Splintered Canyon Read online

  Splintered Canyon

  Why is the Splintered Canyon gang out to kill Frank Slessor? And why does he take no interest in the fact? Luckily, his old friend Jet Barclay finds him first, seeking his help to tame the rowdy township of Wind Creek and as they ride together, they find that their respective stories converge.

  Ral Craven, the outlaw leader, is attempting to take over the local cattle shipment business and is making use of the T Bench ranch run by the mysterious Miss Peyote.

  As events spiral and lead flies, the Splintered Canyon Bunch seems to hold all the cards, but who will win the final hand?

  By the same author

  Last Reckoning for the Presidio Kid

  Payback at Black Valley Forge

  A Message for McCleod

  Applejack

  Splintered Canyon

  Emmett Stone

  ROBERT HALE

  © Emmett Stone 2013

  First published in Great Britain 2013

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2304-6

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Emmett Stone to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Chapter One

  Barclay spent some time looking for the Grand Regal Hotel, but he couldn’t find it. There were two others – the Redwing and the Franklin. He checked both of them out but there was nothing in the hotel register and the clerk in each case did not recognize Barclay’s description of his friend. It was only by chance that he came across the place he was looking for. The broken-down sign read Palace Lodgings but a less appropriate title it would have been hard to imagine. The place was a flop-house.

  He had almost passed it by when, on a whim, he stopped in his tracks, turned and went through the entrance. It was dark inside and the place smelt of stale vegetables and tobacco. There were several doors and he knocked on two of them without success. The third time the door opened and a scrawny old woman in a nightdress peered out at him.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’m lookin’ for a man named Slessor. He’d be about my age but taller. The distinctive thing about him is that he has the tip of an ear missing.’

  ‘The right ear?’ the old woman said.

  ‘Nope, the left, but I figure the details don’t matter.’

  The woman thought for a moment, her mouth twisting into an indeterminate slash. ‘Try the next floor, second on the right. I don’t know if he’ll still be there. Ain’t seen him just recently.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Barclay replied. He touched his hand to the brim of his Stetson. He turned and made his way to the foot of the stairway, where he paused to glance back. The woman was standing in the doorway watching him. He nodded and she went back inside, closing the door softly behind her. He began to mount the stairs. Faded wallpaper barely clung to the damp, stained walls. The stairs creaked and there were holes in the treads. Above him the stairwell was a pit of darkness. Without thinking, he drew his Smith & Wesson No. 3 revolver from its holster.

  He reached the top of the stairs and turned to the right. The woman had said the second on the right. He stepped across and put his ear to the door but there was no sound from within. He bent down and looked through the keyhole. A cold draught seemed to blow into his eye. He stood up straight and knocked on the door. There was no response. He knocked again. He waited for a moment, listening carefully, but the only sound was the drip of water coming from somewhere further along the corridor. He thought for a moment or two and then, taking a step back, he swung his leg and brought his boot slamming into the door. To his surprise it flew open. Holding his gun out in front of him, he burst into the room.

  The room was dark but his eyes quickly adjusted. It was bare. The only items of furniture were a chair, a table and a bed frame on which lay a figure with its head against the wall. Whoever it was, he showed no sign of interest. For a moment Barclay wondered if he was dead. He moved forward till he was standing over the foot of the bed. The man wasn’t dead. He lay still, not moving a muscle, but his eyes were open and he was staring fixedly at the newcomer. Barclay breathed a sigh of relief. The old woman was right. The man on the bed was his old partner, Frank Slessor.

  ‘Slessor!’ he said. ‘I’ve been lookin’ for you.’ The man did not respond immediately but after a moment Barclay thought he detected a spark of interest pass across his sharply etched features.

  ‘Barclay?’ he said. ‘Jet Barclay? That was quite an entrance.’

  Barclay glanced around the dingy room. ‘The door wasn’t locked,’ he replied. ‘Isn’t that a bit careless?’

  ‘I figure you’re the careless one,’ Slessor replied. ‘You were outlined against that door frame. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.’

  Barclay’s gaze returned to the recumbent figure. His hands lay loosely across his chest. ‘You ain’t carryin’ a gun,’ he said. ‘You must be feelin’ confident.’ He holstered his weapon and walked to the window, across which a tattered curtain was drawn. He pulled it aside and shreds of fading afternoon sunlight entered the room. He turned back. Slessor had swung himself off the worn mattress on which he had been lying and was running his fingers through his tangled hair.

  ‘Hell, this place gives me the creeps,’ Barclay said. ‘Why don’t we take a walk over to the nearest saloon?’

  Slessor nodded. ‘That’s OK with me,’ he said, ‘only, you might have to pay.’ He walked across to the table and opened a drawer. Out of it he pulled a gun, which he thrust into his belt. ‘I’m carryin’ a gun now,’ he said. Barclay didn’t inquire if his change of mind was an indication that he thought he might need it.

  Barclay felt his spirits lift as soon as they emerged from the flop-house. Together, he and Slessor made their way to the next junction where a short walk brought them to the Silver Spur on Main Street. Before they stepped up to the boardwalk, Slessor looked at the horses which were tethered outside.

  ‘Lookin’ for somethin’?’ Barclay asked.

  ‘Nope. Guess it’s just an old habit.’

  Barclay didn’t reply. Slessor rejoined him and they stepped through the batwings. At that hour, the place was relatively quiet but taking a look around at some of the clientele, Barclay had a feeling that it might get pretty rowdy later. A girl approached them as they crossed the smoke-laden room but Barclay brushed her aside.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said to Slessor. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  He ordered a bottle of bourbon and a couple of glasses. When he looked for Slessor, he saw that he had taken a table in a corner, which gave him a good view of the room and protected his back. Another one of Slessor’s old habits. He took a seat and poured the whiskey.

  ‘You’ll pardon me for sayin’ it,’ he remarked as they raised their glasses, ‘but you look as though you could do with this.’

  Slessor tossed the glass back, then gave Barclay a searching look. Barclay wasn’t sure whether it was due to the whiskey, but it seemed to him that Slessor was already looking more animated.

  ‘It was obviously no accident that you found me,’ he said. ‘I reckon you’d better tell me what you’re doin’ in Ghost Hill.’

  Barclay poured each of them another glass. ‘Yeah. But I think you got some explainin’ to do, too.’

  Slessor was about to reply when the batwings flew open and four men burst into the room. His eyes followed them as they strode to the bar, their boots and spurs making
a lot of noise in the process. ‘Before either of us starts,’ he said quietly to Barclay, ‘I figure you’d better either leave right now or get ready for trouble.’

  The men at the bar were talking and laughing loudly with a couple of the girls. They weren’t taking much notice of anybody else and hadn’t glanced in the direction of the corner where Barclay and Slessor were sitting.

  ‘You mean those boys at the bar?’ Barclay replied. ‘You know them?’

  ‘No, but I reckon they’ll know me when they see me.’ He suddenly looked serious. ‘Those boys are lookin’ for me, but it ain’t none of your business. I don’t want—’

  ‘I’m stayin’,’ Barclay interrupted. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he detected the hint of a grin on Slessor’s face. He recalled what had happened earlier that day. ‘You were waitin’ for them back at the flop-house,’ he said. ‘But the door was open and your gun was in the drawer. I don’t understand.’

  Slessor took another drink of whiskey. ‘Let’s just say things have already changed since then,’ he said.

  Barclay was about to ask another question but he didn’t get the chance. Suddenly there was a commotion at the bar and above the hubbub a voice rang out.

  ‘Say, ain’t that Slessor sittin’ at the table over in the corner?’

  Barclay and Slessor were suddenly the centre of attention. A piano had been playing in a desultory sort of way but the notes trailed away and then stopped. Conversation was stilled as a hush descended. Although he had his back to the bar, Barclay was aware that the four newcomers were staring at them. In a few moments he heard the sound of boots stamping across the floor. Slessor had finished his second drink and his hand was on the bottle as he poured himself another. The footsteps stopped and a voice rasped out.

  ‘Slessor, this is a surprise. We didn’t figure to find you so easily.’

  Slessor did not reply. Barclay turned in his chair to look up into the ugly face of the speaker. He recognized the type; all four of them bore the unmistakable stamp of hired killers, of men who made a living by the gun.

  ‘You, git!’ the man rapped, addressing Barclay.

  Barclay continued to look into his face a moment longer before turning to Slessor. ‘You know this hombre?’ he said. ‘Seems to me he’s a mite unfriendly.’

  ‘You got just this one chance to get out of here,’ the man said.

  ‘I ain’t finished my drink,’ Barclay replied.

  The man turned to his companions with an ugly leer. ‘What do you think, boys? Do we let him finish his drink?’

  The other three grinned and one of them let out a sneering laugh. Barclay glanced swiftly at Slessor. He knew what was coming and he knew which of the gunmen to go for. In a moment the years fell away and the old rapport was as fresh as ever.

  Without warning, all four of the gunnies went for their shooters but before they had come free of leather, Slessor’s gun had sent the two opposite him reeling back while Barclay’s poured hot lead into the others, including the man who had been doing the talking. Slessor leaped to his feet, sending the table crashing to the floor as he did so. As a couple of the gunnies returned fire, both he and Barclay ducked behind it. Shards of wood went flying into the air but neither gunman got the chance to fire again as bullets from Barclay’s Smith & Wesson found their targets.

  One of the other gunmen lay slumped against the bar, unmoving, but the man who had spoken was attempting to crawl away, dragging his leg behind him. Springing from cover, Slessor raced over to him and stamped down hard on his injured limb. The man gave a howl of pain and then lay whimpering.

  ‘Where are the rest of ’em?’ Slessor snapped. The only reply was a groan and Slessor bent down, seized the man by the collar and dragged him screaming to his feet.

  ‘I asked a question. Where are the others?’

  ‘They’re at the Green River Tradin’ Post.’

  Slessor held him up for a moment longer before allowing him to slump back to the ground.

  ‘I need a doc,’ the man moaned. ‘Get me a doc.’

  Just at that moment the batwings swung open and a tall man with greying hair came into the room. He looked about him, taking in the scene. He glanced at the whining figure of the gunman and then at Slessor.

  ‘Ask any of these folks,’ Slessor said. ‘They’ll tell you what happened. We didn’t start it.’

  The saloon began to come back to life. ‘Like he says, it was self-defence,’ someone said and a few other voices took up the theme. The marshal strode to the bar where he spoke with the barman. While they were talking, Barclay, having checked that the other gunnies were dead, joined Slessor. In a few moments the marshal came back.

  ‘Seems like you’re tellin’ the truth,’ he said. ‘All the same, I want the two of you out of town by dawn tomorrow.’

  Barclay and Slessor exchanged glances. ‘Sure,’ Barclay said. ‘We weren’t figurin’ to stay around Ghost Hill anyway.’

  ‘What about him?’ Slessor said, nodding at the prostrate form of the injured gunslinger.

  ‘Leave him to me. I’ll take him over to the jailhouse.’

  Slessor seemed about to add something but Barclay took him by the arm and led him towards the batwings. Before they could exit the marshal shouted after them.

  ‘Forget what I just said. I may need to talk to you boys about this. Where can I find you?’

  ‘At the Franklin Hotel,’ Barclay replied.

  Slessor gave him a curious look but Barclay ignored it. He gave Slessor a push and together they stepped through the batwings into the street. It was growing dark. Scattered lights were beginning to appear along the main drag.

  ‘You got a horse?’ Barclay asked.

  ‘I did have,’ Slessor replied.

  ‘Never mind. We can pick up mine from the livery and buy or hire one for you.’

  Slessor stopped in his tracks. ‘You seem in a mighty hurry to get away,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t trust the marshal not to change his mind. I know that fight wasn’t any of our askin’ and the marshal seems to agree, but all the same we might have ended up in jail. At the very least things could get complicated. I take it you haven’t got any reason to stay in town?’

  Slessor laughed. ‘You ain’t wrong there,’ he said.

  ‘Right. Then let’s get out of here while we can.’ Barclay looked at his companion. ‘I still haven’t got round to tellin’ you yet what I’m doin’ in Ghost Hill and I figure you’ve got more explainin’ to do than I thought.’ They turned a corner. The livery stable was just a little way ahead.

  ‘Just one thing?’ Slessor said.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Barclay replied. ‘Whatever else we decide, you want to pay a visit to the Green River Tradin’ Post. Well, I guess we’ll be needin’ some supplies and I suppose that’s as good a place as any to pick them up.’

  After collecting the horses, they rode at a steady pace till darkness had descended. A big orange moon swam into the sky and they found a place to make camp. Barclay felt strangely exhilarated and it seemed to him that Slessor was feeling something of the same. Already he appeared to be a different man from the one he had found in the sordid hotel room. By the time they had eaten and drunk a couple of cups of coffee, they were in a relaxed and comfortable frame of mind. Barclay got out his pack of Bull Durham, took some tobacco and a paper and handed the pack to Slessor.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I figure you got the most explainin’ to do.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose you’re wonderin’ what that was all about back at the Silver Spur?’

  ‘That, and just what you were doin’ lyin’ around that hotel room with the door open. Especially if you had a notion that those gunhawks were around.’

  Slessor leaned forward and took a pull on the cigarette he had built. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs. ‘Ain’t had a good smoke in a whiles,’ he commented. Barclay remained silent, waiting for Slessor’s explanation.

  ‘I knew those gunnies were coming for me,’ S
lessor said. ‘Maybe not just those ones we had the fight with, but others just like them. I knew they were comin’ but somehow it didn’t seem to matter.’

  ‘Didn’t seem to matter!’ Barclay expostulated.

  ‘Things haven’t been goin’ so well for me recently. I guess I was just down on my luck.’

  ‘What had you done to upset them?’ Barclay asked.

  ‘You remember the Splintered Canyon Bunch?’

  ‘Sure. They caused a whole heap of trouble down along the Rio Grande till the law finally caught up with them. They were led by two brothers. One of them got shot and the other got put behind bars.’

  ‘Yeah. Well that was my doin’. I’m the man who shot Johnny Craven and sent Ral Craven to the penitentiary.’

  ‘That was some time ago.’

  ‘Long enough for Ral to have served his time. Seems like he’s out of jail and formed a new gang. Now he’s lookin’ for revenge. Somehow, he musta found out where I was. I noticed I was bein’ followed. I caught up with a couple of the varmints tailin’ me and squeezed the information out of them. I moved on. The same thing happened. Then, like I say, I hit some hard times. When I realized they were back on my trail, I’d already decided that I’d had about enough. It didn’t seem worth makin’ the effort any more. I figured, why not let Ral have his revenge? He’d be doin’ me a favour. But there was another thing. I had a kinda hunch that Craven would want me alive. He’s just the sort of evil son of a gun who’d want to savour his revenge and drag it out real slow.’

  ‘You seem to have changed your mind fairly quickly.’

  ‘I guess, after all, feelin’ that way was only a phase. When the door to the hotel room bust open, I figured Ral’s gunnies had found me. When I saw it was you, somethin’ happened. I don’t know; it was like some kinda sign.’

  ‘I can’t have got there much ahead of them. It was a close call.’