The Diamond K Showdown

  The Diamond K Showdown

  Warned off his Cottonwood Creek spread by Spur riders, Ewan McGill is determined to sit it out. Then, one terrible day three weeks later, his house is burned down, his wife Verity is kidnapped and his ten-year-old son murdered on Coyote Gulch’s main street. But worse is to come, for Marshal Lew Drummond winds up dead on the same day.

  Now Ewan McGill must take matters into his own hands and, with mercantile owner, Jake Harding, he sets off for Jackson’s Hole, burning for revenge and the release of Verity.

  So begins a chase that takes McGill, Verity and the mysterious Gord Brady across the Singing Hills to the Diamond K, and a bloody showdown.

  By the same author

  High Plains Showdown

  Stand-off at Blue Stack

  The Diamond K Showdown

  WILL KEEN

  ROBERT HALE

  © Will Keen 2001

  First published in Great Britain 2001

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2289-6

  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 Will Keen to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Part One

  The Killing

  Chapter One

  Three of them. A couple of miles back, far beyond the reach of the high bluff’s long shadow but riding steadily west. Three riders who, at that distance, were little more than ruddy shapes atop lathered mounts rimmed with fire in the blazing glory of the setting sun. The glint of weapons at belt and saddle boot. A haze of dust drifting, settling.

  The distance closing even as he watched.

  The sudden, brilliant flash of light on glass.

  McGill rolled away from the rimrock, cursing softly, slithered down the steep rock shelf on his backside and came to his feet running like a madman. The sun was a blinding ball of fire on the horizon; at the foot of the long slope the two horses were dark silhouettes almost lost in the shade of the cottonwoods.

  Johnny met him, anxiety in his big blue eyes.

  ‘They still comin’, Pa?’

  ‘A long way back,’ McGill lied, his breathing ragged, and he dropped a hand to tousle the boy’s hair. ‘Mount up and we’ll push on. With luck we’ll be in Coyote Gulch before full dark.’

  Or maybe not, he thought, vivid images of the stab of bright light from the man using field-glasses nagging at him like a persistent headache. If he had spotted McGill they’d know for sure they were closing. With that knowledge, would they go for the quick kill? Or had they already decided that McGill would stop at Coyote Gulch for the night, figured they could take time to wash the trail dust out of their throats before carrying out Blake Seeger’s orders?

  Because, although he had no idea what this was about, or why Double Spur riders were following them, with the house they had wanted him to quit now burned to the ground, he had no doubt that Seeger’s was the wicked mind directing this madness.

  Johnny was up on his pony, parched grey leaves rustling as he pushed through the drooping branches and wheeled out of the trees. McGill swung into the saddle, rode up behind him and felt a sudden rush of emotion that took away his breath. So like his ma! She had always kept her corn-coloured hair trimmed short, had always been proud of her boyish figure. Now their son was riding away from the only home he had ever known, unaware that his mother was dead – and McGill could not find the words to tell him because even now he did not know for certain.

  With an instinctive glance back at the bluff that blocked sight of the pursuing riders, Ewan McGill followed his son on to the trail. Without conscious thought he let him canter ahead, allowing the space between them to grow. When it was done – when the distance had stretched to beyond a couple of hundred yards and Johnny glanced back and waved happily – he knew that he was doing it for the boy’s safety. If they were overtaken, he would have that much longer to get away – and, by God, if it came to that, McGill would make sure the men paid with their blood for every yard they gained.

  The boy knew the way. He had first ridden the trail into town when he was three years old, tow head shining gold in the morning sun as he bounced atop his first pony. Since then – eight years, almost – he’d done the trip at least once a month, sometimes riding, sometimes taking the buckboard with his ma or pa; sometimes, in the past couple of years, proudly making the trip to Coyote Gulch on his own, where Jake Harding would meet him outside his mercantile and, with a hidden smile, make out that the boy was sharing the heavy work of loading provisions.

  But no longer.

  McGill’s jaw muscles bunched as he angrily shook his head to clear away frustration at his own helplessness, the pain of a loss he would not yet allow himself to admit. And again, instinctively, he glanced back and saw only emptiness. Through their settling dust the west side of the sunlit bluff was a rocky escarpment fast falling away into the distance, locked in stillness, the only movement in his wake his own lengthening shadow.

  Sudden decision put his spurs to the sorrel, and he rode fast until he was alongside his son. The thud of hooves was heard, the flash of a bright grin was his greeting, his approach suddenly part of a familiar game. Johnny McGill kicked his pony into a gallop, pulled away fast, glanced back to shoot at his pa with a pointed forefinger, then in deadly earnest settled down to the race.

  They entered Coyote Gulch’s main street in that fashion, man and boy riding neck and neck into the shadowy canyon of false fronts but with Ewan McGill carefully letting his son’s pony win by a nose. Their arrival was duly noted, but with the lack of surprise that was to be expected of a habitual occurrence. An appreciative whistle from old Mose, the swamper, standing outside the saloon, drew a grin of triumph from the boy. And a block beyond Soaper’s Livery, Jake Harding looked up and waited expectantly on the gallery of the mercantile.

  But Ewan McGill wasn’t going that way. With his face once again carefully wooden as he fought to hide the worry eating away at his heart, he called quietly to his son, watched him wheel across the street towards the store, then swung in to draw rein outside the marshal’s office.

  The room was alive with dust motes dancing in shafts of sunlight. An iron stove stood chill in a corner and an open roll-top desk was littered enough to spill papers like Fall leaves on to the dirt floor. On the back wall a gun rack was bright with rifles and shotguns kept oiled for action. On other walls, framed certificates, curling Wanted dodgers and newspaper cuttings were yellowing with age.

  ‘I guess your boy beat you again,’ Ed Thorpe said laconically. He was sitting back in a swivel chair, his boots threatening to edge more papers from the surface of the desk as he idly whittled at a stubby mesquite twig.

  McGill looked absently at the deputy, turned his head to let his gaze drift to the inner door as he tipped his Stetson back with a forefinger.

  ‘Lew out back?’

  ‘Rode out at dawn. Darcy Griffin’s been losin’ too many horses.’

  McGill shook his head, eased himself gingerly on to a rickety chair. ‘Lookin’ into something like that, Lew could be gone most of the day.’

  Thorpe shrugged. ‘Trouble?’

  A match flared as he put down knife and stick and lit a cigarette. He shifted his boots on the scarred desk, crossed his ankles, his eyes watchful through the smoke.

  ‘About the time Lew was leaving town,’ McGill said, ‘three Spur men were havin’ fun burnin’ down my house.’

&
nbsp; The shrewd eyes narrowed. Muscle bunched in the deputy’s lean jaw. ‘The hell they did! Spur? Why in God’s name would they do that?’

  ‘I was warned, three weeks ago. Told to move out, or face the consequences.’

  Thorpe shook his head. ‘Don’t make sense. Christ, you’re thirty miles west of Seeger’s spread, your cows wallow in a muddy creek, his graze on the banks of the Brazos.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘How long you been there now, McGill?’

  ‘Nine, ten years.’

  ‘And in that time Blake’s been a good friend?’

  ‘We’ve mostly seen eye to eye.’

  ‘With good reason. To a spread the size of Spur, you’ve never been a threat, never will be.’ The deputy drew on his cigarette, trickled smoke, thought for a few moments, then looked hard at McGill. ‘What about your wife? You say your place went up in smoke, yet you and the boy’re here in town, rode in like nothing happened.’

  ‘For his sake.’ McGill met the deputy’s eyes, saw the impersonal look of a lawman who knew him only as a small rancher who picked up supplies from time to time, and had been known to drop in for the occasional evening playing cards in the saloon with Jake Harding and his friends. McGill knew that compared to Blake Seeger he was a small fish in a very big pool, and he was sitting in the deputy’s office telling a tale that questioned the big rancher’s morals.

  ‘Maybe I’d better save the story for Lew.’

  ‘You still ain’t answered my question.’

  McGill took a breath. ‘Me and the boy were ridin’ out in the hills. By the time we got back, all that was left of the house was a pile of hot ash between the barns and the corral, the big stone chimney pokin’ up at the sky.’ He could feel the pain behind his eyes, and shook his head irritably. ‘There was no sign of Verity.’

  A thick silence hung still in the office. Thorpe sucked his teeth, kicked his legs off the desk and stood up.

  ‘Could’ve been strangers.’

  ‘They were riding Spur horses.’

  The deputy frowned. ‘You saw them?’

  ‘Last time.’ McGill nodded slowly, remembering, his lips pursed. ‘Three weeks back, for sure. I told you, I was warned.’

  ‘Right.’ Thorpe nodded, his manner easing. ‘So the fellers done this, they could be mavericks, no connection with Spur.’

  ‘Three weeks ago they were close enough for me to read their brands. Today. . . .’

  ‘Today they weren’t.’ Bluntly, this, and McGill shook his head irritably.

  ‘I saw three men. Not close. But they were built the same, dressed the same, and if they were ridin’ Spur horses then—’

  ‘Jesus, McGill, this is like pullin’ teeth. When did you see them?’

  McGill forced a thin smile. ‘Last time was no more than a quarter hour ago, when me and my boy were managin’ to stay far enough ahead of them so they couldn’t use their pistols. I think one was usin’ glasses, so they’ll know where we were headin’.’ He shrugged. ‘Let’s say I expect to see them again pretty soon – only this time I’m ready.’

  Thorpe’s face was wooden.

  ‘Not in Coyote Gulch, you’re not.’

  ‘Whatever happens won’t be of my doing. But an hour ago I left the burnt ruins of my house, was tracked into town by three men – the same three men who warned me this would happen.’

  ‘So keep your head down. Where’s your boy now?’

  ‘Where he always is when he hits town.’

  ‘Harding’s?’

  McGill nodded, scarcely listening, his head half turned towards the street window.

  Watching him, Thorpe said quietly, ‘Ain’t nobody ridden in. I’ve had my eyes and ears open, and all that’s told me is you could’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘Here,’ McGill said angrily, rising from the chair and thrusting his arm across the desk. ‘The stink of smoke’s on my clothes, for all I know the stink of charred flesh—’

  ‘Easy, now,’ Thorpe said. He came around the desk, touched McGill’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t you go join your boy over at the store? If what you say’s right, he needs lookin’ after. About this time I usually take a walk around town. If any of Seeger’s boys have rode in. . . .’

  The deputy’s words trailed off, unfinished, and as he was expertly shepherded towards the door McGill knew that there was nothing more he could do, or say.

  He stepped out into evening shadows washed by the yellow light of oil lamps, quickly crossed the street and stamped up on to the gallery of Jake Harding’s store. As he opened the door he was greeted by a waft of warm familiar odours that reminded him of his kitchen at home, and when realization hit him he was moved almost to tears.

  Then, from out back, the high-pitched laughter of young boys snapped him back to reality. Clearing his throat, he walked around heavy grain sacks and tall rails of frocks and island counters stacked with a thousand and one items intended to meet the daily needs of working families, almost cracked his head on a hanging lantern, and saw Jake Harding look up from the desk where he was doing some figuring in a big leather-backed ledger.

  ‘He’s ate,’ the grizzled storekeeper said, swiftly weighing up McGill with an eagle-eyed glance. ‘Got his energy back; him and my boy doin’ things so there ain’t no room for bad thought.’

  ‘Best thing,’ Ewan McGill said huskily. He shook Harding’s meaty hand, then wandered over to the pot-bellied stove while the storekeeper put away his pens and closed the ledger with a bang.

  ‘So,’ Harding growled, joining McGill in the warm corner of the big, comfortable store and taking out his blackened corn-cob pipe, ‘what the hell’s been going on out there on Cottonwood Creek?’

  McGill reached for a straight-backed chair used mostly by the ladies of Coyote Gulch when waiting to be served, straddled it and with his elbows resting on the back began fashioning a cigarette.

  ‘How much did Johnny tell you?’

  ‘Told me your house was burned down.’ Harding was leaning back against a counter stacked with tins, ankles crossed, smoke from his pipe swirling like river mist. ‘Never mentioned Verity.’

  Feeling the stiffness of his own face, aware of Harding’s patient stare, McGill struck a match on the stove, trickled his share of fresh smoke into the atmosphere and watched it drift in the lamplight.

  ‘That’s because he knows nothing. Nor do I.’

  ‘There may not be much to tell,’ Harding said, ‘but I’d be interested in hearing what you’ve got.’

  ‘We rode out soon after dawn, spent the day up in the hills east of the Brazos. Johnny got himself a couple of jack-rabbits with my old Winchester. We reached home before sunset.’ McGill stopped, listened to the sudden silence out back, looked helplessly at the big storekeeper.

  Harding sighed. ‘I guess this hurts some.’

  ‘Some.’ McGill took a breath, shrugged. ‘It looked like the house had been burning for most of the day. I. . . .’ He hesitated, stared at the glowing end of the cigarette, said, ‘The barns were untouched. I couldn’t see the buckboard, so I thought maybe Verity had headed for town. But. . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘It was on the trail, a mile away from the spread. Just the wagon. No horse, no damage, no . . . no bloodstains.’ He cleared his throat, shook his head. ‘But there was plenty of horse sign, on the trail and all around the wagon; then heading off into the woods to the north.’

  Jake Harding cursed softly. ‘Even a boy Johnny’s age can draw conclusions.’

  ‘Or jump to them, end up holdin’ the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘He knows his home has gone, he sees something like that he’ll have a fair idea his ma went with it – whoa, now!’ Harding held up a hand as McGill started up out of the chair, watched him settle back, spread both hands placatingly. ‘That was said without thought, Ewan, and I apologize. There ain’t a one of us here knows what went on. All we can figure is, Verity took off in that buckboard, but after that. . . .’

  ‘After that, you’re proba
bly right in one respect: she didn’t go with the house, but she’s dead.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Ewan, you don’t know that.’

  ‘But if she is—’

  ‘If she is, you’ve still got your boy and—’

  He came forcefully away from the counter, the corncob clamped in a big fist.

  ‘Goddamn, why the hell are we talking this way?’ Angrily, he ran his fingers through his iron-grey hair, paced across the board floor, back again. ‘You tell Lew Drummond any of this?’

  ‘Lew’s out of town.’

  ‘Yeah. Chasin’ horse-thieves.’ He nodded speculatively. ‘What about Thorpe?’

  ‘He knows enough.’

  ‘Which is how much?’

  ‘I told him we were followed into town. He’s doin’ his rounds, keepin’ his eyes—’

  He broke off as the door to the back opened and Min Harding poked her grey head through.

  ‘Jake, did you tell Zeb he could go out?’

  Harding frowned. ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘I guess that’s a no – but he’s gone anyway.’ She saw McGill and smiled. ‘Johnny’s with him, Ewan. Nothing to worry about, but it is getting late and—’

  Somewhere, out in the street, a shot cracked out, then another. There was a thin, quavering cry of anguish, abruptly strangled.

  Min Harding gasped, and clapped a hand to her mouth.

  With a sick dread in his heart, McGill ran for the door.

  Chapter Two

  Ewan McGill hit the mercantile’s broad gallery already slapping leather, leaped on to the plankwalk with the dull metal of his pistol catching the faint light. After the comparative brightness of the store the street was an ill-lit, shadowy canyon in which danger lurked. Lamplight flickered as dark figures passed uncurtained windows to creep along the plankwalks. Someone called out, an uneasy question that went unanswered. The air reeked of gunsmoke.