Ridgeway's Bride Read online

  Brad Edmond was still alive, but barely so. His eyes were open and his lips moved, but no words were discernable. Death’s pallor lay upon his skin, and his cheeks sagged like uncooked dough, but he raised a hand to grip Walt’s sleeve. He was trying to communicate, but the knowledge that death was close was evident in his futile attempts to be understood.

  Walt spoke gently, but was unsure what assistance he could give the stricken man. He hadn’t any medical skills capable of easing his suffering – he doubted if anyone had – but it seemed un-Christian to let him die on the dusty road. Perhaps the man’s home was nearby, but Walt had no knowledge of the area, didn’t know how close he was to any ranch house or place of shelter. Besides, trying to move the man could be fatal for him. Walt was resigning himself to sitting with him until he expired when a slight movement alerted him to the fact that he was not alone. He turned swiftly, reaching for his side-arm as he did so, wary that the man he had shot had returned to wreak revenge.

  The scrawny figure of morose Charlie Ute mounted on a droop-headed paint lifted from Walt’s mind any concern he’d had for his own safety. ‘Do you know this man?’ he asked.

  Charlie answered with a slow head movement.

  ‘Did you see what happened?’

  Another nodded response.

  ‘Where does he live?’

  Charlie extended his left hand, pointing the way through the high ground that Walt had recently deduced would be his best route to Elkhill.

  Between them, they got Brad Edmond on to Walt’s horse, and with Walt sitting behind to prevent him falling, they headed for his home. They travelled slowly, Charlie Ute acting as guide and leading Brad’s horse. It took almost an hour to reach the small ranch house. Darkness had descended. A lamp had been lit and hung on a nail beside the door. Butte, who’d long been waiting on the porch to welcome home his master, stood silently when the men rode up to the yard gate.

  The sound of horses informed Cassie that her father was not alone. This time, she thought, setting a place for Charlie Ute at the table had not been in vain. Doubtless the lateness of the hour would signify that the men were returning with mighty appetites. She was lifting the lid from the stew pot when the door was thrust open in startling fashion. Her immediate alarm at the sight of three men trying to gain simultaneous entrance quickly changed to anxiety. It was clear that it was only due to the effort of his companions that the man in the middle was able to cross the threshold. Each had one of his arms draped around their neck, and only by partly carrying and partly dragging him were they able to bring him indoors.

  Cassie recognized the stricken man as her father, but was unsure if he was alive or dead. His eyes were closed and his features were altered by unconsciousness. The facial muscles were no longer tensile, and the covering skin was slack and without colour. ‘What’s happened?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘He’s been shot,’ one man told her. It barely registered with her that this man was a complete stranger.

  Opening a door that led into a room at the rear of the building, Cassie pointed to a bed on which her father could be lain. Only when they put him face down did she see the remnants of the bloodied, tattered shirt that clung to her father’s back.

  ‘Who did it, Charlie?’ she asked.

  Walt Ridgeway deemed that there were more important matters to attend to. The man had lost a lot of blood, probably too much, but if he was to have any chance of survival some effort to stem the flow and proper treatment of the wounds was necessary. ‘You need to get a doctor here quickly.’

  ‘There’s only Doctor Cairns in Elkhill.’ Cassie spoke almost reflectively, as though unsure how to proceed. She looked into Walt’s face for the first time, and ignoring the fact that she had never seen him before, asked him to ride and seek out the medic and bring him back to the ranch.

  ‘I don’t know the route to Elkhill,’ he announced. ‘In the dark I could miss the town, ride miles in the wrong direction. Your father needs the attention of a doctor as soon as possible.’

  ‘Charlie?’ Cassie turned her attention to the Ute. She knew he avoided the town, but the stranger’s calm assessment of the situation had invoked her own urgency for assistance. She would do whatever she was capable of doing to clean the wounds and staunch the bleeding, but she doubted her ability to save her father’s life without expert assistance.

  In his usual taciturn manner, Charlie Ute accepted the task, quitting the ranch house with little more than a nod of farewell. Within moments, the sound of his horse’s racing hoofbeats had died away.

  Bathing the blood from her father’s back proved difficult for Cassie. The shredded material of his old work shirt had been blasted into the open wounds. Even though he was senseless, from time-to-time her father flinched and murmured as though her ministrations were causing him greater pain. When she was done, she accepted Walt Ridgeway’s advice and assistance, and piled flour into the lacerations and bound them tightly. When she’d finished, her father opened his eyes. She gripped his hand and spoke words of comfort to him.

  Walt Ridgeway left them alone and stepped into the night. When he opened the door, the dog, Butte, stood motionless, watching, waiting for a word of instruction as though aware that there would be no more commands from his old master. Walt figured it could smell the other man’s blood on him, legitimizing him as his replacement. Near the barn he could make out a long, low trough where he could clean his hands, but first he led the horses to it. Butte tagged along at his heels. He allowed the animals to drink long, then, trespassing on hospitality, led them into the barn. After unsaddling them, he tethered them and forked hay into their separate stalls. When he went to use the pump at the trough, the dog remained in the barn, settling itself near the stalls as though there were things to discuss with his equine friends.

  Walt scrubbed himself with the cold water before returning to the house.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rex Coulter suppressed a grin when the reverberations of the sound caused by the first distant shotgun blast reached the ears of the slow-riding group, but he couldn’t hold it back when the second followed shortly after. Glances were exchanged among the men, all well aware of the meaning of those shots – though not everyone was in accord with the deed they indicated. Like the others who had been let into the secret by the top hand, Larry Grimes had been keen enough to fill his pockets with gold. He’d even compromised his own principles for it, had been persuaded to pan the river on another man’s property because he’d been assured that such a lode could not be found elsewhere within a hundred miles. It was stealing, but if Brad Edmond didn’t know it was there, he wouldn’t miss it when it was gone. But murder, that was another matter altogether. They would all swing for the cold-blooded killing of the rancher.

  That thought was still passing through Larry’s mind when the echo of a third shot, sharper, the crack of a rifle, reached the men. The unexpected sound of a second gun had an immediate effect on the High Hill riders. As one, they brought their horses to a halt, all eyes turning to Rex Coulter, seeking some kind of explanation, some reassurance that Pol Glendale’s crime hadn’t been thwarted, thereby putting their own future in jeopardy.

  Demanding silence so they would pick up the sound of any pursuit as soon as possible, Rex Coulter looked back along the trail. More than two minutes passed before they heard the thundering hoofbeats of a fast running horse. Rex ordered everyone off the trail, to seek refuge among the bushes and trees that lined the trail. It was Chuck Morrison who first recognized the dun-coloured cow pony when it came into sight.

  ‘It’s Pol,’ he said.

  The relief that his companions felt at those words was soon replaced by shouts of concern. It was clear that all was not well with Pol Glendale. He was slumped forwards, barely clinging on, his head alongside his mount’s neck, almost reminiscent of a raiding Cheyenne warrior. The horse was galloping wide-eyed, uncontrolled.

  ‘Catch it,’ yelled Rex Coulter.

  Chuck Morrison was the first to react, intercepting the animal as it passed, grasping the bridle and riding alongside until it ceased its flight. In an effort to free itself from Chuck’s restraint, it threw its head high, but succeeded only in dislodging Pol from the saddle. The shot man hit the hard ground and lay still. Blood seeping from his chest wound was making a fast growing stain on his shirt. Soon, all the men had dismounted to gather round the stricken man.

  Rex Coulter showed little concern for Pol Glendale’s injury. ‘Did you get old man Edmond?’ he wanted to know. ‘Did he shoot you?’

  Dredging up answers was painful. Pol’s face twisted with the agony of effort, the short breaths he was capable of taking causing convulsions and his words like wisps of wind, too light to ruffle the hairs on a gooseberry.

  Chuck Morrison, kneeling beside Pol, repeated the question. ‘Who shot you?’ It was necessary to put an ear to Pol’s lips to catch his answer. Chuck looked up to relay the information. ‘A stranger shot him. Someone waiting along the trail for Brad Edmond.’

  ‘A witness,’ muttered Larry Grimes.

  ‘Shut up,’ Rex snapped, then turning his attention back to Pol Glendale, repeated his first question. ‘Is Edmond still alive?’

  There was no response. Never would be. Pol’s eyes were open wide but seeing nothing, and his mouth was agape, but neither words nor air would pass through it again.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Larry Grimes wanted to know.

  Rex Coulter was sizing up the situation in his mind. Eventually he spoke. ‘Chuck, ride back along the trail. Find out if Brad Edmond is still alive. If he isn’t, we’ve got nothing to worry about. If the man who shot Pol is a stranger to the territory then he has no way of connecting the killing to the High Hill ranch.’

  ‘And if Pol didn’t
succeed?’ asked a nervous Larry Grimes.

  ‘We’ll finish the job for him. Now, load Pol on to his horse and let’s get back to the ranch.’

  They were yet a mile from the ranch when Chuck Morrison brought the news that, although wounded, Brad Edmond was still alive. ‘I spotted them before they got clear of the high ground,’ he reported. ‘They were travelling slowly, old man Edmond was being held in the saddle. He looked bad. Perhaps he won’t survive.’

  Rex Coulter’s concern was that Brad Edmond had already given details of his shooting to his rescuers. ‘Who was with him? he wanted to know.

  ‘One was a stranger but the other was that old Indian, Charlie Ute.’

  No sooner had Chuck spilled his news to the others than another rider hove into view. He was heavily built but he sat easily on his mount like a man who had spent much time in the saddle. He wore a brown cord jacket and a smart white hat, which instantly identified the owner of the High Hill ranch to his employees. His gaze had instantly fallen on the bundle slung across one of the horses.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, his voice sharp, accustomed to obedience and instantaneous responses to his questions.

  ‘We’ve got trouble, Mr Stuart,’ Rex Coulter announced.

  The other men remained silent, content to let the top hand do the talking, but they were to be surprised by the story he told.

  ‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’ asked Ezra Stuart.

  Rex’s original plan had been to hide Pol Glendale’s body and deny any involvement in the shooting of Brad Edmond. However, the news that that man was still alive called for other tactics. Silencing him for good had to be done quickly, and a scheme to achieve that with the help of his boss had begun to take shape in his head.

  ‘Brad Edmond’s brought in a hired gun. He’s killed Pol Glendale.’

  ‘A hired gun!’

  ‘Edmond has been argumentative and making threats against High Hill for some time now. I told you he means to ruin you, Mr Stuart.’

  Ezra Stuart’s brow crinkled with lines of concern. His top hand had spoken of recent angry confrontations with his neighbour, but there had been no intimation that it would lead to violence. ‘I don’t understand it. I’ve known Brad Edmond a long time. We’ve never had disputes in the past.’

  ‘We were crossing the river down by the bluff. We’ve always crossed his land at that point but today he stopped us, warned us off his land.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He means to divert the river. Cut off the loop that brings it on to our bottom range.’

  ‘He can’t do that.’

  ‘Seemed like he was marking out a route from the bluff towards the Big Lake. Excavating a four-mile channel would be a costly undertaking for him but it would mean ruin for you, Mr Stuart.’

  Ezra Stuart frowned. There hadn’t been land disputes in the territory for several years but the memories of range wars were never buried. If another one threatened he knew that decisive action would be necessary.

  ‘When Pol voiced an objection he was shot dead. Tell your boss that the same thing will happen to anyone else who tries to stop me, he said.’

  ‘He won’t get away with this. One of you boys ride into Elkhill and tell the sheriff I want to see him.’

  ‘Boss, if he wants a war, you won’t find anyone here reluctant to fight for you. Pol was our friend and we don’t mean to let his killer get away with it.’

  Ezra Stuart looked around the group, then at the body slung over the horse.

  Rex Coulter spoke again. ‘Boss, I reckon Edmond has been planning this for some time. Could be he’s already spread some story about to provide himself with an alibi. The law’s a joke when it comes to meting out justice. We can ride over to Edmond’s place tonight. Him and his guns won’t be expecting an attack. We can put a stop to the scheme before it goes any further.’

  Thoughts flashed through the ranch owner’s mind, memories of the lawless days when he’d solved his own problems and fought to hang on to what he owned. Now the sheriff was supposed to settle all disputes. Well, he had as much respect for the rule of law as any of his neighbours but he wasn’t going to watch his cattle die of thirst while lawyers argued over the rights and wrongs of the matter.

  ‘You’re the one he means to ruin,’ said Rex, driving in the final nail.

  The men were gathered in the bunkhouse after the evening meal. Weapons were being checked and spare ammunition was being pushed into belt loops and pockets. Few words were being spoken but an uneasy atmosphere pervaded the long wooden building. It was Larry Grimes who, when he spoke to Rex Coulter, gave voice to his concern, wanted an explanation for the story that had been concocted.

  ‘If Brad Edmond dies and the truth comes out, we’ll all hang,’ Rex Coulter told him. ‘We don’t want that, do we? So we’ve got to finish him off before he tells his version.’

  Larry was still concerned: ‘But there are people who already know. Charlie Ute and the stranger.’

  ‘Perhaps they know that Pol shot Edmond, but there’s no reason to suppose that they knew we were involved. We’ve got to keep it that way.’

  ‘What if they saw him talking to us at the river and tell the sheriff?’

  ‘Then he’ll come here to ask his questions and we’ll deny any involvement and then there’s nothing the sheriff can do about it. Even if he listens to Charlie Ute, the sheriff isn’t going to charge us on the strength of anything he says. No jury will convict on the word of an Indian.’

  ‘And the stranger?’

  ‘If he’s just some saddle bum passing through the territory he won’t be able to identify us. He’s probably half-way to Lame Deer by now.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Larry Grimes. ‘You shouldn’t have sent Pol after him.’

  ‘You’ll like the gold well enough, won’t you? Sometimes it’s necessary to take drastic action to get what you want. Now,’ he addressed everyone in the room, ‘let’s saddle up. The boss will be waiting for us.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  With little commotion, Walt Ridgeway slipped inside the dimly lit house. The place was shrouded with an uncomfortable stillness, reminding him that he was an interloper at a very private family occasion. His eyes roved to the open doorway leading into the bedroom. He paused before crossing to it, unsure if his presence would be of benefit to the young woman, or construed by her as an unwanted intrusion – but the matter was decided for him when a sound reached him from within. The noise, a cross between a sob and a grunt, was being wrenched from the girl.

  It took only a moment for Walt to take in the scene when he reached the doorway. The man was dead and his daughter was struggling to turn him over. Alive, the width of his shoulders and depth of his chest had been the measure of the strength he’d needed to build his home, plough his land and work his animals; in death they constituted a weight too great for his daughter to budge.

  ‘Let me,’ Walt said as he stepped into the room.

  ‘I don’t want him face down,’ Cassie said.

  There was something wild, desperate about her appearance. Her eyes were red-rimmed but wide open and dry. They were fixed on Walt with the sort of intensity he’d seen in others shocked by sudden, violent death. For a moment he rued his decision to leave her alone with her father. The horses wouldn’t have come to any harm if they’d remained tied to the rail until morning, but he’d hoped the man would hang on to life until the doctor arrived. It seemed he’d been closer to death than Walt had judged, and perhaps his end had been reached in agony, not an easy thing for anyone to witness.

  ‘Perhaps we should let the doctor see him before we move him,’ Walt advised. He was thinking that shotgun pellets extracted from the body would be compelling evidence of murder to a judge and jury.

  ‘No.’ Some thought in Cassie’s mind troubled her. Her father, she insisted, should be on his back, looking up at the sky.

  Walt explained why he wanted the doctor to examine him before he was turned but he wasn’t sure she was grasping the meaning of his words. ‘I won’t leave until the doctor has finished,’ he told her. ‘We’ll make sure that your father is properly prepared for burial.’ He closed the dead man’s eyes before pulling a sheet over his head, then, although objections lingered on her lips and her reluctance to leave him thus was evident by her faltering steps, Walt took her out of the room.