Hot spur, p.2
Hot Spur, page 2
Harry waited. The bearded man took his time replying. By this time his horse had reached the river and was bowing its head to drink. The other riders angled over and eased their mounts into the shallows beside the bearded man. One of these was a lean-looking man with a huge moustache clustered on his upper lip. Harry’s Aunt Dorothy, when she saw a moustache like that, referred to the growth as being like a dead rat hanging on a man’s lip. The other was a slim, handsome youth with a meagre growth of down struggling to show on his lip.
“Just keep on riding, cowpoke,” the big man finally said. “We don’t take to company.”
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
“You fellas ride for the Big G?”
The bearded man tensed and slid his right hand from the reins to rest on his thigh, inches from the handle of the big Colt. His companions moved their horses sideways to form a half circle facing towards the man standing on the bank. Harry could not see the other two riders. He guessed they were on the far side of the herd, keeping them from spreading out along the river.
The three riders stared hard at Harry. He stood there looking relaxed. Smoke from his cigarette drifted up across his face before dispersing into the air.
“You ask a lot of questions, fella.” The words were spoken as an accusation. “Don’t like nosy cowhands. You ever heard the saying ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?”
The horses shifted uneasily beneath their riders as if sensing the tension building up between the men. Harry Grant reached up slowly and took the cigarette stub from his mouth. He flicked the spent butt out into the river.
“Just being friendly. I used to ride for the Big G. Know that brand anywhere.”
“Dude, if you look closer, you see the brand is Circle L. Now, if your nosiness is finished, just climb on your pony and ride on out of here. I suggest go back the way you came.”
The bearded man pointed back up the trail down which they had just driven. The man on the ground nodded thoughtfully.
“I guess I will look a mite closer at them beeves.”
As he spoke, Harry made as if to move past the mounted men. The bearded man’s hand now slid onto his gun butt. There was no mistaking the menace, as his companions did likewise.
“Mister, just git on your horse and go while you’re still able to.”
Harry stopped moving forward. Slowly he raised his hand and with one finger tipped the Stetson to the back of his head. A long strand of blond hair worked loose from under the brim of the hat.
“What’s your beef, fella?” he asked. “You got something to hide?”
“Son of a bitch. Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, fella? Get on that blasted pony and hightail it out of here. Nobody questions Bill Tunsall.”
The bearded man gripped the handle of his pistol but did not draw his weapon.
“You figuring to shoot me?” Harry asked evenly. “Five of you against one lone cowhand. Seems a mite unfair.”
“Aw, shoot him, Bill, and be done with it,” intervened the man with the rat-like moustache. “We can’t afford to hang about here jawing with some half-wit drifter. If you don’t, then I will.”
The speaker laid his hand on his six-shooter. Harry Grant’s clear, blue eyes went an icy hue.
“I wouldn’t do that, mister,” Harry said coldly, peering up at the men but still looking relaxed.
With that, the man’s patience snapped. He cursed and pulled his gun.
With a rapid movement Harry stepped sideways. Almost as the action was completed, the Colt appeared in his right hand. The explosion of the shots startled the cattle milling about in the water. They began a panicked surge across the river. Some of the beasts were plunging and rearing, and their frantic bellowing increased in volume.
The man who had drawn his gun on the lone cowboy was punched backwards in the saddle as the .45 fired. His horse skittered in panic as the man’s weight shifted. The horses in the group reared in alarm. Bill Tunsall got off one shot from his Colt as his horse plunged sideways. The man on the ground coolly shot him out of the saddle before he could regain control. The young, surviving rider threw up his hands.
“Don’ shoot, for gawd’s sake!” he shouted. Harry Grant could not hear the words, but he understood the man’s actions.
“Throw your weapon down,” he yelled, waving the Colt at the rider.
The youngster sensed Harry’s meaning and disarmed, carefully drawing and throwing down his pistol. Unlike his companions, he did not carry a carbine. Harry stepped forward and kicked the revolver into the river. By now most of the cattle were across the other side of the river and beginning to quieten. The water had slowed them somewhat, and there was no more shooting to spook them again.
Harry grabbed the reins of his mount. The well-trained stallion had remained standing patiently throughout the racket. Still keeping hold of the Colt, he swung onto the saddle. From this vantage point he could now see the two remaining riders spurring up the river bank towards him. He waited patiently for their arrival. It didn’t take them long to get there. They pulled up, looking suspiciously at the man on the grey stallion.
“What the hell’s goin’ on, Luke?” The question was addressed to the young rider. Their eyes narrowed as they noticed the pistol in Harry Grant’s hand. Then they saw the bodies sprawled by the river.
“Jeez!” Their eyes flicked between Luke and Grant. “He gun Bill and Tatum?”
The young rider nodded vigorously, never taking his eyes off Harry. As they eyed the lone cowboy, the two newcomers let their hands stray towards their weapons. Both wore holstered pistols, and the stocks of carbines poked up from saddle scabbards.
“What’s going on, mister? What the hell you mean shooting fellas?”
“They drew on me.” Harry gestured with his Colt at the bodies. “You fellas want to take up where they left off?”
The question hung in the air between them. The riders nervously licked their lips. Their eyes flicked between their dead companions and the stranger.
“You shot them down in cold blood,” one of them ventured at last. “Bill was fast with a gun. You just murdered him and Tatum.”
Harry didn’t bother to answer. He waited patiently. The surviving cowboy of the original trio at last spoke.
“Weren’t like that. Bill and Tatum drew first. This fella just gunned them down. It was all fair and square.”
An uneasy silence descended. Most of the cattle had settled down on the far side of the river. There was grass growing on that bank. They were grazing contentedly.
“What the hell you want, fella? Ain’t right to sneak up on folks going about their peaceable affairs and shoot them down.”
“That’s right, fella. I was watering my horse, minding my own business when these cattle rustlers decided to shoot me.”
All three stiffened.
“Cattle rustlers. Who you calling rustlers?”
“My guess is those cows came off the Big G. Someone made a poor job of rebranding, trying to change the Big G to Circle L…”
The cowboys glanced uneasily at each other.
“We bought those steers legit. Don’t know nothing about no Big G. Paid good money, too. Now, if you put that gun up, we can go on across the river and mosey on along down to our outfit. We need those steers to restock. Lost some steers to Injuns.” The man told the lie with a belligerent glint in his eye. He wheeled his horse around. “Come on, fellas. Time to take those cows home.”
“Hold it right there, cowboy. If what you say is true, then you won’t mind showing me that bill of sale for them critters.”
The man seemed to be having trouble controlling his horse. Harry couldn’t see his hands as he wrestled with the reins. Then he was coming round fast. Even before he was fully turned, his gun was spurting bullets at Harry. His companion whooped and pulled his gun, also. The man they were shooting at was not where he should have been.
Harry Grant was off his horse and kneeling down behind the big stallion. Flame spurted from the barrel of his pistol. The first gunman took a couple of bullets in his chest. The whoop from his companion was cut short as a bullet bored into his throat. Both men flopped over in the saddle and were thrown to the ground as their frightened mounts bucked them off.
Harry Grant stood. As he kept a wary eye on the stricken cowboys, he was punching empty shells from his six-shooter. Swiftly he reloaded and then walked slowly forward. The only man to survive the gunfight was staring at his companions in horror.
“Jeez, fella, you killed them all.”
He was ashen-faced, and his body was shaking. Abruptly he slid from his horse and, bending over, threw up into the grass. Harry Grant ignored the retching cowboy and walked to the bodies. For a few moments he studied the dead men.
“Guess your rustling days are over,” he said to no one in particular. He turned his attention to the surviving rustler. “You finished puking up your breakfast?”
The cowhand straightened up and turned a grey face towards the speaker. He wiped a trembling hand across his mouth.
“You…you figger on shooting me too, mister?”
“I might,” drawled Harry. “Depends on your behaviour. I heard your friends call you Luke. What’s yore other moniker?”
“Luke Parsons.”
“Well, Luke Parsons, I’m Harry Grant. My pa, Big John Grant, owns the Big G. I been trailing you rustlers for the past few days. Now, help me catch these mounts.”
Together they soon rounded up the rustlers’ horses. They spent some time removing saddles and bridles and turned them loose. Harry and his unwilling helper laid the dead rustlers in a row some way back from the river.
“We can’t take them bodies with us. We’ll collect their valuables and hand them over to the sheriff in Lourdes. That’s the nearest town to the Big G. You’ll have to give him their names and any information to track their relatives.”
Harry eyed the young man. On close inspection he realised the rustler was no more than a boy.
“You can help me git these steers back across the river,” Harry told him.
They splashed across and worked together to drive the herd back across the river. The cattle were docile now that they had been watered and ate a little grass.
“I aim to drive these steers back to the Big G where they came from originally. You can make this easy or hard on yourself. Help me get them there, and I might put in a good word for you with the law.”
Harry Grant stared unwavering at the youngster. The young man shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and could not meet those hard, azure eyes.
“Yessir, I’ll be real good.”
Chapter 5
Richard Grant sat at a large, polished, mahogany desk staring thoughtfully at the man sitting across from him. Like his cousin, Harry, Richard was a big, well-built man. That was as far as the similarity went. Where Harry was blond and had the bronzed glow of a man who spent most of his working day outdoors, his cousin was dark-haired but with a sallow complexion. He wore a well-tailored suit of dark broadcloth. His large, manicured hands played thoughtfully with an ornate letter opener.
“So, Uncle Tom is dead. Slain by persons unknown.” He sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to offer my condolences to Aunt Dorothy. Not a task I look forward to. She always had an acid tongue. She never liked me. Not that I ever gave her cause to dislike me.” He smiled suddenly at the man opposite. “That is, until now, cousin.”
The man he addressed as cousin grinned back at Richard Grant. David Austin was a young man with thinning, mousy hair and sported an untidy moustache and sparse beard. His mother and Richard’s were sisters.
“It’ll be a lovely funeral. I got a black suit I ain’t wore since your wedding day,” replied Austin. “You know, she’s spreading all sorts of hoss-shit about you. Is asking why it is your uncles are all being killed, and with you the beneficiary from their deaths.”
Richard Grant sighed again. He leaned forward and lifted a lid on a silver humidifier on his desk. After selecting a cigar from the container, he nodded an invitation for his cousin to help himself.
“Aunt Dorothy is a doddering old woman. No one in their right mind would take any notice of her raving. “Besides, she’s half-mad with grief. She probably won’t last long, anyway, now that Tom’s dead. She’s the least of our worries. There’s bigger fish to fry.” He had taken a heavy lighter from the desktop and was busy applying it to the tip of his cigar. When he had it going to his satisfaction, he slid the lighter across to his cousin. When Austin’s cigar was exuding satisfying plumes of blue smoke, he addressed his cousin.
“You amaze me, Richard. Your ambition seems boundless. You own virtually all of Lourdes, including the bank and most of the larger businesses. You stand to take over Tom Grant’s spread now that he’s out of the way. You are the mayor of the town with the town committee in your pocket, not to mention Sheriff Garrison and Judge Burton. What more is there to aim for?”
Richard Grant smiled across the desk at his cousin.
“One thing stops me from owning the whole county, and that’s the Big G.”
David Austin was just inhaling the aromatic smoke from his cigar. He choked and then went into a spasm of coughing. When at last he surfaced, he wiped tears from his eyes.
“Jeez, Richard, don’t make cracks like that while I’m smoking. You know as well as I do Uncle John will never sell the Big G. He spent his whole life out on that ranch building it up from scratch. You stand as much chance of getting hold of the Big G as I have of running for president.”
“You didn’t say anything like that when I told you what I wanted done to get my hands on Uncle Tom’s spread.”
David Austin stared back across at his cousin with widening eyes. When he spoke, it was in a low, tremulous voice.
“No, Richard. Tell me I’m imagining things. Tell me I didn’t hear you correct.”
Richard Grant leaned towards his cousin to emphasise his next words.
“Do I need to spell it out for you? I want the Big G. I need the Big G. With that acquisition I’ll own virtually the whole county. I’ll be the most powerful man in the territory. Next stop, governor!” He leaned back in his chair and sucked at his cigar. Through clouds of smoke he continued, “And after governor,” he said, throwing apart his hands in an all-embracing gesture, “…the state, the senate…?” He trailed off and stared across at the other man.
“But Uncle John!” David Austin shook his head in disbelief. “You’re not talking sense, Richard. This is a step too far.”
Richard Grant leaned back in his chair and placed both hands behind his head. He blew cigar smoke at the ceiling.
“You ever heard of William Shakespeare?”
David Austin nodded. “He were some old English queen as used to write poetry.”
“That’s right, David. We had an old cowhand on our place, and he used to read me bits of this here Shakespeare. There was one tale about this Scottish fella. His name was Lord Macbeth. Well, he had a similar problem to me. He had ambitious plans, but people were in his way. So, he killed them himself or hired someone to do it for him,” Richard continued, as he made the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger. “There was one line in that play that always stayed with me. Even now all these years later I remember it.” The speaker swivelled his chair to and fro as he intoned the quotation from the play: “I have waded so deep in blood it would be harder to turn back than carry on.”
Richard Grant fell silent as he gazed into the distance. It was as if he was going back to those years as a boy or perhaps looking forward to his coming reign as the most powerful man in the county. At last he turned and looked quizzically at his companion. “That’s me, David. I’m in too deep now to go back. The Big G will become my property, whatever it takes.”
“For all you say, Richard, it’s not going to do you any good. You still have Cousin Harry to deal with.”
Richard Grant leaned back in his chair again. Thoughtfully he sucked on his cigar, then blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
“Cousin Harry, tough, old cousin Harry.”
“You’re damn right he’s tough. If you’re thinking of taking on Harry Grant, I wish you luck. He’s not some old man like Uncle Tom and Uncle Glenn. He’s tough as a wolverine. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if his ma lay with a wolf afore he was whelped.”
Richard Grant grinned at his cousin.
“David, David, David. It never fails to surprise me what a coward you are. There are more ways to skin a cat than flies on a cow chip. Harry is the main target. With him out of the way, old John will be a pushover.”
“Jeez, Richard, I might be a coward, but there are times you scare the pants off me.”
Richard Grant laughed out loud then.
“Good. Good. Just you be my eyes, and ears, and errand boy, David, and you have no need ever to fear me.”
David Austin, rather than being reassured by these words, felt a deep chill in his bones. He did not meet Richard Grant’s eyes as he replied.
“You know I’m your man soul and body.” He forced himself to look up at his cousin. “But Harry Grant is a different type of cat altogether. He’s more like a cougar than a tabby. I wouldn’t want to tangle with him. You know he’s pals with that marshal over in Toska. Rumour has it he asked Harry to help him out against a nest of outlaws that had been plaguing the area with robberies and killings. Made him deputy, and they rode out against the bunch, just the two of them. They brought back only two of those owl hoots for hanging. The rest is dead or still running.”
Richard Grant smiled at the speaker.
“The tougher they are, the more satisfying the crash when they go down. Let me tell you something, cousin: there’s no one can stand in my way. I’m on my way to the top. Do you think I’ll allow some cowhand that thinks he’s a ring-tailed bobcat stand in my way? No, no, no, cousin David. I’ll be king here, and any that cares to challenge me will get ploughed under.”
