Dead Man's Range Page 5

  ‘Hear that!’ the conductor said excitedly. ‘Somebody’s in there – alive. Where’s that clawhammer?’

  The conductor found the clawhammer and knelt on the coffin. He inserted the hammer claws under the edge of the lid and pried it up. Finally the conductor dropped the hammer and stood up, pulling the lid aside. He reached down, hesitated, then touched Carmody’s hand. His eyes widened and he glanced at the brakeman. ‘He’s warm! Wait – I can feel his heartbeat! He’s – he’s alive!’

  CHAPTER 6

  The grey fingers of a new day were feeling their way over the eastern horizon when Carmody arrived back in Sand Valley. He had spent most of the previous night asleep on a hard depot bench in a godforsaken spot called Bald Mesa Junction, awaiting an early train which would carry him back. As the hours had slowly ticked away his anger had cooled down through all the successive stages from red-hot fury to a slow boil and finally settled into a kind of cold and controlled rage which was the most dangerous stage of all. It was in this state that he stepped down from the train in the chill light of dawn and strode quickly across the depot platform and up the street toward Buckley’s livery.

  It took him ten full minutes of pounding and yelling to wake up Buckley who sleepily and grumblingly opened the stables and fitted him out with a mount and saddle.

  Caleb was just combing his hair in the cracked mirror outside the bunkhouse door when Carmody splashed across the creek and galloped toward him. Anne heard the clatter of hoofbeats and when she saw who it was she ran out of the house.

  ‘Where the devil you been?’ Caleb asked when he dismounted, and Anne stood looking at him anxiously while she waited for him to answer.

  Carmody told them, with a laugh or two, about his trip in the coffin.

  Anne caught the tenor of his voice and knew the laughs were meant to cover his anger. ‘What are you going to do, Jeff?’ she said.

  ‘Has Mose Dalmas been here yet?’

  ‘No. Why – is he coming?’

  ‘He said he’d come out and “investigate” and then drop by and let you know what he’d decided.’

  Anne sighed. ‘Well, I know what that means.’ She glanced at Carmody. ‘So you’re going to wait till he gets here and then tell him what happened to you, is that it?’

  Carmody shook his head. ‘No, Ma’am. I went to see him on your business and because that was the way you wanted it done. But this is my own private fight and I’ll handle it without any hindrance from Mose Dalmas.’

  The tall cottonwoods along the creek were throwing long afternoon shadows when Caleb tapped Carmody on the shoulder and pointed. Carmody turned and his eyes followed the pointing finger. A rider had crested the distant rise and was coming at a gentle lope down the long slope toward the valley floor.

  ‘That’s him,’ Caleb said. ‘That’s Mose Dalmas.’

  Carmody sauntered over to the yard gate and gazed at the approaching rider. Anne came out of the house and stood beside him while Caleb stopped a little distance away. Nobody spoke, but each felt the significance of the silence as they watched the sheriff canter across the flat toward the house.

  The sheriff pulled up and dismounted, draping his reins over the gate. He touched his hatbrim and said, ‘Afternoon, Anne. Howdy Caleb.’ Then he gave Carmody a brief nod and turned back to Anne. ‘Hot day for ridin’.’

  Dalmas went on, ‘I investigated about them steers of yours.’

  ‘Yes?’ Anne said expectantly.

  Dalmas hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and rocked back and forth on his heels. ‘Well – you know my reputation for honesty and fair play, Anne. I know this is a ticklish situation, you and him bein’ close neighbours and all. Now – I had a long talk with Booth and he’s been pretty decent about it. He’s agreed to forget about the whole thing if you’re willing to promise to keep your cows from strayin’ onto Anvil territory. Now.…’

  Anne drew her breath sharply. ‘Keep my cows…?’ she began. ‘What about the four he shot yesterday?’ she said angrily.

  The sheriff raised a hand and smiled placatingly. ‘Now just a minute, Anne. Let’s don’t get too excited about this. I know how you feel, and in a way I don’t blame you for bein’ upset. But we got to consider Booth’s legal position. Now, he keeps his range fenced. And none of his cows get through that fence onto your range – ain’t that right?’

  ‘That’s because the gully is too steep from above and.…’

  ‘Don’t make no difference,’ the sheriff said, shaking his head calmly. ‘The fact is his cows don’t go through that fence. Yours do. And he’s got his range posted with keep out notices – that puts you in the position of lettin’ your cows trespass on his range. Now.…’

  ‘Only trouble there, sheriff,’ Carmody cut in quietly, ‘is that our cows can’t read.’

  Dalmas swung on him angrily. ‘You keep out of this, Carmody,’ he said, emphasizing the right name.

  Carmody felt that he might have guessed it would come like this. But it had been unexpected all the same. He could feel Anne looking at him, but he didn’t turn to look at her.

  The sheriff was grinning triumphantly. ‘I knowed I’d seen you before somewheres. You’ve changed some in eight years – but not enough to fool me with a name like Connelly. I dug back in my records after you’d gone yesterday and found out who you was.’ He turned to Anne and went on. ‘You didn’t know who he was, did you, Anne? Well, now you know. I got no notion as to what he’s up to, and I can’t touch him right now because he’s served his sentence. But if I was you I’d get rid of him now that you know.’ He touched his hat. ‘Well, I got to get back to town. If I can be of any more help to you, Anne, just let me know.’

  Nobody noticed or even cared that Dalmas had gone. Anne was standing thunderstruck, staring at Carmody. Carmody was staring straight ahead at nothing, his jaw set resignedly. Caleb stood watching them both, afraid to move.

  She was the first to break the silence after a long time. ‘You?’ she said in a strained voice that was little more than a whisper. There was no hatred in it. Not yet. Only the shock of sudden discovery.

  Carmody turned slowly to look at her, his face solemn. ‘Yes, my name’s Jeff Carmody,’ he said quietly. ‘But I didn’t kill your husband.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said bitterly. ‘You were tried by a jury and found guilty.’

  ‘The jury believed what Mose Dalmas wanted them to believe,’ Carmody cut in. ‘I heard the shot and rode up to find Clint dead. Dalmas heard it, too, and found me bending over him when he got there. I was going through Clint’s pockets, looking for some kind of identification. Dalmas said I was robbing him. I was a stranger passing through. Dalmas had to pin it on somebody and I happened to be handy. It saved him the trouble of trying to find the man who did do it.’

  Anne stared at him. ‘Why did you come back here?’

  ‘I spent eight years in prison for another man’s crime,’ Carmody said quietly. ‘I came back to find him.’

  She watched him silently for a long time. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said again. ‘I think your conscience drove you back here when you heard the man you killed had left a wife and baby. Well, that’s small credit to you, Jeff Carmody. But I don’t want your help.’ Her voice lowered, hoarse with emotion. ‘Now get out of here.’

  ‘He didn’t do it, Anne,’ Caleb said gently. ‘He didn’t kill Clint.’

  She swung to face him. ‘Can you prove he didn’t?’ she said sharply.

  Caleb shook his head slowly. ‘No, I can’t prove it, Anne,’ he said quietly. ‘’Cept I know he didn’t. He just ain’t that kind. You can tell by lookin’ at him.’

  For a minute she looked at him and said nothing. Then she laughed, a laugh that was little more than an hysterical sob. ‘You old fool! You’d like for me to believe you, wouldn’t you? You’d like for me to keep him around so that every day I’d be tortured with wondering whether or not I was keeping the man who’d killed my husband.’

&nbs
p; The old man’s eyes widened and he started to speak but she cut him off. ‘Oh, don’t look so surprised,’ she said with a bitter smile. ‘I’m not blind, Caleb. Don’t you think I could see how you’ve hated me from the first moment Clint brought me here? You were happy with him until I came into his life. You felt I had no right to share his companionship after all the years you’d known him. God knows why you’ve stayed with me – unless it was to enjoy seeing me suffer. And now you want me to keep a man who killed my husband, just because I need help against Anson. You’d enjoy that even more, wouldn’t you, Caleb?’

  Her voice caught in a sob and she leaned against the gate for support while Carmody and the old man watched her helplessly. She lifted her face and it was streaked with tears. ‘Get out!’ she whispered. ‘Get out – both of you!’

  Carmody hesitated, then turned slowly away. Anne pushed herself away from the fence and started blindly for the house. Caleb watched her, then turned and shuffled slowly towards the bunkhouse, his old face sad, his head bowed. Anne paused, watching him go. Then she called, ‘Caleb!’ and rushed up to him and he caught her while she buried her face on his shoulder, sobbing. ‘Caleb, I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean what I said. You’ve been … so good to me.…’ She began to cry quietly and the old man raised his eyes to meet Carmody’s across the yard. ‘You’d better go, Jeff,’ he said quietly. ‘Maybe this’ll blow over one day.’

  Carmody turned away and went thoughtfully to the bunkhouse where he rolled his blankets and picked up his few belongings and stuffed them in his warbag. As he was tying them behind his saddle Penelope came up to him holding the pup in her arms. ‘Why is Mommy crying, Jeff?’ she asked.

  Carmody glanced down at her. Then he smiled and ruffled her hair. ‘Because she’s a woman, I guess,’ he said with a sigh and mounted up.

  The little girl’s eyes lighted on the warbag. ‘Are you going away, Jeff?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But you’ll come back?’

  Carmody set his jaw, looking across the yard to where Caleb was helping Anne into the house. ‘Sure, little lady,’ he promised. ‘I’ll come back.’ He lifted his hand and gave her a bright smile, then reined his mount around and set off through the cottonwoods and across the creek.

  He rode aimlessly for a while, sunk deep in gloomy thought. He had handled it all wrong from the start, he thought. Maybe he should have made a clean breast of it from the beginning, even to Mose Dalmas. At least that would have prevented Dalmas from using the knowledge as a weapon. But would it have made any difference with Anne? He doubted it, remembering the look in her eyes when she had talked about the man she still believed to be in prison. But she had accused him of coming back to help her to salve his conscience. At least that was something, she gave him credit for having one.

  Her outburst at Caleb puzzled him more than a little. She was damned lucky, the way he figured, to have the old man stick with her like he had. At Caleb’s age a man liked to look forward to a few last years of peace and quiet; not trying to battle against odds for a headstrong young widow. He thought of her remark about Caleb hating her for taking Clint’s companionship away from him. That could have been mostly imagination. From what he had heard of women they were apt to be jealous of their husbands’ love. Especially a woman like her who had been kicked around until Clint took her away. But most likely it had been her imagination and the outburst had been purely emotional. She had regretted it right away and apologized to Caleb. And the poor old boy had looked plain stunned when she had flung the accusation at him.

  Well – one thing would clear the air all round. Find the man who had killed Clint Merriweather. He felt his pocket to make sure the rowel was still there, and he smiled grimly. ‘… there’s maybe sixty thousand men in the State of Texas wears spurs.’ Still, it was a hope. The only hope he had – so he clung to it.

  The sight of the Anvil fence stirred him from his thoughts. A hundred yards away was a gap-gate and he rode toward it, his eyes searching the area just beyond the fence. He dismounted and lifted the wire loop from the post and held it aside while he led his mount through, then turned to fasten it, glancing idly at the sign that said, ANVIL RANCH. BOOTH ANSON PROP. KEEP OUT! He had his toe in the stirrup to mount again when a voice from the mesquite behind said lazily, ‘S’matter, fella, can’t you read?’

  Without taking his foot from the stirrup Carmody turned to look over his shoulder. Neaf Hacker stood there. Hallstead was with him. His eyes flicked to the brush and he wondered how many more lay hidden.

  ‘Nope,’ he said casually. ‘I never learned my ABC’s. Why, what’s that sign say?’

  ‘It says keep out, that’s what it says.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Carmody nodded solemnly. ‘Otherwise you might get all sorts of folks comin’ in here.’

  Hacker took an angry step forward, stiff-legged, arms at his sides. Hallstead’s hand rested on his gun butt, waiting. ‘You’re real smart, ain’t you, Carmody?’

  ‘I see the word’s got around. Mose Dalmas must’ve told you.’

  Hacker looked puzzled. ‘About you actin’ smart?’

  ‘No. Anybody can just tell by lookin’ at me how smart I am. I mean about my name. What else did Mose tell you?’ Carmody was talking for time. He knew that to try to mount would invite a bullet; and in that awkward position, with his right leg in the air, he wouldn’t have a prayer. But to put his foot down would be to take a stand against odds. Either way it would be rough.

  ‘He told Booth that nobody has a right to trespass on private property. And that’s what you’re doin’ right now.’ Hacker grinned confidently, knowing he had made Carmody’s position clear. ‘This time,’ he added pointedly, ‘you’re gonna stay in your coffin.’

  At the word ‘coffin’ Hallstead commenced his draw and Hacker’s right hand blurred into motion. Carmody jerked his left foot from the stirrup, firing as he spun around. Hacker and Hallstead were already wreathed in gunsmoke which jerked and eddied as they thumbed shot after shot. Carmody’s first shot missed completely but his second took Hallstead full in the chest, sending him backward with a grunt under the impact of the heavy slug. A bullet whispered in Carmody’s ear and he heard the clang of iron as it riccocheted off the horn of the saddle behind his head. Something lunged into him suddenly from behind and the frenzied whinny of pain told him the livery mount had been mortally stricken. He leapt aside to avoid the thrashing hoofs as the animal went down, still firing at Hacker as he moved. Hacker dropped his gun and screamed, clutching at his lower belly as he staggered forward through his own gunsmoke, his eyes wide with pain and fear as he realized he was dying. He stumbled to his knees, doubling forward in agony, the blood dribbling between his clasped fingers. Carmody lowered his gun slowly and watched the man slump forward in the dust where he struggled convulsively for an instant and then lay still.

  Carmody walked over to the dead Hacker and stood above him for a minute. Bending down he jerked one of the man’s boots straight and glanced at the spur. It was hand-hammered Mexican brass with inch and a half Chihuahua rowel. He let the boot drop and walked over to Hallstead and made a similar examination. This time he found long-shanked blued steel with small star rowels of the professional bronc-stomper.

  He stood up and glanced around. They must have mounts here, he thought. He found them and brought them out, trussing the bodies face down over one of the protesting horses. Then he stripped the saddle from the dead livery animal and cached it in the mesquite. Mounting the remaining horse he dropped a loop around the dead one’s hindlegs and dragged it out of sight. Then he came back and taking the corpses in tow, set off deeper into Anvil territory.

  The trail led him as he thought it would, to Anson’s headquarters. He drew rein at the head of the valley where a stand of twisted cedar offered cover. Dismounting, he squatted to roll a cigarette while he looked the situation over.

  There was little visible activity among the buildings and corrals below. He guessed, and rightly, that the
main force of Anvil hands would be away on routine jobs. But a glance at the sun told him it was nearing noon. The question was whether the riders would be too far away to ride back for their midday meal. He decided to wait a little while.

  The ring of a triangle sounding the noon meal call reached his ears. A solitary hand came out of one of the outbuildings, dropped a handful of tools on a bench and walked toward the cook shack wiping his hands on his pants. Carmody watched for others but none came and he judged that the man he had seen, plus the cook, must be the only help around.

  His eyes shifted to the main house. The question now was whether Booth Anson himself was home. Carmody decided there was but one way to find out. He ground his cigarette under his boot and remounted, riding warily down the slope. Without incident he reached the white slab fence surrounding the yard and dismounted, leaving both horses at the hitchrack.

  Hand on gun, Carmody went carefully up the steps, eyeing the open windows on either side of the door. On the verandah he paused, listening for small sounds above the thumping of his heart. A shuffling of stabled horses came from beyond the house. But the house itself lay quiet.

  Through the door ahead he could look the length of the hall. It was empty except for a buffalo horn hatrack, a hide-covered chair and a leather-bound trunk. He glanced again at the windows on either side. The room on the right was furnished as a dining room with heavily-carved Victorian rosewood table, chair and sideboard. He moved silently to the left, keeping close to the wall as he peered inside. This would be Anson’s office, he judged. A big mahogany desk was heaped with an assortment of litter. The rest of the room was in keeping, from the scuffed shotgun chaps hung from a hook beside the stone fireplace to the stirrup-less saddle gathering dust in a corner.

  He started with the desk, sifting quickly through the litter on top until it occurred to him that eight years would be a long time to leave a pair of spurs lying on top of a desk, even one as disorderly as this. He tried the drawers. Until he reached the bottom one on the left his search netted him nothing but the usual collection of junk he might be expected to find in a cattleman’s desk. Tally sheets and partially-filled ledgers dating consecutively from 1870 to 1885 were there. He glanced briefly at the tally sheets, raising his eyebrows at the yearly increases they showed. Anson didn’t need more land, and even if his present water supply was precarious, he was doing all right. But Carmody reminded himself he hadn’t come to snoop into Anson’s business and he put the sheets away and turned his attention to a locked bottom drawer.