The Hanging of Charlie Darke Page 4

  ‘And you saw the shooting.’

  ‘But not the man. When you were inside house I go.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go after the shooter?’

  ‘Too many white men. They wouldn’t believe Hawk. Only Barton believe my words.’ He pronounced the two syllables of Duke’s surname separately, Bar-Ton, as though they were two words.

  I knew he was right. The word of a lawman often couldn’t deter a lynch mob from its purpose. An Indian had no chance. It may have been a narrow escape from the rope for Charlie and me, but Hawk had probably made the right decision. Still, Hawk’s words had thrown up two points of interest. First, that he thought of Annie as Chet’s, Ice Eyes’, woman, and secondly that he, too, didn’t hold Charlie Darke in high regard. I put both of these matters to the back of my mind and held out my hand for the shells that Hawk had collected.

  There were six of them. Metal casings for .44 calibre bullets, stamped with the Springfield name around the base. At first glance they were no different to the ammunition that was in my own gunbelt. On closer inspection, however, I saw that each of them had a half-inch scratch, as though they had been scored by something in the breech or the ejection mechanism of the gun. I pointed out the marks to Hawk. He, in turn, showed me where the man had lain, laying his finger on a mark on a rock where he must have rested his gun.

  We found some boot-prints and followed them back from the delve to a hollow where a horse had been tethered. Collecting our own horses we followed the tracks off the ridge down to the trail to town. But the rider hadn’t gone in that direction. He’d turned towards the ranch and ridden in with the rest of the posse.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  We were picking our way down to the road to Beecher’s Gulch when I realized that Hawk was no longer riding at my side. I stopped and looked back. They were twenty yards behind, horse and man, motionless in the late red rays of the day. Hawk seemed smaller, older, as though shrivelling in the diminishing sunlight. His lank pony waited, neck outstretched, head almost touching the ground, in sleepy uninterest of the cause of their halt. Hawk’s gaze was fixed on the eastern sky. I walked Red back to be beside him.

  ‘What is it, Hawk?’

  His low voice carried the conviction of truth. ‘The breeze foretells an unhappy song. The sky is coloured with sorrow. Birds have gone early to their trees, afraid that something will shame their sight.’

  ‘Trouble? At the house?’

  ‘Beyond the house. Beyond the river.’

  ‘We have enough problems of our own to worry over,’ I said, ‘let’s just deal with those.’

  ‘Perhaps this, too, is our problem.’ It was a common enough belief among the people of the Plains that any unusual event affected their lives. Nature governed their circle of life, they depended upon the change of seasons, the course of a river and the coming of the buffalo. Erratic behaviour of birds and animals told them when a predator hunted, or when the scent of unnatural death filled the air. But for me, at that moment, the immediate well-being of Annie and Charlie Darke was uppermost in my mind.

  We jogged on down to the road and there split company. I headed for town, anxious to see that Sheriff Bayles was as diligent as the boss of the Silver Star outfit would have me believe. Hawk indicated that he was bound for Annie’s ranch where Duke Barton awaited the doctor from Blackwater, but when I looked back he hadn’t moved, his concentration still focused on the sky beyond the river.

  Beecher’s Gulch was in the midst of its end-of-day routine when I got there. Although there were still one or two people on the street they were, in the main, heading home from their day’s labour or heading for the eating-house which was two buildings past the sheriff’s office. Most of the business enterprises had closed, the bank, the barber shop, the telegraph office, but at the far end of the street the man who ran the general store was once more outside with his broom. I wasn’t sure how good his business was but I was pretty sure that nothing happened in town that escaped his notice.

  The jangling notes from a badly played piano came to me from the building that had no other legend than SALOON painted above its batwing doors. It was too early for anyone other than the die-hard drinkers to be inside, but the pianist played to advertise the fact that the bar was open for business. There were a couple of forlorn cow-ponies tethered to the outside rail, their owners inside washing away the dust they’d eaten all day.

  More or less opposite the saloon was a more respectable-looking hotel. It, too, had a public drinking area but for the moment neither music nor lamplight declared it open to customers. I rode past, touched my hat to the man with the broom on the opposite boardwalk and stopped outside the sheriff’s office.

  Despite Duke Barton’s testimony on his behalf, indeed especially if his devotion to duty was unquestionable, I thought that Dan Bayles should quit his post as sheriff of Beecher’s Gulch. His movements were sluggish, his reactions slow and I figured his confidence was no higher than a snail’s home. I startled him when I opened the door. He turned wide eyes at me from his seat at the desk, and I sensed reaction to reach for his gun though his hand still held on to the stub of pencil he had been using. He was overweight and ill. It showed and he knew it, and it robbed him of the ability to show any authority.

  Still, when he recognized me he showed an affability and courtesy that it was hard not to appreciate, though it did cross my mind that his welcome betrayed more than a hint of relief. He poured me some coffee and sat me down as though I’d come a-visiting, like settler families after a Sunday church meeting. He spoke of a mutual friend, a cavalry major stationed at Fort Kearney along the Oregon Trail, who’d told him some exaggerated accounts of my encounters with Indians, gunrunners and badmen from the Missouri to the Rockies and beyond.

  When I got the chance I asked him if he still had Charlie in his cells.

  ‘You’re the second one to make that enquiry,’ he answered.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Sure. Wade Barton was here a few minutes ago. His pa is interested in any developments.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That I’d spoken to Andrew Harthope who confirmed he’d been playing cards with Charlie when the accusation was made.’

  ‘Isn’t that good enough for you to release Charlie?’

  ‘Not quite. Seems Andy had just joined the game a few minutes before the ruckus begun. Couldn’t say how long Charlie had been in town.’

  ‘What about the other fella?’

  ‘Clay Butler ain’t hit town yet. I’ll speak to him as soon as he does. I left word at the hotel and the saloon that I want to see him.’

  ‘What’s your feeling about this, Sheriff? Do you think Charlie’s innocent?’

  Dan Bayles rubbed his chin. ‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘Andy Harthope said Charlie’s surprise when the Silver Star boys came in seemed genuine. He hadn’t noticed anything suspicious in Charlie’s behaviour before that. But, like I said, Andy and Charlie weren’t together long.’

  ‘And the general feeling about town?’

  ‘Charlie ain’t the most popular person in the territory. In fact, if he stood for mayor, apart from Annie I can’t think of anyone who would vote for him.’

  ‘Could there be another attempt to lynch him?’

  ‘Not while I’m here, and here I’ll stay while I’ve got a prisoner in the cells. Besides, he’s got Duke Barton’s protection after that attempt to frame him for shooting Chet. No one will go up against Duke’s word.’

  I took my leave of Dan Bayles and headed across the street to the saloon. I needed a slug of whiskey. In this dusty Wyoming town I didn’t expect anything other than some local rot-gut, but right then anything would do. I had reached the middle of the street when the batwing doors clattered open and a figure strode out, untied a horse from the rail and rode west out of town. The light from the saloon had been behind him, making him nothing more than a silhouette in the doorway. He was a big man, and he moved with the sort of swagger and bravado reminiscent of gunme
n I’d met all across the West. A walk that dared anyone to step in the way. If he saw me he disregarded me, but I watched until he’d ridden beyond the end of the street, then stepped on to the boardwalk and into the saloon.

  The pianist was still rattling on the keys with enough accuracy for me to recognize ‘Golden Slipper’. Some of the dozen men inside looked my way as I made my way to the bar. All except one were sitting at tables around the room. The exception was Wade Barton. He leant against the bar, his body turned in my direction.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘if it ain’t the famous Indian fighter. Or have I got that wrong? Should it be Indian lover?’

  I stopped at the bar several feet from him. I hadn’t gone in there looking for trouble and I really didn’t want to be at odds with anyone in Duke Barton’s family. ‘Whiskey,’ I told the bartender. He looked at Wade Barton before reaching for a glass.

  ‘Don’t you know who this is, Clance? Your saloon is honoured by the presence of Wes Gray.’ Wade’s voice was loud enough for his words to be a general announcement. ‘You can serve him. He ain’t all Indian.’

  Clance, the bartender, produced a bottle and poured a measure into a small glass. The hum of conversation and the music had stopped. I assumed that everyone was looking in my direction but I didn’t turn round.

  ‘Didn’t shoot my brother in the back either. Well you can tell he’s innocent ’cos he’s not painted up for war. ’Course his friend, Charlie Darke, doesn’t bother with warpaint so his innocence ain’t so easy to prove.’

  I tasted the whiskey. It was no better than I’d expected but no worse either. ‘Your pa’s accepted the fact that Charlie Darke didn’t shoot Chet and you should too. I came in here to burn a little dust from my throat, not to get into an argument with you or anyone else. When I’ve drunk this,’ I lifted the glass, ‘I’m going.’

  ‘No need,’ said Wade, ‘stay and regale the citizens of Beecher’s Gulch with your exploits along the Oregon Trail. It’s not every day this fair town is visited by a legend.’ He downed the remainder of his drink and, doffing his hat in an exaggerated gesture, left the saloon.

  I let Clance refill my glass, not because I’d enjoyed the first drink or was even in need of a second, but because I didn’t want to follow hot on the heels of Wade Barton. His anger at his brother’s attempted murder had driven reason from his mind. I didn’t want to aggravate his feelings and it seemed to me that the best way of not doing so was to avoid him altogether. Taking time over another drink would give him the opportunity to get off the street before I left the saloon to go back to Annie’s ranch.

  The whiskey had hardly settled in my glass and the pianist hadn’t struck more than half a dozen notes before I became aware that I had company at the bar. There were two of them. One either side, each of them breathing extravagantly through his nose and grimacing at the perceived result.

  ‘I’m down wind of a gosh almighty smell,’ said the one on my right.

  ‘You can’t be,’ replied the other. ‘I am.’

  ‘Can’t be as bad where you’re standing,’ said the first.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said the other, ‘let’s swap places and compare.’

  They crossed behind me, sniffing all the time, intimating that the smells that assailed them were too vile to be endured.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said the first. ‘Perhaps it is worse here.’

  ‘No,’ said the one now on my right, ‘this is the worse side.’

  All this time I’d remained motionless, leaving my hands flat on the bar. Clance, standing apprehensively across the bar from me, kept his arms at his side. The music had stopped again and the only sound, other than the voices of my two tormentors, was the stomp of boots and the flutter of the doors as people left the saloon. I turned my head to the right. The boy, for he could not have been more than eighteen, gave me a wide grin. His hat was set back on his head showing fair curly hair flopping over his brow. He had a yellow scarf around his neck and his red-chequered shirt was partly covered by a black leather waistcoat. He carried his gun low on his right thigh and his hand rested on its butt.

  ‘Know what,’ said the other one, ‘I’ve come across this smell before. Got attacked once by some Injuns. Never known a smell like it. Dirty, dog-eating Injuns.’

  I turned my attention to him. He was taller and older than his companion. He didn’t smile. His eyes were hard, his face unclean and unshaven. His gun was worn higher, the butt no lower than his waist. I had a feeling they’d been sitting at a table near the door, but I could have been wrong. What I wasn’t wrong about was that I’d seen them both earlier that day. The youngest had been up the tree fastening the hanging-rope to a branch, while the other had been the man who’d slipped the noose over Charlie Darke”s head.

  ‘You know something, Clance,’ the older one continued, ‘I reckon Wade Barton was wrong. You shouldn’t be serving this fella. He smells Injun clean through. Strip him naked and you’ll find red skin all over.’

  The younger one laughed. It was sad to hear because he thought himself invincible, that he and his partner were in control and could never be bested.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘You’ve had your fun. I didn’t come to town to fight anyone. When I’ve finished my drink I’m going.’

  ‘What d’ya say, Ben,’ said the younger of the two, ‘we get him to strip off his clothes right now and let us see what colour he is? Is it red or yella?’

  I stepped away from the bar, three, four paces so that I had an angle on both of them. ‘It would be a mistake to think that,’ I said. I kept my gaze on the young fella, staring into his eyes until the grin froze on his face and the tension provoked a slight tremble of his lower lip. I knew they would work together, that one would only draw if the other did. I worked on the weakest hoping he would back down and walk away. There was an instant when I thought he would, but it flashed by and I saw the look in his eyes alter and harden in a heartbeat and his right elbow jerked as he pulled at his weapon.

  I drew and shot the older man through the heart and swung to the other, holding back the trigger and fanning the hammer so that two shots thudded into his chest and dropped him on the floor before his gun had come high enough to threaten me. I held my stance, I was in a sort of crouch, my gun hand still extended. Gunsmoke swirled around my head. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Clance move towards the bar. It was usual for barkeepers to have a loaded shotgun under the counter. I pointed my gun at him.

  ‘It’s OK, Clance,’ a voice called from the door. ‘I saw the whole thing.’ It was Dan Bayles, rifle in hand, pushing through the batwings. ‘Seems they were determined to die,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know them?’ I asked.

  ‘Strangers. Been in town a couple of days.’

  ‘Unusual for saddle tramps to become so involved in a town’s business.’ I told Dan Bayles where I’d seen the two before. He rubbed his chin as though perplexed by current affairs.

  ‘You want to get something to eat?’ he asked. ‘I was on my way to the eating-house when I saw people leaving this place in a hurry. Figured trouble was brewing so I came to look see.’

  ‘Have you left Charlie alone?’

  ‘No. Got a part-time deputy who relieves me so I can get a meal under my belt and a walk around town to make sure everything’s peaceable.’

  ‘I’ll have to pass on the meal. I’ve got to get back to the ranch.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  There was an air of anxious anticipation about the place as I galloped into the enclosure of Annie’s ranch. Dim lights showed through the windows of the house but the bunkhouse was in darkness. The animals in the corral moved slowly and quietly, as though determined not to disturb the silence. Almost before I’d dismounted the house door opened and Duke Barton stepped on to the veranda. His impatient glances, as though expecting to see more than the one rider, told me that all was not well.

  ‘I thought you were the doctor,’ he said.

  ‘How is Chet?’ I a
sked.

  Duke turned his head to look back inside the house. ‘Not good. He needs the doctor. He ought to have been here by now.’

  We went inside just as Annie came into the room from the bedroom. ‘He’s feverish,’ she said.

  We stood by his bedside. His head was moving from side to side, not in any sort of frenzy, but deliberately, the neck muscles showing the tension in his activity. Sweat ran freely from his forehead and sounds escaped from his mouth, sounds which weren’t real words but which seemed to be a determined effort to convey a message. Annie knelt beside him, applying again the cold cloth to his forehead, speaking gentle words over him.

  ‘That bullet has to come out,’ I told them.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ said Duke. ‘Arnie should be back with the doc.’

  ‘I’ll ride towards Blackwater,’ I said. ‘Maybe I can do something to hurry them here.’

  Duke gave me directions to the neighbouring town. ‘It’s east,’ he said. ‘Cross the river then go into the high ground. Where the trail splits, head north through the canyon. That leads right on into Blackwater.’

  I didn’t expect to ride that far, but his directive to cross the river jarred in my mind. I thought of Hawk’s words, that the warning from the birds could be a problem for us, and for the first time I suspected he was right.

  There was no sign of Hawk or his pony around the ranch buildings. I wondered if he’d gone across the river to investigate the omens that had bothered him earlier. As twilight rapidly receded toward darkness the relief of the landscape, the cottonwoods and hillocks, stood out only in silhouette. I could see the trail to the river. Hopes that oncoming riders would make my journey unnecessary were unrealized. Despite the darkness and my unfamiliarity with the trail I kept Red moving at a good pace. We splashed through the river water and began the climb to the high ground. The trail was easy to follow but there were stretches when it became a narrow, crumbling ridge with long, grassy drops to my left. Red and I negotiated them carefully. An accident to either of us wouldn’t help the situation.