Border Search Page 7

  ‘Why did you come here?’ Fishback continued. Jack looked down at the mug in his hand.

  ‘Ah, that’s for me to know, Fishback. For you to maybe worry about.’

  ‘The way I heard it, you’re on the border owl-hoot with a whole passel o’ folk after your ass.’

  Jack felt his pulse race, the blood rush to his head. Because there was an element of truth in what Fishback said he didn’t look up. He knew that if he saw even the hint of a smile on Fishback’s face, he’d react. He placed both his hands flat on the table, thought it showed clear meaning.

  ‘I suppose it was Ralph Kettle who told you that, as well?’ he suggested.

  ‘Yeah, who else?’

  Jack agreed, thought it made some sort of sense. Presumably it was only Kettle himself who knew of Connie’s letters. But it was highly unlikely, hard to believe that he discussed such private affairs with his foreman. Now Jack got to wondering about Ralph Kettle as well as Fishback. If Jack was going to stick around there were a few questions he was interested in getting answered.

  ‘I guess everyone’s runnin’ scared o’ someone or somethin’,’ Fishback taunted.

  Jack cursed, got to his feet and squared up to the foreman. Fishback was surprised and backed off a short pace.

  ‘Best way to get your blood racin’, gents,’ Hector Bream said, stepping between them. ‘But not in my house.’

  As if at a timely moment, the ranch’s wranglers and punchers were suddenly filing from the bunkhouse, hurrying towards the cookhouse. Jack’s temper settled down and he moved to a seat next to Raul Chama.

  After breakfast the men got their work assignments. The punchers led their horses into the yard and saddled up, John Fishback told Chama to go with Bishop. He paired Jack with Rico, suggesting they round up strays that had broken through one of the northern fences and were strolling towards the foothills.

  ‘They won’t have climbed too high,’ he assured them, giving Rico a wink. ‘Not above the timber line, anyways. Just find ’em and drive ’em back. Buena suerte.’ Fishback’s last words were larded with mood and definitely for Jack’s benefit.

  ‘What’s the idea, Fishback?’ Jack asked. ‘I didn’t come here to look for breachy cows.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you ain’t strong enough to round up a few strays,’ Fishback responded. ‘If that’s the case, I ain’t got a use for you. This ain’t a greenhorn outfit. If you don’t like it see the boss tonight. Meantime get out o’ my sight.’

  Fishback rasped some unintelligible words, waving at the punchers to mount and get going. Still shouting orders, within seconds he was mixing with the swirls of dust being hoofed into the morning air.

  Rico grinned. ‘I won’t be looking to hurt you, gringo. Not just yet. Let’s vamoose,’ he said.

  Grasping the horn Jack swung into the saddle. In the mix of RK riders he saw Raul Chama astride a remuda mare. Bishop was alongside him on a similar mount. Chama lifted his chin, a restrained sign of assurance he would take due care.

  Rico set off around the house, yelling at Jack to follow. Narrow strips of worn trail wound among the green hills, were visible nearly all the way to the timber line. Jack couldn’t tell whether it was to or from trouble that Rico was spurring his yellow dun.

  One section of the fence had been breached. While Rico dismounted to look at the ends of the wire Jack traced the tracks of the cattle up the pine-studded slope above them.

  ‘No cow has shoved its way through this,’ Rico said. ‘The wire’s been cut.’

  Jack forgot the hostility for a moment. He got down and had a closer look. The Mexican was right, a pair of pliers had been used on the wire.

  ‘What the hell’s all this about?’ he said, as much to himself as to his harsh-faced companion. Rico peered up at the trail the cattle had chosen.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Unless it was the phantom cattle thief . . . Cattle Kate.’

  ‘With her wire cutters,’ Jack added derisively. ‘Maybe your partner’s doing some rustling he forgot to tell you and Fishback about.’

  Immediately Rico’s dark eyes turned hostile.

  ‘You have a big mouth, Finch. I can close it here and now if you want.’

  The elemental anger of the big Mexican amused Jack.

  ‘You need to go look in a mirror, Rico,’ he said. ‘Have you already forgot what happened the last time you tried that? Let’s get on with finding the beeves. We can fight in our own time.’

  ‘You mean we don’t want Mr Kettle paying for it,’ Rico returned. ‘OK gringo, lead the way.’

  ‘Yeah, like I’d do that,’ Jack told him. ‘Get going.’

  Rico spurred his horse up the slope and Jack followed. The grade grew steeper and after a while they had to wigwag their mounts for a better footing in the looser ground.

  An arduous twenty minutes later, Rico stopped. He pointed ahead and down into a dry gulch.

  ‘Dios mio! Look there,’ he rasped.

  The bottom of the steep-sided gully was choked with pine branches and brush, and, among the mass of fractured timber lay the remains of the strays.

  Rico swore. ‘They’ve been run in from above. Straight off the overhang,’ he said. ‘This isn’t rustling, it’s murder. Insano. Crazy murder.’

  Jack remained motionless, gazing down at the eerie carnage below. He shuddered involuntarily when a breeze soughed through the pine that surrounded them.

  ‘We’re not driving them anywhere now,’ he said. ‘Let’s turn around.’

  ‘You feel it too?’ Rico asked.

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘Something evil. There’s nothing here . . . nothing living,’ the Mexican said, his eyes moving around slowly. ‘I’ll go and look at those beeves, make sure they’re ours. Then we’ll go back.’

  Jack shaded his eyes against the sunlight and looked up, wondering where the vultures were, whether they would brave the confines of the gulch for meaty spoils.

  ‘Yeah I feel it,’ he replied moments later. He watched Rico letting his horse cautiously pick its steps as it descended. He buttoned the neck of his jacket and nudged his gelding on, his right hand resting on the butt of his Colt. When he reached the bottom ground Rico was already amongst the brushwood, counting the dead cattle.

  ‘It’s like a goddamn ice house down here,’ Jack said, blowing on his hands. The Mexican grunted a reluctant acknowledgement.

  ‘There’s six – maybe seven,’ he confirmed. ‘I’m not going to make sure. But they are RK stock.’ He clambered from the tangled crush of timber and glared at Jack. ‘Is this to do with you, gringo? You and your greaser friend? Last night when everyone was sleeping?’

  ‘You fool, Rico. You really are more stupid than you look,’ Jack retorted. ‘You know this was nothing to do with me or Chama. But if Fishback told you to provoke me, there’s no need. Just go ahead and pull that Colt you’re so fond of touching every few seconds. Go on. Try and shoot me, you poor excuse.’

  Rico shook his head. ‘Let’s just get the hell away from this place.’

  Jack guessed the vibrations of voodoo worried Rico far more than any supposed mission to bushwhack him. He dismounted and turned the gelding around, and, holding the reins in his left hand, walked as fast as he could from the gulch, back into the sunshine. After waiting a short while Jack yelled for Rico but there was no answer.

  ‘He can find his own way,’ he muttered loudly as he climbed back into the saddle. Then he started down the long stony grade, returning to the RK boundary fence.

  Less than five minutes later a single gunshot crashed out and his gelding stumbled and collapsed. He kicked free of the stirrups and jumped clear of the horse as it snorted and squealed to the ground.

  ‘You killed the horse, you son of a bitch,’ Jack yelled, rolling into a large clump of white bull-nettle. He twisted his head and saw the gelding’s lustrous brown eyes rolling and its chest heaving. He grabbed for his Colt and touched the empty holster, twisted back and saw it lying beside the
dying horse.

  Back up the grade Rico walked into view. He had his rifle in his hands and, like someone who thought they had downed their quarry, he was on foot.

  ‘Mistake, you cowardly scum,’ Jack seethed. He looked at his Colt, then to the gelding whose nose was oozing bright blood. He cursed, lifted himself from the ground cover and stumbled forward on his knees.

  Rico fired again and the sound rolled overhead. Dirt erupted in front of Jack’s face and he turned and flattened himself amongst more nettle.

  The desperation of his plight made Jack’s whole body shudder. As the echo died he knew the Mexican was approaching.

  ‘Walk on, Rico,’ he shouted. ‘Come much closer and I’ll put you down again.’

  Rico hesitated. He could probably see the dying horse and probably also the wrecked stock of Jack’s rifle protruding from the saddle scabbard. But the Colt would be hard to see. He gave a throaty laugh.

  ‘You don’t have a gun, gringo.’

  ‘Yeah. And you thought you were going to whup me in a fist fight.’ Jack took one look around as if he’d find something else to fight with, then he leapt to his feet. ‘Try and hit this,’ he dared loudly.

  He was up and running hard further down the slope, looking ahead for some sort of cover. He flinched as the next explosion of the rifle rived and pulsed the air around him.

  Hell, I’ll face him head on, he thought.

  Jack stopped in his tracks, turned round to see whether Rico was standing where he’d been a few moments earlier, close to the dead gelding and his .44 Colt. But the Mexican had dropped his rifle, was crumpling, twisting as he fell.

  Drawn by incomprehension, Jack went two, then three paces to meet the fallen Rico. He couldn’t figure what had happened as his attention locked into the Mexican’s contorted features.

  Rico’s neck muscles flexed. ‘Como?’ he gasped, then his eyes closed and his head lolled.

  Jack kneeled and grabbed the body. He turned it over away from him, grimaced at the dark blood that stained the back of the cloth chaqueta.

  ‘Wasn’t me,’ he mumbled, peering at the trees and the rocks above. ‘It’s someone up there. Whoever pushed those beeves over.’

  Jack looked at the gelding, its legs now stiff and unmoving in death. The yellow dun had followed Rico but, unmoved by the gunshots, was now snatching at cholla. Everywhere was suddenly quiet, deathlike quiet.

  Jack picked up his Colt, fetched the dun and led it back to Rico. He reholstered the Winchester and heaved the big Mexican up behind the saddle. Sensing that he was being watched, he swung up in front of the body and jabbed his boots in the stirrups. ‘Take us back,’ he said, lightly heeling the horse’s flanks.

  I’d have been a dead man if it was meant, he thought as they approached the boundary fence, close to the RK gateway. Then he said aloud, ‘Who the hell are you?’ looking to the timber line behind him.

  The pine-covered slopes were several miles off when he rode into the home yard and drew rein, but he still sensed that he was being watched.

  CHAPTER 11

  Hector Bream came running into the yard when he heard Jack’s shout. His features tightened at the sight of Rico draped across the back of the yellow dun.

  ‘What happened? Is he dead?’

  ‘Not yet, I don’t think.’ Jack quickly started to untie the ropes securing Rico. ‘Give me a hand will you?’ They lifted the unconscious Mexican and carried him into the bunkhouse. ‘Where the hell is everyone?’ Jack said.

  ‘Out on the range, where else? Was it you?’ the cook asked.

  ‘Shot him?’ Jack shook his head. ‘Probably the rustlers.’

  ‘Rustlers?’ Bream’s face contorted with shock. ‘What are you talkin’ about?’

  ‘Never mind. He needs a doctor and quick.’

  Rico made no sound, didn’t attempt to move. Jack unbuttoned his jacket, moved his body around and drew the garment off.

  ‘Hell, you can’t tell where his flesh ends and his vest begins,’ Jack said with distaste. ‘The bullet can’t have hit anything, but must be goddamn close to his ticker. Do what you can to keep him still while I go for a doc. Don’t try to clean him up or use any carbolic. That’ll finish him off for sure,’ he added and walked outside.

  Jack remounted the Mexican’s dun and heeled urgently. As he rode from the yard, he saw Ralph Kettle standing on the house veranda. The rancher lifted a hand but Jack didn’t respond. There wasn’t time and he was beginning to wonder about the old man and his interests.

  A wind had got up, was coming in hard and low, rippling the grassy hills. The RK sign over the gateway was swinging and dark clouds were approaching from the south. Deciding to have a look beyond Aqua Cajon, Jack thought wryly. Riding to the small town he saw no one. His mind was racing with questions and answers, the memory of the cattle in the gully, the appalling sense of stealing cattle just to run them over a cliff.

  The rain was already falling when he reached town. He quickly located the surgery of Alvaro Lopez, medico, smiling coldly at what Chama had said about there being no need to give the town’s cantina a name. He quickly explained the bones of the situation to Lopez.

  ‘He’ll probably be dead by the time you get there, Doc, but I’ll have tried. I’ll get me a drink and follow.’

  Jack walked swiftly to the cantina, which was near empty.

  ‘Cheap American whiskey,’ he ordered from the inscrutable barkeep.

  ‘How is Señor Fishback treating you?’ the man said as he filled a shot glass.

  ‘Bello. Just bello,’ Jack said and swallowed. He stood very still, allowing the fiery liquid to deliver its crude warmth, then he paid, nodded and walked away.

  Ducking his head against the wind, he hurried to the livery where the gelding was feeding. The liveryman didn’t seem to be around so he placed a short stack of coins on the anvil.

  A door creaked from a draught as he found the horse in a rear stall and led it out. For a moment the feeling of being watched returned, as if someone had been standing in the gloom at end of the stables.

  ‘There’s money on the anvil. Near enough to fifty pesos, right?’ he called out, hoping it might placate a harm-doer in the shadows.

  He took a deep breath, waited a moment, then led the horse out front and mounted up.

  The windswept rain buffeted him as he rode down the main street. Passing the saloon he thought he glimpsed the liveryman through the half-open batwing doors. Bewildered, yet glad of the liquor circulating in his blood, he rode beyond the rudimentary town buildings to the north trail. Far ahead, the doctor’s horse and buggy were trailing dust.

  The buggy was parked in the ranch yard when Jack arrived. A group of saddled range horses were standing about, but the place seemed deserted except for Hector Bream. The man appeared pale, sweaty and tense, as though carrying a big problem.

  ‘You sure as hell made a mistake coming back,’ he blurted out. ‘They’re sayin’ you shot Rico.’

  ‘Yeah, I been thinking they might,’ Jack replied. ‘And bringing him in, then riding to get a doctor – the obvious thing to throw off suspicion. Yeah, predictability’s not something they keep hidden. What about you?’

  Bream shrugged. ‘Walt reckons it. An’ Fishback. If I was you mister, I’d get back on your horse an’ ride on.’

  ‘Where is Fishback?’

  ‘They’re in the house. They took Rico there a few minutes before the doc got here.’

  ‘And Raul Chama. Where’s he?’

  Bream shrugged again. ‘They thought he was in with you. He’s in the bunkhouse.’

  Chama lay on his back. His face was puffy, covered in a spread of dark bruises.

  ‘Hey amigo.’ He managed a ragged smile, moving split lips. ‘They didn’t think I’d be riding anywhere today.’

  Jack helped Chama sit up, swing his legs to the floor and get to his feet.

  ‘We should have left the first day we got here,’ the Mexican said. ‘Do you remember me saying?’

>   ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  Chama nodded. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Not pretty. Wait here,’ Jack said, striding purposefully towards the bunkhouse door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Chama called.

  ‘Something for John Fishback.’ Jack stepped out into the curtain of rain and Chama’s protest was immediately lost.

  As he walked up the broad front steps of the RK ranch house Jack saw that the front door was slightly ajar. The hall was deserted, but a murmur of voices was coming from beyond the study door. He stepped cautiously across a pair of Navaho rugs and immediately groaned, clamped his jaws when the barrel of a shotgun jabbed at his lower spine.

  ‘Been waitin’ for you. Undo your belt an’ drop it,’ Walter Bishop said.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Not far from, feller. You want to pray to somebody he stays alive. If he don’t, you an’ your pard’ll join him in the bone yard . . . after swingin’ from a rope, that is.’

  ‘Goddamn it, it wasn’t me who shot him,’ Jack started, and half-turned. He saw a blur of the man’s meaty face, the swinging steel of the shotgun barrels. A fateful thought hit him into darkness: the mind-bending idea that Bishop had fired both barrels into his face.

  When Jack opened his eyes his face was pressed hard against the floorboards, up close to the toe end of pair of boots. He swallowed, twisted around and looked up, saw a thin grin appear across Fishback’s mouth.

  ‘You’re not gettin’ up from this,’ the foreman threatened.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ another voice cut in.

  Jack sat up. Through his fogged vision he saw the near-rueful face of Ralph Kettle. He raised his fingers to his forehead, touched the pain spot and looked at the blood on his fingers. He wanted to say that Kettle might have a problem explaining his newly acquired facial damage to Connie when she arrived.

  ‘I wonder if you’d do the same for them,’ he offered instead, trying to get up. A dizzy wave of nausea grabbed him and he went back to kneeling.