Dead Man's Guns Page 5

  Ned seemed to remain convinced that he owed something to Tess’s father; no one had told her why that was. Probably, she considered, they had lied to him to convince him that it was so. Tess leaned against the wall, her fingertips briefly tracing patterns on her forehead.

  It was all a lie! Every bit of it.

  The only evidence of who Ned might be was the shirt, and Mother Rose believed it could only belong to a lawman. Poor Ned, he was as confused as she was – more so! She mentally apologized for being sharp with him, for remaining aloof. She wished that she could go into his room and talk to him now, but it was late; he was probably asleep, besides she was not going to pass the men and enter Frank Lavender’s bedroom while they watched and speculated freely.

  ‘Tess! What are you doing, girl? I’m standing in water!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Tess said. She grabbed another rag from the sack and without real reason folded the red shirt and tucked it behind the shelves which held various household items. There must be some way. Some way to help Ned Browning remember. Before things got much worse.

  Morning was cool and bright. Ned Browning had been lying up in bed, enjoying the warmth of his blankets. From time to time his shoulder flared up with pain, but it was faint, only a reminder of his wound and not an urgent plea for relief. His aching head was a different story. Again he had awakened with the optimistic expectation that his memory might have returned during the night, only to be disappointed by the lack of same. Maybe, he thought with unhappy reflection, it would never return and he would remain Frank Lavender – or alternately, Ned Browning – for the rest of his life.

  Bootsteps rang heavily on the front porch and a fist was thumped impatiently against the door. Orson Bright could be heard crossing the outer room, answering with impatience. Ned slipped from his bed, smoothed back his hair with one hand and planted his hat with the other. Buckling on his gunbelt, he proceeded to the front room to find Bright speaking with two new arrivals. They all glanced his way as he entered the room.

  The fire was already going in the stove, Ned saw, and coffee was just beginning to boil. Andy Bright, sleep-rumpled, had emerged from his bedroom. Orson was speaking:

  ‘The coffee’ll be ready in a few minutes, boys. Sit down, won’t you?’

  The two newcomers did not remove their hats as they seated themselves, nor did they let their eyes wander far from Ned. They were both heavy-set, sun-burned men with wary expressions. Mother Rose had come in to start pouring the morning coffee.

  ‘Sit down, Frank,’ Orson Bright said, ‘let me introduce you.’

  Ned nodded and sagged onto the wooden bench opposite the two new arrivals, tilting his hat back. Coffee was placed before him; he nodded his thanks to Mother Rose. Tess was nowhere to be seen, although she must be around somewhere since one of her chores was to start the morning fire.

  ‘These here are Billy Lofton and Mack Paulsen from the timber camps across the river. Boys, this is Frank Lavender.’ All three men nodded. No one offered a hand. Andy stood away from the table, leaning against the wall, one heel up behind him.

  ‘What can I do for you boys?’

  ‘That’s what we’re here to find out,’ the smaller of the two, Billy Lofton answered. ‘We heard you had hired on some help. We want to know if anyone has come up with a plan to get us out of our predicament.’

  ‘We just can’t afford to hold on much longer,’ Mack Paulsen chipped in.

  ‘How did you two cross the river?’ Ned asked unexpectedly.

  ‘In our canoe, of course. There ain’t no other way.’

  Andy Bright glanced hopefully at Frank. The night had not diminished his newfound respect for Lavender. ‘What are you thinking, Frank?’

  Ned took a sip of coffee and then looked them over one by one. ‘I’m thinking of crossing the river ourselves. Lyle Colbert has ten, a dozen men in his camp, doesn’t he? How many are guarding the chain where it’s moored across the river?’

  ‘Usually two, sometimes three,’ Lofton answered.

  ‘That makes it an easier target, does it not?’ Ned asked. ‘If we can slip across the river and take care of the guards, we should be able to unfasten the chain over there.’

  ‘Sure!’ Andy said with excitement. ‘We can handle the guards, take the tree down and slip the chain before anyone from this side of the river could reach us.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mack Paulsen said, wagging his head heavily. ‘It’s a good enough plan as far as it goes. I’ve considered it before, but it invites retaliation, doesn’t it? All-out war. All Colbert would have to do is grapple the chain out of the river and reattach it. Meanwhile, he’ll be mad as hell and likely he’ll send gunmen after us to settle things.’

  ‘It would give us all enough time to get our timber to the sawmill,’ Andy said, still excited by the prospect of action after months of sitting idly.

  ‘Sure,’ Paulsen said unhappily. ‘And after that, assuming we lived through the attempt, what then?’

  ‘We’d be right back where we started,’ Lofton agreed, ‘but probably with a fewer timbermen.’

  ‘You could hire more,’ Andy said, still flooded with ambition.

  ‘Not unless we paid fighting wages. The word’ll get around.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Orson Bright said as Mother Rose filled his coffee cup again. ‘What else can we do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Ned Browning said, rising from the table. ‘Just like you have been doing for months. Don’t do anything. Sit here until you’re broke and hungry and driven off your land, whipped like dogs. I don’t care! Do what you like. If you’re not willing to fight for what you have, you just might as well pack up now and pull out.’

  Having spoken, Ned strode to the door, flung it open and stepped out into the clear light of morning. He liked none of this. What was he doing now, trying to spur men into a gunfight? What he had said was true enough, but what gave him the right to condemn other men to death?

  He walked slowly through the trees. The smoke from the chimney dissipated almost as soon as it puffed from the chimney in the breeze that was shuffling the tall trees. The river glinted silver-blue before him. He walked that way and found Tess seated on a low rock, her arms looped around her knees, staring out at the flowing river. He said nothing, but she must have sensed him or seen his shadow, because she turned and glanced up, not quite smiling, not quite frowning.

  ‘What are they talking about back there?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. They asked for my two-cents’ worth and I gave it to them.’

  ‘You urged them to fight?’

  ‘What else could I tell them? It’s their only chance. Fight or pull up stakes and move on.’

  ‘They’re not gunfighters. Just hardworking timbermen,’ Tess said, returning her gaze to the quick-flowing river.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Anyway, what’s so bad about pulling out? Starting over in a better place?’

  ‘Nothing, maybe. Maybe that’s what I should do – if I knew of a better place.’

  They were silent for a time, listening to the forest sounds, the rustling of the tree branches, a dislodged pinecone falling to earth, the squawk of jaybirds and the chattering of squirrels. Beyond all that was the river endlessly rolling away.

  ‘You are the first one Lyle Colbert will want to take care of, Ned,’ Tess finally commented. ‘The rest of them, Father included, have taken it for so long that Colbert knows they will not stand up and fight now. They’ll buckle under … if you are not around.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Ned asked, drawing nearer to the blond-haired girl.

  ‘I’m saying,’ her eyes were over-bright as she rose and turned to face him. She took both of his hands in her smaller ones. ‘If you were to pull out, Ned, the others would lose heart. And you would be away to a safer place.’

  ‘Then what would you think of me?’ Ned asked carefully.

  ‘Then I’d think that you were alive out there somewhere!’ Her voice lowered, ‘And possi
bly thinking of me on some lonely evening.’

  He kissed her.

  She drew away, not really surprised but vaguely discomfited. Did that mean that he was going to do as she requested or that he must stay on so that her respect of him was in no way diminished? She would have spoken to ask, but at that moment Mother Rose appeared on the trail, carrying two empty buckets on a yoke across her bird-thin shoulders.

  ‘You forgot the water buckets this morning,’ Mother Rose said to Tess. ‘I don’t know where your mind is these days.’ But she did. Mother Rose was old, but that did not mean that she had no memory of what could spring up in a young girl’s heart, sometimes without warning of any kind.

  ‘You can go along,’ Mother Rose said to Ned. ‘I’ll help the girl. The men have reached a decision.’

  Ned Browning nodded, let his eyes meet Tess’s again briefly before she turned sharply away toward the river, buckets in hand. He realized that he had disappointed her, that he had not responded directly to her request. How could he have? He had an obligation to Orson Bright.

  He had taken Bright’s money, money he could not readily spare, in return for a promise to help the old man fight for his land. A man can’t just walk away from his obligations. You lived up to your word, and that was that. Or you were not a man. Gloomily, a little angrily, Ned strode on up the forest path, returning to the cabin.

  Lyle Colbert sat behind the dark oak desk in his office. Sunlight glinted blue on the window. Colbert was as pale and bloodless as a wax figure. His eyes, flanking a hooked nose, were as bright as sapphires. His hands were white, tapering, his fingernails too long for a man’s. He was very rich and at this time of life he wanted only one thing – to become richer. Observing Lyle Colbert and his austere habits, his lack of humor, one would have been inclined to almost pity his dreary, soulless life, but Colbert himself was quite pleased with his narrow existence. He had virtually no knowledge of life beyond a dedication to amassing gold. He had no heirs, no one to bequeath his wealth to, but that had no relevance to him. He would have it while he was here, and have it he did. By the bushel. It was enough satisfaction to him. He needed nothing else. Let lesser men worry about trivialities. The door to his office opened a few inches and a shy voice announced:

  ‘He’s here, Mr Colbert.’

  ‘All right,’ Lyle Colbert replied to his secretary. ‘Bring him in.’

  After a minute the door opened again, wider this time and a dark-eyed man with a flourishing black mustache entered. He had his hat on his head. The light picked out the silver conchos on his belt. He wore his ivory-handled Colt low on his hip. He crossed the room, started to perch on the corner of Colbert’s desk, reconsidered, and stood facing Lyle Colbert with a white-toothed grin.

  ‘Good morning, Santana,’ Lyle Colbert said. ‘I’m happy to see you again.’

  SIX

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you would get my message,’ Lyle Colbert was saying. He had not risen to his feet to welcome the gunfighter, nor had he offered Santana a chair. The line had to be drawn between employer and employee.

  ‘Here I am,’ Santana said, flashing another of his smiles. ‘What’s happening, Mr Colbert? Don’t tell me that Bright’s other pup thinks he’s grown up enough now to handle their affairs.’

  ‘Andy Bright is involved,’ Colbert said. ‘But he is not much of a problem.’ Colbert hesitated, examining his pale hands. ‘The fellow he is riding with might be. He shot down Royce Traylor.’

  Santana was no longer smiling. Royce Traylor had been good with a gun, very good. Not as good as Santana believed himself to be, but good. ‘Was it a fair fight?’ he asked.

  ‘From all reports.’ Lyle Colbert seemed to be holding something back. Now he proceeded: ‘They say that it was Frank Lavender who did the shooting.’

  ‘Lavender?’ Santana was momentarily stuck for a reply. He had once ridden with Frank Lavender. The man was lightning quick with a gun. ‘Who says it was Lavender?’

  ‘That’s the name he was using.’

  Santana was thoughtful. ‘I thought I’d heard that they had him locked up in the Cheyenne jail, fitting him for a rope necktie.’

  ‘Maybe he broke out,’ Colbert said.

  ‘Why in hell would he be fighting for a penny-ante outfit like the Brights?’

  ‘They say that Frank took a liking to Bright’s daughter. Do you remember her?’

  Santana nodded. Tess Bright was too young for him, but there was no denying that she was a cute little thing. Still, hiring out your gun for the sake of a woman seemed a fool’s bargain and Frank Lavender was no fool.

  ‘There has to be more to it,’ Santana said.

  ‘Possibly, but that’s beside the point, isn’t it? They tell me that Lavender is a dead shot, and a quick one,’ Colbert said, tilting back in his chair to let his eyes meet Santana’s directly. ‘Can you take him?’ he asked the gunfighter.

  ‘For a price, even if it is Frank Lavender,’ Santana answered. ‘If I can’t take him quick, I’ll take him sure.’

  ‘Like the other Bright kid?’ Colbert said, needling Santana.

  ‘I just did that because the kid’s bragging was annoying me. I just happened to see him passing that alley.’

  ‘Most everyone seemed to believe that story about you and Dan Bright, about you and he having a fight over that woman … what was her name?’

  ‘Doris,’ Santana said sourly. He would never have lowered himself far enough to fall for a tramp like that, but the story was widely accepted.

  ‘Where is she now?’ Colbert asked.

  ‘I gave her a few dollars and a stage ticket to Bainbridge. I didn’t want her getting drunk or careless and changing her story.’

  ‘Very good,’ Lyle Colbert replied. ‘You are a thinking man, Santana. It’s what puts you a notch or two ahead of these other would-be gunfighters. Very well,’ he said decisively. ‘I’ll pay you double what you got for Dan Bright. Just make sure you eliminate Frank Lavender.’

  Frank Lavender was sitting in the canoe as Billy Lofton and Mack Paulson paddled it across the Snake River on that day. Andy Bright was along as well. His father had objected, saying that he needed him at home in case Lyle Colbert decided to storm their landhold. ‘Then send for Shockley and Bert Smart,’ had been Andy’s response to his father’s concern. Young Andy Bright was determined to get into some sort of action against Colbert.

  ‘Besides,’ Andy went on, ‘we should be back before Colbert can get his men organized.’

  ‘If you make it back,’ Orson said, worry lining his face. He had lost one son to Colbert’s gang. He did not intend to lose another.

  ‘Frank’ll take care of me,’ Andy said confidently. He flickered a glance toward Ned Browning who stood waiting, rifle in hand. He made no response. When the bullets start to fly no man can be certain he can protect another.

  Tess sat on the front porch, elbows on her knees, chin cupped in her hands as she watched the four men tramp off toward the river and the waiting canoe. She said nothing. She had already spoken to Ned, told him how she felt about the fighting. He would not listen, either out of a sense of obligation to her father or because of his own foolish notion of manhood. She would wait, do what she always did at such times: curse men for the fools they were and pray that they would return safely.

  Through the dark ranks of the pines they could clearly see two Colbert men. Was that all there were? There was no way of knowing. These two seemed to be pretty nonchalant about their guard duties. Likely they had hired on as fighting men and the idea of being posted to guard a tree did nothing to excite them. One man, the one in the blue silk shirt, sat on a flat rock, his Winchester rifle beside him, the other, who was talking just now, was leaning against the great tree where the chain was fixed. If he had a rifle it was not evident, but he wore his twin Colts as if he knew what they were for.

  Ned Browning glanced at his party. Andy Bright was nearly beside him, stretching his neck forward like a dog waiting to be loosed from its leash, p
istol in hand. A few yards back Billy Lofton and Mack Paulsten crouched, their faces anxious. Farther back along the trail, Ned knew were three lumberjacks. Two of them carrying a twelve-foot-long timber saw, the other a double-bitted axe.

  Ned nodded to Andy and they slipped to where Paulsen and Lofton waited uneasily. Ned whispered to them: ‘We’re going to try to do this as quietly as possible. There’s no telling how shots will carry across the river, and we don’t want Colbert’s gang alerted.’

  ‘You have a plan?’ Paulsen asked. His voice was thin and high with tension.

  ‘Not much of one,’ Ned had to admit. ‘But it’s worth a try. Andy, you cover me from the trees – but for God’s sake don’t shoot unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

  Andy nodded silent agreement. Taking a deep breath then, adjusting his face into a smile, Ned Browning turned and walked boldly toward the outlaws.

  ‘Hey, Riley!’ the man who had been talking said urgently and the outlaw on the rock snatched up his Winchester and leaped to his feet as Ned Browning entered the clearing where the two stood watch.

  ‘Good morning, gents,’ Ned said.

  ‘Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?’ the man with the twin Colts demanded.

  ‘Take it easy, friend!’ Ned said, still smiling. ‘I’m a man afoot, trying to find a way to ford the river. I’m trying to reach Hoyt’s Camp. Is everyone around here so unfriendly?’

  ‘Just keep moving,’ the gunman suggested, his hands on the butts of his pistols.

  ‘I told you, I’m trying a way to do just that,’ Ned said agreeably. ‘I’m just trying to find a way to ford the river.’

  ‘How was you planning on doing it in the first place?’ the man with the rifle asked.

  ‘I’m afoot now, as I told you. My horse broke a leg. Originally, I was figuring on riding it across. Old Patches was a strong swimmer. Once down along the Milk River—’