Sweetwater (22 page)

When Trell had finished a satisfying meal and chatted over a second cup of coffee with Mrs. Fielding, it was time to head home. A cool breeze was blowing down from the north, and a few rain clouds hovered over the horizon when he left town. He pushed the horse as much as he dared. The animal had already covered a lot of miles and had had only a couple hours of rest.

After an hour of up-and-down riding, Trell reached the high-point of the trail as it followed the river to the place where it was safe to cross. The river was running fast and high owing to heavy rains in the mountains.

For some unknown reason, Trell felt uneasy. He had ridden this trail many times and had seldom met another rider. The rancher with whom he had bartered for the cow ran a few cattle along here. Trell had passed a few straggly steers a mile or so back, but had seen no one herding them. Still he had a prickly feeling at the nape of his neck as if someone was watching him, and he turned often to look behind him.

Here on the high trail, the wind was blowing at a pretty good clip. Trell pressed his hat down tighter on his head and resisted the urge to put his heels to the horse and get off this plateau.

He heard the bawling of a calf and pulled up to listen. When he heard it again, he walked his mount to the edge of the plateau and looked down. Not ten feet below, a calf that appeared to be not over a week or two old had its foot caught in a crevice.

Trell looked around for the mother and saw her standing at the edge of the woods. Something had scared her off; otherwise, she would never have left her calf. It could have been a bobcat or a bear. If it had been a bobcat, Trell reasoned, it would have gone down after the calf. Whatever had scared her off was gone, but the animal’s pitiful cries would soon attract another predator.

Trell stepped from the saddle and dropped his reins to ground-tie his horse. At the edge of the drop-off he turned to back down over the ledge. He had taken the first step when he felt something slam into the side of his head. Vaguely he saw his horse leap and run. Then he was falling toward the graveled slope and tumbling head over heels toward the rim of the fifty-foot drop-off.

It was the cold that awakened him.

He struggled back to something like consciousness. Wet as a drowned rat and shivering uncontrollably, he sensed only the cold—at first. Then he heard voices close by and clenched his jaws to keep his teeth from rattling.

“He’s here some’r’s.”

“He washed on downriver.”

“Ya ain’t knowin’ that.”

“She … et. He was dead ’fore he fell. I ain’t missin’ no clear shot like that.”

“So he’s dead. Find the body.”

“Hellfire! If he ain’t here, he went in the river and down the rapids. That’d kill ’em if the bullet didn’t.”

“We’ll go downriver and look till we find him.”

The voices and the sound of a walking horse faded.

Trell lay in the river mud under the roots of a huge old sycamore. Had it been Hartog who had shot him and then followed up to make sure that he was dead? Well, if he didn’t get warm soon he would surely die. One arm flopped helplessly. With the other he groped for a hold on something solid, grabbed a root and pulled himself up out of the mud and onto dry ground. He crawled along the dirt bank until he found a dark hole. It was small, but it was a shelter. He rolled into it and curled up like a babe in the womb.

Pain knifed through every muscle and bone in his body. The side of his face was on fire and he could see out of only one eye. His thoughts were fuzzy. He forced his mind away from his pain and tried to sort out what had happened. On the steep gravelly slope a calf had caught its foot in a crevice. He had turned to climb down and attempt to free it when something slammed into the side of his head.

The next thing he knew he was falling. He hit the slope and tumbled head over heels toward the rim of the fifty-foot drop-off. He remembered the wild, ugly yell that came from his throat as momentum propelled him over the edge into space. He must have bounced off an outcropping of crumbly rock ten feet below, for he continued to fall. This time he landed on brush growing out from the side of the cliff and ripped through it as he clawed for a grip. He landed on another slope of sharp shale and rolled a dozen feet more before plunging into a deep pool.

He came up gasping for air. The current caught him and swept him between the rocks and through the spillway of fast-moving water. It filled his mouth. He almost strangled as the swift current rushed him on and over another spillway and into the middle of the river. The rushing water carried him for what seemed like miles before swirling him into a pool where arching tree branches covered the river’s edge. There he pulled himself from the river.

His head throbbed as if being pounded by a hammer. His shirt was torn to shreds, his heavy duck pants ripped. Somewhere along the way he had lost his boots. The wide gun belt was still buckled about his waist, but his gun and his bowie knife were gone.

In an agony of pain he drifted in and out of consciousness. One time during the night, he awakened to the sound of a voice—his own, calling Jenny’s name. He didn’t dare move. Movement meant pain. When awake, he fought to keep panic at bay.

Downriver some five miles, a rider pulled up to listen. He heard no sound except for the ripple of water and the occasional whisper of the wind in the pines. He could almost feel the silence pushing at him. Overhead the stars were disappearing behind a drifting cloud. Then saddle leather creaked as the tired horse began moving again. The roan needed rest as he did.

A few towns back he had run into an acquaintance who told him a sallow-faced man with lean cheeks and thin graying hair had come through there asking about him. When he was told the man wore a long white duster, the description had immediately rung a bell. It was Crocker, a hired gun who worked for whoever paid his price. He had heard that the killer was shrewd, tough and dangerous. And he played by no rules other than his own. He was reluctant to think Crocker was after him to kill him, but there was always the chance.

Could it be that old man Ashley was angered because he hadn’t courted his feather-headed daughter and would want him dead for
that
? He’d given the rancher a full day’s work for his pay. He’d even given him a month’s notice when he left his employ.

That simpering little twit had been the subject of many bunkhouse remarks, especially on washday when she would hang a string of her underdrawers on the line facing the cookshack. He had not spent any more time than was absolutely necessary at the ranch that last month because Clara followed him like a shadow. A time or two she had burst into loud sobs. It had been as embarrassing as hell. The other hands had ribbed him unmercifully.

He rode cautiously into Sweetwater. He had to be careful. With a man like Crocker, there wasn’t much leg room between the quick and those who hadn’t been quite quick enough. Small clouds of dust swirled around his roan’s feet as he went toward the saloon that boasted: DRINKS and EATS.

He crossed the porch and looked into the saloon over the pair of swinging doors. Seven or eight men lounged around, and a bartender wiped glasses. He scanned the faces carefully. Crocker wasn’t among them.

As he flung back the doors and walked in, people turned to stare at the wide-shouldered man with blunt, bronzed features and sharp blue-black eyes. Taller than most men at six-foot-two in his stocking feet and more with his boots on, he was accustomed to folks giving him second looks.

“Howdy, McCall. What’ll ya have?”

“Grub. What ya got?”

“How hungry are ya?”

“Hungry enough to eat the ass outta a skunk.”

“I’ll get ya a slab of meat and some eggs.” The bartender went to the end of the bar and yelled into the back room. “Throw a steak in the pan for McCall and cook ’im a half dozen eggs.” He slid a wet cloth along the bar on the way back. “Want somethin’ to wet yore whistle while yo’re waitin’?”

“Beer.”

Gradually, McCall became aware of the lack of sound. The place had grown quiet as a tomb. He turned and stood with his back to the bar. Four men in range clothes sat at one table. The two at a second table appeared to be merchants. Two others had walked out while he was talking to the bartender. The four he had noticed first were giving him the once-over. One of them, a swarthy faced man, grinned at him, but not in a friendly way.

A big man with a flat round face and florid complexion murmured to the Mexican who responded with a snicker. Cold, ice-blue eyes fastened on McCall. Being able to read men like some folk read a newspaper, he knew this man was trouble even before he spoke.

“Ya been doin’ a mite of night-ridin’ ain’t ya, McCall?”

“Is there a law against it?” He turned his back, downed his drink and waited for a refill.

“I’m talkin’ to ya, mister.”

McCall placed another coin on the counter and watched the man in the mirror over the bar.

“Talk if you’re bound to. Some fellers just naturally got the runnin’ off at the mouth.”

“Don’t turn yore back when I’m talkin’ to ya!”

“You got it wrong, flap-jaw. You’re not talkin’ to me. You’re yappin’ ’cause ya don’t know no better.”

With the beer in his hand, McCall headed for a table at the end of the room. As he neared the table where the four men sat, the big man’s foot shot out. McCall stumbled. After the frustration of the past few days, being harassed by this loudmouthed blowhard was too much. He flung his beer in the man’s face.

“If you’re itchin’ for a fight, you got one.”

The bully came up out of the chair with a roar.

“Ya … shit-eatin’ sonofabitch!”

“Nobody calls me
that!
”

McCall dropped his glass and hit him. The man was almost his same height and somewhat heavier. McCall had been in enough barroom fights to know that the first punch counted for a lot. His right fist smashed the man in the nose, and the left fist came up under his chin, throwing his head back.

Blood spurted.

The man clawed for his gun. McCall grabbed his belt, pulled him forward, then threw him back over the table as people scrambled to get out of the way. The chair the bully landed on broke apart. He hit the floor with a thud and came up roaring like a bull, his face splotchy with rage.

McCall hit him in the mouth with one fist, and with the other came around and clobbered him on the ear. It was a blow meant to stun, and it did. The man stood swaying on spraddled legs like a pole-axed steer too stubborn to fall. McCall hammered his belly with both fists, then stretched him out on the plank flooring with a well-placed blow on the chin.

“Anybody takin’ up this peckerneck’s fight?”

“Wasn’t our fight.”

“My mother was
not
a bitch!” McCall said to the upturned bloody face on the floor. “Next time you see me call me
Mister
McCall.”

He picked up the heavy glass he had dropped, set it on the bar and tossed out a couple of coins. “For the broken chair.”

“Here’s a refill on the house.” The barkeep shoved a full glass of beer across the bar.

“Obliged.”

McCall went to a table near the door and sat down. Soon he was joined by one of the men who had sat at the table with the bully.

“Take my advice, mister. Get on your horse and ride out of town. That’s one mean sonofabitch you whipped.”

“He might be mean, but he wasn’t so tough. I could’ve whipped him with one hand tied behind my back.”

“He ain’t knowin’ what
fair
is.”

“Armstrong,” the barkeep yelled. “Get that tub a guts outta my saloon. He’s caused enough trouble.”

“I’ve warned ya. It’s all I can do,” Armstrong continued in a low voice. “Hartog is mean—killer-mean. Brags that he’s never lost a barroom fight.”

“Well, ya can put a lie to that.”

“He won’t let it go. Reason he started in on ya was he thinks ya was with the Murphy girl when she shot him in the back.”

“Is that right?”

“I was with Hartog when he killed her pa. I don’t go along with shootin’ a man down, and can’t blame the girl none. He’s the meanest with womenfolk I ever knowed. Crazy-mean. Ya’d better tell that girl to steer clear of him. He’ll pleasure himself on ’er, then kill ’er.”

“This Hartog sounds like a real nice fellow.”

“
Señor,
give me a hand.” The Mexican was trying to get Hartog off the floor.

The bartender stepped from behind the bar and threw a bucket of water on the unconscious man. Hartog sat up, dazed and confused.

“Get him outta here,” the bartender ordered.

“Ya ain’t better get hard-nosed ’bout it,” the Mexican snarled. “Hartog’ll take care a that feller, and come fer you.”

“Let him come. I’ll be waitin’ with my old buffalo gun.”

After the two men led Hartog out through the swinging doors, the barkeep spoke to the fourth man who had been sitting at the table when the fight started.

“Where do you fit in this, Pud?”

“I ain’t fittin’ in with them fellers a’tall, Oscar. They ain’t friends of mine. Armstrong ain’t a bad sort. Hartog’s pure poison, and that speckled pup that’s latched onto Hartog ain’t got ’nuff brains to pour piss outta his boots.”

Pud Harris had not been pleased when he had returned from the store to be told to keep an eye on Havelshell’s men. He didn’t like the agent and he didn’t like the men he hired. But Pud’s boss wanted to know what they were up to, and he was the man who paid Pud’s wages.

Hartog had picked on the wrong man when he started pushing McCall. Pud had seen McCall around once or twice and he seemed to be a decent sort. But tonight he had a short fuse and wasn’t to be messed with. Hartog got what he had coming.

The bartender rested elbows on the bar. “Somethin’s fishy about Hartog killin’ that nester. Don’t make sense that a man with his girl and his ma beside him would draw down on three armed men. I’m thinkin’ that Hartog is a low-down dirty skunk.”

One of the two merchants spoke up. “We need a lawman if we’re going to have a law-abiding town, or Sweetwater will be easy pickin’s for bullies like that Hartog.”

“That’s what Reverend Longfellow told us Sunday at church meeting,” the other merchant said.