Payback At Black Valley Forge Read online

  ‘Brandy, gentlemen?’

  When Mitchum tasted it even his unpractised pallet could discern its quality.

  ‘Armagnac,’ Bucket continued, ‘imported from France. They say it has therapeutic qualities. One claim is that it restores the memory. That’s all I have left now.’

  ‘That ain’t true,’ the marshal replied. ‘After all, you got this place.’

  ‘Yes, I have the Quarter Circle. That should be more than enough.’

  For a moment there was silence while they enjoyed the taste of the brandy.

  ‘Well,’ Bucket eventually resumed, ‘I don’t suppose you gentlemen rode out here for fun. I suppose the matter has something to do with the Apple Bar which you referred to just now. How can I be of help?’

  Stevens had to make an almost conscious effort to get back to business.

  ‘I’m investigatin’ a couple of shootin’s. Both victims were Apple Bar employees. One of them was a particular friend of Mr Mitchum.’

  He turned to Mitchum as if for confirmation but Mitchum remained silent.

  ‘How does this concern me?’ Bucket asked.

  ‘Shortly before the incident took place, there was some trouble between the Apple Bar men and some boys from the Quarter Circle Bucket.’

  ‘What? You think that could have led to the shootings?’

  ‘Seems like a reasonable hypothesis.’

  ‘A hypothesis is all it remains, and not a very good one. I can assure you that none of my men was concerned in these killings.’

  ‘How you can be so sure?’ Mitchum interpolated.

  ‘Because I know them too well. Sure, they might get a bit rowdy occasionally, but they wouldn’t get involved in that sort of behaviour.’

  There was an awkward atmosphere in the room.

  ‘Would you mind if I had a word with your foreman? He would know just who was in town on Friday night,’ Stevens said.

  ‘I can tell you that myself.’

  ‘OK. So there would be no objection to me seein’ them?’

  ‘There certainly would be. I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree, Marshal.’

  Mitchum finished his drink and put the glass down.

  ‘Sorry to have bothered you, Mr Bucket,’ he said. ‘Sure appreciate the brandy.’

  He glanced in the direction of Stevens.

  ‘Thanks for the drink,’ Stevens began. ‘If you. . . .’

  He stopped when he saw the steely glint in Bucket’s eyes. He might be courteous but he was as likely to yield as flint. The marshal followed Mitchum outside and they mounted up.

  ‘Nice to see you, boys,’ Bucket said. ‘Hope you get this thing sorted out.’

  Stevens touched his hand to the brim of his Stetson and then he and Mitchum rode out of the yard.

  ‘Didn’t get much out of him,’ Stevens said. ‘Guess I’ll have to come back with a warrant.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Mitchum said. ‘He can’t tell us nothin’.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because neither him nor any of his men had anythin’ to do with it.’

  The marshal was silent for a moment.

  ‘Better get you to the doc’s,’ he concluded.

  Doctor Robertson confirmed what Mitchum had said; that the wound was not serious. Still, it was painful and would put Mitchum out of action for a day or two.

  ‘You need to rest it; take it easy.’

  ‘Reckon I’d best check in at the nearest hotel,’ Mitchum said. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘There’s only one, the Alhambra,’ the doctor said.

  ‘Then I’d best get on over.’

  The marshal thought for a moment.

  ‘Reckon you could do with somethin’ a little more homely,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you try Lucy Wetherall? Her place might not be as grand as the Alhambra but it’s probably a lot more comfortable.’

  ‘Home cookin’,’ the doctor said. ‘Can’t be beaten.’

  Mitchum looked from one to the other.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Just point me in the right direction.’

  ‘I’ll take you there,’ the marshal said. ‘I can make the introductions.’

  His thoughts reverted to the previous day when he had seen Mitchum holding open the door of the general store for Lucy Wetherall. It seemed that maybe Mitchum had something of a head start in terms of gaining her approval.

  Lucy Wetherall had a medium sized house towards the edge of town, two rooms of which she let out. When the marshal and Mitchum arrived she was hanging some washing which stretched between two trees in her garden.

  ‘Hello, Lucy,’ the marshal said. ‘Got a visitor for you.’

  She looked up and then, realizing she still had a peg in her mouth, blushed slightly as she took it out.

  ‘Howdy,’ Mitchum said. ‘I believe we met before.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Aren’t you the gentlemen who helped with my purchases at the grocery store?’

  Mitchum nodded. There was an awkward silence relieved by the voice of the marshal.

  ‘Mr Mitchum is staying in town for a few days. I was wonderin’ how you were fixed for guests?’

  ‘I only have one at the moment,’ she replied.

  She looked more closely at Mitchum and seemed to notice his bandaged shoulder for the first time.

  ‘Mr Mitchum,’ she said, ‘have you been hurt?’

  ‘It weren’t nothin’, ma’am,’ he replied.

  ‘Doc Robertson figures it would be sensible for Mr Mitchum to rest it awhile,’ the marshal said.

  The woman smiled.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘You’d be very welcome to stay, Mr Mitchum.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘Of course, you’ll have to take us as you find us. Nothin’ fancy.’

  Mitchum wondered whether she was referring to herself and her other guest when she spoke of ‘us’, but the question was answered when there came sounds of movement within the house followed by a rush of feet and a boy of about twelve came running through the door, rapidly followed by a yellow-brown dog. For an instant Mitchum was reminded of the colour of Bucket’s pipe. The boy pulled up at the sight of the marshal and Mitchum but the dog came on and started jumping about Mitchum’s feet, barking as it did so. Mitchum bent down and ruffled its fur.

  ‘Looks like you’ve found a friend there,’ the marshal remarked.

  ‘Let me introduce you to my son, Jimmy,’ Lucy said. ‘And you seem to be already on familiar terms with Rusty.’

  Mitchum turned to the boy.

  ‘Does he do any tricks?’ he asked.

  The boy suddenly became animated.

  ‘Sure does,’ he said.

  He called to the dog and shouted some instruction. The dog rolled over with its paws in the air.

  ‘He wants you to tickle his tummy,’ the boy said.

  Mitchum obliged.

  ‘Now watch this,’ Jimmy said. ‘Rusty, play dead.’

  The dog rolled over on its side and lay still.

  ‘That’s very impressive,’ Mitchum said. ‘Maybe we could teach him a few more.’

  ‘Yes, he likes doin’ tricks,’ the boy responded.

  ‘That’s enough botherin’ Mr Mitchum for now,’ his mother said. ‘Go and play while I take Mr Mitchum in the house and show him his room.’

  The boy looked at Mitchum.

  ‘Maybe later,’ Mitchum said.

  The boy and the dog ran off round a corner of the house.

  ‘You mustn’t mind Jimmy,’ his mother said. ‘He can be a bit boisterous at times.’

  ‘Seems a good boy,’ Mitchum replied. ‘It’s good for a boy to have a dog.’

  Mitchum was wondering if the boy had a father still around as he and Stevens followed Lucy Wetherall into the house. It was quite large and showed a woman’s touch at every turn – lace curtains at the windows, vases of flowers, ornaments and on one sideboard, some faded photographs. One of them showed a man in uniform looking awkwardly at the camera.

  ‘My husband,’ Lucy said. ‘He was killed right at the end of the war.’

  ‘I’m real sorry,’ Mitchum said. ‘I saw some action myself.’

  Mitchum’s room was upstairs. It was tastefully appointed like the rest of the house and overlooked the back garden. Jimmy’s shouts and the occasional barking of the dog came to their ears through the open window. At the back of the house the garden sloped down to a fence beyond which an open meadow stretched to the banks of a stream.

  ‘It’s a real nice room,’ Stevens said.

  Lucy turned to Mitchum.

  ‘Are you sure it will be suitable, Mr Mitchum?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s just fine,’ Mitchum replied. ‘Sure appreciate you offerin’ to put me up.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ she said.

  They went back downstairs.

  ‘Supper will be ready in about another hour,’ Lucy said. ‘In the meantime, just make yourself at home.’

  ‘You mentioned you had another guest?’ the marshal put in. He liked to know what was going on around town.

  ‘Mr Challoner,’ Lucy replied. ‘A nice gentleman. He’s a drummer. Something to do with Glidden wire, if that means anything to you. He should be back anytime soon.’

  Stevens turned and made his way to the door.

  ‘Sure nice talkin’ to you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Would it be OK if I maybe stop by sometime and see how Mitchum is gettin’ along?’

  ‘I think I can manage,’ Mitchum said.

  ‘Of course, anytime.’

  ‘Give my regards to Jimmy and the dog.’

  The marshal walked away down the path and out of the gate. Mitchum and Lucy watched him till a tree cut off their field of vision. They were standing together
on the veranda when Mitchum suddenly became very aware of her presence. Just at that moment the dog came bounding into view and Jimmy appeared round the corner of the house.

  ‘Want to come and throw some sticks?’ he shouted.

  Mitchum looked down at Lucy and smiled.

  ‘Sure thing,’ he replied.

  Late that night Mitchum lay on his bed, looking up at the ceiling and thinking about recent events. The drummer had proved to be a dull fellow but what he said was troubling. Mitchum had never heard of Glidden wire. He was familiar with the use of smooth wire to fence in cows; he had put up plenty of wire fences himself. But this was something new. Challoner was enthusiastic. He predicted a revolution in fencing. Of course, it was his job to be keen, but why did it bother Mitchum? Something else was bothering him too. Who had shot him and why? Even from the start, Stevens’s theory that the killings of Clint Darcy and Ron Hayes had been at the hands of employees of the Quarter Circle Bucket had seemed to him at least questionable. Now that he had been out to the ranch and met Bucket it made no sense at all. There was something about Bucket that jarred, but it had nothing to do with the killings of Darcy and Hayes. Perhaps his own shooting had been coincidental but he didn’t think so. He had ridden with Hayes; Hayes had been his friend, his deputy back in Red Rock. It was too much to imagine that the sequence of events had been accidental. In that case, why had the three of them been targeted? And by whom?

  He recalled the sound of those hoof beats in the night as he got up and walked to the window. The night outside was cloudy and starless. From down the stairs the dog barked twice and then was silent again. He reached for his tobacco pouch and rolled himself a smoke. As he inhaled his first lungful he knew the answer. The connection had to be Red Rock. When he and Hayes had tamed that town they had made a lot of enemies. OK, so it was a long time ago. That didn’t make any difference, some grudges were never forgotten. Someone from out of the past had tracked them to Sagegrease. Probably more than one. In all likelihood, the slaying of Darcy had been accidental. Hayes had been the target and now he himself was. At any moment a bullet could seek him out from a dark alley, a patch of brush or some rocks on a mountainside. Like that afternoon. The only way to resolve the situation would be to find out who was responsible. Mitchum blew out a cloud of smoke. There was just one other thing he wasn’t so sure about. Had the shot which had found him that afternoon been meant to kill? Was it a bad shot or was it some kind of warning? Time would tell.

  Chapter Two

  Mitchum had been advised by the doctor to rest up for a few days, but he had no intention of letting that hold him back. The next morning, after breakfast, he made his way to the livery stable to pick up his horse and rode off in the direction of the hills. He wanted to see if he could find any clues that he and the marshal had missed. Besides, it was his habit to familiarize himself with the local terrain. It might come in useful to know the lie of the land. His shoulder hurt and his arm was stiff but it seemed to loosen up once he was on his way.

  At first the land was without distinguishing features, a gently rolling plain of short buffalo grass, still green but just beginning to turn a yellow-grey. Then he was among the slopes, with scattered clumps of trees and rocks and streamlets overhung here and there in the hollows with willow and cottonwood. He was being very careful now, although he felt it not very likely that anyone would be there to take another pot-shot at him. He came to the crest of a long rise and saw beneath him to his left the long straight rails of the spur line. Then he saw something else. Lying in the grass some distance away was the figure of a man with a pair of field glasses held to his eyes. The man seemed intent on something and so far was unaware of Mitchum’s presence. For a moment Mitchum was about to slip from the saddle and creep up on him, but then he thought better of it and began to ride down the slope towards the prostrate figure. The man continued to look through his field glasses, apparently still oblivious of Mitchum. Only when Mitchum was almost upon him did he turn and, holding the glasses at arm’s length, roll on to his side and look up at the new arrival.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  Mitchum was somewhat put out by the man’s casual attitude. He showed no sign of surprise or concern. It was as if he had been waiting for Mitchum to arrive and his next words confirmed that impression.

  ‘Saw you from a long ways off. Lost sight of you when you got into the foothills. Wondered if you’d put in an appearance.’

  He paused for a moment and then got to his feet.

  ‘Name’s Flagg, Zachary Flagg.’

  Mitchum dropped from the saddle.

  ‘John Mitchum,’ he replied.

  By way of reply the man turned his back and pointed to the railroad track.

  ‘Should be a train comin’ by real soon,’ he said. ‘I still can’t believe in ’em.’

  Mitchum looked at the man more closely. He was an oldster, dry and lined as tree bark and skinny as a stick.

  ‘Like I say, should be a train right soon; and by Jiminy, there she comes.’

  He clapped his field glasses to his eyes again. In the distance Mitchum could just perceive a faint smudge which he guessed was smoke from the engine. Almost without realizing what he was doing, he began to watch as the smoke cloud got bigger and the train appeared, crawling slowly across the landscape like an insect. The man handed Mitchum his glasses and Mitchum took them.

  ‘Sure is a sight, ain’t it?’ the man said.

  Mitchum watched the train as it came closer. Behind the engine were the caboose and four carriages. Mitchum had caught some of the oldster’s enthusiasm.

  ‘Looks like she’s findin’ it hard goin’,’ he said.

  The sound of the engine as it ground its way up the gradient reached their ears. It grew steadily louder. Mitchum handed the glasses back to the oldster and continued to watch as the train disappeared round the brow of the hill. The noise dropped in tone and soon all that was left was a thin trail of smoke billowing in the breeze.

  ‘I know someone who’d enjoy watchin’ the train from up here,’ Mitchum said.

  The oldster raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Young fella name of Jimmy,’ Mitchum said.

  The oldster’s mouth widened in a hollow grin.

  ‘You wouldn’t mean young Jimmy Wetherall?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one. Has a dog named Rusty.’

  ‘Well I’ll be a danged. . . . Say, does that mean you’re stayin’ at Lucy Wetherall’s place?’

  ‘Just for a few days. Till this arm gets better.’

  He felt suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘Doctor’s orders,’ he added.

  The oldster looked at his wound.

  ‘I seen what happened,’ he said.

  Mitchum didn’t show his surprise.

  ‘You saw what happened? You mean, you saw me get shot?’

  ‘Sure did. Seen it all through these here glasses.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Like I say, I saw it all. Seen you and the marshal first, from a distance. It was only when you’d got pretty close that I seen the other fella. He was hidin’ behind some bushes but I got him in my sights. It was then I seen he had the rifle. Woulda tried to warn you but it was too late.’

  ‘Did you recognize him? Was he local?’

  The oldster suddenly spat a thick gob of spittle.

  ‘I lived round these parts most o’ my life. Ain’t never seen that fella round here before.’

  ‘You sure you got a good look?’

  ‘Perfect. Had to take care not to let him catch any reflection. Lookin’ through these things, he was as close as you are to me.’

  ‘What did he look like? Can you describe him?’

  ‘Now there’s a thing,’ the oldster mused. ‘I reckon I most never forget a face but in this case there’s no way I could be mistaken.’

  He paused, as if for effect. He seemed to be enjoying the interest Mitchum was taking. For a moment Mitchum wondered whether he wasn’t putting it on.

  ‘I thought you said you’d never seen him before?’ Mitchum said.

  ‘I said I’d never seen him round here.’

  ‘Go on,’ Mitchum said.

  The oldster drew out the moment just a little longer.

  ‘I couldn’t be mistaken,’ he said, ‘because I’ve seen the face before one time. On a Wanted poster. That face was the face of Turkey Joe Mulligan.’