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  Houston’s Story

  George Houston’s line of work carries with it a degree of infamy, a presage of danger and it’s not long before his peaceable ride through Utah is cut dramatically short. After a rare bank robbery and the killing of one of its leading businessmen, the town of Bullhead is angry and wound up. But Agnes Jarrow believes it’s not the work of the young hothead who breaks free of the town jail. She shares personal misgivings, thoughts that Houston can’t ignore, offers a contract that’s hard to turn down. With his movements being documented by a man with his sights on becoming a diarist and storyteller, up against a band of seemingly law-abiding townsmen, Houston has to find a way to satisfy more than one protagonist. When he sets off on a perilous search for Billy Carrick, he has to decide if he is making the affair a personal issue, collecting payment for a completed assignment, or assisting the town sheriff to carry out a lawful duty.

  By the same author

  Sparrow’s Gun

  The Guilty Hour

  Blackwater

  The Border Search

  Writing as Caleb Rand

  Calveron’s Chase

  Stearn’s Break

  The Applejack Men

  Bonachon Blood

  Whitewater Run

  Houston’s Story

  Abe Dancer

  ROBERT HALE

  © Abe Dancer 2018

  First published in Great Britain 2018

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2749-5

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Abe Dancer to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  CHAPTER 1

  It was high summer across southern Utah and George Houston wanted it to end. He reached Bullhead at nearly eight-thirty, not full dark, little reprieve from the cruel, persistent heat.

  ‘It’s always cooler to the north, so that’s where I think I’m headed,’ he replied to the query of the hotel’s retainer.

  ‘Principle’s right,’ the man granted. ‘Like the Yellowstone, if that’s far enough for you. Heard nowhere’s as cold as North Montana.’

  Houston handed the reins of his grullo mare to the rheumatic old-timer. He untied his saddlebags and pack roll, slid his rifle from its sheath and glanced along the main street. Despite the oppressive weather there appeared to be much activity in the town. He could see men crowding outside the single-storey law office and jail, gesturing and shouting angrily about something.

  ‘The heat’s not slowing them down too much,’ he observed wryly.

  ‘Posse gettin’ ready to ride out,’ the man replied. ‘Had us a bank robbery earlier. Threw in a killin’ with it. Nasty one.’

  ‘I guess that’s enough to get you stirred,’ Houston replied thoughtfully.

  ‘Yessir. There’s one in jail, but three of ’em got away.’ The old timer shook his head sadly. ‘Chester Jarrow was a good man. They pistol-whipped him . . . bashed his head in. That’s a bad way to die.’

  ‘He worked at the bank, did he?’ Houston asked.

  ‘He owned it. Always worked late Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights. Used to go back after his supper for an hour or so. Everybody knew it.’

  ‘And probably what got him killed,’ Houston observed. ‘Being habitual’s always dangerous when handling money. A banker should have known that.’

  ‘Guess so.’ The man began leading the weary mare away. ‘I’ll tend your horse, mister. Be around back in the corral any time you want.’

  Houston nodded his thanks and climbed the hotel steps to the overhanging porch. He had a mind to stay for two days, maybe three, rest up and take things easy. Right now, the Land Hotel looked just the sort of place to do that. There would be a dining room, most likely serving two vegetables with the meat, and on a real plate. A few yards to the side of the main entrance was another doorway that lead into the bar. A little later, he thought and walked unhurriedly into the furnished lobby.

  Orville Land was short and middle-aged, with grey eyes and a big, hooked nose. A studious, enquiring man whose eyesight was shot through from reading everything and anything which came his way, usually at night and under the poorest of lights. Straight away, he picked up on the chief characteristics of George Houston; the six-foot slim build, the clothes of store-bought quality, the blue-steel .44 Navy Colt at his right thigh.

  ‘Welcome to Bullhead. I’m Orville Land, proprietor of this establishment,’ he said from behind the reception desk. ‘I hope your stay will be a pleasant one, Mr. . . ?’

  ‘Houston,’ the newcomer said, dropping his traps as he took the pen to sign the register.

  ‘You’ll be passing through . . . Mr Houston?’ Land asked politely.

  Houston nodded. ‘I’ll be staying a couple of days, three at most.’

  ‘That will be just fine . . . quite satisfactory.’ Land smiled, took a key from the frame and passed it over. ‘Number four up the stairs. It’s clean and comfortable . . . the way I like to keep all my rooms here.’

  Houston thought the man sounded like he was referring to his mussy appearance. ‘I’ll naturally be wanting a bath. I feel as though I’ve brought half the desert’s dust to town with me,’ he said, as though ahead of the inference.

  ‘Bathroom’s at the end of the corridor,’ Land continued. ‘If you want supper, I’m sure we can arrange something.’

  Houston nodded. ‘Thank you, but no,’ he said. ‘I ate earlier . . . just about everything I had left. The most corn dodgers, beans and bacon eaten by one man, ever. I could do with a drink, though.’

  ‘The bar’s right on through there.’ Land indicated an archway to the bar Houston had already noticed.

  Houston could hear the growl of agitated talk emanating from the room. ‘Thanks. Sounds like I won’t be your only customer,’ he said.

  Land frowned. ‘This is an angry town right now. When men are that way, they’re inclined to get themselves liquored up. This is as good a place as any to do it.’

  ‘I did hear you’ve had your bank robbed. That and a killing,’ Houston offered.

  Land dropped his gaze to the register. ‘Of course. Old Bones would have mentioned it. Is it of any interest to you?’

  ‘Right now, the only thing I’m interested in is catching up on some sleep,’ Houston replied.

  ‘I recognized the name . . . your name, and just wondered,’ Land pushed.

  ‘Yeah, it’s usually the way I prefer it. But I’ve already noticed you’ve got a law office and a jail. I expect your officers are reliable and good enough.’

  Land held back for a second before answering. ‘The sheriff’s reliable, so’s his deputy. I won’t say any more than that.’ He shrugged, stared tellingly back at Houston.

  As Houston took the stairs, Land returned to studying the full signature in the register. George Irving Houston. Although Bullhead wasn’t anywhere near one of Southern Utah’s larger towns, it was well situated. It saw many a north- and south-bound traveller, a cross-section of frontier ty
pes who had scribbled their names in the hotel register. There were drifting cowpokes and preachers, women of easy virtue, a lot of them heading for the flesh-pots of Cedar City or Grand Junction. There had been drummers hawking every imaginable kind of bottled liquid remedy, a few professional gamblers and a gunman or two. But Land wasn’t certain if his hotel had accommodated a well-known bounty hunter before.

  There was only the one prisoner at the jailhouse. He sat on the edge of a low bunk, grunting and groaning at the pain in his throbbing head. He looked up and blinked vacantly at the tall, string-bean of a man standing in the passageway, leaning on crutches.

  Sheriff Myron Games had been unable to head up the posse. According to Bullhead’s physician, it would be two or three weeks before the lawman would be able to ride competently again. His left leg was between hickory splints and he wasn’t supposed to be up and about, putting weight on it. But this was a critical situation. He was in his late forties but right now looked older. His hair was more salt than pepper and his sun-burned face deeply hatched with age lines. Though temporarily incapacitated, his piercing-blue eyes suggested the sharpest, most resilient lawman Bullhead had ever elected.

  ‘You’re havin’ that joke ain’t you?’ the youthful prisoner mumbled. ‘Murder an’ robbery? Me? Hah. It’s a bit o’ fun the old sheriff gets to play when his workin’ days are nearly over. Somethin’ to ease the boredom.’ The prisoner frowned, passed a hand over his eyes. ‘You made a mistake an’ I don’t even know how the hell I got here. How’d it happen?’

  ‘It’s no sort of fun, Billy,’ the sheriff growled. ‘If you think that, it could be why an’ how it happened. Chester Jarrow is dead an’ there’s thousands of dollars gone from the bank safe. Those three so-called partners of yours high-tailed it out of town but you stayed behind an’ got roostered. What part of all that’s such an entertainment, eh?’

  ‘Honest to God, I swear I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Mr Games,’ Billy Carrick replied.

  Games steadied himself and dug into a pocket for his tobacco. With unhurried efficiency he popped a chaw of Brown Mule into his mouth, chewed for a few agreeable moments while collecting his thoughts, before explaining to his prisoner.

  Billy Carrick was twenty-four years of age, a well-featured young man but with a too-quick temper. His pale hair was unruly, his face sun-tanned and his eyes were brown, although temporarily bloodshot. He oozed a rank, miasma of alcohol that baffled Myron Games. Even for a hell-roarer like young Billy, committing a bank robbery and murder, then drinking yourself into a state of unconsciousness was barely credible. Yet the evidence was damning.

  ‘Listen real careful, an’ I’ll tell you what I’m talkin’ about,’ Games said, quietly but clearly. ‘Then you can give me your version.’

  ‘It’s plain loco. All of it,’ Billy protested.

  ‘Yeah, well tell me that when I’ve finished.’ Games lifted his face as he continued authoritatively. ‘You rode into town this afternoon, an’ went straight to the Delano hole to start your drinkin’. Remember, all that’s incontestable, so don’t say anythin’ dumb.’

  ‘I don’t deny it, but I was on my way somewhere else. I needed a swift drink . . . a dust settler.’

  ‘I said nothin’ dumb, Billy,’ Games returned. ‘You don’t understand the meanin’ of a swift one. I’m talkin’ the amount, not the speed you tipped ’em back. The barkeep says you near drank yourself into a stupor. You stumbled into the back store-room an’ collapsed against the door.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t deny that either. That’s all I remember, though,’ Billy gasped.

  ‘Hmm, lookin’ at it one way, that would add up,’ Games frowned. ‘Another way would be actin’ up when you weren’t drunk at all. Leastways not that first time. It was a sham. I reckon you were fakin’ it.’

  ‘That would make me a pretty dumb ass.’

  ‘Yeah, goes without sayin’, Billy. The window out back of the saloon store was hangin’ open, because it’s how you went to meet your friends, whoever they are . . . or were. I doubt you’ll be seein’ ’em again. Then you busted into the bank an’ got Chester Jarrow to open the safe, before you beat him to death.’

  ‘Stupid . . . stupid. What about these friends you say I had? Where are they?’

  ‘Don’t know. But three riders were seen hightailin’ it from the north end of town shortly after. Huh, a trio of real lizard-tails. Dod Levitch is leadin’ a posse after ’em. But even if they make it to the hills, we’ve got you. You’re in the deep an’ treacly, Billy, with no one to pull you out. Makes you kind of sick I guess.’

  ‘You sayin’ I murdered Mr Jarrow?’ Billy asked with what sounded like genuine disbelief.

  ‘Sure am, Billy boy. What would you do if you were me? I’ve even got your pistol locked in my safe. The one with your initials scratched into the butt. Dod found it beside the body. We needn’t go into detail right now, but you’ve only got to take a close look at it, if you get my meanin’.’

  ‘My gun . . . but I didn’t . . .’ Billy started to stammer.

  ‘Oh yes you did, Billy. An’ you panicked when you’d done it. Only a natural idiot would leave the killin’ weapon behind. Your gang saw it an’ made tracks . . . left you to face the music. You should’ve run with ’em. Instead you sloped back to where you’d come from . . . probably fell asleep, what with the shock an’ all.’

  Billy’s face had drained of all colour and he now started to tremble. ‘I swear to you, Mr Games, I . . . I . . .’

  ‘Save your swearin’ for the second act, Billy . . . your encore for the trial.’

  ‘Why the hell would I want to kill Mr Jarrow? I’m no killer . . . where’d that come from? You know me.’

  ‘Thought I did, Billy . . . thought I did. But I will give you a reason or two. You an’ your family have got yourselves a mine that costs more to work than anythin’ you’re ever likely to dig up. So you wanted money . . . a big passel of it.’

  Billy shook his head in misery. ‘We pay our way, we always do. We’ve been tryin’ to get a bank loan but so’s most folk in these parts. Hell, that don’t mean any o’ us would kill for it.’

  Games took the masticated chaw of tobacco from his mouth and inspected it for a moment. ‘You an’ yours aren’t most folk, Billy. Jarrow said “no” to a loan an’ that’s a motive. As for the capability, are you forgettin’ all the times I’ve had to arrest you? Hell, I’ve lost count. You get liquored up an’ start a fight. It’s the oldest trick in the book to blame a failin’ . . . as if it’s some sort of charm. You get sober an’ claim you knew nothin’ about it. For chris’sake there’s no difference here ’cept this time you went the one step too far.’

  ‘No, you got to listen . . .’ Billy started.

  ‘No, you got to listen,’ Games replied. ‘This is the bit that could reduce you from gettin’ a rope around your neck, to the rest of your natural, breakin’ rocks. Maybe the jury will believe you were drunk when you killed Jarrow. I don’t know. What I do know for sure is, it was your gun an’ he had a fistful of that shirt of yours in his hand when he died. That’s a tad more’n circumstantial. Try claimin’ you weren’t up to your ears against that. You still swear you did nothin’?’

  ‘I can remember pushin’ away from the bar, headin’ for the back room . . . the store-room, an’ that’s all,’ Billy muttered. He rubbed at his aching head as he tried to get a memory working. ‘I recall feelin’ real weary . . . scarcely keep my eyes open. I couldn’t have had that many drinks. I didn’t have any money, an’ ain’t exactly got a line o’ credit. Goddamnit, Sheriff, that’s why I weren’t stayin’ long.’

  Games stared hard at Billy, thought there was suddenly something that could have made sense. ‘Glim Savotta found the body,’ he explained. ‘He saw the riders hazin’ from town. The back door of the bank was open, an’ he hollered for Dod. It was him found your gun an’ part of your shirt an’ came after you.’

  ‘He arrested me while I was asleep?’ Billy aske
d in disbelief.

  ‘While you were out cold. There’s a difference,’ Games drawled. He put the tobacco quid back into the side of his mouth, before continuing. ‘Blind roostered with an empty holster an’ a handful of shirt-front missin’. Where’d you stash your part of the take, Billy? Was there a share? It don’t seem likely you’d let the others take it all.’

  ‘I’ve never had any money . . . now . . . ever. An’ I know nothin’ o’ Mr Jarrow gettin’ killed or who the men are you’re talkin’ about.’

  ‘You’ve never been able to recall much, ’specially when you’re drunk, Billy. As I’ve already said, that’s the drunkard’s excuse. It don’t cut much ice any more with circuit judges.’

  From the street, sounds carried through the front office and into the four-cell jail. It was the raucous shouting of angry men, rash threats and ugly promises. A lynch mob was gathering, and Myron Games wasn’t surprised. But by the same token he wasn’t worried, was sure the law abiders of Bullhead would never allow that final, retrograde step. Angry though they were, the town’s rowdies and disrupters had always been a minority. A town was deserving of the law enforcement it got, had always been Games’ explanation to its electorate.

  Billy’s shoulders, then his whole body shuddered in defeat. ‘By the sound o’ ’em out there, they’re set on stretchin’ my neck before then. You might as well hand me over right now.’

  ‘The hell I will,’ Games retorted. ‘They know the circuit judge gets here at the end of the month. They’ll cuss an’ holler for a while, but that’s where it’ll end. You’ll have your day in court, Billy, an’ if you are guilty, hang legal after a fair trial. Twelve years I’ve been Bullhead’s lawman, an’ never yet have I had a prisoner taken from me. But just in case the lid comes off, I’ve got the Post brothers armed an’ staked out in the office. Newt’s nursin’ our big Colt shotgun an’ if that starts revolvin’, half the town best run for cover. You want anythin’? Some food maybe?’ he asked, not unkindly.