Hot spur, p.1
Hot Spur, page 1
Hot Spur
Philip McCormac
Wordwooze Publishing
© 2006, 2020 by Philip McCormac
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the author or publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission is punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Cover by Margaret Loftin-Whiting
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 1
Tom Grant stood on the porch of the hotel, lit a cigar, and contemplated what he would do to entertain himself. Dusk had settled, and a sprinkling of lights were bringing life to the main street. He could hear the piano tinkling from Big Bessie’s Bar. For a moment he stood in the quiet of the hotel porch and puffed contentedly on his cigar. He was wondering if he should go on down to Bessie’s and take one of the girls to the rooms upstairs.
“Goddamn it, I must be getting old if I have to decide to have a whore or not,” he mused.
Time was Tom would have spruced himself up, sashayed down to the nearest saloon, had a few drinks, and finished up the night with a woman.
He never told his wife, Dorothy, about these adventures.
“Usually I have a few quiet drinks and mebby a game of cards, nothing too heavy,” he told her once. “And then amble on back to the hotel and bed. There ain’t much else to do in a cow town ’less you wanna go down the whorehouse, and that ain’t for me.”
Unbeknownst to him, she could smell the cheap perfume that still lingered on his clothes even after the trek back home, but she never told him that.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk and ambled towards the saloon, the piano drawing him irresistibly with its seductive siren song. Tuba’s nightlife was beginning to stir.
Tuba was a largish cow town on the margin of the trail drives that pointed north to the cattle yards that held beef for the big cities. It owed its prosperity to this very fact. Trail drivers needed a stopover to replenish their reserves. Tuba had plenty of good grass in the vicinity and an abundant supply of water from the Scoop, a long, shallow, lazy river that coiled around the town like a lariat. The trail herds could stop to graze and put on a little weight before the final push north.
On top of these facilities was another benefit. The area abounded with enterprising cattlemen willing to do a deal with the herd bosses, thus saving on the time and energy to drive the cattle the final leg north. The money might be less than the expected sale price in the stockyards, but weighed against everything else sometimes it seemed right to take the money and get back to the ranches and let someone else take responsibility for the herd. Tom Grant had just completed such a deal.
Tom was a slim man nudging towards his sixtieth year. Beneath his Stetson his hair was white, and a large, white moustache drooped from beneath his nostrils. His face was lean and his skin bronzed from spending long hours outdoors riding herd on the prime steers he raised back home. Right now he reckoned he deserved an evening of relaxation after hard days of trail herding.
Later that night Tom Grant rolled off his five-dollar whore and lay back contentedly. All the time he had sweated on top of the plump woman she had groaned and writhed beneath him, reassuring him he was the best thing that had happened to her in a long time. When he made no effort to leave, she turned to him.
“Are you finished, cowboy?”
He blinked at her foolishly. “Why, sure I’m finished.”
“Okay, granddad. Thanks for the good time. I gotta git some more business in while the night is still young.”
It was a few moments before he realised what she meant.
“Huh? Yeah, sure, I guess,” he muttered, feeling a mite foolish.
Granddad? He rolled from the bed as she turned up the lamp. Grandad? As he struggled into his clothes, he kept glancing surreptitiously at the woman. Hell, she was no chicken herself. Hard to tell her age with all that paint and powder over her face. All his contentment was gone as he stumped down the stairs to the barroom.
Even at this late hour the room was still crowded with men talking loudly, as men do after an evening of drinking. Some of the card tables were busy.
Tom shouldered up to the bar and ordered whiskey. He liked beer to chase his whiskey, but as he grew older, he found his capacity to hold large quantities of liquid had diminished.
When he left Big Bessie’s, the place was still crowded with those men who had enough money to keep on drinking. There seemed a steady traffic in the rooms upstairs as the women worked the drunken crowd.
Trying to keep a steady walk back along the boardwalk towards the hotel, Tom was still sore at the woman.
“Granddad,” he muttered indignantly. “I can keep up with the best of them in a whorehouse. She weren’t no chicken herself. Well past fifty if she were a day.”
A shadowy figure was coming towards him on the sidewalk. As they drew level, the man held up a rolled cigarette.
“Howdy, friend. Got a light?”
“Light? Sure,” Tom answered as he fumbled in his vest pocket for a sulphur head. He heard a sound behind him on the boardwalk but took no notice as he grunted with satisfaction.
“Here ya are, friend.”
An arm surrounded his neck, and he was pulled backwards.
“What the hell…?”
The man in front drove a fist into his stomach. The wind was punched from Tom. But Tom was a tough old coot. He had been in many a barroom brawl and knew a few tricks. His boot lashed out and caught his assailant in the knee. The man grunted and backed off. Tom flung his head back and felt a satisfying crunch as his skull connected with something soft.
“You old bastard…”
“Git him down here for goddamn sake…”
Tom let himself go limp, and the man supporting him struggled to hold onto him. When Tom straightened up abruptly, the top of his head connected with his assailant’s chin. They both went down as Tom backpedaled rapidly.
The grip on his neck loosened, and Tom rolled to one side. Something hard crashed into the back of the old man’s head. Lights exploded in his brain, and he collapsed face down on the wooden sidewalk. The pain in his head was intolerable. He groaned and could only resist feebly as he was dragged off the street and into the alley.
“The old bastard. He about broke my jaw with his head.”
“Finish him quick and take what we can find. It has to look like robbery.”
“Yeah, but I’d rather make it real slow. My face feels like it’s been in a meat grinder.”
Tom was swimming in and out of consciousness. He was lying on his face in the alley. Somehow, he could not get his limbs to work. The pain in his head was the worst he could ever remember. He felt an awful sickness in his guts. The men’s voices droned in his head, but he could make no sense of what they said.
Something crashed onto the top of his head. He gasped and gagged. His skull collapsed on the third or fourth blow. He twitched, went limp, and could feel no more as the top of his head was reduced to pulp.
Chapter 2
Tom Grant’s widow, Dorothy, drove her buggy up to the ranch house of the Big G. Since Tom’s death she had become a regular visitor to see her dead husband’s brother.
No progress had been made in tracking down Tom’s killers. It was this matter Dorothy had come to discuss with her brother-in-law.
“I’ve received a reply to the letter I had written to the authorities in Tuba,” her brother-in-law told her. “They agree that Tom’s death was unfortunate and extend their sympathies. However, they add no more than what we already know, that Tom was slain by persons unknown. As far as they can ascertain, the motive was robbery. They state they are doing all they can to catch the perpetrators of the crime. I don’t know what else we can do.”
“Brother, what has happened to the fire in your soul? That was your blood brother murdered in Detroit. You and he were from the same rootstock. You and he worked hard to build the name of Grant into a respected force within the county. Think you not to look closer into this filthy murder? Look at me, brother. Tell me, who benefits from Tom’s death? Who was named as his executor?”
Under the scrutiny of his sister-in-law John Grant stirred uneasily in his chair but did not answer her query. Instead he tried to distract her.
“Yes. The refreshment I need is justice. I want justice for the untimely death of my husband. Tom did not deserve this. He was looking forward to a peaceful retirement. Think on it, man. What if it were you lying in the morgue in Tuba? Do you not think your nearest kin would seek to avenge your death? And think also on this—what if you are next? Two brothers slain in order. Can’t you see a pattern?”
“Sister, sister, do not go on so. You are reading more into this than it warrants. Yes, my brothers are dead, and both died by violent means. But that is mere coincidence. We all have to die. This is a violent time we live in. Why, only last week an outlaw gang held up a train at Blaxton and killed the guardsman.”
In his agitation Big John rose and paced up and down the room. He was about to continue when Dorothy spoke out.
“John, our nephew, Richard, grows fat on the acquisition of the Grant holdings. Because Tom and I have no children of our own, Richard was named in Tom’s will as his executor. With Tom’s share of the business he now becomes the chief shareholder. Can’t you see a pattern in all this? We have to act now and bring all this out in the open.”
John Grant sat down heavily in his leather-bound chair. There was a weary look about the old man.
“What you say may all be true. But what proof have we that Richard was involved in the deaths of our brothers? I cannot move against him without concrete evidence.”
“Who do I complain to, then?” interrupted his listener.
“To God, the widow’s champion and defence,” her brother-in-law answered.
“That is no answer, John. But I’m thinking you are lucky in having a strong son. Perhaps Harry will act as a bulwark and save you from the worst excesses of Richard. Is he not here?”
“No, he is out riding somewhere. We had a bunch of steers go missing. He’s trying to track them down. There’s been a lot of rustling recently. It really annoys Harry. He hates to see the fruits of our toil drained off by thieves. I only hope he don’t get himself in too much trouble.”
Harry’s aunt smiled wryly.
“Your Harry can take care of himself. He is the son I would have wanted for myself. You tell him I called, and tell him I was asking for him.”
Chapter 3
At that moment Harry Grant’s thoughts were far from his aunt and, indeed, his father, Big John.
Harry Grant was a big man with broad, muscular shoulders built up over years of hard physical work on the family cattle ranch. He had clear, blue eyes and a square-jawed face. Right now those usually placid and amiable eyes were narrowed as he sat his horse above the river.
He was gazing down at the men working the cattle towards the ford. Once over the river he knew they would have a clear run down to the Mexican border.
The men were relaxed as they herded the cattle. They looked like any ordinary bunch of cowpokes going about their usual job of cow herding. When a recalcitrant steer lagged behind or strayed away from the main bunch, the cowboys chivvied it along, and the riders were doing a reasonably good job of keeping the herd on the move.
Harry nudged his horse forward. The big, grey stallion lifted its head and started down the slope towards the river. It snorted gently as it smelt the water.
“All right, Prince. We could both do with a drink.”
Horse and rider had been travelling all night. The stallion was weary from lack of rest and sleep. Harry had not stopped for water or feed but had pushed on through the starlit hours. He, also, was weary but drove the thoughts of tiredness and food to the back of his mind.
The horse picked a path down towards the river. Harry’s intention was to cut ahead of the herd and get to the river before the cattle arrived at the ford.
Dust hung in the morning air in the wake of the cattle herd. It was a hazy dust cloud that took a time to settle. Cattle and riders were coated in a fine, powdery dust. Some of the herders had pulled their bandannas up to cover nose and mouth.
Harry counted five riders with the herd. He estimated there were about two hundred head of prime steers. By some standards, the ratio of herders to cattle was a mite high. He figured experienced cowhands would have needed only a couple of them to handle a herd that size.
Arriving on the flat, Harry urged his weary mount to greater efforts. He wanted to be at that ford when the herd arrived at the crossing.
The river Elkhorn was wide and slow. Countless wagons, riders, and beasts had trodden a well-worn path down to the river’s edge. The trail could clearly be seen emerging on the other side. It was an ancient passageway trodden into a permanent track by herds of buffalo and deer over the centuries. Man had followed the herds on their migratory path and hunted these wild beasts to extinction. Now the cowboys drove their own beasts across those same paths that countless hooves had trodden before them.
Harry reined in at the water’s edge and swung down from the saddle. He felt stiff and sore from too many hours in the saddle. The grey lowered its head to drink. Harry took out his water bottle and emptied the contents into the river. He knelt by the water and refreshed his canteen. While he drank, he squinted back up the trail towards the herd.
“Ten minutes at the most, Prince,” he informed the horse.
The grey finished drinking and shifted its attention to a patch of grass. Harry corked his canteen and took out the makings. He began to build a smoke. Then he gave his full attention to the oncoming herd and riders.
Anyone would have mistaken Harry Grant for an ordinary cowpoke. He wore a buckskin waistcoat over a plaid shirt. His faded Levis had seen better days. On his feet was a good pair of leather riding boots. A gun belt slanted across his waist, weighed down on the right side by a pearl-handled Colt revolver in a leather holster. But Harry Grant was no ordinary ranch hand.
His father was Big John Grant, owner of one of the largest ranches in the county, and Harry was his son and heir.
Big John was the patriarch of a large family. His brothers had branched out into various ventures and were all successful businessmen. The Grant family had become one of the most powerful and influential in the county.
While he smoked, almost without thinking about it Harry Grant reached down and unhooked the rawhide thong holding his sidearm secure. He eased the Colt revolver in the holster to make sure it did not snag. There was a rifle in the saddle scabbard, but he did not think he would need that.
The herd was closing steadily on the river. If anything, they were moving somewhat faster as the beasts sensed the water ahead.
Harry’s smoke was well down as the first of the steers reached the water. They hesitated at the edge, but the pressure of the herd pushed them on into the water. Bellowing and snorting, the steers plunged in, kicking up spurts of water and creating small waves. The water churned as more and more of the herd entered the water.
Harry could see the riders bunching together as they rode up. They were staring in his direction. He made no acknowledgement of the men. His eyes were scrutinising the steers as they pressed past him.
While the animals milled around in the river, the cowboys walked their horses behind, keeping any stragglers from roaming too far from the main herd. He could almost see the riders relaxing as they realised he was on his own. As far as they could make out, he was just a drifter casually watching a herd of steers making a river crossing.
Harry weighed up the riders as they approached. The noise of water being churned up along with bellowing cattle was making quite a racket. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard.
“Howdy, fellas. Tidy bunch of steers you got there. Where you heading?”
Chapter 4
A heavyset man with a full beard turned his horse towards the lone cowboy. Harry noted the big Colt .45 in the man’s holster. All the men carried sidearms, which was not unusual in a country where rustlers and bandits sometimes operated. In addition to the sidearms he had seen the carbines slung about the riders’ saddles.
“Across the river,” the bearded man answered Harry’s query.
“Yeah, I figured that out already. I mean after that. You fellas going down towards Mexico? I’m headin’ that way myself. Could use a little company. Fed up riding on my own.”
