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  ‘I should’ve fired,’ Bishop taunted.

  But then another door opened and Doctor Lopez emerged.

  ‘I’ve done all I can,’ he said. ‘If he’s lucky, he’ll live . . . un invalido.’ He saw Jack on the floor ‘Que es? This is the man who came to fetch me.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him,’ Fishback said. ‘The one who did the shootin’.’

  ‘And he came back? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ Kettle said. ‘It’s got nothing to do with allaying suspicion. The doc’s right. Why in God’s name would he come back?’

  ‘Suppose we ask Rico?’ the foreman suggested.

  ‘Es imposible,’ Lopez objected. ‘I have taken what must be a big rifle bullet from his back and he is full of morphine. He is very weak and very asleep. But remember, your man Rico would be dead if this man on the floor had not brought him in. Ciertamente.’

  ‘I think you’re talkin’ about Finch bein’ innocent until proved guilty,’ Fishback said. ‘So, we’ll try an’ forget that last night him an’ Rico had a fight; that there’s plenty of ill feelin’ there. Yeah, that’s it. As sure as the sun’s now comin’ up in the west, we’ll believe that some goddamn rustler shot Rico, but decided to let Finch live on. Well, meantime, the turkey’s goin’ to be trussed up an’ watched. Walt, get him out o’ my sight.’

  Jack waved Bishop away and rose unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘He’s hurt,’ Lopez said.

  ‘It’s just a knock,’ Fishback returned.

  ‘Let the doc see his head,’ Kettle said.

  ‘Goddamn his head,’ the foreman exploded. ‘Take him to the stable.’

  Jack saw Kettle’s authority waver. Walter Bishop laughed and once more prodded his shotgun into Jack’s back.

  ‘Hey turkey. Boss said to move,’ he said.

  Cursing inwardly at Bishop’s use of the word ‘boss’, Jack moved slowly ahead of the shotgun. He knew the fleshy ranch hand didn’t have the grit to pull the triggers, unless it was in wretched fear to save his own skin. But if he was prompted by Fishback and a skinful of whiskey, maybe he could fit a noose around someone’s neck and smack a horse’s rump. There was a difference.

  Suddenly Jack caught his breath. but it was in surprise. He’d noticed Chama stealing around the corral; he forced himself to look away, show no notice.

  Inside the stable Bishop watched as two Mexican cowhands used hobble strings to tie him to a stall post.

  ‘Come on feller, tell me you shot Rico in the back,’ the man rasped. ‘Tell me or I’ll make pozole from your goddamn head.’

  ‘Do it,’ Jack replied with a tight, insolent grin. Raul Chama’s proximity was his whiskey, his courage from a bottle. ‘Even you should be able to handle a man with no arms,’ he risked.

  Bishop grunted, punched him solidly between the eyes. Jack’s head jerked against his tensed neck and slammed hard against the stall post.

  CHAPTER 12

  The rain spat like hail in the early darkness overhead. Jack’s jaw ached and throbbed. Spitting, he turned his head to get some of the stiffness from his neck. Remembering Walter Bishop’s blows, he winced again.

  ‘Oye! Bring me some water,’ he yelled in the gloom.

  For a while no one responded to his calling. Not for the first time since arriving at the RK ranch Jack’s mind sped through the why’s and wherefore’s. Then a shadow moved across the open stable doors.

  ‘Give me some water,’ Jack shouted again, but the figure didn’t move. ‘Whoever you are. I’m not supposed to die of thirst, goddamnit!’

  Moments later Jack heard the knock of the pitcher against a barrel, water being poured.

  ‘I can hear you behind me, you son of a bitch,’ Jack seethed. ‘Let me see you. Give me the water.’ Then silence returned and all he could hear was the hammering rain.

  Too big for Raul Chama, Jack thought. Maybe it was Hector Bream. So, why the hell didn’t he say anything?

  A reason for whoever it was having moved quickly on became obvious with the sound of boots slopping through mud and the flash of a lamp. Walter Bishop appeared, his broad, slickered shoulders gleaming in the lantern light.

  ‘Hell of a night,’ he moaned. He shrugged off his oilskin and placed a covered platter at Jack’s feet. ‘It’s the grub. Mr Kettle says to feed you. I reckon it’s a waste – should be fed to Hec’s young wooshers. Why fatten you up to dance at the end of a rope?’ Bream’s eyes gleamed. ‘An’ if you’re thinkin’ Rico’s goin’ to save you, he ain’t. He’ll have cashed in before sunup.’

  ‘So, how am I supposed to eat this hog food?’

  Bishop dragged his Colt out and pushed the barrel into the middle of Jack’s back. He untied the rawhides and Jack vigorously rubbed his wrists.

  ‘You ain’t eatin’ with your feet,’ Bishop said, lifting the platter. ‘They stay tied.’

  Jack took a bite from a thick biscuit. Scooping a potato up with his fingers he thumbed it into his mouth.

  ‘You’ve served it without gravy. Now give me a drink,’ he said after chewing and swallowing.

  ‘A last request. Why not?’ Bishop muttered. He went over to the water barrel, brought the pitcher back and held it just out of Jack’s reach.

  ‘I got a gut feeling about you,’ Jack said with a smile.

  Bishop drew the pitcher further back, pushed his Colt forward.

  ‘What about me?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve got the guts to shoot a man while he’s looking at you. Especially when his mouth’s full of taters,’ Jack said. ‘Now I’m going to untie my feet and see if I’m right,’ he added, giving Bishop a wink.

  ‘You keep real still,’ Bishop threatened. ‘I don’t have to kill you, just break you up some.’

  It was a calculated risk, but right then it seemed it was all Jack had to go on. He put down the platter and started to fiddle with the rawhide knots.

  As if to carry out his threat Bishop systematically thumbed back the hammer of his Colt.

  Thinking maybe he was mistaken in his opinion of the man, Jack froze at the sound of the dull, ominous click. If Bishop didn’t want to displease Fishback maybe he would panic, be capable of some dastardly action. But then, once again, Jack saw the slight figure of Raul Chama stepping out of the rain. He held out his hands and nodded.

  ‘OK. I don’t reckon I need any more damage,’ he conceded.

  The instant relief which washed over Bishop’s big face gave way to alarm when Chama jabbed three or four times into the man’s flabby backside.

  ‘Just drop the Colt,’ the Mexican said.

  The pistol thudded on to the hard-packed dirt of the stable floor and Bishop mumbled something offensive.

  Chama removed the pitcher from Bishop’s other hand and sent a nervous smile towards Jack.

  ‘Now we vamoose, eh amigo?’ he said.

  Jack untied his feet and ankles, kicked the loops away and took the water pitcher from Chama. He drank its contents all in one long gulp, then tossed the pitcher back towards the barrel.

  ‘Why? I didn’t shoot Rico,’ he said.

  ‘This fat, trigger-happy crawfish is one reason. He’s not interested in whether you are innocent.’

  Jack picked up Bishop’s Colt and swung it hard across the back of his head.

  ‘So, take your gun back,’ he rasped angrily as the man sank baggily to the ground.

  ‘Now there is another reason, besides Rico,’ Chama said anxiously. ‘I think we should ride.’

  ‘The fat son of a bitch wanted to shoot me. He was getting ready,’ Jack replied. Suddenly he stopped and listened. ‘You hear? The others are out front. Quick, kill the light.’

  Chama doused the lantern and the stable returned to deep gloom.

  ‘You still in there?’ Hector Bream called out.

  ‘You know I am. What do you want?’ Jack returned.

  ‘John Fishback an’ a few o’ the punchers are whiskey mad right now. There’s a real lynchy sound
to ’em. I come to let you know.’

  ‘Where are they?’ Jack asked.

  ‘In the bunkhouse. But not for long. I don’t hold with lynchin’. I could get you untied.’

  ‘Someone’s already done that,’ Jack said. ‘Get back to the cookhouse and keep your head down. There’ll be some stuff flying around. And thanks.’

  Jack and Chama listened carefully as Bream walked away back into the night. In the weak shaft of light spilling from an opening door, they caught sight of him hurrying towards the cookhouse. Through the curtain of rain they also saw a group of men stumbling from the bunkhouse.

  ‘I know a way out. Stay close,’ Jack said. It took a minute, but Jack led him to the rear of the building. Chama turned, peered anxiously back into the gloom.

  ‘They won’t know about this. Come on,’ Jack said. ‘At least Bishop won’t be following.’

  Alongside the rain barrel, which was already near to overflow, the two men squeezed through the loose panels, sliding and stumbling beyond the calf wagon towards a line of outhouses and toolsheds. Jack gripped Chama’s arm.

  ‘This is as far as I’m going. I already said why.’

  The Mexican pulled Jack’s hand away.

  ‘So you stay and die, telling them you didn’t do it?’

  ‘You tell me. Do you too think I shot Rico in the back . . . bushwhacked him?’ Jack grated. ‘Do you think I’d shoot you for knowing, eh?’

  ‘No. Yo no. It doesn’t matter what I think,’ Chama said miserably.

  ‘Adios, Raul,’ Jack replied brusquely. ‘Come back if you change your mind.’

  There were now men with lanterns approaching from between the side of the barn and the corral. The lights wavered, glistening on the patchy grass that surrounded the home yard.

  ‘There’s no other way they could’ve come,’ John Fishback shouted.

  Jack waited until Chama had disappeared, then he stood quietly in the narrow gap between the outbuildings. He didn’t blame Chama for leaving. The man had a life to live, whatever and wherever it was. Grimly he watched the men coming into view. They stood against the rain-streaked beams of light, weaving cautiously from side to side. He recalled something his father had once said about when enemy troops were advancing. If you don’t shoot, you won’t hit.

  He actioned his Colt, stepped forward and fired.

  ‘Get out of the rain, fellers.’ he shouted. ‘It’s not a good place to die, for any of us.’

  Three men went silent, stopping in their tracks. The lanterns stopped their searching swing.

  ‘You’re the only one goin’ to die, Finch. At the end of a rope,’ Fishback shouted back.

  Taking good steady aim, Jack fired and smashed out the lantern nearest to him. Then he moved, using the outhouses as cover and walked fast towards the lights of the main house.

  Flame gashed the darkness behind him. Two men were shooting blind, the third was showered with glass shards and flaming gobbets of oil. Taking the broad veranda steps two at time, Jack pressed his back to the wall alongside one of the windows that flanked the front door.

  ‘You might be the only ally I’ve got now. Where the hell are you?’ he muttered.

  Jack looked down at his feet. The water dripping from the brim of his hat formed a dark stain around the toes of his boots. He was cursing silently, thinking of how he might settle things, when the window frame scraped noisily as it was lifted open.

  A shadow was cast down on to the veranda floorboards and Ralph Kettle was calling from inside.

  ‘What’s the shooting? What the hell’s going on?’

  Cold sweat trickled down Jack’s face as his assailants approached the house and came up the steps. He raised his Colt, held it flat across his chest.

  ‘John? What’s happened? I heard a shot,’ Kettle called out again.

  The men were in a quandary. They could see Jack standing on the far side of the window, just as he could see them.

  ‘Ralph, get your head in. There’s goin’ to be more shootin’,’ Fishback responded.

  Getting the gist of a meaning, Kettle turned to see Jack only a few feet away. ‘No,’ he yelled. ‘Rico isn’t dead yet. That saddle-bag doctor’s saved him. He’s pulling through . . . going to live.’

  Ah good, I’m so goddamn pleased, Jack thought bitterly. He fought away the image of Annie, her calico dress and the waves of yellow corn.

  CHAPTER 13

  Rico’s dark eyes had lost some of their gleam and his complexion was pale and waxy. Ralph Kettle leaned in closer to hear him speak.

  ‘Who shot me? Quien?’ Rico gasped tiredly.

  ‘It was Finch,’ John Fishback replied quickly. ‘You know it, don’t you, Rico?’

  ‘It wasn’t him. He had no gun . . . was in front,’ Rico growled. ‘The shot came from behind. It wasn’t Finch,’ he said, then his eyelids flickered and closed.

  ‘Esta muerto?’ one of the two Mexicans asked.

  ‘Not yet. But he’s too weak to talk any more,’ Ralph Kettle straightened and faced the tall foreman. ‘That just about settles it, John. Finch is off your hook.’

  Fishback’s eyes flicked to Jack.

  ‘No he’s not. What the hell do we know about him? How do we know he hasn’t got a partner up on the timber line? How do we know they don’t aim to rustle all your stock when the time’s right? How do we know that Ralph—?’

  ‘Because I’m not as lackbrained as you, Fishback,’ Jack retorted. ‘If there is any rustling going on I’d say it starts a lot closer to home.’

  Colour rose up from the foreman’s neck.

  ‘Damn you, Finch,’ he cursed. ‘Do you want to back that up with somethin’?’

  ‘Shut up, the both o’ you,’ Kettle shouted. ‘John, get back to the bunkhouse. I want to have a few words with Finch The rest of you clear out. The ranch doesn’t run itself.’

  The two Mexicans left at once. John Fishback didn’t budge, his stance was challenging.

  ‘Considerin’, I’d like to hear what it is you’re talkin’ to Finch about,’ he said.

  A nerve tugged under Kettle’s right eye as he indicated the open study door.

  ‘You’re getting way above your station, John. Shut the door on your way out,’ he rasped. A moment later, Kettle turned to Jack.

  ‘He’s got no class, along with most of us gringos,’ he said with a weary smile. ‘This is a bad business, Jack. I can understand why him and the others are in a blue funk. Rico’s shot in the back and the killer’s probably still around somewhere. We don’t know what the hell’s happening. Do you?’

  ‘Me?’ Jack was baffled. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Well, you were with him . . . Rico. Why weren’t you shot? Were you even shot at? You never said. I mean, will they want another go? For whatever reason?’

  ‘How the hell do I know? I told you, I didn’t see anyone. Maybe he got scared and hightailed. It happens you know, unless you’re a natural born killer.’

  ‘And it happens the day after you arrive?’

  ‘Goddamnit. I don’t normally believe in coincidences, but right now I can’t think it’s anything else.’

  Jack suddenly felt a clench in his vitals. He broke into a sweat and his skin crawled when it came to him. It was Dawson Cayne. The man had followed him from Whitewater. It was Cayne’s bullet that had nearly killed Rico. In the stable, when he’d called for water, it was Cayne who’d been there.

  ‘What is it?’ Kettle interrupted Jack’s thoughts. ‘What’re you thinking?’

  Jack squeezed his empty glass as if something would emerge. How could he even start to explain his predicament: that a mankiller had followed him to Ralph Kettle’s home. What if he was wrong, that it was only some halfwit brand-burner who’d lost the beef he’d stolen from Kettle, and in a panic had shot Rico? Then again, if it was Dawson Cayne, surely he’d be dead, or Rico would have been allowed to kill him. No, it can’t be him, Jack was deciding. He couldn’t have found me, he thought.

  ‘My head’
s reeling,’ he said. ‘Must be the morphine fumes, or whatever that doctor used on Rico. It’s taking me back to the sanatorium.’

  ‘Well, sit down, I’ve got an antidote for that. Besides, there’s something I’d like to tell you,’ Kettle said.

  Jack watched Kettle pour a generous measure of whiskey from a decanter. He felt exhausted, like a flattened bulldog rider. He took the heavy shot glass, tilted it backwards and forwards, considering what effect the whiskey might have. Then he drank it in one gulp.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the way to take your finest corn,’ Kettle mocked. Sitting opposite Jack, behind his desk, the rancher eyed the golden liquor in his own glass. ‘You’ve obviously had some ideas about John Fishback and Walter Bishop,’ he said, avoiding the look that Jack gave him. ‘Well, let me say I know about the rustling. I sort of ignore it. It’s penny-ante stuff, just a few head now and then for their Friday nights in town. It’s a small price to pay. We all get our bread buttered.’

  ‘What’s it a small price for?’ Jack asked.

  ‘My safeguarding.’

  ‘And what do you need safeguarding from?’

  ‘That’s what I want to tell you about,’ Kettle started. ‘Ten years back I owned a ranch up north of the Plateau, near Flagstaff. It was near the same size as this one. One day my foreman caught one of the hands being too liberal with an iron. I had him arrested and he went to Phoenix to serve time. He swore at his trial he’d kill me when he got out. Hell, it was callow anger, and I was younger and hot-headed.

  ‘However, I took his threat serious, sold out and headed for Mexico with my wife and daughter. I was pretending to act in the interests of their safety. But it was my own skin I was scared for, not theirs. I even changed our name to Kettle. Constanza has never known her real name.’

  ‘Which is?’ Jack asked, thinking it might be relevant.

  ‘Don’t matter. I’m telling you this because I know that you of all people will understand.’

  ‘Right,’ Jack replied, not at all certain that he did. His mind wasn’t totally on Kettle’s story. He was thinking that Dawson Cayne could be somewhere outside right now, with his rifle, just waiting. He looked at his empty glass, thought that maybe Kettle was reluctant to offer him another good whiskey.