Walkers Creek
By R Bentley Davies
Copyright © 2011 Ross Bentley-Davies
CHAPTER ONE
The explosion shakes the valley. The cabin is ripped apart in a ball of flame. Shards of splintered wood rattle in the leaves of the trees where Logan stands soothing the frightened horses.
The remains of the cabin smolder, the fire extinguished by the force of the explosion that started it. The brickwork of the hearth pokes out from the broken timbers. A piece of cloth snagged on a broken post flutters in the breeze like a flag of truce. Smoke drifts silently.
There were no screams or cries from the blasted house. No signs of life at all. He turns away, satisfied at a job well done and saddles up one of the horses and reties the load on the other. The mining equipment clanks and rattles on the pack horse as it shuffles, still nervous from the blast. He is unhurried, talking all the while in a soothing tone to the horses, but he isn't wasting time. There will be people arriving soon, drawn by the sound and rising smoke, and he needs to be well away from here by then. He mounts up and kicks the horses into motion, giving no thought to concealing his trail as he leads the pack horse along the wide trail through the trees. People will come but they will be excited fools from the town with no tracking sense at all. They will stamp all over any signs that he leaves. He's done this before. He is certain he will be safe.
He rides across the valley to the other side of the road. He coaxes his horses on as they push through the low branches of the trees. He isn't riding fast now. He is clear of the cabin and will look as innocent as any other prospector. He is sure that he cannot have been followed. But not so sure that he doesn't check over his shoulder from time to time.
He dismounts on a small rocky slope up the valley side above the trees. It's a carefully chosen spot, reconnoitered the previous day. He will make a camp here. He hobbles the horses near the edge of the low trees. He can light a small smokeless fire later to cook on, but in the meantime he takes his Winchester rifle and watches from near the crest of the ridge. Taking care to keep below the horizon he looks down on the road that leads from the town to the splintered remains of the McLaren house. Soon enough there will be riders from Walkers Creek out to investigate the damage. In the meantime he can watch for them without fear of being seen.
'McLaren needs to be taught a lesson.' The Mexican told him when they met in a mining camp twenty miles East. It was Logan that had come up with the idea of blowing up the house. He suspects that the Mexican wanted McLaren shot but he'd quickly got agreement to use the dynamite instead. He likes the irony, traveling out West with his prospecting kit but instead using it in this more certain but equally lucrative way.
Logan sips from his canteen, and pulls his battered hat down to better shade his eyes from the scorching midday sun. He wonders who the Mexican is working for. He hadn't looked as though he had much money of his own and yet he was able to pay generously for this McLaren's life. Someone wants McLaren out of the way without getting their own hands dirty. That isn't normally the way he likes to work, but the Mexican paid well so he asked no questions. Will the other half of the payment be made? He has done this sort of work before. Each time he needed to be persuasive to get the rest of the money. Being persuasive might be more difficult not knowing who held the purse strings.
He is beginning to doubt his careful planning now. Is there another road to the town? Finally, a dust plume reveals riders on the road below. He still hasn't seen Walkers Creek with his own eyes and wonders what the delay can tell him about the town. They are so slow reacting, it seems this town is sleepier than the others. Or perhaps the townspeople are easily scared and have deliberately waited for the dust to settle before venturing out. Scared people are dangerous people. It isn't a comforting thought.
Only four riders have come to investigate the explosion. One of those appears to be McLaren himself. Logan has watched the house for a couple of days and recognizes him. Clearly McLaren was safely away from the cabin when the dynamite went off. Logan isn't troubled. He is sure that he can still persuade the Mexican that he should have the rest of his money. He thinks he can detect the glint of a star on the chest of another rider. The sheriff. The other riders busy themselves riding round the ruined house as if expecting to find the dynamiter still there waiting for them. None of them appears to be taking any care to look for a trail. He allows himself a smug satisfied smile. It has all gone according to plan. He heads back to the horses to unpack and to cool off in the shade. Even if they find him now, there will be nothing but their suspicions to link him to the cabin.
As he moves away from his uncomfortable vantage point he notices, with a start, that he is not the only one watching the sheriff and his men poking around the remains of the cabin. Someone is watching from horseback on the opposite side of the valley, their silhouette clearly visible against the sky. He's a fool or he wants to be seen. Is that the Mexican, or perhaps the man the Mexican is working for? Is he checking to see that he's got his money's worth? The shape is of a short, slight man. It isn't the Mexican. He can't make out any more than that.
It is almost dark when the sheriff and his riders head back to Walkers Creek. Logan plans to wait until the morning and camp out here on the slopes above the valley. He pulls his bed-roll from his pack and settles down for a night beneath the stars. Tomorrow he will ride into the town. He needs supplies and hopes to treat himself to a decent shave and a bath and a decent bed. Nobody should connect his arrival with the excitement at the McLaren house.
CHAPTER TWO
She lets the horse find its own way back towards the ranch in the growing gloom. She knows she shouldn't have come out but she was determined to see for herself what had been done. The cabin has certainly been demolished. The man Sanchez hired has clearly done that part of the job well, but she has seen McLaren ride out with the sheriff. That is just getting the basics wrong. As her father would have said, if you're going to try to kill a man, you'd better not miss.
Not that McLaren will know that it is her money that paid for it, but he'll be able to guess. That is a bad thing if he strikes back. She can only hope that she scares him into leaving her alone.
The ranch is hers now, since her father died, and she is doing her best to run it with the same firm hand that he used to. Mostly the farmhands respect her. She shot one, in the foot, for making lewd remarks to her face. He doesn't work for her anymore and she's had no more trouble since. Sanchez, a knarled old Mexican that was her father's best friend, is helping her. Whenever she lacks in strength, resolve or just downright cunning, he can be relied on. Together they managed the process of building a small dam to get more water for the cattle in the dry summer months. McLaren, his land being downstream of the dam, waited until the construction was complete before complaining that she was stealing his water. He became angry and threatened to get a Judge to sign over her dam to him. The last straw was when she'd encountered him standing on the dam. He'd pointed a gun at her. Remembering that moment makes her wish that he'd been in his cabin when it exploded.
Sanchez had promised to take care of it. She will be having words with him about that when she gets back to the ranch.
A movement up ahead wakes her from her reverie. She pulls her horse to a stand and reaches for her revolver. Sanchez has shown her how to wear her father's beautiful old pearl handled six shooter. He gave up on the idea of convincing her that she shouldn't be riding about on her own. She still hasn't got used to the weight of it. She has to fumble with it for a few seconds before it comes free from the holster. In the gloom she can't make out what it was that moved. Resting her gun hand on the pommel of the saddle, she coaxes the horse slowly forwards.