Desolation Wells Read online

  Desolation Wells

  After coming to the aid of an oldster, Chet Westoe finds himself being tracked by three unknown riders. A confrontation in the town of Desolation Wells leads to a shootout, but faced with the prospect of jail, Westoe breaks free. He heads for a ranch called the Barbed S, his only clue to the mystery, but when he arrives is entangled in a whole heap of trouble from which he barely emerges with his life.

  The tension builds to a shattering climax as the trail leads straight to an all-out clash with the outlaw gang known as the Bronco Boys, when the truth is finally revealed.

  By the same author

  Pack Rat

  Coyote Falls

  Shotgun Messenger

  Guns of Wrath

  Six-Gun Nemesis

  North to Montana

  Back from Boot Hill

  Tough Justice

  Buzzard Roost

  Gila Monster

  Hoofbeats West

  Desolation Wells

  Colin Bainbridge

  © Colin Bainbridge 2016

  First published in Great Britain 2016

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2112-7

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.crowood.com

  This e-book first published in 2016

  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

  Chet Westoe came out of the trees riding the buckskin and was close to the summit of the hill when he heard the first shot – it shattered the silence. Immediately he dug in his spurs and galloped to the top of the rise as further shots rang out. Off to his right stood a group of small buildings from which puffs of gun smoke were rising into the air. Westoe reached into his saddlebags and drew out his field glasses. It wasn’t hard to pick out the attackers. He could clearly distinguish three of them, skulking from cover to cover. Slipping the field glasses back into their case, he urged the buckskin forwards. The attackers were concentrating their fire on the main building, a cabin from the windows of which issued an answering fire. It was sporadic and he concluded that only one person was in there. The battle was definitely a one-sided affair.

  It seemed that the attackers were too intent on pressing home their advantage to notice his arrival. He could see them clearly now. They were all masked and their angles of approach meant that they would soon converge on the cabin. A grim smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he drew his Winchester from its scabbard. At a touch from his spurs the buckskin broke into a gallop, racing down the hill. The thunder of hoof beats finally alerted the masked men to the new danger and they whirled around in consternation. Their guns spewed lead and at the same moment there was a fresh burst of gunfire from a patch of trees further up the hill. Bullets sang through the air as Westoe opened fire with the rifle. One man pitched forward as the other two turned and began to run, twisting and turning as they headed for the trees. Ignoring the danger, Westoe turned his buckskin in the direction of the fleeing men, but they had already reached shelter. He was now in an exposed position and when some scrub oak offered cover of a sort, he took advantage of it. Sliding from the saddle, he crawled forward to where he had a good view of the trees into which the masked men had disappeared. Then he lay flat, raising the rifle and watching closely for any sign of movement.

  After a few moments he detected something and immediately squeezed off a shot which was quickly answered by a fusillade of shots that tore up the brush over his head. He rolled over and opened fire again. For a few moments the noise of shooting continued to roar and then there came an unexpected quiet. Westoe lay still, waiting to see what would happen. He was expecting a fresh burst of fire, but instead he presently heard the sound of hoofs and a moment later a group of riders came into view on the far side of the clump of trees, riding hell for leather till they disappeared over a knoll. The sound of hoof beats faded and died and when he was sure they had gone he got to his feet and made his way over to the buckskin. Climbing into leather, he rode back down the hill to the cabin just as the door opened and an elderly man emerged.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Westoe shouted.

  ‘Yeah? How about you?’

  Westoe became aware for the first time that blood was running down his arm and when he glanced down saw a long cut where a bullet had creased it. Luckily, it was only a flesh wound.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘Those varmints almost got me,’ the man said. ‘It was sure lucky that you came by when you did.’ Westoe dismounted and the oldster noticed his wounded arm.

  ‘That needs seein’ to,’ he said. ‘You’d better come on inside.’ Westoe glanced over to where the body of the gunman lay spread-eagled in the grass.

  ‘I’ll just check on him,’ he said.

  He walked across and bent down. The man had been shot in the head and it was immediately clear that he was dead. He turned the body over as the oldster came up behind him.

  ‘That’s one less of the varmints,’ the oldster said.

  ‘You know who they are?’

  ‘Nope, but they didn’t take me completely by surprise.’

  Westoe got to his feet and together he and the oldster walked back to the cabin.

  When they entered, Westoe glanced around. The place was sparsely furnished. There was a cheap pine table covered with a blue and white chequered oilcloth and a few straight-backed chairs with cowhide bottoms, some of them held together with baling wire. A wooden box nailed to one of the walls served as a dresser, and on a shelf beneath were ranged a few items such as canned goods, dried beans and coffee. A slab of sowbelly coated with a crust of salt hung suspended from another nail. The windows lacked curtains and a threadbare carpet covered only part of the floor. A few burnished copper pots shone in the fading daylight.

  ‘Take a seat,’ the man said.

  Westoe did so, taking off his hat and placing it on his knee. The man went to the wooden box and returned with a bottle of iodine and a strip of linen material.

  ‘This might hurt some,’ he said.

  Westoe flinched slightly as the man poured some of the liquid on the wound and then wrapped it in the linen dressing. ‘You struck lucky,’ the man said. ‘Nothin’s broke.’

  ‘I sure appreciate your help,’ Westoe replied.

  ‘Not as much as I appreciate yours.’ The man paused, thinking for a moment. ‘Listen,’ he resumed. ‘I was just about to rustle up some grub. How are you fixed? I got plenty for two.’

  Westoe’s first instinct was to move on, but the man seemed to welcome his company. Besides, he was curious about why the cabin had come under attack.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied.

  ‘You could put your horse in the corral,’ the man said. ‘There’s feed in the shed.’

  Westoe got to his feet and led the buckskin to the corral where he stripped it of its gear and pitched it some hay from the shed. At the outside rear of the cabin there was a washbasin with soap and a towel hanging from a nail. His face and hands were grimy so he washed them both. As he dried himself, he studied the few dilapidated outbuildings and the country at the back of the cabin before returning indoors. He couldn’t help noticing that the place had a run-down kind of look about it.

  For a moment he was surprised to find the room empty, till the oldster appeared in a doorway carrying two bowls and two spoons.

  ‘Hope you can put away some stew,’ he said. ‘I had it simmerin’.’

  He placed the bowls on the table and they b
oth sat down. Westoe took a spoonful of the stew; it was hot and almost burned his mouth, but it tasted good. He took another before speaking.

  ‘You said somethin’ about not bein’ completely taken by surprise. Do you know who these varmints are that attacked you?’

  The man thought for a moment and then replied with another question. ‘You’re not from around these parts?’ he said. Westoe shook his head.

  ‘Just passin’ through,’ he replied.

  ‘On your way to anywhere in particular?’

  ‘Nope. I just figured it was time to look for new country.’

  The man got to his feet and went back through the door from which he had emerged with the stew. When he came back he was carrying two big tin mugs of coffee which he placed next to their bowls on the table.

  ‘Then you won’t know anythin’ about the trouble that’s been happenin’ round here,’ he said, as if the conversation had not been interrupted.

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘It’s kinda hard to pin it down. Just trouble. Cattle rustlin’, stagecoaches bein’ robbed, people gettin’ shot. There ain’t any regular kind of pattern. I figure it’s just a bunch of no-goods cuttin’ loose. I never figured they’d try pickin’ on me, though. I just don’t see any sense to it.’

  ‘What’ll you do? They might come back.’

  ‘I can take care of myself. They don’t bother me.’ Westoe was thinking that the outcome might have been a lot different if he hadn’t come by when he did.

  ‘You run this place all by yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. I guess I should be thinkin’ of movin’ on, ’specially now the old lady is gone, but I just can’t seem to want to make the effort. I guess me and her spent too long together here.’

  Westoe guessed, from the state of the cabin, that the oldster had been alone for some considerable time despite the impression his words gave of his wife’s demise being a recent event. But he didn’t pursue the matter.

  Westoe finished his bowl of stew and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He took a sip of the coffee, then reached for his tobacco pouch and took out the makings before handing it to the oldster. When they had lit their cigarettes the man grinned.

  ‘Guess we’d best introduce ourselves. I’m Ben Howe.’

  ‘Chet Westoe.’

  They sat back, enjoying the taste of the tobacco, and occasionally breaking the silence with a comment. Westoe glanced at his companion from time to time. It was clear that he appreciated the company. Despite the oldster’s profession of unconcern, he felt worried on his behalf. He thought of the dead man outside. There was a good chance that the gunnies who had attacked the old man would come back, seeking revenge. He felt reluctant just to leave him.

  ‘Listen,’ he said at last. ‘You and me had better do somethin’ about buryin’ that hombre outside. After that, maybe I could stick around for the night, just in case the others or even more of ’em decide to come back again.’

  ‘That’s mighty decent of you to offer, but didn’t you say you were passin’ through?’

  ‘I’m not in any hurry. It’s up to you. I could bed down in the barn.’

  ‘No need to do that. I can make a mattress for you right here on the floor.’

  Westoe could sense a feeling of relief in the man’s words. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘then it’s settled. You got a shovel? Then let’s get on and do what needs to be done.’

  Burying the gunman took longer than they had anticipated and by the time they had finished night had fallen.

  ‘I’ll go make up that mattress,’ the oldster said.

  ‘Good,’ Westoe replied. ‘While you’re doin’ that, I’ll just check on my horse.’

  He made his way back to the corral. At his approach the buckskin came up to the fence and he stroked its mane. All around, the country lay still and bathed in moonlight. Any sounds would travel and he felt confident that he would wake if there was any suggestion of danger. He had considered staying awake and keeping watch, but he felt tired. Besides, he didn’t want to alarm the oldster unduly. It was unlikely that anything would happen, but he would keep his gun loaded and close to hand. With a few whispered words to the horse he made his way back to the cabin.

  As he had expected, nothing happened during the night. He didn’t get much sleep, however, because of the old man’s snores. At the same time, his arm gave him some discomfort. He was kept awake, too, by his own troubled thoughts. He felt a certain hesitation about leaving the oldster, but he was reluctant to stay. The spread was clearly in a rundown condition and Howe didn’t seem to have anybody to help with the running of the place.

  As the first rays of dawn began to lighten the gloom, Westoe finally threw aside his blanket. He walked to the door, opened it and peered outside. The eastern sky was pale and the last stars were fading. He felt some compunction about leaving the oldster, so he decided to stay on for the rest of the day and help the old man sort out some of his more urgent problems as regards the upkeep of the ranch. That would allow the immediate danger from the men who had attacked the ranch to pass. After that, the oldster would have to take his chances. In the meantime, there was work to be done about the place.

  The day passed quickly. Howe seemed glad of his help, and he tipped in with surprising energy. They started by carrying out a few repairs about the cabin and the outbuildings and cleaning out the shed which passed as a stables. The corral needed attention and when they had done that they rode further afield to check the state of the fences. Some of them were slack and they hammered in fresh staples. As they rode, Westoe acquainted himself with the lie of the land. The ranch was small and the cattle he saw looked under-nourished. When they got back to the cabin late that afternoon and were enjoying some strong black coffee, he asked to see the tally book. The oldster looked at him with a hang-dog expression.

  ‘I can’t remember what I did with it,’ he said. ‘There are some papers in a drawer in the kitchen.’

  Westoe went to have a look. There was a whole pile of old papers and documents scattered about but no trace of a tally book.

  ‘How much stock do you reckon to have?’ Westoe asked the oldster.

  ‘I ain’t sure. Around five hundred head I reckon. Me and one or two of the other small ranches kinda join forces at roundup time.’

  ‘Well, I reckon you could do with takin’ stock before that time arrives.’ He finished the coffee and got to his feet.

  ‘I guess you’ve got to be on your way,’ the oldster said. Westoe wasn’t sure whether it was a statement or a question, and for some reason he found himself avoiding the man’s eyes.

  ‘What about that arm?’

  Westoe held it out and flexed the muscles. ‘It’ll be fine. I sure appreciate everythin’ you’ve done for me.’

  ‘It’s me should be thankin’ you,’ the oldster replied. ‘If you’re ever back this way—’

  ‘I’ll be sure to look you up,’ Westoe interjected. ‘In the meantime, maybe you should think about hirin’ somebody.’

  The man nodded, but didn’t say anything as Westoe walked to the door. He went outside and made his way to the corral, the oldster following close behind. He stood in silence while Westoe saddled up and fastened the girths tight. When he had finished, Westoe turned to him.

  ‘I don’t figure you’ll have more trouble from those varmints,’ he said. ‘I reckon we did enough to scare ’em off.’

  ‘Yeah. Like I said, they don’t worry me. They’re more likely to pick on somebody else than come back here.’

  Westoe swung himself into the saddle. ‘Thanks again,’ he said. ‘Be seein’ you.’

  He touched his spurs to the buckskin’s flanks and rode out of the corral. He didn’t want to drag things out. Only when he had covered a little distance did he turn to see the old man standing there, still watching his departure. Despite himself, he felt a strange pang. Was it guilt? But what did he have to feel guilty about? Was it pity? He knew the ravages that emotion could bring; i
t was one to be avoided. The oldster was probably right when he said he could look after himself. He wasn’t responsible for everybody who crossed his path. He had done his bit to help. He suddenly felt a return of the feeling he had had earlier that day and he felt a surge of gladness that he was back on the trail again, looking forward to making his camp with a breeze stirring in the trees, the howl of a coyote for company and the stars wheeling overhead for a roof.

  Holden Stroup, the owner of the Barbed S ranch, sat his horse and looked down on the wide sweep of rangeland spread out beneath him where cattle were grazing in profusion. It would soon be time for the roundup and then the trail drive to the railhead where he expected to make a good profit. He breathed in the soft air fragrant with the sweet smell of grass. The sky was clear and blue, with away in the distance a smudge of white cloud over the hills. He almost felt the weight of the sun as it fell on his shoulders. He squinted his eyes, peering into the distance, and watched a rider he had just spotted heading in his direction. The man was riding fast and approaching them rapidly. For some reason, he felt a sudden chill go through him and he turned to his foreman who was next to him.

  ‘Do you recognize that man, Barnet?’ he asked. The foreman looked closely.

  ‘I’m not sure, but it looks like someone who used to work here until fairly recently. O’Neil, I think they called him.’

  ‘He sure seems to be in a hurry.’

  ‘He’s coming from the direction of the ranch house,’ Barnet remarked inconsequentially. They stopped talking as the man got closer, only slowing as his horse climbed the slope of the hill. Finally he stopped close by and took his hat from his head by way of acknowledgement, but seemed reluctant to speak.

  ‘Well,’ Stroup said after a few moments, ‘what is it? I assume it’s me you’re in such a hurry to see.’

  The man seemed to fumble about, seeking the right words. ‘They told me you were over this way,’ he said. ‘I got over just as quick as I could.’

  ‘If you’ve got somethin’ to say to Mr Stroup,’ Barnet snapped, ‘you’d best get right on and say it.’ The man crushed the brim of his Stetson between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.