Houston's Story Read online

  ‘He’s someone who don’t take to bein’ prodded like that, Dod,’ Games said quietly. ‘ ’Specially with no cause.’

  ‘Yeah? Well he’s a form o’ life I can’t abide. Worse’n a mercenary,’ Levitch muttered.

  ‘Cuff Marteau felt that way. Had a mind to mention it too. Big mistake. Don’t you go makin’ the same one. If you want to know what I mean, call in at the smithy and take a look at him.’

  ‘Houston can go to hell,’ Levitch breathed.

  ‘He probably will one day, Dod. Meantime, those special deputies of ours are liable to get restless. One of us will have to handle the night watch.’

  ‘It won’t be you, Myron,’ Doc Milford said. ‘You’re not going back there. Not with one leg.’

  ‘I’m not goin’ to sleep. I’ll go to the office,’ Levitch agreed.

  ‘OK. An’ thanks. Pesky leg is givin’ me hell,’ Games accepted.

  ‘I told you to rest up,’ Milford explained as he got to his feet. ‘Come on, I’ll see you to the boarding house . . . make sure you get there.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Fifteen minutes after the sheriff had left the hotel, Levitch and Savotta moved out into the street. They untethered their mounts at the hitching rail, swung into their saddles and slowly walked towards the jailhouse.

  ‘So far so good,’ Levitch remarked just loud enough for Savotta to hear. ‘What’s that about an ill wind that blows nobody any good? Hah, at this rate, ol’ peg leg won’t be too surprised at there never bein’ any tracks to follow.’

  The horses nickered uneasily and Savotta spit when a large gust blew alkali up into their faces. ‘What time you seein’ Carrick?’ he asked, squinting along the main street.

  ‘Around midnight,’ Levitch muttered. ‘His favoured route’s always goin’ to be the back way. With three o’ you on a stake-out he won’t have a chance. It’ll all end there.’

  ‘Smart. Real smart,’ Savotta chortled. ‘You do the thinkin’, Doddy.’

  Levitch made a grim smile. ‘In our line o’ work, a dead suspect’s usually a guilty one, Glim,’ he said. ‘An’ it saves all ’round.’

  ‘Like I said, Doddy. You do the thinkin’.’

  Back at the hotel, George Houston had moved into the lobby. He was headed for the stairs when Orville Land made his request.

  ‘Before you put the light out, could we talk awhile?’ he asked. ‘I know you can’t be feeling like it, but if you could spare a moment?’

  Houston paused to frown at the hotelkeeper. ‘If you want to ask me to move on for bringing your establishment into disrepute, it was the blacksmith’s fault, not mine. Blame him.’

  ‘I do, Mr Houston. That’s not what concerns me,’ Land said. ‘And there was no damage done, except to his face. No. It’s about something entirely different.’

  ‘Well, I know there’s one hell of a conspiracy to stop me getting to my bed. And that concerns me. You might as well come on up.’

  In his room, Houston tossed his hat onto the bed and looped his gun belt on the bedpost. He moved to the open window and sat on the ledge where he could see the nearest stretch of lamp-lit main street. The shadowy group of people he took notice of were those still milling in the area opposite the jailhouse. He saw Levitch and Savotta ride up, Levitch dismount and Savotta ride on.

  The hotelkeeper had seated himself in the single rocker, and started to explain. ‘I said it was something different, well it is . . . a lot different. I’m working on a book . . . writing it, that is. My folks used to say I had something storybook about me . . . a literary twist. Right from knee-high, I just took to the printed page.’ At the expression on Houston’s face, Land stopped for a moment before continuing. ‘Sorry, I’m digressing,’ he said. ‘It’s mainly a collection of biographies. Stories for which I’ve collected material over the past five years.’

  ‘That’s interesting. I guess you’re well placed in this neck of the woods.’

  Land looked as though he didn’t fully understand Houston’s remark . . . mistakenly thought there might be a sarcastic note. ‘Yes, well it’s not always this quiet,’ he replied, with an understanding smile. ‘It probably won’t take the world by storm. No threat to Poe or Hawthorne. But I am making the effort.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ Houston said. ‘Five years? What’s that got to do with me?’

  Land placed one small, smooth hand on each of his kneecaps and started. ‘Five years ago, I was running a bar in Colorado Springs. It was pretty wild and wide open, and I was providing tables for the likes of Cody and Hickock. At the time, or soon after, there was an enthusiastic market for their somewhat embroidered lifestyles. I got to thinking there might just be a similar interest in the truth. You know, more historical than fanciful. So I started talking to them . . . interviews.’

  ‘I’ll wager you got bigger lies from them than from neutral observers. But I asked what’s it got to do with me? I didn’t know either of them,’ Houston said.

  ‘Did anyone? I actually started to put pen to paper seriously with the appearance of Roy Bean . . . him and his retinue. Before he took retirement, he was our circuit judge. Not much clemency given there, I can tell you. Some of the stories which came from his makeshift courtroom had to be de-winded for print. No one would have believed the truth. It wasn’t so much the wildness of it . . . more the unbalanced punishments. Too much even for a Buntline dime novel.’

  ‘And this is where I come in?’ Houston put to the hotel proprietor with obvious incredulity.

  ‘No. I would be talking with you in the chapter about chasing outlaws and those with prices on their heads. The theme, if I can create one, is about working with the law. I’ll be trying to describe some sort of balance between those who worked for and inside of it, and those who worked against and outside of it.’

  Houston nodded. ‘OK. I think I understand. So, which side would I be on?’

  ‘Inside, of course. I heard you say that’s the way you undertook work. But that’s the interest . . . the siding of a rumour. Most folk, and that includes the law, seem to dislike and distrust . . .’

  ‘My sort,’ Houston interrupted.

  ‘Your word, Mr Houston, not mine. Maybe facts . . . answers to one or two questions could be one way of setting the record straight. What do you say?’

  ‘Yeah, well I don’t have to answer. If I don’t like the way it’s going, I’ll put a bullet in you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t shoot the scribe Mr Houston. Not if it’s an accurate portrayal. Otherwise exactly. It’ll prove a point, either way.’

  ‘What else is in it for me?’ Houston asked. ‘Everything’s got its price, and if it’s now, I’m paying a high one.’

  ‘A bottle of Red Turkey. Two Bottles of Red Turkey.’

  Houston nodded, turned his full attention to Land. ‘Start asking your questions,’ he said.

  ‘Right, thank you. Well, how . . . when did you decide on bounty hunting as a way to make a living?’

  ‘I’m only answering for me, you understand? Most other bounty men I’ve crossed paths with are unscrupulous scum. If you write most of them are that, making dollars no matter how, you wouldn’t be too far from the truth.’

  ‘But you don’t place yourself in that category,’ Land offered. ‘How about your motives? Are they that different . . . personal?’

  ‘Not any more, no. Nobody ever asked me that before, so I never really thought too much about it. Most places I go, they hear your name and think they know all about you. Usually they sidle off as though you’re carrying the cow pox.’

  ‘Yes, I saw something like that earlier. Please continue.’

  ‘My pa was a lawman. Sheriff of Paymore County for seven years. Then Smallfield for five. When I was fifteen, I was riding with posses to hunt down all sorts of owl hoots. I learned from him.’

  ‘Not collecting bounties though,’ Land observed. ‘You wanted to be a sheriff like him?’

  ‘Yeah, he was big in all ways to me. Like a pa should be, I sup
pose. Only ever got beat by regulations. We’d chase some bad ass all the way to the county line, sometimes the State border, and then have to turn back. Pa said he wasn’t allowed to do the job he was paid for.’

  ‘I’m listening, and I understand,’ Land said with obvious empathy. ‘With the impatience of youth, you wanted to buck rules and regulations.’

  ‘Yeah, sort of. I would have ridden on. . . trailed the bad ones across two States if I’d had to. The worth of a job half-done is nothing, was something else he said.’

  ‘Your pa’s work ethic is commendable. What happened to him?’

  ‘He was west of the Green River, hunting down a couple of killers. They holed up in some cut-bank, waited for him to ride past, then rode out and shot him. Simple really.’

  ‘You went after them?’

  ‘With a full posse. We chased them all the way to Lake Powell and the county line. The posse was led by a deputy who told us it was as far as we could go. No jurisdiction, he said. Like hell, I said. It was my Pa. I trailed them to Rainbow Bridge, but they’d been and gone. The marshal suggested I go home . . . said it was his responsibility.’

  ‘And was it?’ Land asked, his interest stirred and genuine.

  ‘Yeah, it was, but only as long as they remained in the territory. I think that’s what most of the law wanted . . . what they hoped for. An unloading of their problem.’

  ‘What did you do? As if I couldn’t guess.’

  ‘Presented him with my star. I bought a fresh horse and rode into Arizona.’

  ‘You caught up with them?’

  ‘Yeah. In a big cow-pen of a town, twenty miles south of the border. They treed the marshal . . . made him a prisoner in his own jail.’

  ‘And the men you were looking for?’

  ‘They weren’t coming to me, so I had to go to them. I knew they wouldn’t surrender and they didn’t. I ended up with one bullet singeing my neck and another in my arm.’ Houston grimaced at the memory, curled his hand around the upper part of his left arm. ‘But it’s a keepsake of sorts . . . reminds me to be cautious.’

  ‘And them?’

  ‘They both died. I became Mr Paladin, a town hero. They patched me up while the marshal discovered the sons-of-bitches were wanted in three States. There was a five hundred dollar bounty on each of them. That’s the moment a new line of business beckoned.’

  ‘You were OK with taking the money?’

  ‘Why the hell not? I did what I set out to do . . . getting even for my Pa. I earned it. I realized that was the way to inflict reprisal and make a living, not sit around hoping anyone would wait for an invitation to trial. No. If they wanted it that way, I’d go after them. Stay with them no matter how far or how long it took.’

  ‘What’s the longest distance you’ve pursued someone?’ Land asked.

  ‘About seven hundred miles. From Ogden to Sacramento. The man was a lone wolf who robbed the Flyer and most of its passengers . . . killed one of them. That was a contract the Union Pacific paid me a lot for.’

  Land appeared satisfied with what Houston had offered. ‘I am grateful,’ he acknowledged, rising from the chair. ‘Extremely grateful. You’ve given me a considerable amount of material . . . fresh impetus to create something worthwhile. Can I use it all?’

  ‘If you think it’s useable, help yourself,’ Houston granted. ‘But get my name right and remember, I’m only answerable for me.’

  ‘Certainly. One last thing,’ Land pushed. ‘The way it looks to me, and perhaps many others, a bounty hunter is more or less a social outcast. Do you think that sort of isolation has affected you?’

  ‘You’d have to ask the many others that. I’d say not much. The difference between me and an elected law is a metal badge and an office. If those you’re talking about see me as a pariah, that’s their problem, not mine. Besides, over the years I have made a friend or two. There was once a sheriff who shook my hand for helping him.’ Houston gave Land a thoughtful look. ‘But why can’t all this wait? Why tonight?’ he added.

  ‘Two reasons. I thought there was a good chance that, come first light, you might for one reason or another, leave town. I’d miss the opportunity.’

  ‘Hmm. What’s the other reason?’

  ‘The one I’ve just thought of. If you sleep on what you’ve already told me, you might get reminded of something else.’

  ‘You mean the spread-eagle stuff? The sort that Wild Bill Hickock gave you?’

  ‘No. You look and sound too bright for that sort of hogwash. Besides, there wouldn’t be any point. So you’re not trailing anybody right now?’

  ‘Hah, I wondered if you’d get around to that.’ Houston looked down at his boots as though he wanted to remove them. ‘The moment I leave here I’m heading north, and now it’s with a brace of Red Turkey.’

  ‘Absolutely. And our local murder doesn’t interest you?’

  ‘Not at the moment. Like I keep saying, for chris’sake.’ Houston gave a weary smile, held out both hands as if to usher Land from the room. ‘That was your last question and my last answer. This is goodnight.’

  A minute later, Houston did remove his boots. He lifted his gun belt off the bedpost, sprawled on the bed and covered himself with a thin, single sheet. Able to distance himself from the anger and nervousness affecting Bullhead, sleep claimed him almost immediately.

  CHAPTER 4

  At ten minutes to midnight the main street still had plenty of movement. Local men were patronising anywhere that purveyed alcohol, were still discussing the looting of the bank, the murder of Chester Jarrow, and the locking up of Billy Carrick. A few of them continued to loiter in groups along the main street.

  From the law office, two guards looked out anxiously from cover. A front window had been eased up and, heeding Myron Games’ advice, Newt Post was resting the barrel of his big shotgun on the window ledge.

  ‘Hey, Dod. You reckon they’ll hang around all night? They sure sound an ugly bunch,’ he said quite loudly.

  Dod Levitch rose from the couch, adjusted his Stetson, and grinned disdainfully. ‘They’re talkin’ big, just like Myron said they would,’ he replied. ‘An’ they will think twice before takin’ on that cannon o’ yours. Keep sharp anyway. One o’ ’em might have more muck than brain. Meantime, I’m goin’ to have a few words with our jailbird.’

  ‘Myron’s already tried. You think you can make him confess?’ Rex Post asked.

  ‘Yeah, I think. There’s more ways than one to skin a goddamn cat.’ Levitch unlocked the cell door and moved in, slammed it shut behind him and stepped up to the first of the four cells.

  Billy Carrick was standing in the middle of the floor. In the gloom of the candle-light, he was staring straight back at him, appeared to be mumbling to himself.

  Levitch wondered how long he’d been there almost motionless, watching and waiting.

  ‘I’ve been drunk before,’ Carrick grizzled. ‘Had sore heads too. But I never felt like this. My head feels like it’s goin’ to bust open.’

  ‘That’s why they call it pop skull in the places you choose to drink.’

  ‘No. There’s somethin’ else goin’ on, I know it. It don’t feel right.’

  ‘Whatever it’s like, Carrick, it’s goin’ to get worse.’ Levitch leaned against the bars, grinned maliciously. ‘When the hangman slips that noose over your head, I’ve heard tell it’s the worst pain ever, an’ without even tightenin’ the knot.’

  Carrick closed his dark eyes for a moment. ‘You got nothin’ else to do? Sheriff’s not here an’ you’re takin’ advantage o’ someone behind bars. Is that it, Deputy?’

  ‘You could say that. But Games not bein’ here’s got nothin’ to do with it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I told him,’ Carrick said. ‘I’m no killer. Never have been, never will be.’

  ‘It was me found your gun at the bank . . . part o’ your shirt in the clutch o’ Jarrow’s fingers,’ Levitch sneered. ‘That jury’s goin’ to reach a guilty verdict without ha
vin’ to leave the courtroom. Huh, just lookin’ at you makes me want to puke.’

  With that, Levitch turned his back on the prisoner, propped his shoulders against the bars of the cell door.

  Carrick didn’t move, let his gaze drop to the deputy’s Colt which protruded from the flap of his buckskin coat. He swallowed, nervously, licked his dry lips and tried to think fast.

  Levitch went on goading, making unpleasantries. Without turning or taking a glance over his shoulder, he was hoping for Carrick to make his move. ‘You’re finished, Carrick. Why don’t you tell me about those three bad asses you threw in with? Where are they headed? Where’d you stash your share o’ the takin’s?’ he demanded.

  Carrick didn’t answer. He was already moving, quickly but silently forward to the cell door. Both his hands were trembling, and the top half of his head was cramping with pain as he grabbed for the deputy’s handgun. It lifted from the high-belted holster smoothly, and Levitch let out a groan of realization.

  There followed an unmistakeable sharp click as Carrick drew back the hammer. ‘Hell, Levitch, you got me so nervous an’ shaky, I’m likely to pull this trigger an’ blow your belly out from your back,’ he threatened. ‘No sound, please, an’ keep very still.’

  ‘Is that how you shot Chester Jarrow . . . an unarmed man, sneaky like?’

  ‘An’ shut it, too. Turn around.’

  Levitch did as he was told, glared at Carrick. ‘Whatever the hell you’re up to, you won’t get away with it,’ he said grimly.

  ‘I’m half-way there right now. You’ve got the keys on you, unlock this door. Remember this nervy finger o’ mine on the trigger.’

  The cell door swung open, but, for a moment the released prisoner hesitated. If he had been in a mood for nuance, he would have noticed that Levitch wasn’t quite as taken aback as he might have been. Not exactly supportive, an edge was missing to his response.

  Carrick stepped out of the cell. With a resigned curse and as much force as he could create, he struck up to the side of Levitch’s head with the Colt. The man’s jaw warped, and his mouth opened but there was no sound. His legs buckled, and Carrick caught him. ‘That’s for not wantin’ to believe me,’ he muttered, lowering him carefully to the stone-flagged floor.