A Colt for the Kid (12 page)

The men crowding the front of the batwings looked at one another uncertainly then drifted out of the place. Stevens followed closely and Donovan, with an effort at recovering his shattered dignity was close behind him. Bohun remained behind the bar and with hands that shook poured himself a large sized whiskey. Outside, Donovan mounted in silence, feeling the glare of angry eyes upon him. He had no sense of gratitude towards Stevens for making his escape possible and felt only a little for Bohun’s saving of his life. As he swung away from the place, his thought centred mainly on the run of ill luck he had had. He should, by now, have run Hennesey out of town, wiped out that young upstart, Callum, and have cleaned the Stevens’ place out. Yet here he was on a horse loaned to him by a man who had good cause to hate him thoroughly, his holster empty and at his back, in his own town, a gang of yapping men who had wanted to string him up. String him up! By God, he’d show them who was the big boss in these parts. And before another day was over too. A big raid on the town was what was needed. A real shooting up then a follow-on to the Stevens’ place. That would settle things. To hell with this notion of proving to himself that he was as good single handed as he had ever been. The years
were piling on him and there was no sense in denying the fact. He bent over the horse’s neck and urged and spurred it to a punishing pace, took a bend in the trail at such a pace that he narrowly missed colliding with an aged wagon that creaked slowly along under the efforts of a pair of weary looking horses and passed on without giving heed to the curses hurled at him by the driver of the wagon. He had reached his house and was climbing from the saddle when it occurred to him that there had been something vaguely familiar about the face of the middle-aged man who had been driving the wagon. Still, he had only caught a blurred glimpse of the face, so it could have been that of one of the hundreds he had seen about the town. Nevertheless, as he went indoors and bawled for the cook boy to go and fetch Stone, he had some difficulty in dismissing the matter from his mind. He had lighted and a quarter smoked a cigar before it occurred to him that the boy had been gone a long time and again a sense of unease gripped him. He strode into the hall with the intention of seeing for himself what was keeping the boy, then he remembered his empty holster and returned to the living-room. He was in the act of loading a weapon for himself when he heard the boy in the hall. He holstered the gun and stepped into the hall. The cook’s face was covered in blood and it took Donovan a full minute to understand from the boy’s pidgin English that the bunkhouse was full of fighting men.

The fighting had spread to the outside of the bunkhouse when he reached it, with eight men punching away at each other indiscriminately.

‘Let up, you scum,’ Donovan shouted, then had to jump to one side as a ninth man came spinning through the doorway and sprawled to the ground. He seized the man by the shoulder as he was getting up.

‘What’s it all about?’

The puncher shook free from his grasp. ‘Darned if I know,’ and then plunged into the bunkhouse again.

Donovan punched and shoved those still outside into something like order, then stepped into the bunkhouse. He guessed, as he entered the sweat stinking atmosphere of the place, that he had an ordinary bunkhouse row on his hands. Some quarrel over a poker game, most likely, and one that Stone should have quelled immediately. The long, narrow building seemed packed with struggling men and the gloom of the place resounded to grunts and curses as bodies thumped against the double tier of bunks.

The rancher bawled orders to break up the riot, but his words went unheeded and it was doubtful if his presence was noticed until, with a bellow of rage, he seized on the man nearest the door and threw him bodily through the opening. After that, he picked on men with deliberation, flinging some out of doors and clubbing others with the barrel of his gun. He made out Stone, at the further end of the cabin, backed against the cook-stove and swinging an iron skillet with his left hand. He began to fight towards the foreman, then a gun exploded, its thunder roaring above the rest of the din and Stone’s head and shoulders were no longer visible to Donovan. The racket of sound died down as if a lid had been clamped on it and a lane between men suddenly stretched in front of Donovan. A narrow lane at the end of which a puncher named Rourke stood with a smoking gun in his hand and Stone’s body at his feet. In the brooding silence that was now heavy on the place, Donovan and Rourke stared at one another. Both men had guns in their hands and each had defined the other’s intention. Rourke stood stiffly watchful, the gun hanging down by his side but his grip on the butt hard and tense. Donovan’s stance was easier, his feet a little apart, the hand that held the Colt was a little to the back of his massive thigh and his big thumb was working
slowly to raise the hammer of the weapon without the loud click that would come from a rapid movement. The next few seconds, he know, would bring death to one of them and he intended that if possible his own gun would be just the fraction of a second in front of Rourke’s that would give him the advantage. The difference in time between a gun already cocked and that of a weapon whose hammer had to lift before it could fall.

Rourke’s hand made the smallest of preliminary moves and in that moment, Donovan gave a sideways twist to his body, his gun arm came up and the thumbed back hammer dropped on the shell. Rourke lifted on his feet, his gun came up, exploded uselessly, then dropped from his hand. For the briefest space of time he maintained an impossible looking forward droop of his body, then his knees folded and he rolled half on top of Stone.

Donovan gave a swift intaking of breath as if air had been long cut off from him. So he could still shoot straight and the business with Lucy Stevens and young Callum had been just bad luck. In full command of himself again he barked a question.

‘What the hell’s it all about? You, Red Hanlon, answer up for the rest.’

Hanlon looked at him woodenly. ‘I don’t have to, mister, I ain’t workin’ for you now. I’ve just quit.’

He turned around and began to gather gear together from his bunk. Other men followed his example. Donovan viewed the scene with growing irritation.

‘Well, one of you speak up. Don’t act like a lot of dummies.’

Hanlon turned on him savagely. ‘Dummies is what we’ve been. Here, look at this.’

Donovan came forward as Hanlon whipped a blanket from a bunk and disclosed a dead man.

‘That’s Rube Edgars,’ Hanlon went on angrily. ‘Got a slug in him at that blasted affair in the town. Lain here for days without any attention ’cept what us fellers gave him when we’d done workin’. Rube died in the middle of the night an’ some of us were fixin’ to take time this mornin’ to bury him decent. But Stone, darn his hide, says no. There’s no time to waste, so we’ve just got to dig a bit of a hole an’ toss Rube in it then scrape the ground flat again. That’s what started the ruckus, so now you can do what the hell you like with Stone, we’re taking Edgars an’ Rourke to town with us an’ havin’ them buried decent.’

‘I suppose you have your own wagon?’ Donovan said ominously.

‘We haven’t. We’re going to borrow one of yours. Your gun is still in your hand if you want to argue matters.’

Donovan gave a slight start. He had forgotten the Colt was still in his grip. He glanced about and saw at least twenty pairs of eyes staring hard at him, and suddenly he was aware that the empire he had built on gunplay was crumbling before his eyes all because gunthrowing, fast riding, range hands held to some mawkish sentiment when it came to the burying of one of their number. He said with a growl:

‘Borrow a wagon if you want to and get to hell out of here.’

‘We were going to,’ Hanlon growled back.

Somehow, Donovan managed to retain what little of his temper was left and he swung about and walked out of the bunkhouse. He planted himself on a chair on the veranda of the house and chewed at an unlit cigar. In the red glow of the setting sun he saw the wagon roll away from the bunkhouse with a long string of riders behind it. He counted thirty-two figures silhouetted against the sky-line and began to wonder uneasily how many men were left to him and of those that were left, what proportion were fighters. The sun dipped and
he threw away the pulped cigar, took another from his pocket and lighted it, then sat brooding on. The sudden quitting of the men was a blow, and not only to his aggressive plans. He was now desperately short of men to work his vast herds. How long before he could recruit more? Weeks, more likely months. There was little he could do in the matter beyond telling stage and freight drivers that he needed riders and letting them spread the news in their normal exchanges. They would make other talk too, and not the kind that was likely to attract ordinary range hands to the MD spread.

Donovan tossed away the cigar and went indoors. Men he must have and as quickly as possible. Fall round-up time was less than a month away and if he had not men to handle the round-up and the subsequent drive to the railhead, even his finances would be strained to the limit. Indoors, the problem of men magnified itself to even greater proportions. He saw his mighty herds untended and wandering freely after a miserably diminished round-up and drive. Then would come the Spring with calves crowding the already packed ranges, producing enough mavericks to make wholesale rustling profitable and legal for every range tramp that cared to take a hand in the business.

In the last of the daylight Johnnie, Hennesey and Carter looped the reins of their weary mounts over the hitchrail of the Silver Dollar and, beating the dust from their clothes, entered the place. Johnnie’s face was dark with anger at his failure to locate Donovan, first at, or on the way to, Chimney Rock and later at the Stevens’ place. Hennesey’s face showed relief at not having been present at yet another killing, and Carter felt the same at not having to display his lack of skill with a gun. Johnnie had a fixed idea in his head. One that neither of the other two could shake. He would get a fresh horse and ride out to Donovan’s place. However, he wanted news of Lucy first, and for that reason only had he entered the place.

Seeing Sam in the bar was no surprise to any one of the three, but Sam’s rapidly told story of Donovan’s latest moves brought sharp comment. Hennesey expressed relief that a lynching had been avoided. Carter seemed uncertain whether to be glad or sorry, but Johnnie’s opinion was undivided and emphatic.

‘You should have let the murdering bastard hang.’

The words shaped oddly on Johnnie’s lips, and after an interval he said: ‘I’m goin’ to the livery for a boss. Jus’ wanted to know how Lucy was before I went.’

The last sentence came in a voice so harsh and cracked that Stevens guessed at something more than ordinary, sympathetic enquiry. He said softly:

‘I was about to go upstairs and ask myself. Belle’s been with her this last hour. Why don’t you go up and find out? The second door on the left.’

‘Me – go upstairs and ask?’

‘Sure, why not? Lucy’ll be glad to know you enquired when she wakes up.’

Johnnie eyed the carpet-covered stairs and cream painted banister, then glanced down at his dust-caked clothing.

‘I’m not sorta dressed for goin’ up a place like that.’

Carter smiled. ‘There’s nothing you can hurt there, Johnnie. The carpet will brush easily enough.’

Johnnie nodded and climbed the stairs. He found himself on a cream painted landing and stood hesitant before the door Sam had indicated. With its smooth finish the door seemed, to him, the very last word in tasteful luxury. Its colour was cool and restful, not exciting like the garish colours in the saloon. He found himself wanting to own such a door. To be able to turn the knob of it and open it whenever he wished. To pass through and find, on the other side – Johnnie wrenched himself from the dream that was forming in his mind, and knocked gently.

The door opened a little and showed a rectangle of wallpaper above Belle’s head. She gave him a fleeting smile.

‘She’s about the same, Johnnie, though the fever might be a bit less.’

Johnnie’s rage against Donovan came back in full force. ‘I’ll be on my way then, Belle. Just came into town for a fresh horse. I guess the feller in the livery will let me have one.’

‘Charge it to me, Johnnie, though I’m not saying you’re doing the best thing in going to Donovan’s place. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. I thought you wanted him dead as much as I do.’

Belle nodded. ‘I do, Johnnie, and I feel no shame for thinking that way, but Donovan on his own ground is a mighty big chore. I wouldn’t want you to be the one to get killed.’ Her green eyes regarded him for a moment, then she went on: ‘Johnnie, I’ve not known you for long but I’ve gotten to like you. Don’t go getting yourself killed.’

He looked at her woodenly. ‘So long as I get that big skunk I don’t care what happens to me. He shot Lucy and—’

‘You think a whole lot of Lucy, don’t you?’ Belle cut in.

‘Sure, she’s been nice to me. Sam has as well. I like Sam a whole lot.’

‘You like me, too, and Ed, and Luke, but not in the way you like Lucy.’

Johnnie reddened. ‘There isn’t more than one way to like anyone, is there?’

‘I think you’re beginning to know differently. In fact, I’m not sure if you aren’t trying to lie to me—’ She broke off as the beat of a number of hoofs reached their ears. ‘Lord! not Donovan’s crowd again. Wait, I can see from this window.’

She whisked away from the door and was back in a few seconds. ‘It’s them all right. Twenty at the least and with a wagon. Hell, I might have known it’d be something like this.’

Johnnie was already moving towards the stairs. ‘We’ll hold them down some way or other, Belle.’

‘You’re damned right we will. I’m coming with you.’

Johnnie raised a hand as if to push her back into the room. ‘Look after Lucy. I’m getting pretty handy with this Colt. I reckon if I stay at the head of the stairs, I’ll have the jump on anyone below.’

He reached the head of the stairs and looked down. A bunch of men, some of whom he recognised as Donovan’s,
were grouped about Carter, Stevens and Hennesey. He could hear the hum of their conversation but as yet there seemed no sign of trouble. He went cautiously down three of the steps and stood with the Colt in his hand, then to his surprise the Donovan men turned away and walked out of the saloon.

Johnnie came down the stairs. ‘I thought we were all set for another fight.’

Hennesey noted the gun in his hand. ‘There might be one yet. There’s been one on Donovan’s place. Donovan’s shot and killed one of his own men. They’ve brought the feller to town to have him buried decently. Seems the trouble blew up over fixing a funeral for another feller.’

Johnnie listened to the remainder of the tale then in a puzzled tone, said:

‘Why should that make for more trouble here? A split among Donovan’s men is just about what is wanted.’ He slid the Colt into its holster. ‘I ought to have a better chance of getting at that guy now. It’ll be plenty dark when I get there. Most likely, what men are left on the place will be in the bunkhouse and—’

Hennesey gripped his arm. ‘Johnnie, don’t do it. Calling a man out to fight is just another kind of murder. That is, if you win out. In any case I was counting on your help in here.’

‘Don’t see that you need any,’ Johnnie said roughly, ‘and there’s one thing certain. There’ll be no end to shooting and killing as long as Donovan is alive.’

‘We figure that those men of Donovan’s will be back here as soon as they get the funeral business over,’ Stevens said. ‘They’ll get to hard drinking and when that happens its difficult to say which way their tempers will go. It’s possible that some of them will get to thinking that they’re without jobs and—’

Johnnie cut him short. ‘I’ve got it figured, Sam. You and Ed want to stop me from going after Donovan. You reckon
I’ll get myself killed. Well, that isn’t so important so long as I get Donovan and, raw or not at this gunfighting business, I’ll do just that.’

Carter nodded. ‘Somehow, I think you will, Johnnie. It’s true that we weren’t really expecting Donovan’s crowd to cut loose—’

‘I’m goin’ to the livery to get a horse,’ Johnnie broke in. He swung towards the batwings, saw that a middle-aged man was pushing through them and paused to give him a clear way. The man came straight towards him, stared at him for a moment then said hesitantly:

‘You Johnnie Callum?’

Johnnie’s eyes travelled quickly from the greying hair that showed under the battered Stetson, down the length of the stringy, work-worn figure and came back to look straight into the slightly faded blue eyes.

‘Yes, I’m Johnnie Callum.’

‘My name’s Seth Callum.’

‘Seth Callum?’ Johnnie said without expression.

‘Your Paw, son.’

‘Paw!’ Johnnie stared at the man, saw an underlying sadness in the blue eyes and was at the same time aware of the drawing near of the three men he had just been talking to. He could sense their surprise, even feel that there was some kind of emotion in Sam Stevens and knew that he ought to feel some himself. But there was none in him, surprise, yes, but of other feeling there was simply nothing. He knew that he ought to say something to this man who claimed to be his father. Express doubt, or if he believed the man, show pleasure. No, more than pleasure, something much, much stronger. He ought to feel towards this stranger the way he felt to – to Lucy.

‘Hello, Paw, glad to see you.’ It was all Johnnie could offer. That and a handshake. Then, after an awkward interval:
‘Maw, is she around here, some place?’

Again he struggled against the sense that there ought to have been feeling in the question, but it had been like asking a man what shape his herd was in. A polite enquiry without any real interest in the answer. Then came the reply and he had feeling in plenty.

‘You Maw’s dead, Johnnie. Someone’s slug got her the night Donovan cleared us off our place. We were shoved in our old wagon an’ she started to run screaming to find you. I don’t say the shot was aimed at her but it got her just the same. She died about sunup an’ I went near crazy, thought you’d gone down the same way. I roamed the hills about our place for days, lookin’ for your body an’ finally when I gave up I went the other side of Leastown. I never heard a word about you until a week ago when I was told about some kind of a fight between this town an’ Donovan an’ your name was mentioned. I came to see for myself. I left the trail an’ went to the old place by the rock an’ I saw the stakes you’d driven in an’ the notices pinned on them. Johnnie, you can’t stop Donovan with notices.’

‘Paw.’ Johnnie gripped the elder Callum’s arm forcibly. ‘I don’t aim to stop Donovan with notices. I’m fixin’ to do it with bullets. Was on my way to his place when you walked in. Now I’ve got to be honest with you. I can’t remember either you or Maw. I can remember the night Donovan came all right and the things that happened to me after, but nothin’ about you or Maw, but I’ve seen him gun a woman down with a slug that was aimed at me an’ when I give him his I’ll try an’ think I’m doin’ it for Maw.’

‘Lord, son. Your Maw wouldn’t have wanted you to go gunnin’ on her account. She hated guns.’ Seth Callum turned to Hennesey. ‘Mister, you’re the marshal. Tell him that this shooting men down is no good.’

Hennesey shook his head. ‘It won’t work, Mr Callum.
We’ve tried to put Johnnie off the idea but he’s his own man now, and set with the idea that the only way of dealing with Donovan is to kill him.’

‘It is the only way,’ Belle’s voice came from the foot of the stairs, ‘Mr Callum, I’m glad to know you. I’ve been standing here listening to your story. You stay right here with us and let Johnnie go and do what he must.’

As she came towards them agitation showed on Seth Callum’s face. He met Belle’s green eyes with a pleading look and from them seemed to draw resolution. He turned his gaze on Johnnie.

‘Son, I’ll wait here for you. Maybe you have got the right idea. Others have tried law on Donovan and got no satisfaction from it.’

Johnnie nodded and went towards the batwings. The arrival of his father had shaken him more than he realized and the fact that up to now he could feel no affection worried him. He even had a sense of guilt over the way he felt about his mother’s death. He was angry about it but he did not feel the same burning rage that he had over the shooting of Lucy. That was the thing that was driving him to go after Donovan. In fact, and he might just as well admit it to himself, he wanted to murder Donovan and did not care whether the rancher had a chance to defend himself or not. Once he got that far with his thinking the other things cluttering his mind seemed to become insignificant. The coming of his father, the news of his mother’s death, the growing idea that both Hennesey and Sam Stevens might be cowards where Donovan was concerned, all faded in the light of this new conception. He was going to kill Donovan because the man had put Lucy’s life in danger.

It was practically dark when he came out of the livery astride a powerfully built black, and a quarter moon hung low in the sky. For finding his way to Donovan’s ranch he
would have to trust partly to luck and partly to information he had picked up. He followed the main trail for the best part of half an hour and all the time his rage against Donovan burned furiously so that his temples began to pound and a red mist form before his eyes. His mind floated hazily. Josh Manders came into his thoughts and he lived again the moments when his fingers were clawed in the man’s hair and he was pounding the sheepherder’s head against the ground. Then it was Stone, until Lucy had stopped him. Her name, muttered to himself, brought remembrance of her thrusting the rifle into his hands and the calmly given advice on how to use it. She was always like that, calm and cool, cool as shaded river water. He had to be that way himself if he was going to kill Donovan.

Suddenly, he was aware of rain. Big, isolated spots that plopped on the brim of his hat or splashed widely on his hands holding the reins. Next, he heard the rumble of thunder and an upwards glance showed moon and stars effaced. Clear thinking came to him again and as his eyes searched for the side trail that led to the MD spread, the magnitude of the job he had undertaken appalled him. Fear grew as he contemplated what was before him. Not fear for himself but fear that he might fail and so leave Lucy in further peril from Donovan. His thoughts included others in that peril. Sam Stevens, Luke Carter, Hennesey, perhaps, and of course his own father, but they were vague figures compared to Lucy.

In drenching rain and to the increasing sound of thunder, he came to a side trail. It was stamped out nearly as widely as the main trail and a large notice-board gave the information that it led to the MD house. Three miles down the side trail a swing gate barred his way and he got from a sodden saddle into squelching mud to open it. Mounted again and dripping water, he came at last to the house. A shadowy, sprawling
structure, seen vaguely through the lancing rain. He left the saddle again and was moving forward on foot when deafening thunder accompanied by blinding forks of lightning shocked him to a standstill. For seconds, the house stood illuminated in its ugliness of red stone and yellow clay pointing, apparently on fire with vivid blue light. He had time enough to note the house’s main details – before the darkness shut down again and the rain sheeting in front of him cut off even the outline of the building. In another few minutes he reached the shelter of the veranda and stood there wringing the weight of water from his hat. He felt cold in his drenched clothes and water pulped boots, but the desire to come to grips with Donovan was as strong as ever and it seemed to him that the storm was in his favour. There had been no more lightning since that one blinding flare and the roll of the thunder was now distant again, but the rain sheeted down even more heavily; an effective cut off from whatever men were in the bunkhouse. He felt around for, and found, the catch of the screen door and stepped inside the hall. There he paused and drew the Colt from a holster that felt like wet rag. He felt the weight of the weapon in his hand, then a clammy sweat broke out on his forehead. He knew very little about guns. Had the torrents of water had any effect upon the Colt? Before he had time to decide he heard footsteps overhead. Heavy footsteps, like he would expect to hear from Donovan. The steps seemed to be coming downstairs, though in the blackness of the hall he could not see. The movement ceased and to his strained hearing came the small sounds of a man breathing. He remembered his own breathing and it sounded noisy. He tried to still it, then Donovan’s voice boomed.