Showdown at Dead End Canyon (13 page)

IT TOOK TWO DAYS OF RIDING FOR METZGER AND
Dancer to reach the Hilliard ranch. Dancer wasn’t much of a talker, so after a few frustrated attempts to get a conversation started, Metzger gave up.

They had made a cold camp the night before, eating jerky and drinking water. Once, when Metzger suggested that they ought to build a fire and brew some coffee, Dancer glared at him, but said nothing in reply. They spread out their bedrolls just after sunset, and within minutes Dancer was asleep. Metzger did not sleep soundly.

In most of Metzger’s relationships he had been the dominant person, the one who, because of strength and size, intimidated the others. In fact, he was bigger and stronger than Dancer, and in any kind of street brawl could easily have beat him. But Metzger knew that any confrontation with the gunman would be permanent, so he held his belligerence in check. It wasn’t something he would admit to anyone, but the truth was, Dancer scared him.

During the late war, Roy Hilliard had been a prisoner of war in the Confederate prisoner of war camp at Andersonville, Georgia. He spent eighteen months in that hellhole, emerging from the ordeal at just a little over one hundred pounds. When he went back home to Pennsylvania, he found his old job gone and no prospects for anything new. So he and his wife Cindy left home and went west.

It was a gamble, and some of his family tried to talk him out of it. But, luckily, the gamble had paid off, and now Hilliard was the proud owner of a small but thriving ranch. Last year he had not only managed to support his family, but actually turned a profit, and now he was thinking about taking on a few hands to help him run the place.

Yesterday had been his son’s eighth birthday, and he and Mary had a little party for him. He was looking forward to the day Roy Jr. would be old enough to become a full partner in the operation of the ranch.

Hilliard pumped water into the basin, worked up lather from a bar of lye soap, then washed his hands and face. The cold well water was bracing, and he reached for a towel and began drying off, thinking about the pork chops Cindy had cooked for their supper. He had worked hard today, and the enticing aroma was already causing his stomach to growl.

Sometimes when he got hungry he would recall those days in the Andersonville prison, when starvation was a way of life, and the leading cause of death. He had been one of the lucky few who survived the ordeal. And he considered himself even luckier to have found a woman like Mary.

Hilliard had the towel over his face when he sensed a presence nearby. Dropping the towel, he was surprised to see two mounted men looking down at him. Where had they come from? He had neither seen nor heard them approach.

One of the men was big and unkempt, with a bushy red beard. The other man had a large, puffy, purple scar.

“Where the hell did you men come from?” he asked. They made him uneasy, and though just the appearance of the man with the scar was enough to unnerve anyone, it wasn’t what he looked like that bothered Hilliard. There was something about him and the other man appearing as suddenly as they had that left him with a troublesome and unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Are you Roy Hilliard?” the man with the scar asked.

“Yeah, I’m Roy Hilliard.” He twisted the towel in his hand, wishing it were shotgun. “What can I do for you?”

“Hilliard, you’ve got twenty-four hours to get off this property.”

“What?” Hilliard gasped. “Now just why in the hell would I do that?”

“Your ranch has been confiscated by the United States government.”

“What are you talking about? I have clear title to this land. I don’t owe one cent.”

“Show him the paper, Metzger,” the man with the scar said.

The big, bushy-bearded man dismounted and took a paper over to show to Hilliard.

“Can you read?” the man with the scar asked.

“Yes.”

“Then read that.”

Hilliard took the document and began to read, growing angrier as he did.

Hilliard finished reading the document and, without a word, handed it back to the man who had been called Metzger by the one with the scar.

“We will expect you to be off this property by noon tomorrow,” Dancer said.

“Mister, I’ve got five hundred head of cattle,” Hilliard said. “What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Like the order says, you can take your cattle with you.”

“Take them where? This is a small ranch. There’s only my
wife, my boy, and me. And my boy’s only eight years old. How are the three of us going to move five hundred cows? And where would we take them?”

“That’s none of my concern,” Dancer said. “My only concern is to see that you are off this property by noon tomorrow.”

“And if I ain’t off tomorrow?” Hilliard challenged.

“Then you’ll have to dance with the demon,” Dancer said.

“Dance with the demon? What does that mean?” Hilliard asked. It wasn’t a term he had ever heard, but it had an ominous ring to it.

“You’ll find out what it means when the music starts,” Dancer said.

Hilliard sighed, then walked toward the house. His strides were measured and purposeful, and he didn’t turn around as he walked away.

“Hi, darlin’,” Cindy Hilliard said. “Dinner’s ready. Have a seat and I’ll bring you a plate.”

Hilliard didn’t say a word to his wife. Instead he got the double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun down, broke it open, slid two shells into the chamber, then snapped it shut.

“Roy, what is it?” Cindy asked in a frightened tone of voice. “What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

“Stay inside,” Hilliard said as he started toward the door.

When he saw Hilliard go into the house with such purposeful strides, Dancer loosened the pistol in his holster and waited.

As Dancer knew he would, Hilliard came charging back out of the house, holding a shotgun.

“Get off my land you thieving son of a bitch!” Hilliard shouted, raising the shotgun.

The shotgun never reached his shoulder. Dancer’s pistol was out in a heartbeat, and he fired one time. The impact of his bullet knocked Hilliard back against the wall of his house. The shotgun discharged with a roar, but the gun was pointing
straight up, so no one was hit, though a moment later the buckshot came rattling back down against the roof of the house.

“Roy!” a woman screamed. Running out of the house, she knelt beside her husband, who was already dead. “Roy!” she cried again. She looked up at Dancer, who was still holding the smoking gun in his hand.

“You killed him!”

Dancer stared at her but said nothing.

“Why?” she asked. “Why?”

“Your husband didn’t leave him no choice,” Metzger said. “He come charging out of the house with that scattergun.”

“What did you say to him? What set him off like that?”

“I’ll tell you what I told your man,” Dancer said. “The government’s taking over your land. Be out of here by noon tomorrow.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“It’s all in that piece of paper, there in your man’s shirt pocket,” Dancer said.

Cindy was just reaching for the paper when Roy Jr. came running up from the barn, where he had been doing his chores.

“Papa!” the boy shouted. Seeing his father dead and his mother distraught over the body, Roy Jr. grabbed the shotgun and pointed it at Dancer.

“Roy Jr., no!” Cindy said, reaching for the gun.

Because he had not expected that reaction from a mere boy, Dancer was beaten to the draw. Roy pulled the triggers, but because his father had already discharged both barrels, nothing happened.

Cindy took the shotgun and tossed it to one side. “Go,” she said to Dancer and Metzger. “Please, just go away. Leave us alone.”

“You have twenty-four hours,” Dancer said, then looked over at Metzger and nodded. Then the two of them rode away.

ALTHOUGH WAGONS HAD BEEN MAKING REGULAR
runs up to South Pass in the Sweetwater Mountains, this morning a sizable train had formed up on Railroad Avenue. Leading the train was a surrey in which Dupree, Libby, Lulu, and Sue were riding in the facing seats at the back, while a driver sat up front. The surrey and driver, like the four freight wagons and their drivers lined up behind the surrey, belonged to the Gold Nugget Haulers.

Hawke came down to see them off, shaking hands with Jay Dupree to wish him good luck and to say good-bye to the women. Libby held his glance a little longer than the others and smiled a knowing smile but otherwise made no allusion to the “concert” they had played upon the bedsprings in Hawke’s hotel room the night before.

Several men were gathered around the wagon train. Most of them had just arrived in town and were eager to begin their search for gold. Dupree stood up then, to address those assembled.

“Gentlemen, how many of you will be going up to South Pass?” he asked.

At least twenty men held up their hands.

“Well then, allow me a few minutes to introduce myself and these three beautiful young women. My name is Jay Dupree, and these ladies and I are going ahead of you to South Pass, to open an establishment for your relaxation and pleasure. Propriety forbids my getting too detailed as to
what
these ladies are, but I can certainly tell you
who
they are.”

The men laughed at his inference.

Dupree held his hand out toward the women. “Stand up, ladies, one at a time, and let these gentlemen behold true beauty.”

Lulu stood first, curtsied and blew kisses to the crowd.

“My friends, this is Lulu. Lulu is only nineteen years old, a New York debutante, and almost a virgin. As you can see, she is a fire-haired beauty. Oh, and in case you are interested, I can personally attest to the fact that she is a natural redhead.”

Lulu assumed a shocked pose, and the men laughed loudly.

Lulu sat down and Sue stood.

“This is Sue, blond and beautiful. What you may not know is, at the age of fourteen, Sue was forced into marriage with a Persian sheik. She spent ten years in Persia in the sheik’s palace, surrounded by luxury and attended to by a hundred servants. But she didn’t love the sheik.”

Sue made a sad, pouting expression and shook her head slowly.

“So, one night when all in the palace were asleep, Sue escaped, made her way to a seaport, and came to America. And now she is here with us, offering to red-blooded American men—for a price, of course—that which was once reserved for Persian royalty.”

Sue sat down, and Libby stood.

“And finally, Libby St. Cyr. Libby’s beauty speaks for itself, gentlemen. Libby is the daughter of a United States congressman from the state of North Carolina. For obvious reason, she has changed her last name to protect her father. And as some of you will find out, I’m sure, Libby is a wicked, wicked girl.”

Smiling, Libby shook her head and pointed a finger at Dupree, making the “shame on you” sign.

“We will be calling our establishment the Golden Cage,” Dupree went on. “Look for us when you come there, and remember, we are there for your pleasure.”

The wagon master waited patiently until Libby had sat down again and Dupree was through talking before he called out.

“Mr. Dupree, we’re all loaded up and ready to go whenever you are.”

“We’re ready, Mr. Clayton.”

“Head ’em up! Move ’em out!” the wagon master called.

Clayton’s command was followed by whistles, shouts, and the pistol pops of snapped whips as the train started forward. Rolling slowly up White Mountain Road, it was followed by what would be its symphony on the march, a cacophony of clopping hooves, clanking chains, squeaking wheels, creaking axles, and canvas snapping in the wind.

Hawke watched the train leave, then walked down to the livery to saddle his horse. Though back in town from Chicago for two weeks, he had not yet been out to Northumbria. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to telling Dorchester that he’d been fired from his job as a pianist on board the transcontinental train, since Dorchester had gotten the job for him. On the other hand, he felt he owed it to him.

As Hawke dismounted in front of the house, a servant hurried to take the reins of his horse. At almost the same time, Pamela came out onto the porch.

“Hawke!” she called happily. “You’re back!”

“And all in one piece, as you can see,” Hawke replied.

“Come in, come in, Father will be so pleased to see you.”

“Thanks.”

Pamela met him halfway down the front steps. Putting her arm through his, she walked back up to the porch with him. She called to her father as they stepped into the foyer, and Dorchester came from his study to greet them.

“Well, Hawke, my good man, how was your trip?” Dorchester asked. Seeing his valet, he called out to him, “Mr. Wilson, do bring tea and biscuits to the drawing room, would you?” He glanced over at Hawke. “Or would you rather have coffee?”

“Tea will be fine.”

“Then tea it is, Mr. Wilson.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Dorchester,” Wilson replied.

In the study, the three sat in big leather chairs and, as before, Pamela prepared cigars for the two men.

“Thank you,” Hawke said, accepting the cigar. He puffed as Pamela held a match to the end. She lit her father’s cigar as well, and by the time they were surrounded by an aromatic cloud of smoke, Wilson entered, carrying a silver tray with a silver pot of steeping tea, three cups, and a plate of cookies.

“When will you be going back?” Dorchester asked, picking up one of the cookies.

“I beg your pardon?”

“To Chicago. You will be making another trip, won’t you?”

“Uh, no,” Hawke said. “I was fired.”

“You were fired? Why, that’s absurd! You play the piano more beautifully than anyone I’ve ever heard. Why would Union Pacific fire you?”

Hawke told the story of the drunken and disruptive cowboy, ending with what happened to him. To his surprise, Dorchester laughed.

“You threw him from the train?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, it was very rash of me, I admit. But at the time, it just seemed like the right thing to do.”

Dorchester continued laughing, and he laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes.

“No, no, dear boy, do not apologize,” he said, waving his finger back and forth. “How often I have wanted to do something exactly like that. Unfortunately, my very proper British upbringing has prevented me from giving in to those urges. But disabuse yourself of any idea that I can’t take vicarious pleasure from someone else doing it.”

“Yes, well, it did get me fired from the Union Pacific job,” Hawke said. “And since you went out of your way to locate the job, I felt that I owed you an apology.”

“Nonsense, my good man, you owe me nothing of the sort. As I say, I am deriving a great deal of pleasure from imagining the look on that boor’s face as he found himself flying from the cars.”

“So, what will you be doing now?” Pamela asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“I hope you don’t decide to play the piano at the Royal Flush,” Dorchester said. “Their piano is so bad it would be a sin for someone with your talent to even try to play it. I’ve heard better music from rattling harness chain.”

Hawke laughed. “That’s a pretty good description of the piano, all right.”

“And their piano player. Unless…good heavens, you
aren’t
working there, are you?” he asked, now genuinely concerned.

“No, I’m not working there.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

“Father, why don’t you ask Hawke to work for us?” Pamela said.

“Hello, that is a marvelous idea!” Dorchester said. “It has nothing to do with the piano, I’m afraid, but would you consider working for us?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t think I would make much of a cowboy. I never was much of a farmer either, and I was raised on a farm.”

“Well, actually, you wouldn’t have to be a cowboy, as such,” Dorchester said. “I would use you in more of a supervisory role.”

“As foreman of the ranch,” Pamela clarified.

“What about the foreman you have now?” Hawke asked. “How do you think that would sit with him?”

“Oh, that fellow wouldn’t even know it,” Dorchester said. “He left the ranch right after he heard that gold had been discovered up at South Pass. And, remember, as foreman, all the manual labor would be supplied by the hands who are under you.”

“It is a tempting proposition,” Hawke admitted.

Someone knocked on the door of the study, and Dorchester looked toward the door. A slim, gangly-looking cowboy stood there, holding his hat in his hand.

“Yes, Willie, what is it?” Dorchester asked.

“It’s about the water in Sugar Creek,”

“Oh? What about the water in Sugar Creek?”

“There ain’t none,” Willie said stoically.

As Hawke, Dorchester, Pamela, and Willie rode toward Sugar Creek, Dorchester took delight in talking about his ranch.

“The first four years I was here, I was beginning to think that I had lost my mind in even contemplating a ranching
venture. I had to deal with Indians, weather, and the fact that I was too far away from civilization to make it practical. Then the railroad arrived and I had a way of getting my beef to the market. Since then it has been wonderfully profitable.”

Thousands of cattle milled about, some cropping grass some lying under shade trees, others sunning themselves in open fields. The range consisted of gently rolling grassland. To the southeast lay a low-lying ridge of hills, close enough that Hawke could see the vegetation on the slopes. To the north was another line of mountains, purpled by distance.

“That’s the Sweetwater Range,” Dorchester said, pointing toward the distant mountains. “Half of my cowboys are up there right now, hunting for gold. A couple of them have even told me that when they strike it rich, they are going to come back and buy Northumbria. But they hastened to add that they would offer me a job,” he said with a chuckle.

Just ahead of them was a long, irregular line of bright green vegetation.

“That must be the creek,” Hawke said.

“Yes. It was one of my earliest accomplishments,” Dorchester replied. “The water actually flows from the Big Sandy, but the channel was clogged nearly shut with rocks and bank cave-ins and such. It took me two years to get it open and cleared out, but the result has been a steady, year-round supply of water. I can’t imagine what would stop it.”

“Perhaps a beaver dam,” Hawke suggested. “I’ve seen beaver dams so large that they’ve shut down small rivers.”

“Perhaps,” Dorchester said, “though we don’t have a history of problems with beaver.”

When they reached the line of vegetation, they dismounted and walked up to the creek to look down into it.

“What in the world?” Pamela said aloud.

There was nothing where the creek had been but a few
disconnected puddles of water, slowly drying up under the sun. Not one trickle of water was flowing.

“Let’s go upstream and see if we can find out what happened,” Hawke suggested.

The four riders began following the dry stream bed along its meandering course.

“I hope Walter Louis doesn’t think that I purposely shut down Sugar Creek,” Dorchester said as they rode.

“Who is Walter Louis?”

“He owns a small farm just south of Northumbria, and he is totally dependent upon water from Sugar Creek. In fact, he has been very good about coming over to help my men keep the creek cleared of debris.”

After a ride of about five miles, they reached a thick-growing patch of woods. Just on the other side of the woods they saw a large dam.

“What in the world?” Dorchester gasped. “When, and how, did that get here?”

“It’s no beaver dam, that’s for sure,” Hawke said.

“Look at the size of it, Father. It had to take some time to build it.” Pamela turned to Willie. “Why didn’t we know about this before now?”

“Ma’am, we ain’t run no stock on this here section of range since last summer,” Willie replied. “We was about to move some beeves over when one of the men noticed that the creek had run dry.”

“Is that dam on your property?” Hawke asked.

“No, it isn’t,” Dorchester admitted. “My property line ends there, with the edge of that copse.”

“Who does own the property?

“It belongs to a man named Anthony Miller,” Dorchester said.

“Perhaps we should talk to Miller,” Hawke suggested.

Dorchester shook his head. “That’s not possible, I’m
afraid,” he said. “Miller is an absentee owner who lives in New York. In fact, that’s what makes this whole thing so odd. This land isn’t being used. We’ve exchanged a few letters as to whether or not I would be interested in leasing some grassland from him.”

“Perhaps he’s trying to sweeten the pot by adding water to the deal,” Hawke suggested.

Dorchester shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so. I’ve only met Miller one time, and he was a very nice person. I can’t see him doing something like this.”

“Well, someone did,” Hawke said. “Why don’t we ride over and find out who.”

Just beyond the patch of woods was a sign.

KEEP OUT
PROPERTY OF
SWEETWATER RAILROAD COMPANY

“Sweetwater Railroad Company?” Dorchester said. “Why, I’ve never heard of such an organization.”

“What do we do now?” Pamela asked.

“We keep going,” Dorchester replied. “Whether this land is owned by Mr. Miller or by some railroad that I’ve never heard of, they are guilty of stealing our water, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

The four crossed the property line, then rode up to the dam and dismounted. They were surprised when a man dressed in a business suit suddenly showed up.

“Well, it looks as if we managed to attract attention from someone,” Dorchester said.

Three other men came out to join the man wearing the suit. One man was carrying a rifle, a second had a shotgun, and the third, unarmed, wore new jeans and a clean shirt. Hawke recognized the man carrying the shotgun as Luke
Rawlings, who had come into the saloon yelling that he had discovered gold.