re in the middle of a nowhere that’s as hot as Hades.’

  ‘How?’ Bobbie Lee said. ‘Sangster’s out of it, Van Gelderen’s forced to keep his head down. That leaves Cleet and Murphy. You reckon two of ’em can start a stampede, in broad daylight, with eagle-eyed, experienced riders swarming all around that herd?’

  ‘Somehow they’ll manage it,’ Cassie said. ‘But should we be worrying about that? Didn’t you try to talk to the rancher and his trail boss, tell them Van Gelderen’s plans? And weren’t you looked on with suspicion?’

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ Bobbie Lee said, listening to the unease in his own voice, agreeing when he wasn’t sure he felt that way. ‘We’ve done all we could. Gibb wouldn’t listen, so now we go about our business.’

  ‘That business,’ Will Blunt said, ‘has in part been accomplished. Sangster murdered Ed Morgan. Thanks to Cassie, he’s floating face down in the Pecos and heading south. Murphy’s leading Gibb and his herd into the wilderness, but that’s no concern of ours. Cleet put a hole in your shoulder – you’ll get over it. That leaves Van Gelderen.’

  ‘It does,’ Cassie said. ‘He killed Jason, he wants Bobbie Lee dead for reasons we can only guess at – and having recently escaped from his clutches, I’m surprised you haven’t yet asked me where he is.’

  Still uneasy, Bobbie Lee flicked his cigarette away and watched it fall sparkling into the water.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘The camp was some way north of here. That put the Llano to the west. They were talking around the camp-fire – that’s how I got onto Sangster. Nothing was said about Van Gelderen’s plans, but from where we’d ended up I’d say his intentions were clear.’

  ‘You figure he’s going to use one of those gullies in the escarpment as a way up onto the Llano?

  ‘If he is,’ Will Blunt said, ‘that ties in with my notion of Murphy letting the herd drift east. Takes it closer to Van Gelderen, gives him a ringside seat when the fireworks start.’

  ‘Fireworks?’

  Will grinned at Bobbie Lee. ‘It’ll take a six-shooter’s full load and then some to get cattle running in that heat.’

  That picture was contemplated for a few silent minutes as they paid attention to their coffee. When the last cup had been drained and the dregs disposed of, Bobbie Lee began stowing the gear while Will kicked earth over the fire. He moved with reasonable ease. He was happy with the way his shoulder was healing, and from time to time slipped his left arm out of the sling, flexing his fingers. Improving – but it would be days before he could say it was back to normal.

  Nevertheless he was mobile, he had a good right hand – and they knew for sure where Van Gelderen had last been seen. As to his intentions, they’d made an educated guess. OK, that might not be enough, Bobbie Lee thought, but what else did they have to go on – and did it matter? Van Gelderen was going to be in at the kill, that was certain; no matter how he went about it, they knew where he’d finish up. With nothing better to do they could retrace the route Cassie had taken when she rode to freedom, locate the camp-fire where she’d been held. Van Gelderen would be there, or he wouldn’t. If they were too late, they’d follow him up onto the Llano. . . .

  ‘You know,’ he said, when they were all by their horses, preparing to mount, ‘what we told Gibb may have fallen on deaf ears, but it doesn’t take away responsibility. We know damn well what Van Gelderen’s going to do – and, when you think about it, therein lies the answer.’

  ‘Go on, Bobbie Lee,’ Cassie said, one foot in a stirrup. ‘Unburden your soul. Tell us what we must do.’

  ‘Getting rid of Van Gelderen solves all problems,’ Bobbie Lee said, and saw Blunt nod slowly. ‘With him gone, d’you think Murphy or Cleet are going to give a damn about Gibb and his herd? Of course they’re not. Remove Van Gelderen, let them know the job’s been done, and they’ll turn away and ride home.’

  ‘Easy, when you think about it,’ Blunt said. ‘And, as we’ve always been after Van Gelderen, the answer’s always been there for us to see.’

  ‘All we’ve got to do,’ Bobbie Lee said, ‘is get to Van Gelderen before his compadres stampede the herd.’

  Cassie grinned. ‘My turn to contribute some wisdom: if downing Van Gelderen has always been the answer, why the hell are we standing here talking?’

  They pushed north without any fears of meeting trouble on the way, convinced Van Gelderen’s eyes and intentions lay in the other direction: at some time he would leave the campsite where Cassie had been held captive and make his way up onto the Llano; they would ride hard hoping that the outlaw would see no need for haste and so linger long enough for them to catch him with his pants down.

  They made good time. After an hour they stopped to give the horses a breather. Another hour of riding saw them ready for a second halt. Cassie trotted her pony up to join Bobbie Lee.

  ‘I guess you realize we’ve crossed the trail you and Pa took from the hollow.’

  ‘A half-hour ago. So how much further to that campsite?’

  ‘I’d guess another hour. We’re riding steady. This little pony was pushing hard when I was heading south to save your worthless hide.’

  He chuckled. ‘Stay with me. Tell me if I lose the way.’

  ‘With this moon?’

  ‘Mm. I was thinking about that. Who’s in most danger, us or Van Gelderen?’

  ‘If he’s still in camp, he’s sleeping.’

  ‘Or waiting for Sangster to return with news of my death.’

  ‘No. Surely Sangster would go back to the herd, rejoin Cleet?’

  ‘Maybe. But anyway, them splitting up helps us. If Sangster’s missed by one of them, the assumption will be that he’s with the other.’

  They took the second break, Cassie using some of the precious water to rinse trail dust from her face, Bobbie Lee and Will smoking contentedly as the horses grazed. Then, after some ten minutes, they pushed on.

  Despite their confidence, as more time passed nerves began to jangle. They knew they were steadily drawing closer to their objective. Constantly now they were looking ahead for the faint glow of a fire, sniffing the air for the scent of woodsmoke; listening for the whicker of a tethered horse that had caught the sound of their approach.

  Cassie had taken the lead. Bobbie Lee was behind her, Will Blunt some thirty yards back. To the north and west the canyon-riven escarpment sloping up to the Llano Estacado was a dark and forbidding bulk against the bright skies. The trail was snaking north across terrain that was mostly flat, but from time to time the way ahead was obscured by a low rise, or straggling stands of parched trees. On those occasions the bright moon cast long shadows; it was ideal bushwhack territory. And it was in a stand of trees just like any of those they passed that Cassie had been held.

  The moon cast shadows w
here bushwackers might lurk, but it also helped the likely targets.

  ‘Bobbie Lee!’

  Cassie’s call was soft, but urgent.

  She reined in hard, dust rising as she half turned her pony and looked back.

  ‘In those trees, I think I saw a flash of metal—’

  Even as she called the warning, Bobbie Lee was moving.

  ‘Ride for it!’ he yelled, and spun his horse.

  He was still dragging the big sorrel’s head around and urging it off the trail when, up ahead, the gunman’s position was exposed by a bright orange muzzle flash that lit up the trees. A second later came the crack of the shot. Cursing, Bobbie Lee ducked low. The bullet whispered over his head.

  Behind him, Will Blunt grunted.

  A second shot cracked. Bobbie Lee tore after Cassie into the deep cover of yet more trees. Ducking into the shadows, skin prickling, he flicked a glance backward. Will Blunt was slumped in the saddle, his chin on his chest. As Bobbie Lee watched in horror, Blunt fell sideways and toppled from his horse to land on the trail in a crumpled heap.

  Anger boiled in Bobbie Lee like water in a hot sulphur spring. He snapped two shots off in the direction of the gunman. They were wild, poorly aimed but almost at once he heard the rattle of hooves, fast retreating. Then he was down off the sorrel and running through the trees towards the still figure lying on the trail.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Bobbie Lee had looked on the trio riding out of Beattie’s Halt as a strangely mismatched group, nothing in his mind could have prepared him for the sombre duo now leading a third horse west. They rode through the early dawn light towards the Llano Estacado and a confrontation with rancher Harlan Gibb, and ever present in their minds was that third horse and the empty saddle with its stirrups tied up.

  After the fateful ambush they had spent the rest of the night at the outlaws’ old campsite, relighting their fire and huddling around the heat as much for spiritual comfort as for the warmth of the crackling flames.

  Will Blunt was dead because, when Bobbie Lee ducked out of the way, the slug he knew was intended for him had whined over his head and drilled Cassie’s father through the heart. Will had died in the saddle, and knew nothing of the indignity of falling like a sack into the dust of the trail.

  Throughout that night no recriminations were made, no hint of blame cast or acknowledged. Talk was mostly of Will’s past life, and after much poignant reminiscing they reached the question of what they should do now that he had passed away. Cassie wanted him buried back at the Halt. Bobbie Lee agreed with her, but their determination to exact a just revenge on Van Gelderen left them torn between two courses.

  They could return to the Halt, or they could press on with the hunt for Van Gelderen. But if they decided on the latter, what were they to do with the body of Will Blunt?

  In the end, after much soul searching, they knew what they must do; what Will Blunt would want them to do. And so with what tools they had and then with their bare hands they scraped a shallow depression, laid him to rest, and over the man they both loved they heaped rocks that would both mark the spot and keep away the prowling wolves.

  Then, drained by emotion but determined to carry on, they again sat by the fire and considered their options.

  It was Cassie who had pointed the way with a comment that came out of the blue. As the long night had dragged on, the talk had turned from sadness to more general nostalgia. Suddenly, something Cassie said startled and saddened Bobbie Lee. He knew that what she had told him gave them an argument that would at once discredit Murphy, and convince Gibb that they were telling the truth. He also knew that if Cassie had mentioned it sooner, or if he had remembered what she had said during the discussion before they left the Halt, Will Blunt might still be alive.

  One look into Cassie’s eyes told him that it was a thought that would always return to haunt her.

  By the time they reached the Staked Plains and caught up with the herd it was strung out in a mile-long column and the heat was enough to beat a man out of the saddle. The sun burned down out of a searing white sky stretching to horizons that shimmered like water. Dust was a salty, choking cloud. Riders pulled bandannas up over mouth and nostrils and squinted ahead through watering, narrowed eyes. The cattle moved reluctantly, plodding onward with swaying, drooping heads, and drag riders were working their socks off bringing stragglers back to the column.

  As Bobbie Lee led the way at an angle towards the lead riders his eyes were searching for sign of the man in buckskins, the lean figure of Cleet with his marshal’s badge. Cleet he did not see. Murphy was some hundred yards in the van, riding with the trail boss, Hobbs.

  Then Harlan Gibb came cantering across from the chuck wagon. A short, fat cigar was in the corner of his mouth, his hat pulled down, a dusty red bandanna loose around his neck. His first quick glance took in the horse with its empty saddle. He looked once with keen appreciation at Cassie, then swung in alongside Bobbie Lee.

  ‘You changed your mind about talking to the marshal?’

  ‘Some things that happen change a man forever,’ Bobbie Lee said. ‘You met the grey-haired feller who should be riding that horse. He got us out of a tight situation using a gambler’s pistol. Will Blunt was my friend, and this woman’s father. Last night he was gunned down by the man called Van Gelderen. The third death in as many days – and you’re playing along with these killers.’

  ‘Van Gelderen again.’ Gibb chewed on the cigar. ‘A phantom, a ghost rider.’

  ‘He’s out there, and he’s no ghost.’

  ‘What about the man with the long rifle? Earp came back without him.’

  ‘The name’s a joke, it’s Cleet, not Earp. Put your question to him. The answer might be interesting, but it’s sure to be a lie. The man with the rifle was Sangster. He was sent by Van Gelderen to kill me and Will Blunt. Things didn’t work out for him. Right now he’s taking a watery ride to south to the Rio Grande.’

  ‘You killed him?’

  ‘He was taken care of. How it happened is neither here nor there because I’m about to ruin your day – or maybe save the rest of this drive, and you from financial ruin – by discrediting your so-called guide.’

  ‘You weren’t able to do that in your earlier visit, so why now?’

  ‘Because now I’m able to back up my words with hard proof. Bring the so-called Ed Morgan over here, Gibb. Let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.’

  ‘I don’t take orders from anyone, but especially not from you.’

  ‘Not even to save your herd?’

  Gibb took the cigar from his mouth.

  ‘There’s a man up there with my trail boss. I hired him as a guide, and I’ve seen nothing to suggest he doesn’t know his job. Marshal Earp is riding tirelessly’ – Gibb waved an arm in a sweeping arc – ‘keeping his eyes peeled for trouble. So far he’s not put a foot wrong—’

  ‘They’ve been with you less than a full day.’

  ‘—yet you expect me to believe those two men are fixing to start a stampede under the eyes of a dozen or so—’

  ‘That third man, the ghost, is out there somewhere. The man with a chip on his shoulder and with a grudge that’s an unbearable weight.’

  Gibb shook his head. ‘Van Gelderen. I don’t know the name, I’ve yet to see this ghostly figure.’

  ‘Forget him, for now. Go get your guide. Or send someone for him. Let’s get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘I told you, I—’

  ‘Don’t take orders. Yes, I know.’ Bobbie Lee looked across at Cassie, then grinned without humour at the rancher and abruptly put spurs to his horse.

  He galloped hard for the front of the herd. Gibb yelled after him. Then his angry hails stopped and, with a flicker of amusement, Bobbie Lee wondered how Cassie had reacted. She’d reloaded the little Remington. He could just imagine her smiling sweetly as she pointed those twin barrels at the rancher’s angry countenance.

  The trail boss, Hobbs, was the first
to spot him.

  ‘Christ,’ he said as Bobbie Lee rode up, ‘here comes the bad smell.’

  The other man, the one calling himself Murphy, twisted in the saddle to see what was going on. In that instant it was as if a veil had fallen across his blue eyes. His expression became virtually unreadable but, if Bobbie Lee had been asked for an opinion, he would have said that the man was badly shaken.

  ‘You know who I am?’ Bobbie Lee asked.

  ‘Janson.’

  ‘Yeah, that was probably an easy one. And I recall you sitting with Van Gelderen in my saloon, so I guess he would have roughed in things you’d need to know to carry off this deception. Names, and so on.’

  ‘There’s no deception,’ Hobbs said.

  ‘So Gibb said. All I’m asking for is proof, one way or another. That can be done in seconds if your man comes over to where your boss is talking to a sweet lady who’s just lost her pa.’

  The buckskin-clad guide shook his head. ‘I’m Ed Morgan. You were gone fifteen years. I was ten years old when you left. What the hell do you know?’

  ‘I know you’ve done some homework, but I don’t think it’s enough. Come on, humour me. Let’s go talk to that young lady.’

  ‘There’s no call—’

  Hobbs cut him off. ‘Do it, Ed. Settle this, once and for all.’

  The guide’s jaw went white as he clenched his teeth. Then he shook his head irritably, and swung his horse around. Bobbie Lee rode with him back to Harlan Gibb. He was aware that Hobbs was following on behind.

  Gibb and Cassie were indeed chatting; when Bobbie Lee rode off, she must have calmed him with sweet talk rather than the little pistol’s threat. As the three riders approached, Gibb watched with interest, and Bobbie Lee wondered if Cassie had also managed to sow seeds of doubt in the lean rancher’s mind.