Houston's Story Read online

  ‘I don’t feel hungry,’ Billy replied miserably. ‘I could sure use a whiskey bottle, though.’

  ‘The only liquor you’re gettin’, is if an’ when you’re offered a last supper. There’s water in the jug by your bunk. Make do with that.’

  Moving uncomfortably on his crutches, Games returned to the office. His rainy-day deputies who were usually stable hands, were each seated at a front window, either side of the front door. Both looked nervous, anxious about the men outside. One of them soon queried the sheriff.

  ‘What do you think, Myron? They goin’ to rush us?’

  ‘It’s not likely, Newt,’ Games rasped, as he awkwardly seated himself on the old, crusty leather-covered couch below the depleted gun rack. ‘I’ve just been explainin’ to young Billy. They’ll cut a ruckus, but they won’t come any closer. If you get worried, poke that cannon out of the window. That’ll scatter ’em.’

  ‘Risin’ wind sure ain’t makin’ things any cooler,’ Rex Post offered. ‘We must be at the edge o’ one o’ them twisters.’

  The warm wind was coiling in from the west. The men advancing on the jailhouse were getting their eyes and noses clogged, and it effectively scattered them. Tugging at the brims of their hats, they shifted towards the bar of the Land Hotel to continue their incitement and bitter condemnation.

  That again was something that Games understood. Chester Jarrow had been an influential business man, contributed a great deal to the town’s growth and prosperity, received vociferous support from those he had helped.

  CHAPTER 2

  At the Land Hotel, George Houston had lingered over his bath in warm, soapy water, and appreciated the change into fresh clothes. Now, his thoughts were for a glass or two of whiskey from a labelled bottle, then hopefully six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Walking through the lobby, Orville Land gave him a friendly nod, noted that he was still wearing his Colt revolver.

  There were more than twenty locals drinking in the bar room. Some were seated at small, round tables but most were on their feet, shuffling around in animated anger and impatience. One or two glanced his way as he found a leaning space near the end of the bar counter.

  ‘One way or another it’s a hellish night for Bullhead. As if what’s happened isn’t enough,’ someone exclaimed. ‘A feral animal . . . a pariah dog slinks in here an’ drinks among us as though it’s an equal.’

  Houston was instantly trying to estimate what the man meant. Some sort of significance nipped at his vitals. He took another sip of his whiskey, noticed the mood had suddenly become more tempered. He raised his eyes to the back-bar mirror as a gap seemed to open between himself and the brawny man seated by the front door.

  Cuff Marteau was the town blacksmith. He wore a leather apron, had a profuse salt-and-pepper beard below dark, deep-set eyes that were fixed directly on Houston.

  An elderly little man in a tight, grey suit and matching derby, responded. ‘What are you saying? What’s it to do with, Cuff?’ he asked.

  The blacksmith lifted a ham of a fist and pointed with it. ‘I never did take to anything that lived off carrion . . . low-life that lives off others. Especially the two-legged kind.’

  Houston had already cursed silently to himself as he realized it was him. Him, the big man was talking about.

  ‘What’s this about? Who is he?’ the grey suit man wanted to know.

  ‘His name’s Houseman, an’ he’s a goddamn bounty hunter. I was up in Goose Creek County end o’ last year. Watched him deliver a corpse right to the county jail. He sat his horse until the marshal brought him the bounty money . . . signed him off like a big sack o’ turnips. Yeah, I remember him.’ The blacksmith scowled around towards the other men. ‘You hear me, you boys? He’s the kind what tags some owl hoot mile after mile until he can backshoot him for the price on his head. Some even do it for gophers an’ wolves. There’s Mexicans still hunt for Apaches. You reckon we want to walk an’ drink beside ’em?’

  The man in a suit eyed Houston curiously. ‘Is that right, mister? You hunt men for a bounty?’ he asked.

  Houston took a deep in and out breath, grimaced and finished his drink. All eyes were fixed on him as he turned and set his back against the bar, made it obvious he was placing the glass from his right hand back onto the counter. ‘If they’re wanted by the law,’ he answered clearly. ‘But I take exception to being called feral. My name’s Houston, and I never shot a man who wasn’t facing me.’

  A suspenseful silence had descended on the bar-room. The blacksmith’s bitter remarks and accusation were a challenge Houston had heard before. He matched stares with the big man.

  ‘You’re making it hard for me to stay quiet, but I guess that’s your intention,’ he said evenly. ‘If I let it ride, this town’s going to be a real dangerous place. Some hotheads will be calling me out on the main street, others will bypass it with a bullet from the shadows. To be left alone I’m going to have to make you eat those words, mister, and you know it.’ Houston looked around him at the uncertain faces. ‘So, whatever happens here, everyone remember, it was you forced my hand. I was quietly taking a night cap. Nothing more.’

  ‘I’ll break you in half,’ the blacksmith threatened.

  ‘You’ll have to try. I see you’re not wearing any sort of gun,’ Houston observed. ‘So, fists it is.’ He started to unbuckle his gun belt, aware that Orville Land had stepped through the archway entrance.

  ‘Cuff Marteau. What’s going on?’ the hotelkeeper started sharply. ‘You know I don’t tolerate rowdy behaviour.’

  Marteau advanced on the bar, delivered a few French cuss words that related to house rules.

  Houston shrugged at knowing something inevitable was about to happen and calmly dropped his gun belt on the counter. He straightened, didn’t flinch as Marteau came at him in a rush.

  On instinct, Charles Milford MD clutched reassuringly at his small, black bag. He was almost certain his professional service would be required in the very near future. But to him, and maybe one or two others, it was obvious that the patient would be Cuff Marteau, not the stranger.

  Drawing back a big right arm, Marteau made a lumbering charge at his intended victim. Houston ducked, twisted slightly and threw up a defensive left to ward off the blow. He followed it immediately with a solid right fist low into the blacksmith’s belly. Marteau grunted and recoiled a single step. Houston quickly hit him again with a sledge-hammer of a blow into the side of his face. He felt the man’s wiry beard against the solid set of his fisted fingers, cursed and winced at the feeling.

  The onlookers gasped, and Charles Milford started to rise from his chair. Marteau shook his head and called Houston a name. With a bear-hug in mind, he took a few short steps forward, groping with his hands outstretched like a big, rearing crab.

  In the blacksmith’s crushing embrace, Houston realized he would have been helpless. But he also thought the man would be more used to lifting anvils and horses off the ground, than close-combat fighting with another man. He allowed himself to get within Marteau’s grasp, a perfect distance, then he hit him again and again, both fists one after another. He landed more than a half-dozen violent blows to the blacksmith’s big face, near closing his eyes each time his fists connected with a hard cheek bone or fleshy nose. Marteau had no time to think or reconsider his stance and Houston hit him one more time in the middle of his broad forehead. He staggered back a couple of short, heavily-laden steps then his legs buckled, and he sagged, hit the floorboards with a dull thud.

  Houston let out a long, thankful breath and turned to the barkeeper. ‘A pitcher of water,’ he requested, gritting his teeth at the pain that shot from his knuckles up his forearm.

  The barkeeper filled a glass jug and pushed it across the counter. Houston carried it to the heap of fallen Marteau, rolled him over on his back and tipped the contents into his bruised and battered face.

  Marteau spluttered, cursed and regained some sense.

  Houston frowned down at him and muttered h
is thoughts. ‘Remembering you’re the one on the floor, are you still thinking those things about me being a back-shooter . . . still going to shout your mouth off?’

  Marteau struggled to a sitting position. He looked down, blinked at his blood-soaked beard, issued one or two French expletives. ‘You carrying something in your fists?’ he panted.

  ‘Just tetchiness. Now, I’m waiting for you to admit you’re mistaken.’

  Marteau looked up at Houston for a long moment, garbled another curse. ‘If you got enough sand to take me on, maybe you ain’t such a cowardly son-of-a-bitch. Don’t mean you’re a saint, neither.’

  Houston nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he decided and looped his gun belt over his shoulder. He was going to have a word with Orville Land, but decided a second drink was more agreeable.

  The barkeeper poured a generous measure of Red Turkey. ‘On me,’ he said. ‘This is cheaper than music hall.’

  A moment later, Sheriff Games, hobbled in on his crutches. He had made a slow, unwieldy trip from his office to investigate the disturbance. ‘Benefit of office . . . word gets there fast,’ he replied in answer to the unasked question.

  ‘Shame you can’t respond likewise, Myron.’ Doc Milford offered a short, tight smile. ‘Lucky it’s nothing for you to fret over.’ He then gave a brief explanation for the lawman. ‘Cuff shot off his mouth about the stranger here. He’s not such a stranger now, of course. His name’s George Houston, if that means anything to you. But it’s all over now.’

  Two men helped the irritated sheriff into a chair, helped him rest his injured leg on another. Games grunted with a mixture of pain and impatience, then subjected Houston to a searching scrutiny. ‘I have heard of you. What do you want in Bullhead? Or should I say, who?’ he demanded.

  ‘A little peace and quiet. Same as it was when I rode in,’ Houston answered with deliberate irony. ‘A couple of days rest before I move north . . . a long way north.’

  ‘Mr Houston only arrived a short time ago, Myron,’ Orville Land said. ‘So he wouldn’t know much about Jarrow’s death, if that’s what you’re thinking. I can’t imagine he’d want to get interested in that affair.’

  For a moment, Games considered Land’s apparent support for Houston. ‘Well get this straight, Houston,’ he growled. ‘Bullhead law can handle its own problems. We don’t need outside help.’

  ‘I know, Sheriff. Like I already told Mr Land, I’ve no interest.’

  ‘As for you, Myron, you should be stuck in your office chair, not gallivanting around town. Your leg needs rest,’ Milford reproved.

  ‘That’s what I was doin’,’ Games replied. ‘But a bunch of rowdies were actin’ up until that wind cleared ’em from the street.’

  ‘With most of ’em headed this way,’ Milford offered without hint of humour.

  The high batwings were rattling, and dust wafted through the gaps. ‘Some of us could do with rain blowing our way. But this here’s no bean patch,’ Land said, hurrying across to close an open front window.

  ‘I reckon we’re in for a long, dry spell, with or without this wind,’ Games sighed. ‘But the hell of it is, there’ll be few tracks left for Dod an’ the boys to follow.’

  ‘Maybe the posse’s already caught up with Carrick’s pards,’ a local contributed.

  ‘No, not yet,’ the barkeep joined in. ‘From what I heard, them three curs had too good a start. They could be half-way to Robber’s Roost by now.’

  By the time Houston had finished his second drink and was ready to take to his bed upstairs, Doc Milford had finished applying salve to the blacksmith’s face. The battered man had eventually recovered, waving away assistance as he walked slowly out into the night.

  Moments later, those remaining in the bar heard the drumming of hoofs. The sound was above the soughing of the wind, and Houston, guessing it was the posse returning, decided to linger.

  A group of grim-faced men, their range clothes streaked with dust, pushed their way through the batwings. They were led by a tall, slim man with a buckskin jacket and wearing a deputy’s star. Houston noted the silver hat-band around a black Stetson, and a bitter scowl that marred a handsome face.

  Dod Levitch raised a gloved hand to quash the torrent of excited queries. ‘We followed tracks as far as Ralph Kanford’s spread, an’ that was it. With this goddamn wind there’s no hope o’ cuttin’ any fresh sign till mornin’,’ he explained briefly.

  ‘How many of ’em were there? Three?’ Games asked.

  ‘Yeah, but they weren’t anythin’ to do with Billy Carrick, you can be sure o’ that. Huh, wild-goose-chase comes to mind,’ Levitch growled. ‘They weren’t the killers.’

  ‘So, who were they?’ Games continued.

  ‘Stan Tutts, Boy Kanford, an’ Thomas Hunner,’ Levitch replied, taking a few strides towards the bar. ‘Don’t come much tamer than that.’

  Games and Milford swapped frowning glances. All things being equal, the men named by the deputy were hardly the kind to throw in with a tearaway like Billy Carrick, engage themselves in the looting of a bank and the vicious killing of a banker. Boy Kanford was the Bar K man’s eldest son, and Stanley Tutt’s reputable nature was beyond doubt. As well as being Ralph Kanford’s ramrod, he was his brother-in-law. Thomas Hunner was Bullhead’s resident preacher.

  Milford sighed. ‘Sure sounds like your good deputy followed the wrong tracks, Myron,’ he said. The doctor’s words gave lie to the irony, the paradox of what whirled around inside his head. Got to be as guilty as hell. All of them, I’ll wager, he thought.

  Dod Levitch got to within a short distance from where George Houston was standing. The barkeeper served him a tall beer and he downed a good half before turning back to Sheriff Games.

  ‘I’ll take out another posse first thing in the mornin’,’ he said. ‘This blow won’t last all night. We’ll find tracks, don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, Dod. But it’s where they’ll end up that worries me. Someone’s already mentioned some such bolt hole,’ Games rasped. ‘You say Savotta didn’t get much of a look at ’em, so we got no descriptions to go on.’

  ‘He’s here now, so you can hear it yourself,’ Levitch said, turning to Glim Savotta. ‘Tell the Sheriff, Glim. Tell him all you can remember.’

  The barkeep drew another beer as Glim Savotta strode forward, wrapped a big hand about the glass and stared at the frothy-topped liquid. The posse-man wiped the corner of his mouth on a shirt cuff before taking a pull.

  ‘It was dark in the alley behind the bank, I know that. I was takin’ a leak after a long ride, you know how it is,’ he told Games. ‘All I saw was three hombres. They mounted up real fast and went off lickety-split. I wasn’t goin’ to run out with nothin’ more’n my dick in my hand, was I? So, I wouldn’t know any of ’em again, even if I bumped into ’em in here. Sorry Sheriff, I couldn’t even tell you what colour their horses were.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s a lot to go on. You’ll go far in the thief-catcher business,’ Games scowled as Savotta’s mind went back to his beer. ‘So what happened out there?’ he continued, turning to his deputy.

  ‘We found tracks o’ three riders, north o’ town. I figured they’d be the ones we were after. I’m sorry, Myron,’ Levitch offered, ‘but it’s not so easy in full dark, an’ I’m no trail-cutter.’

  ‘Sure, I know that, Dod,’ Games agreed. ‘An’ this storm don’t help.’

  ‘How about we tap the Carrick boy?’ Levitch prodded. ‘Give me five minutes with him. I’ll tap him parts he never knew he had. He’ll tell us what we want to know, goddamnit.’

  ‘I already talked to him,’ Games said. ‘He says he don’t remember, an’ for some reason or other I believe him. He’s of no use.’

  ‘How’d you mean? By keepin’ his mouth shut?’

  Games shook his head. ‘No. He claimed he didn’t know anythin’ about the killin’ or the robbery. An’ Billy Carrick really ain’t smart enough to make it an act.’

  ‘Well, I’m just abo
ut smart enough to know it must’ve been him. Who else?’ Savotta drawled. ‘For chris’sakes, some of his shirt was in poor ol’ Chester’s hand. An’ his gun was on the floor inches from the open safe. It was still covered in blood.’

  For the first time, a thoughtful Levitch noted the presence of Houston. His long, considered stare began at the man’s boots and moved slowly upwards.

  ‘Not a good time to be a stranger,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘Who is he?’ he asked of Games.

  ‘Name’s Houston. George Houston. Do you know of him?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Levitch scowled and moved closer to Houston. ‘So, I hope he’s goin’ to stay out o’ what’s none o’ his business. We don’t need that sort o’ interest.’

  Games frowned at his deputy. ‘I don’t see why he should get involved,’ he muttered.

  ‘Yeah, well I’m just sayin’.’

  ‘I’ll take all this as a back-country goodnight.’ Houston manufactured an unsociable grin as he spoke. He turned on his heel and nodded towards Orville Land who was still eyeing him keenly.

  The deputy hadn’t yet finished. ‘You hear me, Houston?’ he called out. ‘We don’t want your sort around.’

  Houston stopped, took a deep breath and looked back at Levitch. ‘I hear you,’ he replied. ‘Like most of Utah probably did.’

  Levitch’s jaw twitched and he coloured. A few of the locals chuckled at the prospect of another confrontation.

  ‘I really am doggone tired,’ Houston continued. ‘But before I take the wooden hill, let me tell you this, Mister Deputy. I rode into town not looking for work or trouble. I’m passing through, so don’t push me. I’ll be gone soon enough. If you were a tad smarter you’d know that you could make this bank situation sound real important, stir my curiosity. Give me something to dream about.’

  Warned by Levitch’s scowl of ineffective anger, the drinkers now took care to stay impassive, their faces averted.