Longhorn Country (11 page)

‘You’re pushing a wagon uphill with the brakes on, Waco,’ Blaine said. ‘Why don’t you get outta here before I throw you out?’

Morgan’s eyes blazed. ‘The hell you think you are, mister! This is my office! I’ll say who stays and who goes – and right now I reckon it’d be better for you to go. I’ll see you in the mornin’ and if you got nothin’ particular to do before you turn in, you might pack your warbag … Just in case….’

Morgan’s face was like the sky before a twister of devastating size swept in: cold, dark, implacable, and deadly dangerous. He was reckless now, as well as mad, prepared to cut his losses by firing Blaine if the moment suited him.

Blaine let his single eye rake across Waco and come to rest on Lucas, who flushed uncomfortably.

‘See you in the morning then, Morg – matter of fact, I think I’ll ride into town and have a few drinks with the boys.’

They watched him go and then Morgan, mouth dry, unable to hold off any longer, stood and went to his cupboard. He poured three stiff drinks, tossed his down and poured another. He jerked his head at Waco who took a glass for himself and handed the other to Lucas.

‘You really thinking of kicking that breed off Broken Wheel at last, Pa?’ Lucas sounded eager for an affirmative.

Morgan drank and sloshed more whiskey into his glass. Waco gestured to Lucas, arched his eyebrows and nodded towards Morgan – who saw him and snarled. ‘What’s that mean? That stupid look you’ve got on your face?’

Waco, taken by surprise, bristled. ‘It ain’t stupid –
I
ain’t the one gettin’ pie-eyed.’

Morgan ground his teeth. ‘Out! Get him out of here, Lucas! Kick him off the place! I’ve had a
bellyful
of him!’

Waco glared at Lucas. ‘Wait a minute! I’m owed money here! We had a deal, Luke!’

‘Shut up!’ gritted Lucas but he saw his father stiffen: there was nothing wrong with the Old Man’s hearing,

‘What’s this? What “deal”?’

Lucas grinned crookedly. ‘Not “deal” really, Pa….’

‘Yeah! a goddamn
deal
!’ Waco snapped. ‘You promised me two hundred bucks, minimum, if I …’

‘Shut up, damn you!’ Lucas squared up to his father, heart pounding. ‘Look – I had a hunch Blaine was gonna try somethin’ with that herd – I knew he was going through White Creek where his Injun friends are so I just told Waco to keep an eye on things … and to report back to me.’

Morgan had even forgotten he was holding an empty glass in one hand and part-bottle of whiskey in the other as he narrowed his eyes. ‘Two hundred
bucks – just for that? You’re lyin’, boy! An’ you know what I think of liars and what I do to ’em!’

That startled Lucas and his heart beat even faster.
Christ, the whippings he’d taken when he was growing up – the humiliation of having to drop his trousers and have his butt welted by the Old Man’s belt in front of the men – in front of Blaine!

Never again!
He’d sworn it when he turned twenty that never again would the Old Man lay a hand on him that way. He glanced at Waco, saw the man’s stupid look, wondering just what kind of a clash he was going to see between father and son here –
something
to talk about, to spread all over Texas in his drunken rantings….

‘I ain’t lying!’ Lucas shouted at his father, his face reddening, shocking himself at his temerity. But it was too late now to withdraw the words and his father’s jaw jutted, he hurled his bottle and glass into a corner and turned and reached for a bridle where it hung on the wall.

‘
No!
’ shouted Lucas. ‘You ain’t gonna whup me, Pa!’

‘Drop your trousers, boy!’

Morgan strode around the desk, bridle raised and Lucas made a whimpering sound, snatching at his gun. Morgan’s eyes widened at first, then narrowed to mocking slits. ‘You don’t have that much guts, boy!’ And he slashed with the bridle. Lucas jumped back and the leather tore the gun from his shaking hand. He threw up his arms, whimpering as the old terror of his youth came flooding back. Until the thunder of three deliberate shots filled the room.

Slowly, he lowered his arm from across his eyes and he saw his father on the floor, blood pooling around his head and crawling from two holes in his back. Lucas, white and trembling, turned and saw the smoking pistol in Waco’s fist.

‘Jesus! You’ve killed him!’

The man smiled crookedly. He stepped forward and dropped something on the floor by Morgan’s body.

It was a jack-knife with a broken blade point with ‘Alamo’ scratched into a metal oval on the staghorn handle.

‘Blaine must’ve dropped it in his hurry to get away after killin’ Old Morg … Right, Luke?’

It seemed a long time, but in the end Lucas nodded.

‘Reckon it’ll cost you more than two hundred, though,’ Waco said confidently.

Lucas grinned crookedly. ‘I reckon so – but it’ll be worth every cent!’

Blaine regretted his snap decision to ride into Brackettville and join the crew of Broken Wheel.

He was tired from the long trail drive and the seemingly endless ride back from San Antone. Squeezing a halfway decent price for the herd out of the meathouse agents had taken a lot of effort – he wasn't a man who did much talking and it had been two long day's hard drinking and fast talking before the agent had come around.

Then he had done it so abruptly and with such good humour that Blaine knew the man had just been filling in time, enjoying the endless hassling and bargaining.

Well, truth was, he was tired of a lot of things lately. Tired of Broken Wheel and Morgan and Lucas – particularly Lucas. But he had given his word he would work off what Morgan figured he owed him and although he knew it had been a rash decision he would not go back on what he had undertaken.

He was not a man given to wild drunks – he didn't care for the rotgut whiskey they served that much, although he liked beer when it was iced – but the crew had a couple of hours start when he arrived and plied him with drinks. He shook his dark mood deliberately and tossed down more whiskey in half an hour than he had, probably, drunk over the last couple of months. He had a few beers as well, felt suddenly expansive, and bought cigars all round. The strong tobacco mixed with the vile liquor soon made his head swim.

The men were drunk, mostly happily so, but a couple got into fights with townsmen. Then someone started singing trail ditties and everyone joined in – making up their own words and causing much coarse laughter. The bar girls moved in through the smoky fog and soon were helping staggering men upstairs to their musty beds. Others were content to dance with the ‘ladies' – at least until roving female hands aroused basic instincts and gave them other ideas.

Blaine refused to dance – his head was swimming and he felt queasy, unused to this kind of thing – but at least he had stopped worrying about the O'Days, although he felt kind of sad when he allowed himself to dwell on Kitty….

‘Go on, Blaine! Dance!' urged Lucky Kinnane, swaying, with a straggly-haired blonde a good twelve years his senior clinging to his arm, trying to steer him towards the stairs.

‘Yeah,
dance, Blaine
!' urged the brassy whore, false smile pasted on, shaking him a little. ‘Let's see you dance.'

He shook free, a little unsteady. ‘You wanna see a dance?' he roared and a wave of silence washed through the big bar, all eyes turning to the one-eye breed, surprised: everyone was used to his quiet, deep voice, not this stentorian bellow. ‘I'll show you a dance you've never seen before!'

He overturned a couple of tables, kicked chairs out of the way and began a grunting chant, stamping in time to it, lifting one leg, hopping a little on the other foot, lowering the leg and raising the other, all the time his arms jerking and his lean body twisting as he moved in a tight circle.

‘By God!' screamed the whore, laughing. ‘He's dancin', all right! He's doin' a goddamned
war dance
!
Watch out
!'

It suited the mood of the drunks and they began shouting and whooping, clapping their hands and stamping their feet. Calico and Lucky and Clay Winton joined Blaine and the four of them were busy raising the roof with their clamour when a gunshot brought things to an abrupt halt.

Blearily, they stared at the batwings. Sheriff Marsh Kilgour, stooped a little from his arthritis, hatless, and his thinning grey hair loose and wild, stood there, holding a smoking six gun. Blaine's blurred smile of amusement faded slowly as Lucas and Waco pushed in behind the lawman, both looking mighty pleased with themselves.

Kilgour limped down the silent room, one hip giving him a lot of trouble lately, and stood before Blaine.

‘Well, guess we don't see you like this very often,
Blaine. Fact, don't recollect
ever
seein' you like it before.' He squinted. ‘This a tribal celebration or somethin', mebbe?'

Blaine shrugged. ‘Celebratin' – drownin' my sorrows – something like that, Marsh. Have I broken the Law?'

‘No-ooo – not with your cuttin' loose the curly wolf, leastways, but back at Broken Wheel you sure busted it good.'

Blaine, sobering fast, frowned and flicked his single-eyed gaze to the smirking Lucas and Waco.
Those two were up to something
– that much seeped through his sodden brain but he wasn't prepared for Marsh Kilgour's next words.

‘I'm arrestin' you for the murder of Morgan O'Day – Now you gonna gimme trouble or come along quietly….?'

The hard, narrow streaks of the iron bars on the window gradually took form as the sky lightened in the east. From down the stone corridor he heard the clatter of tin mugs and the rattle of dishes, and he smelled frying bacon. Then came the deputy's heavy boots trudging towards his cell.

Blaine sat up slowly, wincing, holding his head as he swung his feet to the floor.

‘Ain't used to tyin' one on, eh?' Deputy Linus Sebastian grinned through the bars. ‘Stay put while I open the door and slide your breakfast in … Nice greasy bacon and soft-fried eggs with burnt toast and coffee that'll float a six-shooter. Mebbe a couple flies – for fresh meat!'

‘You can keep everything but the coffee,' slurred Blaine as the deputy opened the door partially and slid the tray along the flagged floor. Half the coffee spilled into the tin platter of bacon and eggs but it couldn't spoil it any more than it already was.

‘You'll be required to come out for wash-up at six o'clock,' intoned Linus, locking up again. ‘Then you can clean out the other cells and muck-out the stables … Sheriff don't ride much no more but he still keeps a couple fine hosses – Likes to talk to 'em and think about the old days when he was an Injun fighter. Whoops! Did I say “Injun” or “engine”?'

‘Just go away, Deputy, and let me die in peace.'

The java was the worst Blaine had ever tasted and he couldn't even look at the mess on the tray let alone attempt to eat it. He rolled and lit a cigarette but stubbed it out almost immediately. Then he rattled the bars until Linus Sebastian came striding down angrily, demanding to know what all the racket was about.

‘Lemme wash-up now and I'll get started on the chores,' Blaine said. ‘I'll go loco if I have to stay in here smelling that pigswill.' He pointed to the bacon and eggs.

‘Matter of fact the pigs kinda like my cookin', but Uncle Marsh says to have you wash-up at six in the a.m. and … Aw, what the hell? C'mon out an' get started….'

At the wash bench the chill water in the tin bowl woke Blaine up fully and he sluiced it over his face and head several times. Drying himself on the towel, he saw Linus watching from the doorway.

‘Stables next … I got a long-handled shovel for you so you don't have to get your hands dirty. Not that it'd bother you much I s'pose. You'd be used to sleepin' in trash and manure at the Reservation, wouldn't you?'

Sebastian was new here, had come up from El Paso with Marsh Kilgour's widowed sister and landed the deputy's job. ‘Yeah, Linus, we're like that – sleep where we can. Muck don't bother us Injuns.'

‘Hell, I dunno how you can stand it,' Linus sneered. The new deputy was feeling superior now, white man over breed, and Blaine deliberately sniffed, spat on the floor before going through the door.

‘Pig! They say you shot your own father.'

‘I never shot anyone. But the one who got killed was the man who raised me, not my real father.
He
shot
him
in a raid on our camp when I was a shaver.'

‘Ah! But finally got your revenge, eh? Well, they say you people've got a helluva lotta patience….' He gestured abruptly. ‘That clapboard buildin' yonder. Put the hosses out to grass first.'

Blaine took the long-handled shovel and inspected the blade, metal worn shiny and thin from use. ‘This is too rounded and worn to shovel manure and straw.'

Linus' face hardened – as much as it could, him being moon-faced and flabby. He dropped a hand to his six gun, trying hard to be the tough deputy. ‘You just do what you're told!'

‘Sure.' Then Blaine jabbed the end of the long handle hard into Linus's flabby belly and the man
grunted, staggered, and before he could get his balance, Blaine hit him across the head with the flat of the blade. Linus dropped like a poled steer and Blaine dragged him quickly into the stable, bound his wrists and ankles with spare harness and stuffed the man's own neckerchief in his drooling mouth. He tied it into place with a sleeve ripped from the deputy's shirt.

Blaine took the man's gun with him, ran back into the jail building and found his own Colt and Winchester in the front office with his saddle. After locking the door, he took these back to the stables, chose the roan and saddled quickly. In minutes, he led the horse through the gap in the sagging paling fence, around a cess pool and into the brush. He cleared town before many folk were astir. He hoped Marsh Kilgour's arthritis was giving him hell this morning so he would sleep in and not come down to the jailhouse to check on Linus for a few hours yet.

It was noon before the posse arrived at Broken Wheel.

Sheriff Marsh Kilgour was leading, taking swigs of strong ‘pain killer' from a silver flask he carried because his arthritis was troubling him. Linus Sebastian was there, too, his hat on all askew because one side of his head was swollen. He was bitching about the headache he had sustained and
maintained
that he ought to have stayed behind in town.

‘You let him escape,' Kilgour told him
unsympathetically
. ‘Only right you help recapture him.'

There were six townsmen, none very enthusiastic,
but they had been forcibly deputized by the sour old sheriff.

Lucas was in his father's office – avoiding looking at the dark stains on the floor that had so far resisted all efforts to remove them. He was going over the books and felt his sombre mood rapidly dissipating as he saw the still-incomplete figures, but figures that promised him almost instant riches.

After all, he was the lone beneficiary of Morgan's will now. Kitty had been disowned months ago and Blaine would soon be hanged for Morg's murder—

Then he heard the posse and his belly lurched. He called for Waco who had been searching the house, on Lucas' orders, for money the Old Man might've had stashed away for an emergency – Lucas knew there
had
to be some….

A lot with a little luck!

Kilgour didn't dismount, called for Lucas to come out on to the porch. The sheriff was gripping the saddlehorn firmly and swayed slightly. Lucas compressed his lips.
Goddamnit! Marsh was already halfway drunk
… Which meant he would be
unpredictable
….

Damnit! He didn't need this!

Marsh didn't mince his words. ‘Saddle up – this sorry son of a bitch of a nephew of mine let Blaine escape. He's ridin' my roan – can pick its tracks out of a bunch of a hundred mustangs easy. He's headed into the hills yonder.'

‘I can't come now!' Lucas said, heart racing. ‘I – I've a lot of paperwork to do and Morg's funeral to arrange and …'

‘His murderer to catch – I'd have to think you don't care whether he's caught or not, Lucas, if you refuse to come.'

Lucas mentally cursed the drunken old fool. ‘Waco – saddle some horses and grab a few men – We'd better scour the hills with the sheriff's posse before he gives us a bad name – that satisfy you, Marsh?'

‘I can always call in a few more men if I need 'em from some of the out-lyin' spreads….'

It was hot, unproductive work. They found tracks where Blaine had skirted the Broken Wheel down by the riverbend. An ex-army scout named Tyson was tracking for Kilgour and he said he couldn't be certain, but looked to him like Blaine had crossed the river.

So they crossed over, then broke up into two parties and arranged to meet near Fool's Canyon at sundown.

‘Hell, you aim to stay out that long?' Lucas complained.

‘Long as it takes – Lucas, this is your father's
killer
! Figured you'd ride to hell'n'back to track him down.'

‘Well, sure I would – but I know Blaine. I figure he'll be riding hell-for-leather for White Creek. His Injun kin'll hide him, no trouble.'

‘I've already wired the San Antone Marshal to get a posse out there and some men up to the Reservation.' The sheriff paused to take a final, deep swig of pain-killer from his flask, watery eyes on Lucas. ‘My creaky ol' bones tell me he's still around
here. He maintains you framed him for Morg's murder, Lucas, you and Waco—'

‘Well, he would say something like that, wouldn't he?'

‘Mmmmm – claims he must've lost that old knife of Alamo's when he fought with Waco. Says Waco musta picked it up – fact, he and Lucky rode back to look for it but it'd gone by then – so had Waco….'

‘Listen, Marsh, I never saw no knife!' Waco said, emphatically denying the implication. ‘Only when me and Lucas ran into the ranch office and found Morg dead – the knife was lyin' beside him.
That's
where Blaine dropped it!'

‘Well, I guess it'd make sense that way,' the lawman admitted. ‘Now, scatter, do your best, and meet up at Fool's Canyon by sundown.'

Lucas made sure Waco was with him and Lucky Kinnane and Calico tagged along but Lucas got rid of them quickly enough, despatching them to check out dry gulches more to the north.

‘You think Kilgour's on Blaine's side?' Waco asked worriedly.

‘If he was stone cold sober I'd say “no” – but he's half drunk already an' he could let his personal feelin's override his Lawman's sense of duty….'