Hell stage to lone pine, p.2
Hell Stage to Lone Pine, page 2
‘Old Flume?’
‘That’s what I called him. A throwback to my prospectin’ days.’
Brewer’s head was pleasantly fuzzy and the oldster’s words made little impression.
‘Guess you never bin out to the diggin’s?’ the oldster remarked.
For a while they lay back in silence. The night was still. Brewer reached out for the coffee pot but his hand slipped and he almost fell forward into the flames.
‘Here, let me do that,’ the oldster said. He poured the coffee into Brewer’s tin cup. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Brewer. Ben Brewer. What’s yours?’
‘Riley. First name’s Rufus but folks call me Whipcrack. That’s another throwback, on account of my time stage-drivin’ for the Jackass Mail.’
Although Brewer’s head was growing more and more hazy he had a vague sense that he was asking a lot of questions.
‘Jackass Mail?’
The oldster grinned. ‘A bit before your time, young ’un,’ he said. ‘The San Antonio and San Diego Mail, to give it its proper name. Coach used to be driven by half a dozen mules. San Antonio to Fort Yuma.’
He paused, his cigarette drooping from a corner of his mouth, and looked up at the stars. He seemed to relish the memory. After a few moments of reminiscence he turned back to Brewer.
‘You say you ride for the Lone Pine?’
Brewer nodded. ‘Mr Hethridge. He’s a good man.’
‘I’m at a bit of a loose end right now. Could do with takin’ stock, as it were. You figure this Mr Hethridge might consider takin’ on a new hand? Leastways, for the round-up season.’
‘Sure,’ Brewer said. ‘I could ask about it for you. I work hard and Mr Hethridge likes me. I could certainly ask him for you.’
‘Well, that would be real nice,’ the oldster said with a smile on his features. ‘I reckon Mr Hethridge would listen to a trusted hand like you.’
‘He sure would,’ Brewer said. ‘And it would be real nice to have you along.’
They finished their cigarettes. The fire died down and they drank the last dregs of coffee. The oldster got to his feet and went to check the horses. When he returned he was carrying his shotgun.
‘Just in case we have any visitors,’ he said.
‘What? You reckon we need to keep watch?’
‘Nope. Let’s just say I’ll sleep with one eye open.’ He laid the rifle down beside his bedroll. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, as if he had just been struck by a sudden thought. ‘Why don’t you have that old horse? I ain’t got much use for him these days.’
‘Horse?’ Brewer repeated. ‘What horse?’
The oldster chortled softly. ‘Why, Flume, of course.’
‘I couldn’t take your hoss,’ Brewer said.
‘I got the burro,’ Whipcrack replied. ‘Sorry I ain’t got the saddle to give you but I reckon you got a few spare back at the ranch. Take him. Put him in with the rest of the remuda if you like.’
‘Well, that’s real nice of you,’ Brewer said. ‘Come to think about it, I guess I got a bit of a soft spot now for the old fella considerin’ all the trouble he put me through to get him out of that swamp.’
‘Good. He’s yours. Reckon I’ll be turnin’ in.’
Brewer lay back. He felt warm and drowsy and when he looked up, the stars seemed to be spinning in the sky. He closed his eyes. Near by, the oldster was soon listening to the sound of his snores.
‘Old Forty,’ he mused. ‘Best medicine in the warbag. Especially laced with morphine. Could be a late start in the mornin’.’
The Lone Pine ranch house occupied a good strategic point at the crest of some gently rising ground backed with trees which allowed its occupants a good view over the lush flatlands towards the Deep Fork River. The river was more of a stream but deep in places. The house itself was built on two floors with timber from the creek. Some shade trees stood nearby together with the tall pine which gave the ranch its name. The rooms were cool and spacious. A raised veranda ran all around. Behind it were several other buildings comprising a chuckhouse, a bunk-house, and a barn with a couple of corrals in its rear. The ranch was small but occupied some prime land and Morgan Hethridge grazed upwards of 1,000 head of cattle. On this morning he was taking time out to do some paperwork, sitting in a chair on the veranda, when he heard familiar footsteps and looked up to see his daughter Josie coming round a corner of the house. She had been feeding the hens and was carrying a basket with eggs she had gathered from the coop.
‘Look,’ she said.
She held the basket out.
‘They’re doin’ well,’ Hethridge replied. ‘If the cows don’t work out, we can always run a poultry farm.’
She laughed, mounted the steps to the porch and proceeded to the kitchen. In a few minutes she came out again.
‘Any sign of Brewer?’ she asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘He should have been back yesterday. Haven’t any of the men seen him?’
Her father gave her a quizzical glance. ‘You seem to be very concerned?’ he said.
She tossed her head. ‘Just wonderin’ what’s become of him,’ she replied.
She affected to be uninterested but Hethridge noticed the slight flush which spread along her neck and cheeks.
‘He’ll be by soon,’ he said. ‘Probably found he had plenty to do and stayed out at one of the line shacks.’
He realized as he spoke the words that he was dissimulating as much as his daughter, but he didn’t like to admit his concern. Anyway, Brewer could look after himself. His daughter sat down next to him and as he looked at her he was reminded again of his wife. Although Josie didn’t really resemble her, there was something about his daughter that recalled her so intimately. It was something more subtle than looks, something to do with her gestures and mannerisms, something to do with her particular style of femininity. Sometimes when Josie moved or looked at him in a certain way it was almost like having his wife back again. but it was only a momentary sensation. The pain of missing her was something altogether more permanent.
‘Like a coffee?’ she said.
‘Yeah. That would be nice.’
She disappeared into the house again and Hethridge returned to his papers. After a time he looked up and saw two figures approaching. One was Brewer but the other he didn’t recognize. Brewer was riding the sorrel and leading another horse while the other man sat astride a burro. As they got closer Hethridge eyed the newcomer more closely. He certainly cut an unexpected sight. He was small and thin and his uncovered head was bald except for some white locks which hung down over the back of his neck. He wore a checked shirt which was open at the front to reveal some further scraps of white hair and he didn’t wear boots but what looked like moccasins.
‘Now I wonder where Brewer collected that old-timer?’ Hethridge muttered.
He had been so concentrated on observing the oldster that he had not taken account of the younger man. Now he noticed the bandaged shoulder and the way the youngster was slumped forward in the saddle. He got to his feet and ran out into the yard to meet them at the same moment as his daughter emerged with the coffee. She set it down on the rail and rushed out to join her father.
‘What happened?’ Hethridge barked.
For the first time he saw the red welts across Brewer’s throat.
‘I’m all right,’ Brewer replied.
He slid from the saddle, staggering a little as he hit the ground. ‘I had a spot of trouble but I was lucky to get some help from this gentleman.’
He turned to the oldster who had dropped from the burro. ‘Let me introduce my friend, Mr Whipcrack Riley.’
The oldster gave a faint nod and held out his hand for Hethridge to shake.
‘Glad to meet you,’ Hethridge said. ‘Any friend of Ben is a friend of mine.’
He turned to Josie who was standing behind him looking anxiously at Brewer. ‘Why don’t you pour some of that coffee?’ he said.
She looked from one to the other of the men standing in the yard and Hethridge could see there were tears in her eyes. He glanced at Brewer but the youngster was facing Riley and it didn’t appear that he had noticed them. Josie turned on her heels and ran back up the stairs and into the house.
‘Jarrett!’ Hethridge called.
After a moment a man came running from the bunkhouse.
‘Take charge of the hosses and the mule,’ Hethridge said. ‘Gentlemen, in addition to that coffee, I think we could all do with somethin’ a little stronger.’
He led the way up the steps and into the ranch house. Indicating to the two men that they should take a seat, he went to a cabinet and poured three stiff drinks from a decanter of brandy.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I reckon you’d better tell me the whole story.’
By the time Brewer had finished Hethridge was fuming.
‘That dang-blasted coyote Sloane!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s been causin’ trouble for a long time but I never figured he’d go this far!’
‘It weren’t him,’ Brewer said. ‘Maybe some of his boys just got a little out of hand.’
‘It’s all part of his programme of harassin’ the Lone Pine till we get tired and sell. He’s been eyein’ this place ever since I took it on. And it ain’t as if he hasn’t got enough land already. He’s by far the biggest rancher in the territory. Maybe it’s just greed on his part, but I sometimes have a feelin’ there’s more to it than that.’
‘Well, maybe we’d better just let this one pass,’ Brewer said. ‘After all, no harm’s been done at the end of the day and thanks to Mr Riley those varmints sure paid for it.’
Hethridge turned to the old timer. ‘Sure am grateful,’ he said. ‘Brewer ain’t just one of the ranch hands. He’s been like a son to me, the son I never had, ever since he first came here as a boy. Seems like we got you to thank for rescuin’ him and if there’s anythin’ I can do to let me show my appreciation, you only have to say what it is.’
‘That’s mighty nice of you,’ the oldster said, ‘but I was just doin’ what any decent hombre would have done.’
There was a pause while the three of them finished their brandies. There was no sign of the coffee, Josie had taken to her bedroom where she lay on her bed resting her tear-stained face on the pillow.
‘As a matter of fact,’ Brewer said, ‘there is somethin’ you can do. Mr Riley is lookin’ for a job just at the moment. I said you might consider takin’ him on as a hand, at least till the round-up’s finished.’
Hethridge jumped to his feet. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Consider it done.’
‘If’n you’re sure,’ Riley said.
‘Sure? ’Course I’m sure. After what you did, you’re welcome to stay here at the Lone Pine for as long as you like. Even apart from that, I could do with a bit of extra help.’ He turned to Brewer. ‘Why don’t you take Mr Riley to the bunkhouse? Let him get settled in and then show him about the place.’
The oldster got to his feet. ‘Ain’t gonna take me no time to do that,’ he said. ‘Just so long as ol’ Sally is taken care of.’
‘Ol’ Sally?’
‘The mule,’ Riley said. ‘Me an’ her’s bin together a long whiles now. A hoss is fine but give me a burro any day. She’s tougher and can carry a lot more load.’
He turned to Brewer. ‘You’re doin’ me a favour takin’ that packhorse off my hands.’
As they were talking, Brewer had been looking for Josie to reappear but there was no further sign of her or the coffee. If he had known that she had gone to her room where she lay on the bed, her tear-stained face buried in a pillow on his account, he would not have believed it. As far as he was aware, the best he could hope for was to worship her from afar and look forward to every moment when he might just get a glimpse of her. She was the rancher’s daughter. Morgan Hethridge might have taken him in and more or less adopted him, but to imagine that his daughter might be attainable was going just a little too far.
Chapter Two
Next morning Hethridge was just finishing his breakfast when he heard the sound of approaching hoofs. Getting to his feet, he peered out of the window to see Marshal Zwing Burke dismounting in the yard and tying his horse at the hitchrack.
‘Now why would the marshal be ridin’ out this way?’ he muttered to himself.
He had only met the marshal on a small number of occasions when he had business in town, but there was something about Burke that he wasn’t sure about. Maybe it was just that he was young and untried. Hethridge didn’t entirely trust his judgement. Maybe it was a mere physical reaction against his greasy slicked-back hair and duds that were just a little too fancy for a working lawman. Even from a distance he couldn’t help noticing the marshal’s ivory-handled guns. He dropped the curtain, moved to the door and stepped on to the veranda.
‘Mornin’, Marshal,’ he said. ‘Hope you weren’t expectin’ breakfast ’cause I just finished it.’
‘It ain’t breakfast I’m after,’ the marshal replied.
Burke looked behind him. A couple of the Lone Pine cowboys had come from the bunkhouse and were standing near by.
‘Well, what is it then?’ Hethridge said.
The marshal turned back. He looked slightly uncomfortable. He dug into an inside pocket and produced a piece of folded paper.
‘I got a warrant here,’ he said, ‘for the arrest of Ben Brewer. I also got one for the arrest of another man, an unknown. I’ve reason to believe he might be somewhere on your property.’
Hethridge advanced a couple of paces.
‘Let me take a look at that document,’ he said.
The marshal handed it over and Hethridge unfolded it. For a few moments his eyes scanned the paper and then he handed it back to the marshal.
‘I don’t know too much about the law,’ he said, ‘but that thing don’t seem to be rightly drawn up to me.’
‘It’s legal,’ the marshal replied.
‘What’s Brewer supposed to have done?’
‘He’s wanted for horse-thievin’ and murder.’
‘In that order?’
The marshal shifted uneasily. ‘Why don’t you just hand him over?’ he said. ‘I don’t aim to stand here arguin’ over the matter.’
Hethridge ran his fingers across his chin before looking over the marshal’s head.
‘Any of you boys seen Brewer?’ he shouted to the men standing in the yard.
‘Brewer? Nope, ain’t seen him since day before yesterday.’
‘How ’bout you, Aldridge?’
‘Nope. Can’t say as I’ve seen him recently either.’
Hethridge turned to the marshal. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I’d like to oblige but nobody’s seen Brewer around. Last time I saw him he was headed for the brakes to do some brush poppin’. That was yesterday. Come to think of it, I wonder what could have happened to him? I’d have expected him back before now.’
‘Mind if I take a look around?’ the marshal said.
Hethridge laughed. ‘Matter of fact, yes I do. Like I just said, Brewer ain’t here. Now I suggest you get back on your horse and go back to town.’
The marshal hesitated before turning and untying his horse.
‘You could be running the risk of getting on the wrong side of the law yourself,’ he said. ‘Harbouring a wanted criminal is a serious crime.’
‘If I see Brewer, I’ll let you know,’ Hethridge replied.
‘Like I said, there’s someone else we’re lookin’ for. Don’t know his name or anythin’ about him but he’s an oldster; carries a shotgun. Don’t suppose you’ve seen anythin’ of him either?’
‘Why would that be likely?’
The marshal spat. ‘Don’t think this is the end of the matter,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back, if necessary with a posse. I’d advise you not to let it get to that stage.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ Hethridge replied. ‘Nice to know you’re on the job. Makes us ordinary folk feel kinda safe.’
Burke climbed into the saddle. Wheeling away, he rode out of the yard, almost knocking over one of the ranch hands. Hethridge watched him till he was a long way off, then called to one of the men who were making their way towards the corrals.
‘Guthrie, tell Brewer to get over here,’ he shouted. ‘I need to have a word.’
Guthrie went to the bunkhouse but Brewer wasn’t there. He had gone round to the corrals and was leaning against a corral pole watching the horse Riley had given him. Now that it had been cleaned up and attended to, he could appreciate its lines. It was piebald pinto stallion, large for its type and well muscled. It was looking at Brewer with a flashing blue eye and its ears were cocked. Brewer could see that it was nervous. Brewer had taken the sling from his arm and shoulder but the wound was painful. Part of him recognized that the wise thing to do would be to give the wound time to heal but he wanted to ride that horse. Hefting the saddle he had brought from the barn, he opened the gate and walked into the corral. The pinto whinnied as he approached and began to back off.
‘Steady, old fella,’ Brewer said.
Talking softly, he stopped and waited for a few moments before stepping forward again, coming at the horse from an angle. When he was level with the pinto he got a lump of sugar out of his shirt pocket and put it on the palm of his hand. The horse bared its teeth and took it while Brewer stroked it gently on the forehead. Then he moved round, slung the saddle over its back and commenced to tie the cinches. He slipped on the hackamore. The pinto shuffled forward but quieted after a few more words from Brewer. Then Brewer took hold of the saddle horn and went up into the saddle. The horse remained still but its ears were twitching.
Brewer’s feet found the stirrups and with his good arm he took hold of the hackamore rope. The pinto tensed. Brewer wasn’t sure what to expect. If the horse decided to buck and rear, he would hang on for as long as he could. In deciding that, he had forgotten all about his injury. The pinto began to move its neck but its head was held high. That was a good sign that it wouldn’t do a lot of bucking. Maybe I should have had a few words with Riley, Brewer reflected. He had no real idea how saddle-broke the animal was, he had only instinct and observation to go by. That and the experience he had gained during his days as a wrangler. The pinto had accepted the saddle OK but maybe that just signalled the fact that it was a bronco.
