Dust and Bullets Read online

  Dust And Bullets

  Dan Fogarty is falsely accused of the murder of his partner, Ben Arrowsmith. He escapes arrest and heads for cactus country to join his old Navajo friend, Ahiga. Dan suspects that the notorious outlaw, the Ocotillo Kid, is responsible for his partner’s death, but when he and Ahiga set out to prove it, they find that things are not as straightforward as they imagined.

  Is the whole affair some kind of set-up? What is the relationship between the Ocotillo Kid and local magnate Wes Baxter? The questions multiply as Dan makes himself a target to draw out the killer, but not till the final confrontation with the Ocotillo Kid and his gang are they finally answered.

  By the same author

  Riders on the Wind

  Dust And Bullets

  Vance Tillman

  ROBERT HALE

  © Vance Tillman 2013

  First published in Great Britain 2013

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2298-8

  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 Vance Tillman 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

  Dan Fogarty was standing at the bar of the Hungry Loop saloon when he heard the batwings creak and the heavy thud of boots. He raised his glass but before he had time to take a drink he felt the muzzle of a gun in his back.

  ‘Don’t try anythin’,’ a voice snarled. ‘Just untie your gunbelt and hand it to my deputy.’ Fogarty didn’t argue the point. ‘OK, now start walkin’.’

  ‘Where are we goin’?’ Fogarty said.

  ‘To the jailhouse.’

  Fogarty looked into the faces of the marshal and his deputy. The marshal’s features were lined and his hair was grey; the deputy looked like a tenderfoot. ‘Are you goin’ to tell me what this is all about?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you know what it’s about,’ the marshal replied.

  ‘Not unless you got some kinda law sayin’ a man ain’t allowed a drink,’ Fogarty countered.

  The marshal looked him in the eye. ‘Don’t play games,’ he said. ‘You know as well as I that you murdered your partner, Ben Arrowsmith, and took his share of the gold you found up in the hills.’

  Fogarty felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. ‘Ben,’ he muttered. ‘Murdered? I don’t understand.’

  ‘You don’t fool me,’ the marshal said. ‘I’ve seen the body. And what’s more, I got a witness.’

  Fogarty was trying to come to terms with what the marshal was telling him. ‘Where’s the body?’ he managed to say.

  ‘Where you killed him; we buried him by the Senita River.’

  The shock Fogarty felt lasted for only a moment. Before he made to step away from the bar he was already figuring his next move. He certainly had no intention of going to jail, especially now he knew what he was being accused of. Once behind bars, he would have no chance of proving his innocence. With a shrug, he moved away from the bar and walked slowly through the room. He was aware of eyes watching him but he didn’t look to either right or left. All his attention was concentrated on what he would do when he reached those batwing doors. He had taken good note of the layout of the town when he rode in and he knew there was an alley immediately to the left of the saloon. It led to some stores and a livery stable, behind which there were woods. He calculated times and distances, all the while moving at as slow a pace as he could. Outside, over the batwings, he could see that it was growing dark.

  He was almost at the batwings when he suddenly sprang forward, hurling himself through them. They swung back, catching the marshal a glancing blow. As he dashed into the alleyway a gun exploded behind him and a bullet smacked into the corner stanchion of the saloon. He began to zigzag. A further shot rang out, but it was even darker in the alley than it was in the main street and he wasn’t an easy target. In a few seconds he had reached the end of the alley. Without looking or slackening his pace, he made for the open door of the livery stable. He heard a shout and the whinny of a horse and glanced up to see a wagon looming over him. He stumbled and almost went under the front wheels, but regained his balance and carried on.

  Another shot boomed and the horse reared. The wagon swerved, blocking the roadway. Fogarty was already through the wide-open doors of the livery stable. The ostler stood in his way but he brushed the startled man aside and ran on through the back entrance. Outside there was a corral with some horses. Without pausing he vaulted the rail. For a moment he considered leaping on the back of one of the horses but thought better of it. Instead, he sprang over the rail at the other side. It was only a short distance to the trees and he had reached their shelter before a fresh burst of gunfire told him the marshal must have disentangled himself from the obstruction caused by the wagon. It didn’t concern him. The trees protected him and he was confident of being able to outmanoeuvre both the marshal and his deputy. He also had an odd feeling that the marshal was holding something back, that he could have shot him if he had really wanted to. Or maybe it was his deputy who had fired the shots. He carried on running and didn’t stop till he was well clear of the town. Night had descended. He had escaped, but he knew he would have to go back for his horse.

  The marshal was no fool. Once Fogarty had made it to the woods he knew there was no chance of catching him. His deputy was keen to carry on the chase, but the marshal shook his head.

  ‘Leave it for now,’ he said. ‘He won’t get far away without guns or a horse. If it proves necessary, we’ll get up a posse in the morning.’

  They turned away and walked back to the marshal’s office. The air inside was stale with heat and the smell of tobacco. The deputy was still carrying Fogarty’s gunbelt and he hung it over a nail on the wall.

  ‘He can’t cause too much trouble without his guns,’ he said.

  ‘You can go now, Somersby,’ the marshal said.

  ‘Isn’t there somethin’ we should be doin’?’

  ‘All in good time. Like I say, there’ll be plenty of opportunity to catch up with Fogarty tomorrow.’

  Somersby was hesitant but finally moved towards the door. ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ he said.

  ‘Sure thing. Be prepared to do some ridin’.’

  When the door had closed the marshal sat down at his desk and opened a drawer. He had other things to worry about. He drew out a poster and looked at it closely. Wanted: Dead or Alive. The man’s name was Ike Goffin, but he was better known as the Ocotillo Kid. It seemed he was on the loose again with a bunch of real hardcases gathered round him. How long would it be before he and his gang showed up in Hackberry? The marshal’s deputy, Somersby, was a novice. If trouble brewed, real trouble, how would he shape up?

  The marshal could ask the same question of himself. The town had been relatively peaceful for a long time. Maybe he had grown rusty. Maybe he wasn’t the man he used to be. In the old days it had been him alone. Now he had someone else to worry about: his niece, Cora Siddons, was due later in the week on the stage from Dry Fork. Suddenly restless, he got to his feet and peered out of the grimy window. The blackness was relieved by pools of light spilling from the buildings. Leaving the Wanted poster on his desk, he turned down the lamp and stepped out into the night, locking the door behind him.

  Fogarty wasn’t too concerned about being recognized when he slipped back into Hackberry. There was still more than an hour before dawn and the streets were dark and deserted. Getting his horse was the eas
y part. He had left it, not at the main livery stable, but at a smaller one near the edge of town. Retrieving his weapons was more difficult. He considered breaking into the gun store, but he had a liking for his own familiar .44 Frontier model Colts. They would be at the marshal’s office. As he made his way there, slipping like a ghost through the inky black shadows, he suddenly flinched as something moved in front of him. A dark shape sprang out from under his feet, but he realized it was only a cat.

  He arrived outside the door of the marshal’s office and gave it a tug. Of course, it was locked. He had no alternative but to break in. What did it matter anyway? He was already a wanted man on a charge of murder. Taking a stone from his pocket, he hurled it through the window. In a matter of seconds he had climbed through.

  He took a quick glance around. A shaft of moonlight fell on the wall and he saw his gunbelt where the deputy had hung it. As he crossed the room he stumbled against the table where the marshal had left the poster. He stopped for a moment, rubbing his thigh. His eye fell on the poster and he held it up to the light. He could dimly make out the features of the man it depicted, together with the larger lettering. It didn’t make a lot of sense to him but for some reason he folded it over and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he took down his gunbelt and strapped it round his waist. He made his way back to the window and peered outside. Nothing was stirring; no one had heard the sound of breaking glass.

  He hoisted himself up, clambered over the window ledge and dropped down onto the boardwalk. Swiftly he made his way to the back of the livery stables where he knew he would find his horse, a bay roan, in an outside corral. His luck was in. He had thought he would have to break into the building itself to retrieve his saddle, but there was another one hanging draped across the top bar of the corral fence. He strapped it to the horse and then led the animal out into the narrow street beyond, where he stepped into the leather and rode off into the darkness.

  He carried on riding through the rest of the night and didn’t stop till around midday when he felt he had put sufficient distance between himself and Hackberry to feel safe. The marshal would realize what had happened as soon as he got back to his office. It was unlikely that he would waste time searching for him in the immediate environs of town, but it would take him a little time to get up a posse and Dan Fogarty was confident of being able to stay ahead of it. One man could travel a lot quicker than a bunch of riders. He stopped beside a brook and took out the makings. All the time he had been riding his thoughts had been churning over and he was grateful for the rest.

  What was clear was the fact that his partner had been killed and he, Fogarty, was being held responsible. But who had informed the marshal? The marshal had mentioned a witness. Was that just bravado? Whoever had spread the malicious rumour must have made it sound very convincing. There had been a few prospectors working the river at the same time as he and his partner. Could it have been one of them?

  When he had rolled his cigarette he reached into his pocket for a light and felt the Wanted poster. He drew it out and looked at it more closely. The face of the wanted man looked back at him, thin and wasted. He thought back to the morning of the day he had left the diggings. While he and his partner were having breakfast, a couple of riders had stopped by, asking the way to Hackberry. He hadn’t taken too much notice of the men; it was his partner who had spoken to them. One of the men, however, was unusually tall and lank. Spidery, like the ocotillo cactus. The poster said the Ocotillo Kid was wanted for murder and robbery. Was it just a coincidence that the Kid and his gang were apparently operating in the same area as he and his partner had been prospecting?

  It was certainly worth following up, because he had no intention of letting the matter drop. Someone had killed his partner and he meant to find out just who it was. It wasn’t a question of clearing his name. That thought didn’t occur to him. It went a lot deeper than that. He owed it to his partner to bring his killer to justice. Like the poster said, he would bring him in, dead or alive. Right now he needed provisions. He needed a place to rest up where the marshal wouldn’t find him.

  As he turned the matter over he was struck by a sudden thought. His old friend Ahiga had moved down to the Papago country and, unless he had drifted on again, he lived not too far away. It would take the rest of the day riding but he thought he could remember where the Navajo lived in the foothills of the Santa Catalina mountains. If Ahiga was no longer there, it wouldn’t matter because he would still have put a lot more ground between himself and the marshal. He finished his cigarette, got to his feet and climbed back into the saddle.

  The bay roan pulled up with its legs locked straight. Fogarty slid from the leather, moved to the edge of the plateau and looked down into the canyon. Far below was where his friend Ahiga had kept some sheep and tended a small orchard of peaches and plums with irrigation from a narrow wash. There was an almost inaccessible trail down and he let his horse pick its way. At the bottom the horse splashed through the shallow waters of the wash until Fogarty saw the small log hogan standing about 200 yards back from the trail in the meagre shade of a twisted cottonwood. He got down from his horse and stooped to look inside.

  There was no sign of the Navajo. Fogarty ducked back and, looking around, called his friend’s name: ‘Ahiga!’ The sound echoed from the cliff but there was no other reply. Fogarty moved towards the little orchard. A trap had been set and although it was sprung, the trap was empty. Probably a raccoon or a skunk had been eating the fruit.

  ‘Ahiga!’ Fogarty called again. The cliffs threw the sound back at him. As he walked back to the hogan his horse snickered and the sound suddenly made him feel lonely. Almost unnoticed the night had come and the purple darkness was redolent with the scent of sage and dry grass. The place was spooky but he had been riding all day and he didn’t relish travelling any further. The horse needed rest too. The hogan was as good a place as any to make camp. The fact that it was there at all suggested that Ahiga was still around.

  Although he felt exhausted, he found it difficult to sleep. The hogan was small and oppressive. He felt shut in and oddly nervous. As he lay with his eyes closed, trying to shut out the thoughts that circled in his head, he suddenly tensed. He thought he had heard something outside. Instantly he was on his feet, his gun in his hand. He stepped to the side of the opening which passed for a door frame, listening intently. He could hear nothing further and had just about decided that he must have been mistaken when a dark figure slipped through the gap. As it did so, Fogarty stepped out into the open.

  ‘Put your hands up,’ he snapped. The man raised his arms. ‘Turn round and make it slow.’ The man turned and even in the gloom Fogarty recognized him. ‘Ahiga!’ he said.

  The newcomer gazed intently at him as Fogarty put the gun back in its holster before approaching his old friend with his hand outstretched. As he came close the Navajo let out a low gasp.

  ‘Fogarty!’ he said. He grasped Fogarty’s hand and they embraced. ‘What on earth . . .’ he began and then decided to abandon whatever he had been about to say. Instead he put an arm round Fogarty’s shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said.

  ‘You’re losing your touch,’ Fogarty said. ‘I heard you outside the hogan.’

  ‘Guess I must be gettin’ careless.’

  There was no chance of getting any sleep that night. Ahiga set about making his friend something to eat. After that they went outside and sat together smoking and drinking thick black coffee mixed with forty-rod, exchanging stories. When Fogarty reached the point about the Wanted poster and told Ahiga his suspicions, the Indian grew excited.

  ‘You’re probably right about Goffin and his gang,’ he said. ‘They’ve been causin’ trouble all around these parts for a while. Let me tell you what happened to me. Those varmints took my sheep and damn near killed me. I tracked the sheep to a box canyon. There’s a whole heap of the critters there, not just mine.’ Fogarty looked hard at his friend. ‘A lot of people are gettin’ plumb sca
red, but I aim to do somethin’ about it,’ the Navajo continued. ‘I aim to get those sheep back – all of ’em.’

  ‘Sounds to me like a little assistance could be welcome.’

  ‘I hoped you’d say that. I got somethin’ in mind. That’s why I wasn’t here when you arrived. I’ve been scoutin’ things out. A place called Canyon del Fuego. That’s where we’ll find ’em.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Fogarty said. ‘In fact, it suits me fine. I didn’t figure on makin’ acquaintance with Goffin so soon.’

  ‘You’ve got a day to rest up,’ the Navajo replied. ‘Make the most of it.’

  Following an old wagon trail, they rode up to the Canyon del Fuego. Although it was early, the heat already bounced off the rocky walls. It was aptly named. Above them great slabs of stone hung above the trail, looking as though they might fall at any moment. They followed the track until they came to a cross canyon into which they turned their horses, following it for a couple of miles till they came to yet another narrow opening.

  ‘This is it,’ Ahiga said. ‘It looks difficult but it soon opens out into a closed meadow. Just at the edge there’s a grove of cottonwoods with a hogan the rustlers use.’

  They spurred their horses on till they could hear the bleating of sheep and the occasional tinkling of a bell and soon saw the hogan standing at the edge of open grass where a large number of sheep and some goats were grazing.

  ‘What now?’ Fogarty enquired.

  ‘Maybe it ain’t much of a plan.’ The Navajo grinned. ‘But I figure we just ride in and start those sheep movin’. There’s only one way they can go. We’ll take those rustlin’ varmints by surprise.’

  ‘Good to see you’ve thought this through,’ Fogarty remarked.