Dead Trouble (3 page)

Longhair reeled, trying to reload, snapped the Greener closed too soon, jamming the cartridge. Three slugs stitched across his chest and he went down. Beattie took a step forward and became aware that he was soaked with his own blood. He put up a hand and
felt the wounds in his neck. One had torn some kind of artery and he knew he wasn’t going to make it. He’d just had his last gunfight and there was nothing he could do about it – except lie down and die.

But Red Flats and its inhabitants was no more.

Deke Cutler eased to his feet from the chair Farraday had placed for him under the red elm-tree not far from the house. He reached for his stick and wavered a little as he walked back towards the house, taking short, slow steps.

Mrs Farraday was hanging some washing on the line.

‘You’re looking better today, Deke.’

He was gaunt and pale, face knobbly with high cheekbones and hard-cut jawline. His eyes were sunken, smeared darkly underneath. But he managed a small smile for the doctor’s wife.

‘Ought to be – getting better – ma’am.’ He was still very short of breath. ‘Over two months now. …’

‘Slow and easy, Doctor Farraday says, and he’s right, Deke. Don’t get impatient. Just follow orders.’

He nodded and although he would never admit it, he was mighty glad to flop on to his bed in a small room behind the infirmary and stretch out.

When the hell am I going to get on my feet properly?
he asked himself, then held up his right arm, trying to flex the fingers but they barely moved.

Goddamn! And this was my gunarm!

After the third month, and some visits from fellow Rangers who could find the time to come see him, Cutler confided in Farraday that he was afraid he would
never be able to use his right arm in a gunfight again.

‘The forearm muscle and nerves have been badly mangled, Deke. There isn’t a lot I can do.’

‘That means there is
something
, doc. I want to try it, no matter how little – or crazy.’

Farraday studied him, knew here was a man who had lived by the gun for many years – and likely wouldn’t survive if he couldn’t use a firearm again. Anyway, he had brought the Ranger back from the dead, so it was up to him to equip him as well as possible for what might lay ahead.

It hurt.

Strengthening the fingers wasn’t so bad – plunging them endlessly into a bowl of rice-grains; later,
graduating
to loosely-packed sand. That was when it began to hurt – the rough sand, peppered with gravel, tore at the flesh around his nails, got underneath the nails, caused tenderness. But Farraday made him keep on and soon the fingertips and the knuckles became calloused and there was more flexibility in the fingers themselves. Impatient, Deke strapped on his six-gun and tried to draw. He fumbled badly, dropped the gun over and over. Farrady was angry.

‘You damn fool! You’re not ready. Trying too soon and failing only makes it worse, brings on depression!’

Chastened, Cutler returned to plunging his hand into the sand, hour after hour, day after day. At night he sat squeezing a rubber ball. And then Farraday brought in a friend he said would work on the damaged
forearm
.

The ‘friend’ was Indian, an old man with white hair under a battered beaverskin hat and smelly animal
totems woven into his long braids. His hands looked deformed to Cutler, knuckles bulging arthritically, fingers twisted.

But when he went to work on Deke’s arm,
manipulating
, massaging, twisting painfully, even tying the whole forearm in greenhide strips, then wetting them so that they contracted excruciatingly, like a vice, Cutler, miraculously, began to feel the strength
returning
to the arm. It would never be the same as before but it was improving.

First, he could shoot his rifle pretty near as well as before and he knew he would improve with practice. Using a six-gun was more difficult and the old Indian almost pulled his trigger finger from its socket, twisting and making the joints grate, before the suppleness returned. His wrist was also manhandled painfully – but effectively.

Cutler knew he would never be able to draw and shoot like the ‘half-brother to lightning’ as legend had styled him. Something was gone from his gun arm and would never return. But the old Indian’s equanimity and natural composure made him persevere and one day, when he was hitting the target post consistently and he could run the length of the trail up the slope to the dead ruins of Red Flats without undue distress, he announced to the doctor:

‘Doc, I’m ready to go back to the Rangers.’

Farraday looked startled, as if he had forgotten his goal of preparing Deke to return to his old way of life. The Indian lifted a finger up beside his left temple and said in his whispering voice:

‘Go well, and with care, Ironheart.’

Six months and eight days after being shot in the back by Kid McKittrick, Deke Cutler rode out of Big Hat, ready to go a-Rangering again.

Durango Spain was a man who had just turned fifty. His wife, Karen, was just over twenty years his junior.

He was a beefy, ruggedly handsome man, running to a little fat now, although he worked his butt off on the Red River ranch that he was buying with partner Deke Cutler. The closest town was Wichita Falls and the spread was only a frog’s leap across the river from the Indian Territory, out of bounds to all state lawmen. It needed a federal warrant or marshal legally to go after a man within the Territory’s boundaries. Which was why so many men riding outside the law made the Territory their home:
Badman’s Territory
most folk along the Red called it.

Spain was building some holding-corrals in a high canyon north-west of the ranch with a few of the cowhands when Jimmy Taggart came riding in, looking flushed. He jumped from his horse before it had
skidded
to a halt and stumbled as he floundered his way to
where Spain and Hal Tripp were setting up a top rail between two posts.

‘The hell’s your hurry, Jimmy?’ Spain said as the youngster dusted off his hands and came hurrying forward.

‘Hell, look at him, Durango!’ said Tripp with a laugh. ‘I swear he’s wet his pants with excitement an’ don’t want us to see!’

Jimmy paused, getting his breath under control, standing tall now so they could see his trousers’ front was dry. He scowled at the grinning Tripp, turned to Spain.

‘Someone to see you down at the house, Durango,’ Taggart panted.

Spain frowned – with maybe an involuntary
tightening
of his stomach muscles.

‘Yeah? Who the hell’s rid all the way out here to see me?’

‘He ain’t just come from town, he’s come up from San Antone, he says.’

Spain tensed even more.

‘Well, you gonna tell me who it is or stand there being smart-mouth?’

Jimmy looked slightly hurt at his boss’s tone. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s Deke Cutler. That feller you said was your sidekick when you was a Ranger.’

Spain was stiff as the oak post he and Hal Tripp had been manhandling now.

‘Deke? You sure?’

‘That’s who he said he was. Seemed to know Mrs Spain. Was her sent me to get you. “Pronto”, she said, and she don’t usually use words like that.’

Hal Tripp was sober now, watching Durango Spain.

‘Thought Cutler was dead,’ Tripp said carefully.

‘That’s what I heard,’ Spain said slowly. ‘Backshot by some kid down in Red Flats, wherever the hell that is. Thought it was odd. Deke was never one to turn his back on anyone likely to shoot him.’ He dropped the chisel he had been using and hooked the hammer over an upright post, slapping his leather work-gloves together, dust flying. ‘Well, I’d best get on down and see this here living ghost.’

‘Looks like he’s been poorly for a spell,’ volunteered Jimmy Taggart. ‘Walks kinda slow and keeps rubbin’ at his right arm, like it hurts. Kind of catches his breath every so often. But he looks mighty dangerous.’

Spain smiled crookedly.

‘Sure sounds like Deke.’

And when he rode in half an hour later and saw the man sitting on the porch, nursing a cup of coffee, Durango knew his old sidekick was truly alive and
kicking
. Cutler stood, grinning as he extended his right hand.

Durango tried to seem pleased to see Deke, said all the right words, but there was a stiffness about his manner that Deke couldn’t help but notice.

After a little good-natured badgering Spain sat down beside Cutler and Karen brought a tray of fresh coffee and biscuits. She was a small woman, no more than
five-two
, three, maybe, wheat-coloured hair piled up to make her look a little taller. Her eyes were clear blue and steady, focusing on the face of whomever she was talking to. She wore a plain grey dress, pinched in at the
waist, showing a good figure, and she moved easily.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw him riding in,’ she told her husband, but looking at Cutler now. ‘Not after the news we’d had three or four months ago.’

‘Three or four months ago I
was
more dead than alive,’ Cutler said, taking another cup of coffee.

‘Its true then?’ Spain asked. ‘Some kid backshot you, Deke?’

Cutler sipped his coffee and nodded soberly.

‘Kel McKittrick’s kid brother.’

‘Never knew he had one.’

‘Wish I’d known.’ Cutler briefly told about the gunfight with Kel McKittrick and his men. ‘The Kid and his wife are both dead.
Bandidos
took ’em at Sabinas. As for me, some old drunk living with the outlaws patched me up enough for them to take me into Big Hat and a proper doctor. They didn’t want my body found in Red Flats.’ He coughed for a minute, hand covering his mouth. ‘Sorry. Lung still catches me now and again. Was a damn long six months pulling through, Durango. Then the Rangers told me they didn’t want me.’

Spain looked at him sharply.

‘They must be loco!’

Cutler shook his head.

‘Dunno about that. But the troop medic wouldn’t pass me for active duty. Said I’d have to take a desk job for six months and then they’d review “my situation”.’

‘Oh, Deke, that’s terrible,’ Karen sympathized. ‘After all the years you gave them! The men you brought to justice!’

Spain was watching him carefully.

‘I know you, you didn’t take any desk job,’ he said slowly.

‘Not me. I quit.’

‘You quit! Man, you only had a few months to go to qualify for a pension. Ten full years of service!’ When Cutler said nothing, Spain added, quietly: ‘I was sort of counting on you to help out here, with your pension, Deke. When we thought you was alive, I mean.’

‘Sorry, Durango, but there’s no pension,’ Cutler told him gently. ‘New rules, now. They only pay for one month’s doctoring if a Ranger’s wounded in line of duty.’

‘But that’s – it’s
unfair
!’ said Karen with feeling.

‘Pinching pennies, Karen. Politicians now have a say in how the Rangers are run. So much money’s set aside for ’em to operate on and they have to account for every cent to the State Senate. Everyone’s swamped in paperwork. Thing is, it means Doc Farraday, feller who nursed me through, is out of pocket. I sent him what I had but there’s more owing …’

Spain frowned.

‘You mean – you’re coming here nigh on a year before we figured on, and not bringing any money for the ranch? In fact, you
owe
money!’

‘Durango! Please!’

But Spain ignored his wife, hard grey gaze on his old sidekick.

Cutler met and held the stare.

‘That’s about the size of it, Durango,’ Deke said flatly. ‘I’m happy to pay Doc Farraday out of my share of the profits. That’d be OK, wouldn’t it?’

‘Of course Deke … Durango just means we’re –
surprised,
and
pleased, of course, to see you, but—’

‘But the spread ain’t doing all that good,’ cut in Spain.

‘Your last letter said—’

‘My last letter, Deke, was writ months ago, and since then I was told you were dead. No, the ranch is fighting it hard,
amigo
– near-drought, Indians, occasional raids by fellers cutting across from the Territory.’

Karen was frowning at her husband but he turned a little so he didn’t have to look at her. Cutler frowned, too.

‘There’s talk of a big Indian uprising,’ Spain said slowly. ‘Comanches are s’posed to be behind it … Territory’s also called “The Indian Nations”, you know. Or just “The Nations”.’

‘Yeah. Seems I arrived at the wrong time …’

‘Aaah – hell! You’re here now and this kinda living will help you recover completely and with what both of us know about ranching – we’ll have the profits up in no time.’

‘Then there are
some
profits now?’

‘Sure. Pretty damn few, but I guess we don’t need to buy a bottle of red ink just yet.’ He sounded reluctant to admit things weren’t all that bad when you got right down to it. They were
difficult
but – manageable. For now, leastways.

Karen lifted to her toes and kissed Cutler on the cheek.

‘It’ll be so good to have you with us, Deke!’

He grinned.

‘You dunno how good it feels to be here.’

‘Well, let’s go have a drink to celebrate, huh?’ Spain
said and the others followed him into the coolness of the ranch house.

Deke wondered why he felt heavy with
disappointment
. He had expected to feel way happier than this on his arrival. Maybe it was Durango’s cool ‘welcome.’…

Although he hated every minute of it, Deke Cutler spent the first few days mooching around the ranch house or walking quietly down by the river. He mounted his horse daily, rode it around the yard and out to the nearest pasture, doing things easy; that long ride up from San Antone had taken a lot out of him and he needed time to recover.

There weren’t a lot of cattle but what there were showed the effects of poor graze in lack of weight, bony bodies and dull coats. The grass was brown and browsed way down to stubble. Durango had men up in the high meadows cutting hay and this was transported down to the main pastures and distributed from
buckboards
. A costly method.

The river still flowed well enough but the water level was down and ribbons of cracked mud showed on each bank. Beyond to the north was the Indian Territory and he could see green trees and slopes of high, waving grass.

He suggested to Spain that they send a team over to bring down some of that more succulent fodder.

Durango looked at him, thumbing back his hat.

‘I send six men, I’ll be lucky to get three back – and they’re likely to be toting gunshot wounds.’

Deke frowned, stiffening.

‘The outlaws are that close? Thought they holed up deeper in the hills, amongst all those hidden canyons and valleys?’

‘Most of ’em do, I guess, but there’re some keep an eye on the river spreads, see what they can lift, sell cheap to Kansas – Sunflower State my foot! Claim they don’t like longhorns because they carry tick fever but them Kansans’ll buy Texas beef if they can get it cheap from the rustlers.’

‘That why the spread’s not doing so good? Rustlers?’

Durango nodded.

‘Back-shooting bastards. Can’t risk sending our men over there when they’re a cinch to get shot at – maybe killed, Deke.’

‘You got men riding patrol over here, don’t you?’

Spain exhibited a trace of exasperation but made it disappear almost as soon as it showed.

‘When I can spare ’em. I keep telling you, we’re working tight here, Deke.’

Cutler’s stare was level and questioning. ‘Still – surely we can protect our herds!’

‘Look, Deke. We both worked spreads before we met in the Rangers. I rode with the early trail herds as well and we agreed that I had the most experience with cows. So, I found this place – my ten years were up just over a year ago now. I got my pittance of a pension after dodging lead and arrows and Christ knows what else for the goddamn Rangers. You put in what money you had and we put down a deposit on this place, aiming to pay off the rest from the profits.’ He paused to stare back coldly at Deke. ‘And the profits just ain’t all that good. That’s the plain truth, Deke.’

Cutler thought for a moment.

‘You’re not telling me that … we’re behind in the bank repayments?’

Spain nodded.

‘A ways. Not too bad. But every spread along the river has fallen behind because of the drought. We ain’t alone.’

‘I don’t care how much company we’ve got, we shouldn’t be behind at all! I sent you half my pay
regular
.’

‘And damn glad of every cent – till it stopped after you were shot and we thought you were dead.’ Spain sighed. ‘That’s it, Deke. Bringing in feed for the cows, setting up that windmill you see … all takes dollars.’

Cutler started to speak but held back. He had seen the new-looking piano in the parlour – he knew Karen played a little. There were the Eastern rugs covering half the parlour floor. A damn good dining-table with upholstered chairs with what Karen had told him were ‘spade’ backs. He had seen furniture stores in the bigger towns and cities, some of the Gulf ports, and he’d seen over-stuffed sofas and matching chairs like Spain had, and rolltop desks, too, and knew they cost plenty – especially if they had to be shipped out here with enough care to avoid damage. And there was glass in all the windows – practically unheard of on the
frontier
– which were trimmed with good quality curtains….

He didn’t grudge Karen some comfort: hell, most frontier marriages foundered because of lack of
everyday
comfort, but when repayments of the bank loan were falling behind …

‘We better go over the books when you have time, Durango.’

Spain didn’t like that. His face looked very
handsome 
and strong, but it was plain he was riled.

‘Maybe Karen can show me if you’re too busy,’ Deke suggested.

‘We’ll sort something out,’ Spain told him gruffly. ‘Look, Deke, I’ve worked a butt and a half off keeping this place running, looking forward to your arrival – with your pension or without. Too bad it’s without, but we’ll figure something. But what I’m saying is: I been out here a long time now, watching Karen do without all the things she was used to before she married me, and I know the river now and how things are here – it’s no good you riding in figuring to be a new broom and start sweeping out things you don’t like or understand. Just leave it be a spell longer and we’ll be squared away with the bank – and everyone else.’

Everyone else!
Judas, Cutler wondered, who the hell
else
do we owe!

At least it would give him something to think about until he was strong enough to add some real weight to running this place.

Maybe the name they had chosen for the spread was just a little too appropriate.

The
Shoestring
spread …

He was feeling pretty good one bright morning ten days later, where the sun blazed in a cloudless blue sky, and he figured to ride out along the river and look at the boundaries.

He was forking a grey these days, a good strong horse, with an easy-going nature, but packed with muscle and knowing when to use it without waiting for the urging of rowelling spurs. He had his rifle and his
six-gun. He hadn’t yet done any practice with this latter. He felt kind of ashamed to admit to Spain that he had lost a good deal of his old gun speed and accuracy. But the guns were a comfort to him and he watched the country across the Red River, looking for shadows that would tell him some of the men who rode the Territory were keeping an eye on him.