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  Ridgeway’s Bride

  Cassie Edmond was puzzled by the odd behaviour of those around her. First it was the curious bark from their dog Butte, then the old Ute called Charlie who sometimes called to trade for coffee and flour but now sat silent on his droop-headed paint at the yard gate. Finally it was her father, lifting down his Winchester to go hunting for meat when the meal she’d been preparing was ready for the table.

  But when Brad Edmond returned home, carried by Charlie Ute and a stranger, his life slipping away, his back shredded by shotgun pellets, it was the start of a night of unexpected violence for Cassie, and days of trouble for the stranger Walt Ridgeway.

  By the same author

  The Hanging of Charlie Darke

  The Drummond Brand

  The High Bitterroots

  Return to Tatanka Crossing

  A Storm in Montana

  Longhorn Justice

  Medicine Feather

  Arkansas Bushwhackers

  Jefferson’s Saddle

  Along the Tonto Rim

  The Gambler and the Law

  Lakota Justice

  Crackaway’s Quest

  Riding the Line

  To the Far Sierras

  Black Hills Gold

  Feud along the Dearborn

  Remarque’s Law

  Red Diamond Rustlers

  Ridgeway’s Bride

  Will DuRey

  ROBERT HALE

  © Will DuRey 2019

  First published in Great Britain 2019

  ISBN 978-0-7198-3014-3

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Will DuRey to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Outside the dog barked, not the repeated welcoming yelps for a recognized visitor, nor the low throat grumble raised by the scent of an encroaching natural enemy, wolf, bear or snake, but a single sharp sound that registered Butte’s surprise, his need for assistance to resolve a puzzling situation.

  Cassie crossed the room to look out the window. Across the yard, at the gateway thirty yards distant, a lone rider sat motionless in the saddle. He was scrawny, his body barely filling the red wool shirt and cross-belted dungarees he wore. His faded brown hat was misshapen, weathered by years of constant use, and the expression on his long face was that of a man whose past had known few pleasures. And the droop-headed paint he rode seemed no less weary with life. No one knew the rider’s real name, but because of his tribal ancestry he was known as Charlie Ute. He lived alone in a cabin that had been deserted by unlucky gold-seekers on the far side of Eagle Pass.

  Charlie wasn’t a stranger to Cassie – he’d been an occasional visitor to her home since she was a child, usually when he needed coffee or flour or some other store-bought commodity that he preferred to barter for with the outlying settlers rather than attempt to trade with Basil Deepcut who ran the emporium in Elkhill. Deepcut never attempted to disguise his disdain for Charlie, and the Ute was sure that he was cheated in every transaction. The store owner’s attitude was akin to most of the other townspeople, which made the township an uncomfortable place for Charlie to visit. In the past, he’d suffered random acts of violence at the hands of men bored with pushing cattle, fired up with whiskey, or simply content in the knowledge that the assault wouldn’t attract any retribution from the law.

  Cassie wondered why Charlie hadn’t ridden right up to the house, as was his custom. His stopping at the gate had confused Butte, but the dog was now happily padding across the yard at her father’s heels, content that his warning bark had brought an instant response. When her father engaged in conversation with Charlie, Cassie returned to her interrupted chore, only vaguely aware that Charlie had brought neither game nor pelts with which to trade.

  A few minutes later, when her father opened the door, Cassie asked if Charlie had gone.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Should I put a plate on the table for him?’ Like her mother before her, Cassie always invited Charlie to eat with them if his visit coincided with meal-time, and this evening, with their drovers currently out at the line cabin, there was plenty in the pot. Once or twice Charlie had stayed, but mostly he didn’t linger after striking a bargain with her father for the goods he needed. Cassie didn’t know if his reluctance was due to a mistrust of their motives, embarrassment because he hadn’t mastered the use of knife and fork, or simply because he didn’t like her cooking, but he was a silent, watchful guest, and quick to depart when the meal was over.

  ‘I’ll ask him when we return,’ her father said, his thoughts clearly focused on some other matter.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked. ‘I was about to serve up dinner.’

  ‘It’ll keep, won’t it? We shouldn’t be long. Charlie saw some men down at the stream. I need to find out what they’re up to.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

  Brad Edmond didn’t often lie to his daughter, but he didn’t want to worry her by revealing that Charlie had recognized the group as men employed by Ezra Stuart. Recent incidents, though minor in nature, were responsible for a growing tension between the two ranches. When discussing the situation with his daughter he had always underplayed their importance, insisting that the difficulties with the High Hill riders were nothing more than a series of misunderstandings that would soon be forgotten – but when he lifted down his Winchester from the pegs above the door, Cassie couldn’t hide her surprise and concern.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Thought perhaps I’d see a pronghorn,’ he explained. ‘Get some fresh venison for the pot.’ He offered a smile before turning on his heel and leaving the house.

  Alarmed by flimflam that was so foreign to his nature, Cassie followed her father outside, hoping for an additional comment, reassurance that all was well. However, he spoke only to Butte, ordering the dog to remain on the porch while he strode across the yard. Cassie could see that his horse was already saddled and tied to the fence close to the place where Charlie Ute waited in motionless silence. Butte stood at her side, in eager anticipation of a reprieve from the order he’d been given, his ears pricked for the command to follow. When it didn’t come, he sat under the window to await their return. With a brow creased with concern, Cassie returned to the house and closed the door.

  Few words were spoken as Brad Edmond and Charlie Ute covered the five miles to the elbow of the river at an easy lope. Staying away from the recognized trail, they cut across the grassland and sat atop a bluff watching the men below without betraying their presence. Charlie’s information had been accurate. The men below were from Ezra Stuart’s High Hill spread. The top hand, Rex Coulter, was mounted, one leg cocked around the high roping horn while he observed and spoke to the four other men who were busy in the river.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Brad muttered, more to himself than in expectation of enlightenment from Charlie. In fact their behaviour bar
ely needed explanation, as their activities were consistent with men panning for gold. It was the incongruity of the spectacle that puzzled Brad. The men were High Hill cattle-pushers, not prospectors. Even so, they had no reason to be here. Although this was a rugged corner unsuitable for the plough, it was still his land through which the stream was running. ‘Wait here,’ he told Charlie, guessing that the old Ute would be reluctant to become more involved.

  Keeping to a gulley that obscured his descent, Brad reached the riverside downstream of the place where the men were working. Less than twenty yards separated them when he emerged on to the bank-side trail. The men in the water had their backs to him and only stopped their chatter when, by replacing his right foot in the stirrup and turning his mount to face the approaching rider, Rex Coulter drew their attention to Brad’s arrival.

  The unsheathed rifle that lay across Brad Edmond’s lap added to the tetchiness apparent in his tone when he spoke. ‘What are you men doing here?’

  Rex Coulter wasn’t the sort of man easily cowed, and showing contrition for trespassing was the last thing he intended doing. Riling Brad Edmond had always been his intention. The manner in which his lips stretched in a grin was nearer a smirk than a sign of friendliness. ‘Just stopped to cool our feet,’ he said. His words earned rough laughter from someone in the river.

  Brad let his eyes roam over the men in the water, making it clear that he was aware of the utensils they were using. ‘You’ve got no business here,’ he said. ‘This is my land. Mount up and ride on.’

  ‘That’s not very neighbourly, Mr Edmond. Men just want water for themselves and their animals.’

  ‘You’ve been here long enough to have had your fill. Git, and in future stay on your own range.’

  Rex Coulter laughed, unpleasantly. ‘This will be High Hill land when Mr Stuart takes it.’

  Brad Edmond stiffened at the other’s words. Despite the recent run-ins with his ranch hands, Brad had always had an amicable relationship with his more powerful neighbour. Never before had Ezra Stuart intimated that he wanted his land. ‘I don’t know what plans Mr Stuart has, but you can tell him to leave this spread out of them. I’m not moving from here.’

  ‘That might not be a wise trail to follow. When Mr Stuart wants something, he gets it. One way or another.’

  ‘He’s not getting my land,’ declared Brad. ‘I’m hanging on to it and everything it holds.’ His final words were accompanied by a gesture towards the men in the river.

  Again, Rex Coulter offered a sly grin. ‘Do you think you’re capable of keeping a gold strike to yourself?’ he asked. ‘When word gets out you’ll have a hundred men panning along this stretch inside a week.’

  ‘If there’s gold in that river it belongs to me. The law will be on my side, and you, Mr Coulter, and every prospector in the country will have to seek elsewhere along the river. Now, get on your horses and clear off.’ Brad raised his rifle to back up his words.

  ‘We’ll go,’ said Rex Coulter, ‘but we’ll be back.’ He waited until the other men had packed away their pans and tools and climbed into their saddles. With a final, almost disparaging look at Brad Edmond he spoke again, reminding him of the earlier boast on behalf of his boss. ‘One way or another,’ he said, then led his men away along the riverside road.

  Brad watched them until they were gone from sight before riding slowly away in the opposite direction. Assuming that Charlie Ute was watching from some place in the high ground he raised an arm and pointed ahead. It was an invitation to rejoin him further along the trail.

  As soon as they were hidden from sight among the trees, Rex Coulter reined his horse to a halt. The other men followed suit and all sat silently for a moment until they were assured that they weren’t being trailed by Brad Edmond.

  It was Pol Glendale who spoke first, his voice as deep as a growling grizzly, which was apt for a man of his build and ginger colouring. ‘What was all that talk about the boss?’ he asked Rex Coulter. ‘You said that we’re the only people who know about the gold.’

  ‘We are,’ Rex assured him, ‘but Edmond will be more troubled if he believes the whole of High Hill is against him.’

  ‘We should have finished him,’ Pol Glendale declared.

  ‘If you recall, he had us at a disadvantage,’ Rex Coulter reminded him. ‘His finger was permanently on the trigger. He would have shot anyone who went for their gun.’

  ‘It needs to be done if we want that gold,’ Pol argued. ‘Now that he knows what we’re after he’ll be on constant guard and try to keep it all for himself.’

  Larry Grimes spoke up. ‘Are we sure there’s gold in that river? We haven’t found a speck between us. Perhaps that old prospector was just stringing you along, Rex, bumming drinks on the strength of dreams in his head.’

  ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Rex Coulter said. ‘He showed me some nuggets, I tell you. There’s gold all right, perhaps we just need to work another section.’

  Pol Glendale butted in. ‘We’ve got to do something about Edmond,’ he declared, ‘and we need to do it now before he spreads the news or informs the Elkhill sheriff.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Larry Grimes, ‘Kill him?’

  ‘That’s the best way to keep him quiet. We can work the river unhindered before the land falls into the hands of a new owner. That’ll take months, by which time we’ll have made our fortunes and be gone from this territory.’

  ‘Pol’s right,’ said Rex Coulter. ‘There’ll be no witnesses out in this empty stretch of land. It’ll be easy enough to put the blame on rustlers.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Glendale, ‘what are we waiting for?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a one man job,’ Rex proposed. ‘He’s more likely to make a run for it if he hears a gang on his trail.’

  Pol Glendale barely paused. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, slapping the stock of the weapon under his right leg. ‘He’ll never know what hit him.’

  Brad Edmond hadn’t travelled far from the place where he’d confronted the High Hill riders. In his mind he was trying to make sense of Rex Coulter’s words. How did Ezra Stuart know there was gold in the river, and if it could be found in the stretch that ran through his land then surely it could also be found as it wound through the hills of no man’s land? Why was it necessary to threaten to take his land when the wealth could just as easily be extracted elsewhere? But he wasn’t an expert on mineral matters, nor, he suspected, was Ezra Stuart. In the morning, he resolved, he would ride out to the High Hill spread and confront Ezra. If talking didn’t provide a solution he would ride into Elkhill and seek advice from Sheriff Hayes.

  When he heard the horseman behind he didn’t look over his shoulder. His first thought was that Charlie Ute had ridden down from the hillside, but then the pace with which the rider was approaching cast doubt in his mind. Before he got the chance to turn he was struck forcibly in the back and was flung forwards. For a moment, he clung on to his animal’s neck before falling from the saddle to the hard ground below. The roar of the shotgun still reverberated as he hit the ground. Unable to move, barely able to breathe, he looked up at the sky. A moment later a mounted figure loomed over him. Pol Glendale didn’t speak, merely looked down dispassionately, then raised the shotgun to his shoulder and slipped his finger inside the trigger guard.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After crossing the river, Walt Ridgeway paused. The exact location of Elkhill was unknown to him. Water, he knew, was essential for settlements to flourish, so following the river seemed the logical route. However, the riverside trail was heading upstream, west towards the Rockies and the little information he’d gathered told him that the small Montana township was still some miles to the north. The trail away from the river seemed to skirt some high ground and beyond that, Walt expected, would be the rich grassland for which the territory was famous and which supported the vast cattle herds of the northern ranches.

  Barely had he opted for the route through the high ground than he reined hi
s mount to a halt again. A solution to his dilemma seemed to be at hand. From up-river, a lone rider came into sight, emerging from around a distant outcrop that marked a bend in the trail. He rode in unhurried fashion, like a man who had travelled this stretch of territory many times before. From time to time he raised his eyes to the high ground, casually searching the surrounding country. So when a second man came into view, riding hard and closing quickly on the man ahead, Walt assumed they were companions. The discharge of the shotgun, the back-shooting, took him by surprise, and it wasn’t until the man pointed the gun at his un-horsed quarry that Walt found his voice and yelled.

  Startled by the shout, and aware that his unprovoked attack had been witnessed, Pol Glendale lifted his eyes from the man on the ground. More than fifty yards separated him from the stranger astride the bay saddle-horse. A saddle-tramp, Pol guessed, a drifter looking for work, a man of no account. Pol raised his shotgun and fired the second barrel in the direction of the newcomer. The cartridge exploded, spreading the pellets almost wastefully into the space between the mounted men. The couple that stayed on course long enough to clip Walt’s shoulder did so without sufficient force to cause any real damage.

  Walt wasn’t sure at what stage he’d pulled his Winchester from its scabbard, it had been an instinctive reaction, but by the time Pol had pulled the trigger his surprise had been overcome and he was governed by a need for self-preservation. He returned fire, the distance between them too small to diminish his accuracy or the weapon’s power.

  The .44 bullet smashed into Glendale’s body, twisting him in the saddle and forcing a shriek of pain from his mouth. The shotgun fell from his grasp as he struggled to stay aboard his horse. Somehow he turned it and directed it back along the trail, swaying in the saddle as it gathered speed. It seemed that he was bound to fall, but horse and rider were still united when they reached the outcrop that marked the bend in the trail. When they disappeared from sight, Walt spurred his own horse forwards to tend to the shot man.