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  ‘There’s no other way to put it. We’ve just got to get on.’ Games glanced out the open window, noted the thin, pink wash of sun up. ‘In a couple of days, the boy’s pa is comin’ to town,’ he said. ‘You know how familial the Carrick family is. Billy told me he came in for one quick drink, and when he doesn’t show, old Harve’s goin’ to pay us a visit. He’ll be expectin’ to bail the son who tips Delano’s firewater down himself for half the night. Yeah. I’ll have to explain why he’s now somewhere in the middle of his neighbourhood desert, bitin’ dust.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have a heap o’ pity for the Carrick clan,’ Levitch growled. ‘Good-for-nothin’ fossickers if you ask me. Everybody knows there’s no gold or silver up in those mountain slopes. It’s nothin’ but goddamn trees, yet they don’t wander too far off ’em.’

  Unhappily, Games shook his head. ‘None of the Carricks have ever been the friendly kind,’ he conceded. ‘But that ain’t against the law. Stubbornness, ain’t either. Billy’s been the only trouble in the family.’

  By early morning, news of Billy Carrick’s escape and subsequent disappearance into the Tierra Sin Vida was flowing through Bullhead. Charles Milford stopped by the boarding-house, primarily to check on his patient’s progress. Myron Games had no reason for keeping the town doctor ignorant of the whole story and it was soon being passed on.

  George Houston heard about it from the waitress in the Land Hotel while working his way leisurely through breakfast. He listened politely but without great interest, had little reason for changing his plans. He was still of a mind to continue his journey northwards, not get concerned with or affected by problems within Bullhead.

  It was almost mid-morning when he ambled into the lobby, was greeted by a fretful-looking Orville Land.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Houston, I have a message for you,’ the hotel keeper said. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, after our conversation last night, I’m a tad surprised.’

  ‘And why’s that, Mr Land?’ Houston inquired, propping a cordial elbow on the reception desk. ‘What’s happened now?’

  ‘You told me you had no interest in Bullhead’s ongoing troubles.’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t.’

  ‘Then you aren’t acquainted with Chester Jarrow’s widow?’

  ‘Jarrow, the dead banker? I never heard of him or his wife before.’

  Land produced an envelope. ‘A boy delivered this while you were eating,’ he said.

  Houston looked at the letter. ‘Hmm, sealed. You’re informed on everything but the detail, Mr Land. It’s where the devil is . . . apparently.’

  ‘Information can be vital in towns like Bullhead. But it’s usually the truth which is written down. I think you’re aware of that, Mr Houston.’

  Houston took the envelope, noticed the neat handwriting. Mr G. Houston c/o The Land Hotel. He ran a thumb under the flap, extracted the single sheet and read the short letter. ‘And it’s getting to see those written words that makes it real,’ he muttered knowingly. Mindful of Land’s curiosity, he reread aloud.

  ‘Dear Mr Houston,

  Can you please see your way clear to discuss, perhaps undertake a personal favour? It concerns a matter which, I am certain, you will be in part, if not fully acquainted with by now.

  Yours sincerely, Agnes Jarrow.’

  Houston folded the note, returned it to its envelope and stowed it in his hip pocket.

  ‘Well, what’s to be made of that, I wonder,’ Land said.

  Houston grinned. ‘It’s plain enough. Mrs Jarrow wants me to pay her a visit.’

  Land gave a slight shake of his head. ‘You know what I mean. What’s it all about?’

  ‘Accepting you’re certain to find out sooner or later, I guess it’s going to be about her paying me to find the killer of her husband. If it’s anything else, right now and with respect, it’s none of your goddamn business. Meantime Mr Land, where do you suggest I go look for her?’

  ‘She’s evidently at home,’ Land replied, somewhat taken aback at Houston’s not ill-humoured response. ‘It’s the two-storey clapboard at the end of what’s called Cottonwood Walk. Turn left out of here, left again at the second corner. It’s no more than two or three minutes.’

  Houston nodded his thanks and, with a measure of anticipation, adjusted his hat and walked into the morning sunlight.

  CHAPTER 6

  The temperature of the day was already soaring. Houston guessed by noon it would be hot enough to blow the tops off thermometers.

  As he passed beneath the half-dozen trees that gave the street its name, he got to thinking of Billy Carrick, pondering the information offered him by the chatty waitress.

  A scared youngster would knowingly be headed for a lonely, thirsty death. It was a bad way to go and, although Houston was contemptuous of most murderers, he had a degree of consideration for Billy Carrick.

  He lifted the latch of the gate, brushed aside the low branch of a walnut tree, and walked a pebbled path to the portico of the impressive dwelling.

  A housemaid answered to his pulling of the door-bell. ‘Are you Mr Houston?’ she enquired pleasantly.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He nodded. ‘Maybe a bit sooner than expected.’

  ‘Please come in,’ she replied with an accepting smile.

  Along a hallway carpeted with Navaho rugs, Houston followed the girl to a small, handsomely-furnished parlour. Seated on a small sofa, a woman gave a word of greeting and made an offer of refreshment. Houston declined, and the woman gestured him to a high-backed chair. He seated himself and, covering a knee with his hat, looked up to meet the intense scrutiny.

  Agnes Jarrow was middle-aged with tightly-pinned, ash-grey hair. Her bereavement dress was sombre black that accentuated her pale features. She wore little make-up, and Houston thought her hazel eyes didn’t look as though they had suffered from much weeping.

  As though reading his thoughts, she lifted her chin to speak. ‘You’ll know who I am, Mr Houston, no doubt be aware of my circumstances. But I’m no longer weeping. I know nothing will bring my husband back. I shall try to overcome my remaining grief with special memories. He would have wanted it that way, probably be quite proud of me.’

  ‘I’m sure he would, ma’am. Nevertheless, you have my commiserations,’ Houston muttered.

  ‘Thank you. I’m glad you didn’t say sympathy or pity. And thank you for your prompt response to my note.’ Mrs Jarrow settled herself more comfortably. ‘Chester has left me well provided for. I can afford to pay well for what I’m going to ask of you. Would you be interested?’

  ‘Not if you were wanting me to harvest your nut trees. But I reckon it’s for something more important than that,’ he replied, more offhand than he had intended.

  ‘Yes, it’s about the jailbreak. April has told me that young Billy Carrick has no food and only one canteen of water. The Tierra Sin Vida has a horrifying reputation and I doubt any local men would follow him in there.’

  ‘Why should they? It would be like chasing him up the scaffold steps. The way I heard it told, there was no doubt about the evidence against him,’ Houston said, knowing the answer to his next question before he asked it. ‘Likewise, you know something of me, Mrs Jarrow . . . my work . . . my reputation. So how do I figure here? What would the employment be for?’

  ‘I don’t know what kind of man I expected to meet, Mr Houston. I’ve heard loose talk of similar professional men, but right now, I’m concerned about you holding a confidence,’ she murmured.

  ‘If it’s about me accepting what it is you’re getting around to asking me to do, don’t be,’ he assured her. ‘That’s always private.’

  Agnes Jarrow smiled contemplatively. ‘The people of this town knew Chester Jarrow as a banker, albeit slightly more generous than a typical one. To me he was a lot more than that, of course . . . a fine husband with qualities. Never doubt my loyalty to him, Mr Houston.’

  ‘I have no reason to,’ he frowned. ‘I trust I’m not going to.’
r />   ‘I’m not overcome by thoughts of vengeance, but I believe his murderers must be punished.’ She matched stares with Houston for a long moment, her voice not faltering as she continued. ‘It’s the real murderers I’m talking about, Mr Houston. They must be caught . . . brought to book for their brutal, uncivilized crimes.’

  Houston nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well contrary to what’s put about, there aren’t many murderers who get away with it . . . men or women. Like Billy Carrick who’s trapped in a wilderness with little or no hope of survival. But the three who rode with him have a chance. They’ll probably have split up . . . riding free and with money for the spending.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘Why not? Their time’s limited, though. It’ll be drinking and gambling. The wrong word at the wrong time in the wrong place. A drunken whisper in the ear of a pretty saloon girl. Then a lawman curious about an over-generous stranger. It’s the usual way.’

  ‘You sound as though you know the type well,’ Agnes Jarrow observed.

  ‘I do. Our paths have crossed often enough,’ Houston admitted. ‘Sooner or later your husband’s killers will pay the price.’

  Agnes Jarrow frowned. ‘Hmm. It’s the later, I don’t like. I wouldn’t say this to Sheriff Games, nor to Deputy Levitch. Fact is, there’s few in Bullhead would actually understand. I’m telling you, Mr Houston, because you should be able to be more objective. Being a stranger helps, of course.’

  Houston wanted clarification. ‘Helps what, Mrs Jarrow?’ he asked, with a hint of impatience.

  ‘My concern for young Carrick.’

  Then, at that moment, Houston realized how she intended her money to be spent. ‘I’m not sure I follow you, ma’am,’ he said, thinking now he did. ‘You’ll have to be more specific . . . quite specific.’

  Agnes Jarrow’s eyes didn’t waver, and her voice was level. ‘I’m not convinced of Billy Carrick’s guilt,’ she came out with.

  Houston took it in for a moment. ‘You can say that, despite the evidence against him?’

  ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought. The bloody pistol conveniently left beside Chester’s body . . . a piece of shirt clutched in his hand. Can you imagine how difficult it actually would have been to obtain that handful-sized piece of shirt, Mr Houston?’

  ‘I hadn’t done. But now I think of it, I can see what you mean. Strong evidence though.’

  ‘Too strong. Too contrived and too convenient. That pistol was easily identified as belonging to Billy Carrick. How many murderers would be foolish enough to leave the murder weapon behind? It had his initials on it, for goodness sake.’

  ‘I’ve listened to some of the talk,’ Houston said. ‘A drunken murderer’s not usually too attentive to detail.’

  ‘Dr Milford gave me a thorough account of the whole, terrible business when I pressed him,’ she countered. ‘Did you know the boy was found in a back store of Delano’s Saloon . . . that he was unconscious when they arrested him? Was that in some of the talk, Mr Houston?’

  ‘Not put like that, it wasn’t.’

  ‘No. From a virtual lynch mob it wouldn’t be, would it? And in this case, the law as well. It’s not my area of expertise, but I would have thought that shooting someone might sober you up. Apparently, Billy Carrick did his drinking at the bar, then went into the store room and climbed through a window. There were three strangers waiting outside and he agreed to join them in breaking into the bank.’

  Houston was listening silently. He was also breathing deeply, creating images of the incident as Agnes Jarrow continued.

  ‘After shooting my husband dead and arranging the incriminating evidence, he hid his share of cash from the safe and returned to the saloon. Finally, he got comfortable enough to drink himself into near-oblivion and wait for the sheriffs to arrive. Well, Mr Houston, I ask you. If it wasn’t for the shocking reality, I’d say it was a turn straight from the music hall.’

  For a long moment, Houston thought it over. ‘I hadn’t even started to consider an alternative state of affairs, ma’am,’ he conceded. ‘But the way you’re telling it now, what’s being said does sound too unreasonable to be possible . . . to have happened.’

  ‘You know how a quail walks lamely away from its nest, dragging its wing . . . confusing and attracting attention at the same time? It seems to me that’s what we’ve got here.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘The truth was behind the appearance of what happened. There’s been a rolling wave of judgement and impulsive action because of it,’ she declared. ‘As for the Carrick family’s animosity towards Chester because he refused them a loan, pah. If that was the custom, there’d be a lot fewer businesses and settlers in Bullhead, I can tell you. But they claim Billy Carrick just hated Chester . . . Chester Jarrow the bank manager, because of it. Well I don’t believe it.’

  ‘With enough whiskey inside them, any youngster can get to believe almost anything. What’s your reason not to?’

  Avoiding a categoric answer, Agnes Jarrow continued. ‘Naturally I was never a witness to the drinking, those saloon brawls or whatever, but I do have a reason. It’s only a one-off, but nevertheless . . .’

  ‘Tell me. If it’s personal, it might make a difference to what I do next,’ Houston encouraged.

  For a moment, a slight, meaningful smile melted the sadness of Agnes Jarrow’s face. ‘It was personal enough,’ she started. ‘A few months back, there’d been heavy rain all night and all morning, and the main street was a quagmire. I wanted to get across, but the mud was oozing deep. It was Billy Carrick’s voice I heard. He was just behind me. Allow me ma’am, he said, and the next thing I knew he was lifting me off the sidewalk and carrying me across the street. Yes, I think he must have had a drink inside him, but it’s not the point. It was his instinctive inclination to help, what he said next. Shameless, some would say, but you had to have been there. I was and saw something else.’

  ‘Quite the caballero. What did he say next?’ Houston wanted to know.

  ‘When he set me down on the boardwalk, I thanked him. I’m the wife of Chester Jarrow, the man you’re supposed to hate. Did you know that? I asked him.’

  ‘ I know who you are, Mrs Jarrow. It don’t make the gumbo any less slippy, though, he replied.’

  ‘You didn’t think about dropping me in it, then?’ I suggested. He shook his head and pushed his hat straight. Naagh. I hate gopher holes an’ rain, ma’am . . . ’specially gopher holes filled with rain, he said. But there’s no man or woman I can think of. Not livin’ anyways. He added that bit in mock toughness. Then he laughed. It left an impression, Mr Houston.’

  ‘Yeah, it would.’

  ‘When the murder was discovered, and Billy Carrick was arrested, folk only remembered the bad things, the drinking and street brawling. Some of those people should have known better.’

  ‘I can see how – if it’s the same feller we’re thinking of – you might feel this way, ma’am,’ Houston responded. ‘It might all be a falsehood, but that evidence is there and will be considered. . .by the jury, not you or me.’ Houston looked up at a pair of wall-hung pictures, presumed they were of Mr and Mrs Jarrow. ‘Of course, there have been cases where evidence was proved to have been planted,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose,’ she murmured disconsolately.

  ‘Now perhaps you can tell me what it is you want me to do,’ he said, attempting to bring up the mood dip.

  ‘If that boy is guilty, it must be decided in a court of law, not by some crude, arcane justice,’ Agnes Jarrow said. ‘He must be given every opportunity to plead his case . . . to be defended by a proficient attorney. If he is innocent, as opposed to not being proved guilty, he shouldn’t be left to die in that dreadful wasteland.’

  It was close to what Houston was thinking. ‘Fair enough. And you’re asking me to go after him? You want him brought back alive to stand trial?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Houston. For that I’m prepared to pay you one thousand dollars. The Tierra Sin Vida
deserves its bleak reputation, but I believe if you’re properly prepared and there’s an attractive enough reward, you’ll have the beating of it. There’ll be maps at the Land Office, not that there’ll be any helpful information on them, and I’ll pay for a pack animal . . . two if you need them.’

  Houston grinned wryly. ‘You done much man hunting before, ma’am?’

  ‘It seems to me, you find out why men die, then do your best to counter it,’ she responded. ‘It would be an outrage for Chester’s murderers to evade punishment. Worse if an innocent man went to his death because of it. In that, my motive is clear. And I’m not overlooking the fact that the law is implicated,’ she added sharply.

  Houston picked up his hat, got to his feet and walked to the door. ‘In some ways, young Carrick’s got a lot going for him. Someone like you, grubstaking his life with most of it ahead of him.’

  ‘It’s not a grubstake, Mr Houston. Does that mean you’ll go after him?’

  ‘Just as soon as I get myself that proper preparation. And for a thousand dollars, I’ll do most things straightaway.’

  ‘Thank you. He’s carrying the deputy sheriff’s sidearm, apparently.’ Agnes Jarrow stifled the weakest of grins. ‘So he may resist.’

  ‘They sometimes do, given a chance. Don’t worry, ma’am, it comes with the territory. I’ll bring him back alive.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Orville Land directed Houston to a stock dealer, advised him of the store for supplies. The hotelkeeper also attempted to deter him from the venture.

  ‘It’ll be like suicide,’ he warned.

  ‘Just how big is it then, this desert?’ Houston asked. ‘More than a thousand miles across?’

  ‘Not quite. But it’ll probably seem like it. I once read, it’s the cautious who make fewer mistakes.’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t want being cautious to be my downfall. I’ve got all the essential trappings to survive.’

  ‘You’ll have more than food and drink to worry about,’ Land persisted. ‘What happens if you meet up with Carrick sooner than you thought. Don’t forget he’s got some knowledge of the place, could be laying for you . . . for someone right now. He’s already half lizard if you ask me. Do you really want to die out there on the sandy griller, watching your blood burn as it leaks away? It’s a mighty curious move for someone looking for a cooler destination.’