Diehard Read online

  Betterman quirked a lip in what might have been mistaken as a half-smile, ‘Yeah, and we’re still losing,’ he agreed gloomily.

  ‘Aw!’ Carter went on, reaching out and picking a lighted stick from the fire for his cigarette. ‘It wasn’t out of any conviction for the cause on our part, you understand? Just so happened it was the first bunch we ran into. A whole battalion of Confederate troops that looked so fine and dandy, well me and Lorn here, just wanted to be a part of it. That’s right, isn’t it, Lorn?’

  Betterman nodded dumbly, a certain hardness coming into his features that set gradually into a grim mask of displeasure.

  Carter caught the look, ‘Old Lorn there, he didn’t do too well out of the conflict,’ he confided, puffing smoke into the air.

  ‘No, I certain didn’t,’ said Betterman in a low bitter voice. ‘My brother got hisself crippled when they shot his leg off at Vicksburg, then my sister was set on and misused by a party of Federal troops and got herself made pregnant with some Union brat who’s daddy nobody knows.’

  ‘Even his folks was killed by canister shot whilst out working their fields one day. Both of them brought down together, side-by-side as his daddy ploughed and his ma laid seed. Though, Lord knows why they was busy in the fields with one hell of a battle going on, just obstinate I guess. Lorn’s a Virginia man, you see? He tried to hold out for his rightful property but they strung him up at a rope’s end, that’s why he’s kinda rusty in the speech. They done stole his farm out from under him when them carpetbaggers came calling, between those fellas and the Union troops almost stretching his neck, it ain’t left Lorn with much more than a discontented disposition. Has it, partner?’

  Betterman shook his head savagely, the skin on his sallow face twitching.

  ‘That’s too bad,’ said Diehard solicitously.

  ‘How about you?’ asked Carter. ‘You serve?’

  ‘No, I was but a babe at the time.’

  Given what had been said Diehard thought it wiser not to mention his father’s service.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ sighed Carter. ‘I see now, you is a young fellow. The shadows hid your features there for a while.’

  ‘You ain’t got a strip of bacon and some beans to spare, has you?’ asked Betterman, taking on a more servile look and scratching in amongst his thick mustache. ‘We ain’t had a bite for two days.’

  ‘There’s a slab and a skillet in the saddlebags yonder, go help yourself.’

  ‘Mighty kind of you,’ beamed Carter. ‘Go get it, Lorn. I’m so hungry I could eat one of them fine horses you got there, Mister Diehard. That is a masterful string, sure enough.’

  ‘Uhuh,’ Diehard agreed. ‘Broke them to the saddle myself, they are a sweet bunch, indeed they are.’

  ‘You own them or your boss at the Leaning-T?’

  ‘No, I quit the ranch. They is all mine.’

  Carter sucked smoke and clicked his teeth, ‘Sure are fine beasts.’

  It was Betterman that struck him first. Coming up behind from the saddlebags and hitting him across the skull with the small iron skillet Diehard carried.

  ‘Holy Mother!’ moaned a stunned Diehard, sagging forward on hands and knees dazedly.

  ‘She won’t help you now,’ cried Carter with a laugh as he jumped to his feet and swung a boot in Diehard’s ribs. ‘Go to it, Lorn. Hit him again.’

  They laid into Diehard with a vengeance. The cowboy had no chance to recover as blow followed hard blow. His rifle was wrenched from his grip and Carter commenced swinging the butt like a bat against Diehard who had barely managed to curl himself into a protective fetal ball his feet scrabbling in the dust.

  ‘Whoo-ee!’ panted Carter. ‘Feels good, don’t it, Lorn?’

  ‘Goddamned Yankee son of a bitch,’ growled Betterman, kicking Diehard hard in the back. ‘I can smell them Union dogs from a mile away.’

  Diehard tried to crawl away but with Carter’s crazy chuckling and Betterman’s wild roaring following, the two hounded the cowboy, lashing out at him until Diehard felt his head spinning into a darkness deeper than the night around them. Lights flashed and stars fell and Diehard knew no more.

  Later.

  The pain was absolute when he came to.

  The sky lurched and through eyes crusted and stuck with dried blood, Diehard saw it was daylight. His head was ringing with an endless whine and his mouth dry, the lips pasted together.

  He tried to move, to roll over but the sharp pains in his side and back made it an agony.

  The sun was burning him and he tried to bury his face in the dry sand to avoid the heat but he blacked out as he did so.

  Losing all sense of time he lay there, waiting for he knew not what. A trickle of feeling in his fingers, then a sudden sharp course of pain that ran down the side of his right leg brought him awake. It was all a blur when he came around again but he noted it was dark once more. Nighttime and bitterly cold.

  Diehard shivered and as his shaking body responded to the chill and he felt the pain of his wounds all over again. He lifted his head and looked at the cold embers of the fire, long gone out now. His throat craved water and his mouth had lost all sense of taste, only the crumbling flakes of dried blood etched the edge of his lips.

  With a lurch he rolled himself over on his back and blinked his eyes open.

  Nothing.

  He was alone.

  His guns and saddle were all gone, only the churned dust remained to show what had happened in the base of the draw.

  With slow effort, Diehard pulled himself upright on one elbow, his head swimming as he struggled to remain conscious. To take his mind off it he felt his body to see what was broken and what functioning.

  Bizarrely, he felt the need to piss and with fumbling fingers he unbuttoned and, still lying on his side, he relieved himself into the dust. It burned and he was sure that he was streaming blood along with the urine.

  He heard a snuffle and whicker and looked up to see the dark outline of Herido standing silent and patient at the edge of the draw.

  Hell! Thought Diehard, the pony came back to me. There was a string of frayed rope around the horse’s neck and he could tell the animal had broken free.

  ‘They took the others, huh?’ croaked Diehard. ‘I am one dumb mother letting those scoundrels ride in. Should have known better.’

  Diehard saw that Herido still bore a saddle and although the rifle scabbard was empty a canteen hung from the saddle horn. With a degree of effort, he dragged himself to his feet, wavering unsteadily as he did so. With eager hands he pulled off the canteen and drank.

  ‘Bless you, pony,’ he said, patting the horse affectionately. ‘I reckon maybe you saved my life.’

  The sky was lightening with the coming dawn and holding himself upright by hanging onto the saddle Diehard looked around at the ravaged campsite. Nothing was left of his possessions or his string of horses; the two men had cleaned him out of his saddlebags and weapons and left him for dead.

  ‘Nothing for it,’ said Diehard, catching hold of the saddle and dragging himself up in an attempt to mount. ‘Lord!’ he sighed as the pain struck. ‘Busted my ribs, I reckon.’

  It took him five painful attempts but finally Diehard managed to get aboard.

  ‘Okay, boy,’ he whispered to the horse. ‘Let’s go see if we can make it to town.’

  Chapter Three

  Prentice Bridge had little to say for itself.

  It was a small township alongside a low range of undulating green and forested hills from where a creek ran down to a run-off at the outskirts. The only claim to fame for the place was its situation on the Butterfield Stagecoach route as a swing station and also as a stopover watering hole for passing covered wagon trains and freighters. The town owned the luxury of a sheriff, although he was only a part-time official, the rest of his time being spent managing a small timber sawmill up in the hills.

  The main trail into town was a wide and dusty flat road with a row of adobe brick and wood built structures a
long one side paralleling the line of hills, the other side being populated by a few shacks and the stagecoach stable yard, corral and manager’s living quarters. A hotel and false fronted saloon stood proudly as the largest construction amidst the upper stretch and they stood next to a trade goods store, a barber’s shop and bathhouse tent.

  When Diehard limped in, he was hung over the saddle and barely conscious. The street was empty and he allowed Herido to take him up to the porch steps of the saloon before coming to a halt. Diehard registered that he should dismount and climb the steps but he never made it beyond that initial decision, his battered body took over and he slid from the saddle and landed with a thump in the dust with one boot still stuck in the stirrup. He lay there, only dimly conscious whilst a curious yellow dog came up and sniffed at him intrusively until Herido jerked his head, snorted and stepped sideways scaring the hound away.

  Then there were voices and Diehard made out the squeak of unoiled hinges as a door swung open then banged shut. Shouts followed and he groaned as helping hands came under his body and lifted him up. Cool shade fell across him as they carried him inside, and there was the noisy sound of men talking loudly but their words were indistinguishable. A woman’s voice rose high giving direction and he felt himself laid out on a hard tabletop of some kind.

  It was a blissful moment for Diehard. A sense of security washed over him, he was safe at last and he allowed his aching body to give in to the sensation and as he relaxed he slipped away into a deep restorative sleep.

  ‘You awake, mister?’

  Someone was prodding his arm and Diehard blinked his eyes open.

  ‘I see you are with us again, young fella.’

  The man who leaned over him was a burly, rustic looking fellow with solid clean-shaven features, and wearing a chewed out straw sombrero over a head of short-cut white hair. He wore a large sagging bandana the color of mud hanging over a check shirtfront with a tarnished tin star dangling at the breast.

  ‘You got a name, boy?’ he asked.

  Dazedly, Diehard looked around the room. It was small and wood lined, sparsely furnished with a window looking out over a stand of juniper trees. Timber was the main part of everything and it all appeared to be the creation of a single carpenter’s hand, a chair and side table stood nearby fashioned from rough cut wood but spliced and neatly joined with wooden pegs. The plank and panel-sided bed he lay in held a soft mattress under his back and was covered by clean sheets and a plump quilt.

  Diehard tried to speak and when the words would not come he cleared his throat ‘Diehard, some call me Diehard. Howdy, Sheriff, was it you who brought me here?’

  ‘No, sir, that would be my daughter, Aileen. I’m Sheriff John Baldwin, this here’s our home and I’m right pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Likewise and I’m sure obliged to you and your daughter for taking me in.’

  ‘Looks like you had a hard time of it, Mister Diehard. What happened?’

  ‘Was half a day’s ride east when a couple of road agents stole my string and beat me near to death.’

  ‘They sure did that,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Busted you up real fine. You got a name for them owlhoots.’

  ‘Only what they told me, they was going by the names of Aaron Carter and Lorn Betterman. I had six fine horses and a saddle pony they took and everything else I owned, some pay I had in my poke and stuff that was in my saddlebags. Took my guns too.’

  ‘How long back was this?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, two, maybe three days.’

  ‘I’ll ride out and see what I can find but I reckon they’ll be long gone by now. We ain’t got the telegraph here yet awhile so I can only pass on word down the line by the stage when she comes in. Tell me what these ponies of yours looked like and I’ll spread the word.’

  Diehard tried to lift himself up but a sharp pain ran around his ribs and he realized that he was bound there in tight bandages.

  ‘Best not move about just yet,’ Baldwin advised. ‘My daughter ain’t no doctor but she’s the best we got around here and she reckons you got some cracked ribs in there.’

  ‘Sure feels like it,’ agreed Diehard.

  ‘That and a few knocks, scratches, cuts and bruises that are just about turning you into a nice shade of plum yellow,’ Baldwin chuckled. ‘Tell the truth you look ripe enough to eat.’

  Diehard rubbed his face ruefully and could feel the swelling and a row of stitches along his brow, ‘And Herido, my horse?’

  ‘He’s fine; Aileen and him are getting along right nice. I reckon they’ve taken a real liking to each other.’

  ‘That pony saved my skin, broke away from the others and came back to get me. How long have I been here, Sheriff?’

  ‘Three days now.’

  ‘Holy Mackerel! Well I’m real grateful to you and your daughter for all you’ve done, sir.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, what’s a body worth if he can’t help a fellow soul in trouble.’

  The door opened and a young woman bearing a tray bumped her way in. She was a square featured and serious faced girl with glossy russet colored hair that tumbled loose around her shoulders. A slender built creature that filled out the front of her buttoned dress nicely and her keen brown eyes settled on Diehard as she stepped in.

  ‘So the patient’s come back to us I see,’ she said, tilting her head to one side as she studied him.

  ‘My daughter, Aileen,’ introduced Baldwin. ‘This here is Mister Diehard, but what you got there, daughter?’

  ‘I reckon the gentleman needed a shave so I borrowed your cutthroat, hope that’s okay, Pa?’

  ‘Sure thing, you see to it. I’d better hustle out and see what I can find at Mister Diehard’s campsite. Leave you two to it, I’ll see you later, young fella.’

  Diehard nodded his thanks and the Sheriff went out closing the door gently behind him.

  ‘Now then,’ said Aileen, setting her tray down on the small table beside the bed. ‘Let’s see if we can get some of that fuzz off your face.’

  ‘Aw, you don’t have to do that, ma’am. I can do it myself if’n you got a mirror’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Aileen firmly. ‘You just lie still, you’ve got some healing to do and moving around won’t help it none.’

  ‘I have to thank you,’ said Diehard. ‘Your pa said you done the doctoring.’

  ‘Lucky I was in town when I was,’ she said, busying herself with the tray. ‘Have to say you were a real mess, Mister Diehard. Burnt up by the sun and with all those wounds. I reckon we got that goose grease on your skin just in time to save your hide from peeling off.’

  ‘My given name’s Charlie Wexford, ma’am. Be pleased if you’d use it.’

  ‘Very well, Charlie. Can you lift your chin a little and I’ll get this cloth under you.’

  Diehard studied her as she lathered his chin and it amused him to see her frown of intent as she spread the soapy foam with a brush, careful not to cover his mouth or get any up his nose.

  ‘You done this before?’ Diehard asked querulously as he saw her gingerly unfold the sharp cutthroat razor.

  ‘Not so you’d notice,’ she sniffed. ‘Can’t be that hard, I reckon.’

  ‘Just that I got more than enough cuts already.’

  He saw the twinkle in her eye as she recognized his joshing, ‘I’ll be real careful,’ she promised.

  As she scraped away the foam and bristle, Diehard could smell her hair next to his face, it was clean and had a scent of freshness about it. He noted her fine peachy skin free of blemish and thought she was a real dandy looking female.

  ‘This is good of you, ma’am.’

  ‘Aileen, please,’ she said. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Robbers, came on my camp friendly like, then they beat on me when my back was turned and took all I owned.’

  She tutted, concentrating hard on the shave, ‘That’s too bad. You’d think we had enough trouble here already what with the Indians.’

  ‘I
reckon they was boys that had a hard time during the war. Left them full of meanness, I guess.’

  She sighed, ‘There’s sure enough of that around.’

  Aileen finished up and wiped him clean, sitting back smiling with satisfaction.

  ‘How’s that look?’ Diehard asked.

  ‘Well, aside from the fact you’re all the bruised colors of the rainbow; it looks a sight better I reckon. Now can you manage something to eat?’

  He watched as she collected her tray and got up from the edge of the bed. Diehard found himself wishing she was not leaving and was sorry to feel her weight leave his side.

  ‘Tell the truth, Aileen. I am real hungry.’

  ‘Good sign,’ she smiled. ‘You’ll be up and about soon enough.’

  A few days later, Diehard could stand lying in bed no longer and despite Aileen’s complaint he rose and dressed with difficulty. It was only then that he realized that it must have been Aileen who stripped him as his clothes had been washed and smelt of outdoors from the drying. It embarrassed him somewhat to know she had seen him buck naked but also sent a little thrill of excitement running through his blood. Secretly he wished he had been awake to enjoy the experience.

  By hanging onto the walls for support, Diehard managed to stumble out of the room and made his way outside onto the veranda where he collapsed onto a handmade easy chair. Everything about the place he could see had been hand-manufactured from wood. The house itself was a single story log cabin with a slanting bark tiled roof. There were a few chickens running about and Diehard heard the sound of hogs and the lowing of a milk cow coming from the barn.

  ‘You’re going to tire yourself some, you know that?’ scolded Aileen coming out to join him. She held a bowl in her hands and commenced shelling peas as she sat beside him.

  ‘You run this place all on your own?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty much,’ she allowed. ‘Pa’s either working up at the mill or running some kind of errand as the town sheriff.’