Talman's War (A Piccadilly Publishing Western #9) Read online

  ‘It’s a start,’ Jim said. He glanced across at Jacobs. ‘It’s ours, Andy. Nobody takes Rocking-T. Nobody.’

  It took them a few short minutes to catch up with Callender and Keel. Jim told them the situation in a few short sentences, his eyes alert for their reaction, and when it came he was not disappointed.

  ‘Are you asking if we want to ride out?’ Callender inquired.

  ‘I want you to know what you’ll be facing if you stay on with Rocking-T,’ Jim told him.

  ‘We didn’t expect we were going to be joining an old maids’ tea-party, Mr. Talman,’ Josh Keel said abruptly.

  Callender smiled dryly. ‘Josh don’t say a deal, but when he does it generally makes sense.’ He drew rein on his restless horse. ‘Hell, Jim, I ain’t run from trouble in all my life, and when I sign for a brand it goes for the rough as well as the smooth.’

  Jim nodded his thanks and swung his horse’s head around, aiming for home. He gigged his mount forward, the others falling in behind.

  About half the crew were at the ranch when Jim got back. Dust lay in a grey-white cloud above the corral as fresh mounts were exchanged for the worn-out ones that had been on the go since morning; men swore and sweated in the blazing heat as horses played up and refused to be roped and saddled. The heat was getting to men and animals alike. It was getting worse, not better, Jim thought as he dismounted. He tied his horse to the hitching-post and took Ruth’s packages with him as he turned towards the house.

  ‘Andy,’ he called, and when his ramrod joined him he said, ‘Get the boys together. Let them know what’s happened. And pick a couple of handy riflemen for the first watch at the spring. I’ll be with you in a while.’

  Jacobs nodded. Jim watched him tramp across the dusty yard, calling out orders as he went, and he was glad he had the blocky, tough man on his side.

  He went into the house, with the realization that he now had to tell Ruth what had happened, and what might follow. He didn’t doubt that she’d stick by him, for whatever came to hand Ruth would be by his side every step of the way. He knew though that she would worry, and worry could hurt just as much as physical violence.

  Ruth was in the kitchen making butter. She glanced up from her labors as he came in, ducking his head to avoid the top of the doorframe. She was struck, as she often was, by his likeness to his late father; like John Talman had been, Jim was a big man, tall, with the powerful but spare build of a born and bred cattleman; he had the hip-lean, wide-shouldered hardness of a lifelong horseman. Ruth liked to believe Jim was a handsome man, but in reflective moments she had to admit his features marked him as homely good-looking rather than handsome. But there was something in his strong face that lent him a maturity his years might not warrant.

  As he paused in the doorway Ruth saw the worry etched deep in his eyes; he was trying to hide it, but his eyes gave him away, and Ruth knew him too well to be fooled. Wiping her hands on her apron she rounded the table and put her hand on his arm. ‘Jim, what’s happened?’

  Jim put the packages on the table, then crossed to the stove. He poured a cup of coffee and sugared it.

  Her voice edged with impatience, Ruth repeated her question. She stood before him, eyes fixed on him firmly, waiting for him to speak.

  ‘Olsen moved against us this morning. He damned up the creek at the spring and turned it down his side of the hill.’

  ‘He has our water?’

  ‘He had,’ Jim said. ‘Andy found out what was going on. He got the drop on Olsen’s men and made them tear the dam down so we got our water back.’

  ‘That isn’t all though, is it?’ Ruth asked. ‘Is it?’

  Jim shook his head. ‘One of Olsen’s men tried to outshoot Andy. He didn’t make it. Andy killed him.’

  ‘Oh no. Jim, poor Andy.’ Ruth fought back the panic that was threatening to rise. ‘Is Andy all right?’

  ‘He figures that if we get pulled into a range war it’ll be his doing.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, Jim. What else could he have done if he was in danger of being shot himself? He must see that.’

  ‘I told him the same.’ Jim refilled his cup. ‘But you know how he feels about the place. He’d do anything rather than be the cause of any trouble for Rocking-T.’

  ‘Are we going to have trouble, Jim?’

  Jim put his coffee down. The drink had somehow lost its taste.

  ‘I think we are, Ruth,’ he told her, and he suddenly knew it was the truth.

  Chapter Seven

  Philip Olsen stood motionless on the porch of Boxed-O’s main house and watched as the body of the man called Red was carried away. Olsen’s smoothly-handsome face was dark with barely-concealed anger. Though some of that anger was directed towards the man who had killed Red, the greater part was channeled in the direction of this abrupt and violent opposition to his first move of what was intended to be the complete takeover of Rocking-T. He had bided his time and had planned as close as he could. True, he had expected Rocking-T to fight back, but the way it had come had been a shock to him. It meant one thing to Philip Olsen — a direct rejection of his power, of his potential threat to Rocking-T’s existence. It showed that Rocking-T was prepared to fight it out all the way, and if that was the case, Olsen decided, Jim Talman was going to find himself in the middle of hell on earth.

  ‘Frank, come into the house,’ Olsen called to his foreman, Frank Spode, then turned and went inside without waiting.

  Spode hesitated momentarily, glancing at an upstairs window where he’d seen the lace-curtain move. He dragged his gaze away from the window and forced himself into the house, hat in hand. His boots made loud sounds on the hard, polished wood floor, and he became conscious of his dusty, sun-bleached clothing. Spode paused in the wide entrance-hall, wondering where Olsen had gone.

  ‘In here, Frank.’ Olsen stood in the doorway of the small room that served as his office.

  As Spode turned to join him he saw movement at the head of the long stairway that led to the upper floor. He jerked his head that way, and saw Olsen’s wife, Victorene, watching him.

  She was wearing a thin white robe over her firm, young body and her thick, red-gold hair was loose about her shoulders. Spode threw a swift glance towards Olsen’s study. The Boxed-O owner was pouring whisky into thick glasses. Spode put up a hand and waved Victorene away. Here and now was not the place nor the time. He swore under his breath. If his feelings for Victorene were not as strong as they really were she could soon become a damned nuisance. As it was they took a risk every time they met. The fact that they loved each other would amount to less than nothing if Olsen ever found out. Spode pushed his thoughts of Victorene to the back of his mind as he strode into Olsen’s office, closing the door behind him. He suddenly realized there was sweat on his palms.

  Olsen handed him a filled glass. ‘Sit down, Frank.’

  Perched on the edge of a hard-backed chair Spode toyed with his glass, waiting for his employer to speak.

  Olsen took his time. He began to pace up and down behind his big oak desk, his own drink forgotten in his large, thick-fingered hand. Spode got the impression of a huge, caged animal sizing up the limitations of its prison. As Olsen moved the powerful muscles in his jaw worked violently; it was the giveaway sign of Olsen’s agitation, and anyone who knew him thought wise to tread wary at this tell-tale sign. To incur Olsen’s wrath was to dance with the very devil, for the man had a brutal, explosive temper when aroused.

  Abruptly Olsen dropped into the leather-padded chair behind his desk and stared hard at Spode. ‘I want every man to go fully armed and ready for action from here on in.’

  Despite himself, Spode said, ‘It figures.’ He hadn’t wanted to say too much at this point. But his feelings were strong, and he knew that it would have to come out before too long. The truth was that Frank Spode opposed Olsen’s ideas. To his way of thinking Boxed-O was big enough for any man. Olsen was just plain greedy. Spode had seen that greed grow over the past few years and the re
alization had always left him with an uncomfortable feeling. Spode was a cattleman, not a land grabber; his trade was ranching, not carrying a gun for hire. The pattern of life at Boxed-O had changed from that of a working-ranch to a heavily-armed camp of gun-handy roughriders. Spode had gotten heartily sick of it. He’d kept strictly to his own job of running the ranch, but the fact that he was foreman meant that he was involved in whatever Olsen decided to do. He tolerated it, but he was at the end of his patience. Spode knew that it was only Victorene who kept him at Boxed-O now. But if a range war was on the way he wanted nothing of it, and knew he had to get Victorene and himself out.

  ‘You don’t exactly sound enthusiastic,’ Olsen said, and there was a hard edge to his voice.

  Spode faced him squarely. ‘If you want it straight I’m not.’ Now the time had come he found that the words came easy.

  Olsen stiffened. The knuckles of the hand that held his glass went white with tension. ‘You feel like explaining?’

  ‘I’m a cattleman, Mr. Olsen, not a gunfighter. I’ve worked for you as a cattleman but I won’t work as a hired gun, or a man who has to mix with the kind of scum you’re hiring these days.’ He raised his glass and drained it. ‘I don’t figure it to bother you, but you carry the blame for Red being killed today. Hell, do you expect Jim Talman to hand Rocking-T over to you without a fight? What went off today is just what I expected. You’ve no legitimate quarrel with Talman.’

  ‘You think not?’ Olsen arched forward in his chair.

  Spode pushed to his feet, surprised at his own calmness. He placed his empty glass on the desk. ‘Mr. Olsen, you’re a greedy man. You figure that if you see something you want all you have to do is reach out and take it. Boxed-O is big enough for any man — but not you. Trouble with being greedy is that a man never knows when to stop.’ Spode turned to go, then stopped. ‘I figure Jim Talman to give you a fight you won’t forget, and he might just beat you.’

  Olsen’s fury was suddenly plain to see in his eyes, in the set of his mouth. He came up out of his chair. ‘Spode, you’re fired. Collect your gear and get off Boxed-O. And stay off.’

  ‘I aim to,’ Spode told him. ‘You can send my money to the bank in town.’ He turned then and walked out of the room and out of the house. Crossing the yard he went into the bunkhouse and began to pack his belongings. Suddenly he wanted to be away from Boxed-O. Victorene was strong in his thoughts, but he would have to be patient and wait his chance to see her. Once she found out he’d left she would get word to him.

  Philip Olsen was still in his office when Spode rode out a half-hour later.

  He watched his ex-foreman go without a flicker of emotion on his face. His mind was already at work on deciding who to give Spode’s job to.

  Olsen spent some time alone with his thoughts and the decanter of whisky. When he finally emerged from the study he left the decanter empty. The whisky had done nothing to improve his disposition, for his anger had turned sour, leaving him sullen and bitter.

  He made his way upstairs, slightly unsteady. He wasn’t certain why he was going upstairs, and at the head of the stairs he paused before turning to the main bedroom. The door stood half open and Olsen was able to see into the room before he went in.

  Victorene was seated before the ornate, gilded dressing-table, brushing her hair before the huge oval mirror. Olsen was struck, as always, by her strong womanly attractiveness, her unintentional sensuality. She was the kind of woman who drew the admiration of any man who laid eyes on her.

  Olsen was unable to remember any man who hadn’t been caught that way on seeing her for the first time.

  It had been in a crowded ballroom, in Chicago, during his trip there to conclude a number of important negotiations; there had been prices to fix, delivery dates to agree on, and contracts to sign. When they had finally been signed Philip Olsen realized he was a made man. At the time he was also a tired man, and he had decided to stay on for a while. Rest and relaxation were what he needed. Chicago had provided both. He had allowed himself time to enjoy the bright lights and the nightlife of the city. His name and his connections opened doors for him and brought him a number of invitations. Olsen took to the dining out and the social mixing with ease. When the need arose he could be as charming and as pleasant as anyone. His name began to be recognized, so did his face, and he found he was constantly being bombarded with introductions to unattached young women. It dawned on him that he was on the marriage circuit. At first it amused him and he played along for the pleasure it brought him. Later, though, he began to consider the matter seriously. He realized that what he needed was a wife. A wife would complete his image, would help him socially if he chose carefully. He began to cast around for himself and almost before he knew it Victorene Clavell came into his life. The grand-daughter of a bank-president, she was beautiful and intelligent. She came into view one night at a civic ball at one of Chicago’s largest hotels. Olsen saw her and could not forget her. In the moment of seeing her he realized that this was the woman for him. He decided he wanted her, and as with everything he wanted, he went straight after her. In the forthright, blunt way of a born Westerner, he beat a path to her door and made his intentions clear. To his surprise, and pleasure, Victorene turned out to be fully receptive to his advances. Within a month he had courted and married her, and when he left Chicago he took with him the new mistress of Boxed-O.

  Once back among his own kind, however, Olsen slipped back into the old ways, the old habits, and Victorene, after the first flush of marriage, was left to assess her position. It soon became clear to her that things were not as romantic and wonderful as she had expected. She was not struck by the Western way of life. Nor did she particularly enjoy the changeable climate; it was either too hot or too cold, there never seemed to be any middle way. Olsen himself, she had found, was not all charm and politeness. Gone were the expensive clothes, the white gloves. Now he wore rough range clothes that smelt of horses and cattle and sweat. He often went about unshaven, grimy with dust, a huge gun strapped to his waist. Also, he was a clumsy, hard lover and Victorene dreaded nights when he would reach for her and pin her beneath his straining bulk. She longed for the times when he stayed out on the range with his men.

  Then Frank Spode made his appearance in her life. In essence he had been there all the time. As Olsen’s foreman he was in the house often, and Victorene saw him round the ranch every day. At first she hardly paid him any attention, but there came the time when her loneliness made her reach out for some alternative companionship. Spode himself had been taken by her at first sight. The constant nearness of her, yet the unbridgeable distance, made his life a near misery. He began to hunger for Victorene Olsen in a way he’d never hungered for a woman before. He was more than surprised when she began to show a considerable interest in him. Life suddenly took on a pleasant change for him, though he knew he was treading a dangerous ground. But no amount of worrying thought could change his feelings for Victorene, and there came the time when he revealed just how he felt about her. She was flattered and almost desperately responsive; responsive in a way Spode never believed possible. Their meetings had to be planned with great care, in secret, and though neither of them liked it this way there was nothing they could do about it. Until they could come to some solution, they realized, they would have to put up with the situation as it was.

  Olsen knew nothing of this, due to the discretion of his wife and her lover. She was still his wife, beautiful, and to him dutifully faithful, one of his prized possessions. But even he had become aware of a strained atmosphere when they were together. He had enough on his plate to contend with and Victorene, he realized, was becoming a liability, and a bore.

  Standing now in the bedroom door he watched his wife speculatively. She was unaware of his presence as she slipped her robe from her shoulders and began rubbing scented lotion into the milk-white firmness of her upper body. Olsen moved on into the room, pushing the door shut behind him.

  Victorene half-turned
as the door clicked into place. Her eyes were wide with brief alarm, her cheeks hotly red under the smooth skin. Her gaze faltered when it met Olsen’s hard stare and she lowered her eyes swiftly. Olsen dismissed this as nothing more than womanly shyness, for Victorene had a natural reluctance for exposing herself before him. This sometimes annoyed him, but he let it pass, contenting himself with her complete surrender once they were in bed and in the darkness.

  He watched her now, a faint smile on his lips. Victorene had raised her arms to cover her breasts, her body trembling.

  ‘Please don’t look at me that way, Philip,’ she said.

  ‘Why in hell not? You’re my wife aren’t you?’

  ‘It isn’t that.’

  Olsen belched noisily, the action leaving a sour taste in his mouth. ‘No, and it isn’t Chicago. For God’s sake, Victorene, quit this damned virgin maiden act. It isn’t as if you were a skinny, flat-chested baggage.’

  ‘Oh, Philip,’ she said, shocked.

  ‘Hellfire!’ Olsen grumbled, abruptly irritable; it was a combination of the whisky, which always took him this way, and the turn of events that had occurred within the past few hours. ‘Damn it, Victorene, stop playing so coy. A man wants a woman who knows what she’s got and how to use it, not a simpering female who daren’t even show her husband the color of her tits.’

  Victorene gasped, her face coloring hotly. ‘You disgusting animal,’ she said. ‘I won’t take that from anyone, let alone you.’ She was on her feet now, forgetting her nakedness in her anger. ‘Talk about wanting a woman do you — well what about me? Ever since I came here I’ve been waiting for a real man to share my bed with.’ Her voice rose. ‘Do you hear? A real man, not a clumsy, fumbling pig like you.’

  A fury rose in Olsen, born of pride and shame, for inside he knew her words were true, though he would never admit it, not even to himself in so many words. The fury swelled and grew, taking control of his thoughts and actions. He swung his big right hand up and hit Victorene across the face. Once, twice and then again.