Cartridge Creek, page 1
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Cartridge Creek was a typical New Mexico cattle town, not unlike the ones Will Leatherman had known in his days as a trail hand. But now Will was a partner in San Antonio Development, and he had come to find out why the Southern Pacific was so eager to sell the town, and whether he and his partner could turn it into a profitable investment.
It didn’t take long to discover why the railroad wanted out; the town had become a haven for gunmen, and the two heavily-armed factions were on the verge of all-out warfare. The decent folk were ready to leave town, the ranchers had taken to driving their stock to another railhead, and the money-making possibilities seemed nil.
But Will Leatherman had a strange feeling about Cartridge Creek, that somehow this town had more to offer than the usual business deal. Almost before he realized it, Leatherman found himself on the brink of finding something he’d almost forgotten he wanted, a place to really call home—or losing it forever. Then he knew he had to fight for Cartridge Creek.
CARTRIDGE CREEK
By Richard Meade
First published by Doubleday & Co in 1974
Copyright © 1974, 2014 by Benjamin L. Haas
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: April 2014
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.Cover image © 2013 by Tony Masero
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.
Chapter One
The train stopped here for exactly two minutes, and by the time Leatherman had swung down off the Pullman and taken his suitcase from the porter, the whistle blasted and it was on its way again. A tall man in a well-cut gray business suit, Stetson and high-heeled boots, he had the body of a horseman, wide in the shoulders, narrow in the hips, legs long and lean and slightly bowed. His face was tanned, his eyes gray-blue, with little wrinkles of weather and good humor at their corners, his nose a big blade, his mouth wide above a strong chin. At thirty-four, his dark hair was beginning to be touched with gray at the temples. The artful drape of his coat concealed the shoulder-holstered revolver under his left arm. Standing by the tracks, he surveyed the little town spread out before him in the clear, bright air of a fine New Mexican spring morning with a cool, appraising gaze. If this place had possibilities he might buy it.
But there was a lot of work to be done before that decision could be made. He picked up the bag and mounted the station platform, entered the little depot with the scabby sign over its door: CARTRIDGE CREEK, N.M.
“Morning,” he said to the man at the telegraph desk.
The telegrapher-agent turned in his swivel chair, laying aside a copy of Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Weekly. He was burly, hairy, like a gorilla, Leatherman thought, in shirt and vest and pants and town shoes. Leatherman noted that he wore a holstered Colt and that there was a sawed-off ten-gauge shotgun in a rack beside the desk. “Morning,” the agent said, and he looked at Leatherman with what seemed more than usual curiosity.
“I reckon there’s a hotel in town?” Leatherman’s voice had a Texas tang.
The agent nodded. “Maybe you could call it that. But Mrs. Grady takes in boarders. The beds are cleaner there and the food better.”
“Then I hope she’s got a vacancy. Any hacks around?”
“Nope, don’t that many people come in by train any more. But it ain’t far, three, four blocks.”
“Then I’ll walk it. My name’s Will Leatherman. Any telegrams for me?”
The man turned in his swivel chair, searched a pile of flimsies, removed one, passed it over. “Guess that’s all.”
Leatherman read it and tried to stifle disappointment, even a touch of fear: TOMPKINS DEAL FELL THROUGH STOP EVERYTHING DEPENDS ON YOU STOP REPORT SOONEST STOP NO TIME TO LOSE STOP REGARDS O’BRIEN
Carefully, he folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Well, that meant that Cartridge Creek and the Gorman ranch were the two last chances. “Much obliged,” he told the agent, and picked up his bag.
“You a drummer?” the man asked.
“You could call me that, I reckon.”
“You don’t look much like a drummer. More like a cattleman.”
“You don’t look much like a depot agent.”
The man grinned. “Brother, it takes more than a telegraph fist to hold down this job.”
Leatherman’s brows went up. “Tough town?”
“And getting tougher all the time. So whatever you’re sellin’, hold on tight to that sample case. This place is full of people that’d slit a man’s throat clean through for a Mex dollar or a pocket watch.”
Leatherman frowned. “I’ll be careful, Mr.—”
“Sullivan. Ryan J. Sullivan. Everybody calls me Sully. You look like a man that can take care of himself, but I make it a policy to warn every railroad customer.”
“What seems to be the trouble here?”
The agent reached for his magazine again. “You name any kind of trouble you take a notion to. Cartridge Creek can furnish it.” He began to read, and Leatherman took the hint.
On the station platform, he paused for a moment. From this elevation he could see a lot of the town, and it did not look so bad; indeed, it was above average for the usual southwestern cow town.
First of all, he noted, there were shipping pens down here by the railroad, a siding, chutes, and all spacious and in good repair, with grassy flats and water nearby for holding herds. He also noted, though, that the insides of the pens themselves were grown up in weeds, as if they had not been used for a long time. Then there was a broad main street, running from the station north, splitting around a plaza shaded by cottonwoods and a little church, before meeting a wagon road that spilled down from the hills at the far end of town. The houses and buildings along the main street were neatly spaced, some of adobe, some of frame; there were two transverse streets, also lined with houses, and he saw the bright blooms of flowers in their yards. In addition, on the outskirts, there was the usual clutter of the Mexican quarter, with its huts, chicken yards, and burro pens.
Nearby, on the west, the creek that gave the town its name curled through a wooded watercourse. It was not wide, but seemed deep and fast and probably ran full all year around. Stretching away on either side of the valley of the stream was rolling, well-grassed rangeland. A kind of drowsy silence seemed to hang over all; once, in the distance, a cow bawled, and then a rooster crowed: no other sound now that the chuffing of the train had faded.
No Garden of Eden, thought Leatherman, but fair enough. And yet, remembering what Sullivan had said, he felt a sense of foreboding. Any kind of trouble … Touched with curiosity he went down the steps and walked slowly, warily, up the main street. He noted that there were no sidewalks; if the deal went through and San Antonio Development bought the place, he’d have them put in. Women would not come downtown to shop in mud season without them.
That strange hush held, as Leatherman moved along the street, which was nearly empty of traffic. For a town of, according to his information, nearly six hundred people, it looked damned near deserted. He passed a general store, caught a glimpse through a dusty window of shelves nearly bare; a cafe across the street held only one customer. There were no wagons, no riders, and almost no foot traffic. What there was, Leatherman told himself, was an air of hushed, taut-stretched expectancy, the same sensation you felt in that airless, wholly still half hour before one of those terrible electrical storms of the high plains, which he had endured on so many trail drives, broke.
And then, a half block further on, he saw the first real signs of life: the saloons, with horses at their racks and men standing on their porches. There were two saloons directly across the street from one another, The Cattleman and The Silver Dollar. And the men, a dozen or more on each side, who crowded their porches, were gunmen.
He recognized them for what they were immediately, knew them well, had seen their kind in Abilene, Newton, Ellsworth, Dodge, and a half dozen other rough and hairy towns. It was almost as if there were a factory in the West that turned them out in wholesale lots, for all of them were cut from the same kind of rawhide.
The weak were weeded out early on, so the majority ran to size and muscle. Riding had narrowed hips and bowed legs; weather laid its mark on faces. A few had pot bellies from too much booze, but in their world the chronic drinker was long on mouth and slow with a gun, and not too many survived.
Some were dandies, but most cared little for cleanliness or clothes; nevertheless, their guns, worn either singly or in pairs, holstered and slung in various ways to suit their tastes and aptitudes, were, no matter how dirty or shabby their persons, clean and in good condition. But what really marked them were their eyes.
In their eyes, there was little humor, no joy, and much cynicism and suspicion. They had the eyes of soldiers too long in combat, me
He had no intention of stirring them up, but the very number of them here puzzled him. He nodded politely as he walked on past the two saloons, and more than two dozen pairs of eyes followed him with wordless keenness and nobody returned his nod. The short hair prickled on the back of his neck; he transferred the suitcase to his left hand. He was careful not to increase his pace; they were like wolves; they would hang back until you showed any sign of uncertainty or fear. Then, out of sheer savagery, they might attack.
Presently he had made the passage; only when he was a block beyond them did he halt, look back. They stood there on the porches, still watching one another across the dusty street. Leatherman let out a long breath and went on, and after a few more steps he saw it, a big frame two-story house behind a picket fence badly in need of paint. Lilacs bloomed in the small front yard and there was a row of daffodils, and a sign on a veranda pillar said, neatly lettered MRS. GRADY, ROOM AND BOARD.
Leatherman pushed through the gate, went up the steps, twisted the bell knob set in the door and waited. After a minute there were footsteps and the door swung open.
The woman standing there was perhaps twenty-five, give or take a year, wearing a gingham dress and flowered apron. Hair the color of fresh corn silk was piled in a mass of curls and braids atop her head; her eyes were large, the clear blue of rain-washed sky, her skin like good, rich cream. Her nose was straight, her mouth full and red. Though, for that day and time, she was a little on the thin side, her bosom was full enough and her hips well curved. “Good morning,” she said, smiling, “Can I help you?”
He took off his Stetson. “I’m looking for Mrs. Grady.”
“I’m Mrs. Grady.”
“Oh,” Leatherman said with genuine surprise. “Somehow I thought you were her daughter.”
Mrs. Grady chuckled, a deep, pleasant sound, as if she enjoyed laughing; it made her bosom move beneath the gingham. She was just about as tall as Leatherman’s chin. Then she sobered. “Sometimes I feel old enough to be my own grandmother. What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’d like a room, if there’s one vacant.”
“You’re in luck. One of my boarders skipped out last night without paying his bill. I’ll have to ask you to pay in advance. Without meals, one dollar a day; with, two dollars.”
“I’ll be here a week, at least. Fourteen dollars in advance all right?”
Something that could have been relief lit her eyes. A windfall, he judged, and one badly needed. “That’ll be fine. Please come in.”
Following her, he entered a vestibule, from which a stair ran up to the second floor, a corridor along the first, with doors on either side. He saw a dining room on the right, a parlor on the left, furniture shabby but clean and tasteful. Mrs. Grady went behind the desk and opened a register, presenting him with a pen. She watched as he wrote, Will Leatherman, San Antonio, Texas. Then he gave back the pen and took out a double eagle. As he passed it over, her face pinkened and her eyes showed dismay. “Do you have anything smaller? I’m … a little short of change.”
“Sorry, I don’t. Give me the change when you get it.”
“Very well. If you trust me.”
“You have an honest face,” said Leatherman. “I take it things are kind of slow in Cartridge Creek.”
The girl’s face darkened. “It depends on what kind of business you’re in. But, yes, they are in mine.”
Casually, Leatherman went on. “Walking up here from the station, I saw an awful lot of tough-looking people. Kind of unusual for a town this size.”
Mrs. Grady’s mouth twisted. “Yes. The Lincoln County men.”
“What?”
“The men from Lincoln County. Surely you know about the Lincoln County War; it went on for years. The Murphy-Dolan people against the Tunstall-McSween crowd and Billy the Kid …”
“Sure,” Leatherman said. Everybody knew about Lincoln County. It had begun with the efforts of a ring of retired army officers to dominate the trade of the entire county, including the big stakes of supplying the Army at Fort Stanton and the Apaches on the Mescalero Reservation. An Englishman named Tunstall, an American minister named McSween, had challenged Murphy, Dolan, and their ring by opening a rival store, competing for those contracts. Each side had begun bringing in gunmen, the gunmen had gone to rustling, and that had involved the cattlemen, including tough old John Chisum. Before long, every hard case in the Southwest had flocked to Lincoln County and the town of Lincoln, but one had towered over all the rest, a young wizard with Colts named Billy Bonney. But Tunstall was dead, now, killed from ambush, McSween had died in a five-day gun battle on the main street of Lincoln, the Kid had killed the sheriff and both his deputies, Bell and Ollinger, Murphy was dead of a heart attack and … There had been no winners and no losers in Lincoln County, and the very names of town and county alike were synonyms for violence and brutality. “Sure,” Leatherman said again. “I’ve heard all about it.”
“Then you know it’s over. Even Billy the Kid is dead now. And—” She made a gesture. “All those gunmen from up there had to come some place. So they came to Cartridge Creek.” Once more her mouth twisted. “I wish someone would start another war somewhere else so they’d all go off.”
“Don’t you have law in this town?”
“We had a marshal. The job got to be too much for him and he turned in his badge.”
“What about the county sheriff?”
“What about him?” Mrs. Grady shrugged. “The Southern Pacific Railroad owns this town completely, every lot, every building. We all lease our property from it. It’s not subject to county taxes and so the sheriff won’t send a deputy, much less come himself. We’re just kind of … forgotten by everybody.”
“I see.” Leatherman nodded. “A very interesting situation. Mr. Grady around? I’d like to discuss the subject at greater length with him.”
She looked down at the register. “There isn’t any Mr. Grady any more. He tried to throw out a drunken boarder last year and the man shot him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said dully, and then she brightened. “I suppose you’d like to go up to your room.” Coming from behind the counter, she reached for his bag, but Leatherman blocked her and picked it up himself.
“You lead the way,” he said. Following her up the stairs, he had to admit that he admired the way her hips moved, even if they did lack the Lillian Russell breadth of beam. Even though no woman had ever been able to pin him down for long, he was a man with an eye and a liking for them.
The room on the second floor was large and airy, with a brass bed, a dresser, washstand, writing table, and chair. “The sheets are clean; we change them once a week or every time somebody leaves. Breakfast’s from seven to eight, dinner’s at twelve, supper at six. There’s a convenience under the bed and a backhouse outside. I’m sure we’ll enjoy having you, Mr. Leatherman, and I hope you enjoy your stay. Anything you need, just let me know, and when you travel on, be sure to recommend my place to your friends: Bettina Grady’s in Cartridge Creek.
“I’ll do that,” said Leatherman.
“Now, I’ll leave you to clean up. One hour until dinner.” She smiled, went out, closing the door behind her.
When she had gone, Will Leatherman threw his hat on the bed, removed his coat, and shucked the shoulder harness. Peeling off his shirt, he revealed a muscular torso, slightly hairy, that bore its share of scars. The long pucker across his ribs had been put there fourteen years ago, when, as a youth of twenty, he’d tied into more longhorn than he could handle in the brush along the Nueces. The smaller mark on his upper left bicep was where a Dodge City gambler had placed the ball from the right barrel of a Derringer; the man had not lived to fire the left one. Beneath his right shoulder blade was the place where a Comanche arrow had gouged, on a trail drive north from San Antonio. Not visible was the scar on his thigh, where he’d taken a slug from a gang trying to rob him as, an experienced trail boss by then, he’d been bringing home to Texas the fat proceeds of a good drive. They had not got the money, and at least two of them would never try another robbery.
