Travis (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 3) Read online

  Chapter Two

  Some time in the late afternoon Jim Travis crested the final ridge and took his horse across a wide meadow that was knee-deep in grass bent by the cooling breeze from the distant peaks. Jim eased his stiff body in the saddle, letting his horse pick its own way. On the far side of the meadow the timberline began, and he could see the clustered ranks of trees clinging to the higher slopes above him. On those high slopes, where the greenery gave way to naked rock, white banks of snow clung, defying the efforts of the wind to loosen it. During the next couple of days Jim knew he’d be riding that high country, doggedly following the faint trail that had already brought him this far.

  The breeze caught the branches of the nearby trees. The rustling broke Jim’s reverie and he took up the slack reins, guiding his horse into the timber. His nose picked up the mingled scents of the forest. The earthy smell of the thick carpet of leaf-mould. The tang of pollen drifting from some bank of wild flowers. It was good country, Jim had decided earlier, skirting a silver lake bounded by lush greenery. The kind of place where a man could put his roots down deep and build himself a fine life. The land was wide and offered everything a man could wish for. Jim had seen deer and elk, silver-flashing trout in the clear, fast flowing streams.

  Now, though, his thoughts were soured by a remembrance of what had brought him this far from Sweetwater. The reason for this long trek across country. Ahead of him somewhere in the wild territory beyond the mountains were six men. The men Jim Travis was looking for. They had something belonging to Jim, and he wasn’t about to quit until he had it back.

  A half-hour later Jim reined in on the banks of a tumbling stream cutting through the forest. In a small clearing, surrounded by tall aspens and pines, he dismounted and unsaddled his horse.

  He tethered it on a rope that allowed it access to the water, then humped his gear to a spot where he could build himself a fire. Gathering a bundle of dry timber Jim got a fire going. He took his blackened coffee pot and filled it from the stream, adding a handful of crushed coffee beans. He set the pot in the flames. Sitting back on his heels he fished a thick chunk of salted bacon out of his sack. Before he sliced it he held it up and took a sniff; the day before he’d suspected it might be starting to get a little ripe; now, though, he wasn’t so sure. He deliberated for a while, then took out his knife and cut off a couple of thick wedges. Next chance he got he’d pick up some fresh meat. Maybe shoot himself some deer meat. He took out his small fry pan and wedged it over the flames on a couple of flat stones he’d picked up. Dropping the bacon in the pan he sat back and waited for his meal to cook.

  Up through the canopy of green he could see fragments of the sky. Turning his head he could just make out the hazed tips of the distant peaks. To the north of the peaks he spotted a bank of dark cloud; thick and heavy, they looked fat with rain; Jim wondered if a storm was on its way. That was all he needed. A rainstorm would wipe away what little trail he had to follow. He climbed to his feet and stood for a long time, just watching those far-off clouds, knowing that they could sweep in pretty fast.

  Standing he was tall, loose-limbed, his long legs lean and hard muscled. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body. Beneath the faded dark shirt his shoulders hinted at a strength not initially apparent. A sweat-stained, curl-brimmed hat was pushed to the back of his head, exposing the thick mass of dark brown hair that constantly tumbled down over his forehead. His face, deeply tanned, betrayed his years. Despite the seriousness of his mood Jim’s youthful appearance might have fooled many; he was twenty six years old, and whatever others might think he was no man’s fool.

  The aroma of frying bacon reached his nostrils. Jim dragged his gaze from the distant storm clouds and returned to reality. He crouched by the fire and used his knife to turn the slices of bacon over. That done he moved to his saddle and slid the Winchester rifle from the scuffed leather scabbard. Sitting cross-legged on the grass he stripped the rifle down, checked the action, and reassembled the weapon. When he’d completed the task he suddenly became very conscious of what he’d just done. He laid the rifle on the grass beside him. For a moment he wondered just what the hell he was doing. He was no lawman. No trained officer. He was a working cowhand. Not a man-hunter ...

  Then he remembered why he was here. It came back with a jolt, and Jim felt his anger rise again. As it had been doing with regularity ever since he’d heard about the raid on the Sweetwater bank. The trouble was it had been over and done with a day and a half before Jim managed to ride into Sweetwater and talk to Sheriff Tyree.

  Tyree had been pretty considerate even though he was in fair pain from the bullet that had been fired through his left leg during the raid on Sweetwater’s bank. Because that was what had happened. A man named Luke Parsons — an outlaw wanted throughout the territory — had brought his gang into Sweetwater, walked into the bank and out again with over 40,000 dollars. During the robbery they shot and killed one of the bank’s tellers, and also shot Tyree. Yet they hadn’t got away completely untouched. Despite being down in the street and losing a lot of blood, Tyree had still been able to put a bullet into one of Parsons’ men. Jim had been out riding herd on a big bunch of cattle on the north pasture of the AK spread when news had reached him about the robbery. Asking one of the crew to stand in for him Jim had gone straight to the AK house and had a word with Al Keenan, the man he worked for. Then he’d ridden for Sweetwater and Sheriff Tyree’s office.

  ‘Ease off, Jim,’ Tyree had said.

  Jim had stood glaring up at Tyree from the street. Sweetwater’s lawman was sitting in a cane-backed chair that had been placed in the bright sunlight on the boardwalk outside the jail. Tyree sat nursing his aching leg, wishing the damn pain would go away; the town doctor had dug the bullet out but Tyree could have sworn the pain was worse now than it had been at the time the thing had gone in.

  ‘You in the mood for takin’ some advice?’ Tyree asked finally.

  ‘No — but I figure you’re going to hand some out anyway.’

  Tyree sighed. Under normal circumstances Jim Travis was an approachable, easy-natured individual. It was said in Sweetwater that Jim Travis was the one man nobody could ever get mad at. Tyree reckoned he was getting close to changing that right there and then.

  ‘Look, Jim, I know how you feel … ’

  ‘The hell you do!’ Jim exploded. He snatched off his hat and slapped it against his leg in a moment of pure frustration.

  Tyree watched him pace back and forth in front of the jail and decided to leave him to it. Let him work off some of that steam.

  It was the best way to calm him down...

  ‘Three thousand dollars,’ Jim said suddenly. He spun on his heel and thrust out an arm, fingers stabbing in Tyree’s direction. ‘You know how long it’s taken me to save that money, Sam?’

  Tyree knew. Something like five years. Five long years of Jim Travis’s life. Hard, back-breaking years. Herding cattle. Riding fence winter and summer. Trailing bawling herds across endless dusty miles to some distant market. Beneath a hot sun. Through rain and snow. Five years of that, plus taking on every extra chore that came along if it would add to his slowly mounting savings.

  ‘Damnit, Sam, it’s a hell of a piece of money to lose,’ Jim said bitterly. He turned and stared across the street, narrowing his eyes against the hot glare of the sun slanting in over the rooftops. He was looking at the bank. Empty and deserted now, its big front window a black square, the big pane of ornately decorated glass shattered by a stray bullet during the robbery.

  ‘You standing and staring at that bank ain’t going to get it back, Jim.’

  ‘I know that, Sam.’ Jim moved and sat on the edge of the boardwalk. Again he glared at the lawman, and then just as quickly his lean brown face softened and he smiled. ‘Hell, Sam, I’m sorry. You’re the last one I should be taking it out on.’

  ‘Makes you feel any better, you go right ahead,’ Tyree said.

  ‘Trouble is it doesn’t,’ Jim admitted.r />
  Tyree glanced along the street. He watched a dark-suited figure approaching. ‘Now here comes another unhappy man.’

  Jim raised his head and recognized Henry Sutton, the man who owned Sweetwater’s bank.

  ‘Sam,’ Sutton said as he strode up to the boardwalk. He was a big man, running to fat. He always dressed well, exuding an aura of wealth and solidarity; now both the qualities seemed to have left him; he looked tired, confused, and Jim thought he looked frightened.

  ‘What did the US Marshal’s office have to say?’ Tyree asked.

  Sutton dragged a crumpled telegraph slip from his pocket. He held it up and shook it in Tyree’s face. ‘They sympathize but can’t send us anyone down for at least a week. I ask you, Sam, what good is a week? Parsons and his bunch will have vanished long before that. So much for the law.’

  Jim caught the hard expression that came into Tyree’s eyes. For a moment he was sure Tyree was going to get up out of his seat. But the moment passed.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Jim asked.

  Sutton glanced at him as if he’d only just become aware of Jim’s presence. ‘We?’ he asked.

  ‘Jim had three thousand dollars in your bank,’ Tyree said quietly.

  ‘Of course,’ Sutton said. ‘Well, my boy, the way things seem to be going at the moment I’m afraid your three thousand dollars looks like vanishing along with the rest of the bank’s money.’

  ‘You forget about it just like that?’

  Sutton stared at him as if Jim had sprouted horns. ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘Organize a posse or something to go after Parsons and his boys. Get the money back.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Sutton smiled indulgently. ‘Jesus, Sam, I do believe he is.’

  Tyree studied Jim’s face. ‘Oh, he’s serious, Henry.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,’ Sutton said.

  ‘Maybe you can afford to lose three thousand dollars,’ Jim said. ‘Mister, I can’t. I’ve put too many years into getting that money. I don’t intend sitting round watching it vanish into thin air.’

  ‘Most all of the town has lost money, too, boy.’

  ‘That supposed to make it right? Something needs to be done. And done now.’

  ‘Travis, if you’re so determined to get your money back I suggest you chase after Parsons’ bunch and get it back yourself.’

  Tyree could have hit Sutton for saying that. He saw the stubborn gleam shine in Jim’s eyes. The set of his jaw. The banker had said the wrong thing at the wrong time.

  Without another word Jim turned away. He gathered the reins of his horse and climbed into the saddle. Easing the animal’s head round he moved off up the street and out of town.

  Tyree was in his office late that night. He had his seat in front of the pot-belly stove in a corner of the cluttered room. The glow from the stove was lulling Tyree to sleep as he sat there with a mug of hot coffee in his hands.

  The door opened and Jim Travis stepped inside. He crossed to the stove and helped himself to a mug of coffee.

  ‘Something you want?’ Tyree asked. ‘Apart from my coffee.’

  ‘Tell me all you know about Parsons’ bunch.’

  ‘Damn me,’ Tyree said. ‘I knew it. You stubborn son of a bitch. Can’t let it go, can you?’

  ‘If you were me, Sam, would you let it go?’

  The question silenced Tyree for a moment. He knew the answer only too well. ‘They’re a mean bunch, Jim.’

  ‘I figured that much for myself.’

  ‘I don’t just mean hard men. Those fellers who ride with Parsons are the worst kind, Jim. They’ve killed a lot of people. Women as well as men. Life doesn’t have much value for them. They’ll kill a man soon as look at him. Last thing they ever think about is having a reason for killing a feller.’

  ‘Sam, I’m nervous enough about this without you trying to scare me off. So quit it will you!’

  Tyree swallowed the rest of his coffee. He stared at the glow of flame showing through the stove’s half-open door. He could feel Jim’s eyes on him and knew he was expected to offer some kind of help. Which made it all the harder. He liked Jim Travis, and it didn’t sit easy being asked to advise on what might turn out to be downright dangerous.

  ‘Look, Sam, I’m going whether you help me or not. It might be pure foolishness to everyone in this town, and I’m liable to get my head shot off doing it — but, Sam, I’d be a sight deader if I just sat back and forgot it. Three thousand dollars and five years is just too much to let go.’

  ‘All right, Jim’ Tyree said, knowing when he’d been outflanked. ‘Sit down. It ain’t a deal but I’ll tell you what I know about Parsons and his bunch.’

  ~*~

  The smell of brewing coffee brought Jim back to his lonely camp. He reached for the pot and lifted it from the fire, swearing softly as the hot handle seared his fingers. He wouldn’t allow himself to put the pot down until he’d filled his tin mug; it was one of Jim’s traits; a constant proving to himself of his own inner strength; a need for personal reassurance of his ability to survive in a hard and unrelenting world. Jim had been a survivor from an early age. Both his folks had died when he was five years old, and until he was old enough to earn his living, Jim had been passed back and forth between local families; there had been some good times, but in the main Jim had gone through a rough period. It had been a milestone in his life the day he’d signed on with a passing trail herd. From that day on Jim had become independent. He earned his keep and made it a rule never to become beholden to any man. He took to the miserable existence that was the lot of the drover as if he’d been born with a catch-rope between his teeth. After a few years drifting from outfit to outfit Jim had signed on with the AK crew, working for Al Keenan. The spread was situated a few miles from the town of Sweetwater. The job was as steady as any to be found in those days, and Jim had stayed ...

  Scooping crisp bacon from the pan Jim ate slowly, working out his plans for the following day. He hoped the rain held off. Once or twice he’d almost lost the fading trail; he needed all the luck he could get to stay with those tracks. A wry smile edged Jim’s mouth — he needed a hell of a lot more than just luck. He finished eating, drained the pot of coffee, and cleaned and cleared away his utensils. Before he turned in he checked that his horse was settled. Wrapping himself in his blanket Jim dragged his slicker over the top in case the rain did come during the night.

  The morning he’d ridden out of Sweetwater there’d been a number of spectators, including Henry Sutton. Jim ignored the whole sorry bunch. As far as he was concerned they weren’t there. He was still mad as hell with them after the way some of them had rounded on him in the saloon the night before. They’d gone and called him a troublemaker. Making them look scared because they wouldn’t do anything about going after Parsons and his bunch. They had families. Wives. Kids. Businesses to run. It wasn’t their responsibility to go chasing outlaws all over creation. When Jim had pointed out that they’d had money taken too, well, that had only got them even more worked up. The argument had got wilder. The accusations stronger. It had ended when Jim had stalked off out of the saloon, saying they could all go to hell, but he wasn’t letting any damn outlaw ride off with his hard-earned cash, so he’d go and get it back by himself.

  In the cold light of day the memory of his rash statement left Jim more than a little nervous. He was no lawman. No gunfighter. He’d never drawn his gun in anger against another human being. So what the hell was he doing getting set to chase off into the hills all by himself?

  ‘Jim, you go careful now,’ Tyree had said. He was standing on the edge of the boardwalk, outside the jail, Leaning heavily on a thick stick. ‘Just remember what I told you about those fellers who ride with Parsons. Don’t tangle with ’em ’less you have to. And if you get yourself in a corner don’t stop to think about using your gun. Just use it, boy, and make damn sure you shoot straight.’

  Settling in his cold saddle Ji
m had nodded to Tyree. He took up his reins. ‘Thanks, Sam,’ he’d said quietly.

  Tyree had stared at him for a long moment, his eyes searching Jim’s face. Then he inclined his head slightly. ‘You’ll do, boy.’

  ‘See you, Sam,’ Jim had said, touching his horse’s sides. He’d ridden slowly out of Sweetwater, looking straight ahead, back rigid and wondering if he’d ever see the town again.

  Chapter Three

  He was up and riding by the time daylight drove the shadows off the timbered slopes. Picking up the trail Jim followed it across high meadows and through a deep canyon that cut a ragged gash in the flank of the mountain. The canyon opened out onto a wide valley. On the far side of grass and timber Jim caught a glimpse of water sparkling in the crystal air. He drew rein and let his horse rest while he took in the scene before him. It was one of those awesome panoramas a man was apt to come upon in this unspoiled land; a vista of sheer beauty that took the breath away. He looked on the great tract of land, and he knew that somewhere he’d find a place like this and he’d take it for his own. It was his dream. The driving force that kept him going — that would keep him going until he got back the money he’d sweated for all those years.

  Jim eased his horse down the long slope that would take him to the valley floor. He leaned back slightly in his saddle as the slope steepened. The warm sun burned through the back of his shirt. He caught the scent of pollen in the air. In the near distance he could even hear the heavy droning of a bee. It was that quiet. Almost as if he was the only human within a hundred miles.