Back From Boot Hill Read online

  Back from Boot Hill

  After finding himself in a coffin, on the way to Boot Hill, Clay Tulane wants answers.

  As he pieces together the story of how he got there with the help of local townsfolk Miss Winona and the boy Pocket, he finds himself drawn into a violent stuggle against local landowner, Marsden Rockwell, and his bunch of hired guns.

  Tulane has more personal reasons, however, for seeking a final confrontation with the notorious killer, Lonnie Spade. As tension mounts and battle lines are drawn, Tulane’s search for the truth throws up as many questions as answers. What is the real reason Rockwell and his Bar Nothing outfit want to take over the neighbouring Pitchfork L, and is it connected with the mystery of the strange mesa known as Sawn-Off Mountain?

  By the same author

  Pack Rat

  Coyote Falls

  Guns of Wrath

  Six-Gun Nemesis

  North to Montana

  Back from Boot Hill

  Colin Bainbridge

  ROBERT HALE

  © Colin Bainbridge 2014

  First published in Great Britain 2014

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2317-6

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Colin Bainbridge to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Chapter One

  The eyes of Clay Tulane flickered open to a profound darkness. He lay still for a few moments feeling almost content, lulled by a gentle swaying motion. Faint sounds entered his ears, dim and strangely muted. He was lying on his back but when he stretched his legs and made to turn over, he was instantly brought up against something hard. He tried the other way with the same effect. He lifted his head and it touched a solid surface. His hands were folded on his chest but they were free and he was able to feel his surroundings. He seemed to be confined in some sort of box.

  Suddenly he felt panic rise to his throat. He knew without doubt that the box was a coffin. He was buried alive. Instinctively he made to sit upright; this time his head smashed against the coffin lid and he sank back again as blood trickled down his forehead. Breathing deeply, he struggled to gain control of himself. He was moving and there were sounds. He couldn’t be underground. Not yet. But if he was in a coffin, he must be on his way to the cemetery. They were taking him to Boot Hill. He didn’t know how it could have happened, but that was of no concern to him. It wouldn’t take them long to reach their destination. They must be almost there. There was no time to waste. He needed to let someone know that he was still alive.

  Raising his hands again, he began to push at the coffin lid but he couldn’t get much purchase. The lid seemed to be fastened tight and he soon gave up the attempt. After a moment’s thought he began to shout. The sound of his voice in the confined space was deafening and he felt certain that someone must hear him. He stopped and listened. There was no response. He started again, shouting as loud as he could, but when he ceased the result was the same. Panic once again threatened to overwhelm him and it took a big effort to stay firm.

  He had just about got himself under control once more when the swaying motion came to a halt. His heart thumped. Someone must have heard him. He waited for some reaction but nothing happened and after a few moments the swaying started again, caused by the movement of the wagon which was taking him to the cemetery. The wagon had stopped briefly before continuing its way, which probably meant they had reached the entrance. It couldn’t be long till it stopped again and they began to lower him into the ground.

  Why was no one responding? He realized his fingers were tightly gripped and he stretched them out, rubbing them against his trouser leg. He felt something cold and metallic and realized that he still had his gun.

  Skip Malloy drew his wagon to a halt beside an open grave. He looked about him. Most of the people taking up space in Boot Hill he had buried himself. They were for the most part a fairly ornery bunch, those that he knew anything about. Others were strangers he had never seen till they ended up in his funeral parlour. Like the man he was about to bury now, once his assistant showed up. Where was the boy? He was late, but there was nothing unusual in that. It didn’t bother him. He had learned to take life as it came and make the most of moments like this. He drew out a pouch of tobacco, rolled himself a cigarette and leaned back to enjoy the sunshine and the silence his deafness afforded. He had come to make a virtue of being hard of hearing too. It was the only way to get by.

  He drew in the cigarette smoke, savouring the taste and appreciating the way it caught at his throat. He felt reflective. That was the effect this place always had on him. He was contemplating making an effort to get down from his seat when the peace was shattered by an explosion even his ears couldn’t fail to register.

  Three shots in rapid succession rang out from just behind him, jerking him upright and causing the cigarette to fall from his mouth. The horse stepped forwards and he hauled on the reins.

  ‘What in tarnation!’ he muttered.

  A further shot rang out and he sprang from the wagon seat as quickly as his knees would allow him. The shots were coming from the coffin, blasting holes in the lid from which tapers of smoke were ascending. Standing well back from the wagon he shouted in a loud and somewhat tremulous voice:

  ‘Hold it! Stop the shootin’ and I’ll have you right out of there.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy approaching. Despite himself, he was shaken and he felt relieved to see him.

  ‘What happened?’ the boy said as he came up to the wagon. ‘I heard gunfire.’ The oldster pointed at the coffin. ‘Help me unscrew the lid,’ he said.

  With the boy’s help and the aid of a screwdriver it took no time at all to loosen the lid. As they worked on it, the undertaker talked to the man inside, calming and reassuring him. He didn’t want to take any further risks with the gun. They had almost finished the job when the coffin lid was thrust open from below, knocking the boy aside, and the occupant sat bolt upright. The undertaker, despite having had time to adjust to the situation, was taken aback. He made to say something but could only stare in bewilderment as Tulane climbed out of the coffin and jumped down from the wagon. He spent a few moments bending and stretching his legs before turning to the undertaker.

  ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘what’s goin’ on here? I think you got some explainin’ to do.’ The oldster didn’t reply. Tulane shook himself as the boy regained his feet.

  ‘He can’t hear you too well,’ the boy replied, seeing a look of irritation appear on the erstwhile corpse’s face. ‘If you take it slow, he can read your lips.’

  Tulane turned to him. ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  ‘Folks call me Pocket,’ the boy replied.

  The undertaker, watching the exchange between the youngster and Tulane, seemed to understand. ‘Like the name of the town,’ he said. ‘Water Pocket. Without the Water. He ain’t got no family. No one knows his real name.’

  Tulane turned to the boy. ‘Well, Pocket,’ he said, ‘I guess I should really be thankin’ you and. . . .’ He paused.

  ‘Malloy, Skip Malloy,’ the undertaker answered, responding to his prompting.

  ‘And Mr Malloy. Sorry if I sounded a bit tetchy, but I reckon you’ll agree it’s understandable.’ He held out his hand for the undertaker to grasp. ‘The name’s Tulane, Clay Tulane.’

  ‘How come you ain’t a corpse?’ the boy muttered.

  �
�That’s sure what I would like to know.’

  Malloy was sufficiently cognisant to know that some sort of explanation was expected. He also realized that, as the person who had put the stranger in the coffin, he was in an awkward situation.

  ‘They brought you in dead,’ he replied. ‘Naturally, the marshal handed you on. Believe me, no one is more surprised than me. I just did what I had to do.’

  Tulane’s face was contorted in an effort at concentration. ‘Who brought me in?’ he asked.

  ‘A couple of boys from the Bar Nothing.’

  Tulane shook his head. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘that’s appropriate. What did you say is the name of this town?’

  ‘Water Pocket.’

  ‘See, he’s readin’ your lips,’ the boy commented.

  ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ Tulane said.

  The undertaker saw his chance. ‘Why don’t you and the boy get back up in the wagon and I’ll drive us back to town?’ he said. ‘You can figure out what’s best to do after that.’

  Tulane continued to look puzzled but finally nodded his head. ‘I guess that makes sense,’ he said. ‘Is there a hotel in town?’

  ‘Sure,’ the boy replied. ‘You could stay at the Sumac. That’s Miss Winona’s place. She’s real nice.’

  ‘Miss Winona only has room for a few guests,’ Malloy said. ‘Maybe Mr Tulane would be better tryin’ the Blue Front.’

  ‘Either,’ Tulane answered. ‘It doesn’t make any difference.’ Suddenly he staggered and would have fallen had the boy not been there to steady him. He put a hand to his head and felt a large swelling.

  ‘Funny thing,’ the undertaker said. ‘There weren’t no wound other than that bump.’ Tulane winced. ‘That and the bruisin’,’ Malloy continued.

  ‘Don’t forget the cut,’ the boy added.

  Tulane looked from one to the other. ‘Are you sure that’s all? You checked I ain’t got a hole plumb between the shoulder blades?’ With a grimace he climbed back into the wagon. ‘Maybe you’d better take me to the doc’s first,’ he said.

  Malloy grinned. ‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘Since Doc Shields up and went, that’s me.’

  Nobody spoke during the course of the short ride back. Although he didn’t feel quite right, Tulane figured there was no point in expecting any help from Malloy. The undertaker dropped him off outside the hotel.

  ‘What about Miss Winona?’ the boy said.

  ‘This’ll do fine,’ Tulane replied. The oldster had chosen to take him to the Blue Front and he didn’t feel like arguing about it. He stepped up on to the boardwalk as the undertaker set off down the street. The boy was sitting with his legs dangling over the back of the wagon and he waved as it pulled away. Malloy waved back before entering the hotel. It was a tall building; once he had booked in at the reception desk he was shown to a room on the top floor. Without bothering to undress, he collapsed on to the bed. He lay there staring at the ceiling for a long time until eventually his eyes closed.

  When he awoke it was dark. For a moment he couldn’t think where he was and he tried hard to recall what had happened to him. He had been passing through Water Pocket on his way to take up a job as wagon boss for an outfit in the Panhandle. One moment he had been riding along, the next he had awoken in his coffin. He could remember nothing of what had occurred in between. He struggled to bring a flickering memory to light, but it faded away. One good thing was that he felt a whole lot better. The sleep had restored him. That, and the surge of well-being he had from being alive.

  He got to his feet and walked to the window which gave entry to a narrow balcony. The street was quiet but light and music spilled from the batwing doors of a saloon further up the street. Already he was making plans to find out what had happened to him. The first step would be to pay the marshal a visit and then the Bar Nothing, but that would have to wait till the morning. In the meantime, he could do with a drink; he might pick up some information at the saloon.

  It was only as he approached the livery stable on the way there that he thought about his horse. He had been riding a mustang. It had been with him for years, since the time he had cut it from a herd of wild horses. Some folks said that a mustang lacked stamina, but if so, he hadn’t ever noticed it. What had happened to it? Had it been brought in with him? The livery stable doors were open and a man sat on a chair in the entrance next to a table on which stood a bottle and a glass. He was tall and lank and smoked a corncob pipe.

  ‘Howdy,’ Tulane said.

  ‘Howdy. Mighty fine evening.’ The man blew out a cloud of smoke and peered through it with bleary eyes. ‘Stranger in town?’ he asked.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Thought so. I spend a lot of time observin’ folks and I don’t recollect seein’ you.’ He peered closer. ‘That’s quite a bump you got there. Someone buffalo you?’

  Tulane put his hand to his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘I’d have thought a body would recall somethin’ like that.’

  Tulane peered past the ostler into the stables.

  ‘You lookin’ for a horse?’ the man enquired.

  ‘I was wonderin’ if you got my horse in there.’

  A questioning look crossed the ostler’s face and was immediately replaced by a light of dawning comprehension. ‘Say, you ain’t the owner of that black mustang?’

  ‘You got him?’

  ‘Sure.’ The ostler got to his feet. ‘Come with me.’ He led the way as they passed through the stables to an outside corral at the back. ‘There he is,’ he said.

  The mustang was standing among several other horses, but as Tulane approached he tossed his head and came forward.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ Tulane said to the ostler.

  ‘Are you intendin’ to take him away right now?’

  ‘No, but I’ll be wantin’ him tomorrow.’

  ‘You can settle up then,’ the ostler said. ‘He’s a mighty fine horse. It’s been a pleasure takin’ care of him.’

  Tulane held out his hand. ‘The name’s Tulane,’ he said. ‘Clay Tulane.’

  ‘Jordan, Jonas Jordan. Glad to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘I was on my way to the saloon,’ Tulane said.

  ‘I don’t go near the place. But why not join me? I just opened a bottle of whiskey.’

  Tulane shrugged. ‘Sounds good,’ he said. They made their way back through the stables. The ostler pulled out another chair and then disappeared, returning a moment later with a glass and a pipe similar to the one he was smoking. He placed the pipe on the table before pouring drinks. They sat down and each took a swallow.

  ‘That’s fine whiskey,’ Tulane said.

  ‘Best Joe Gideon. It’s sure a lot better than they serve at the Broken Wheel.’

  They took another swallow, then the ostler pointed to the pipe. ‘Ever tried a corncob?’ he said.

  ‘Can’t say that I have.’

  ‘Well, I reckon it’s about time we put that right. Here, take a smell.’

  He picked up the pipe and held the stem. Tulane leaned down to the blackened bowl. The odour was faintly bitter. The ostler took the pipe and filled it with tobacco from a pouch that he produced from his shirt pocket. He handed it to Tulane and, cupping the bowl in one hand, proceeded to light it.

  ‘It ain’t new,’ he said, ‘but so much the better. A new pipe can take a while to break in. I got mine from Boonville, Missouri. I figure they make the best corncob pipes.’

  Tulane drew on the tobacco. The taste was like the smell, with an acrid sour tang that complemented the bite of the whiskey.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ he said.

  He looked out at the dark street along which lights were playing. Behind them, a horse stamped in its stall. The aroma of horseflesh and hay mingled with the haze of smoke. The sense of well-being he had experienced in the hotel seized him afresh. He glanced down the street in the direction of the saloon. The tinkling notes of a piano floated on the air. For a momen
t he thought of asking the ostler a few questions, but then the thought faded away like the smoke from the corncob pipe. There would be time enough for all that tomorrow. He was content to let the evening take its course.

  Jordan broke into his reverie. ‘That horse of yourn,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you noticed, but it’s kinda cut up along the side.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. It ain’t nothin’ serious and I tended to him. It’s no surprise you didn’t see anythin’ in this light. But I’d say that horse had been involved in some sort of scuffle. Maybe that’s how you came by that bump.’

  ‘What, you figure somebody jumped me and the horse got involved?’

  ‘I don’t figure anythin’. But here’s somethin’ else for you to consider. You got quite a bad cut. From the looks of it, I’d say that could have been caused by a kick.’

  ‘I figured it was caused by a gun butt.’

  ‘Yeah, could be. But it might have been the horse. Maybe both.’

  Tulane’s brows puckered in concentration as he tried to remember what had happened. It was no use. Instead, he turned his thoughts in a different direction.

  ‘Do you know anythin’ about an outfit called the Bar Nothing?’

  The ostler inhaled deeply and took swig of the whiskey before replying. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘Most folks round here know the Bar Nothing. It’s one of the biggest spreads in the territory.’

  Tulane reflected for a moment. ‘Who owns the place?’ he asked.

  ‘The owner is called Marsden Rockwell. Seems like he’s a mighty ambitious man.’

  ‘Anythin’ wrong with that?’

  ‘Nope, not if he operates by the rules.’

  ‘Are you sayin’ that the Bar Nothing ain’t dealin’ fair and square?’

  ‘I’m not sayin’ that, but some folks have their doubts. There’s been talk of cattle rustlin’. Seems like a lot of his cattle have their ears cut off.’