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Lance Howard Nightmare Pass

CHAPTER ONE - RUE THE LASH

James Thorp eased his sorrel horse to a halt on the outskirts of the small town of Bethesda Falls, which nestled at the base of the mountain’s foothills. He was dressed entirely in black. Black because he was in mourning. Mourning the men he had killed.

Every movement that he made in the saddle was slow and considered. He rested the hand that held the reins on the pommel and with his free hand nudged the flat brim, pushing the flat-crowned hat to the back of his head. He used his silk neckerchief to wipe the sweat from his tanned and lined brow; his weathered features suggested that he was a lot older than his twenty-six years.

The sign-board at the side of the road announced:

WELCOME TO
BETHESDA FALLS
FOUNDED 1858
POP. 412 411.

If his last informant was square, then he would be giving whoever painted that sign the job of reducing the population count by yet one more.

No great loss to the world, he opined, gently urging the sorrel towards the livery stable at the end of the main street, over on the right.

Like so many similar small towns that were springing up in Dakota Territory, Bethesda Falls comprised a long main street with a small cluster of buildings forming short side streets that spread east and west. There was a strong hint of more expansion on the east side, with two new buildings half-completed; so, even after only eight years of life, the town was clearly flourishing. At the north end, tinted a rose glow from the dying sun, loomed Grimm Mountain, while to Thorp’s left were cultivated fields sloping down towards Clearwater Creek and several smaller water courses.

Thorp reined in at Zachary’s Livery and slowly swung his leg over his saddle bags and tarp-covered bed-roll and stepped down. He almost sensed the ache ease out of his bones as he felt the firm ground under his hand-tooled boots. The bullwhip tied to his belt knocked gently against his thigh. He adjusted his weapons belt, tied down the two holsters, then looped the reins over the hitching rail.

From here he could see a fair portion of the corral at the back. A big man on foot was tugging at the bridle of a splendid specimen of a palomino. The man was broad-shouldered and swearing at the horse, angrily cracking his whip on the ground.

‘Stayin’ long, Mister?’ asked an old timer who stepped out from the shadows of the livery’s half-open double doors.

‘Maybe just overnight,’ Thorp responded.

The livery man’s hand rasped over his chin-whiskers as he chewed. ‘Business in town?’

‘Maybe. I’m looking for someone. Heard he lived here.’

The man’s screwed-up eyes lingered on Thorp’s two Remington Navy model six-guns which were slung low and slantwise. He also took in the sheathed Bowie knife. ‘Is that so?’ Spitting a gobbet of tobacco juice into the dust, he neatly changed the subject: ‘Fine horseflesh you have there, Mister.’

‘Thanks. I came into some luck.’ Thorp decided not to mention that the luck of the sorrel’s owner had run out. He turned his attention back to the corral.

The old man noticed Thorp eyeing the palomino and its irate handler. ‘Never mind Tom Durey, he has a chip on his shoulder.’

‘No need to take it out on that fine horse.’

‘I couldn’t agree more, Mister, but I ain’t up to chastisin’ such a big feller.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Thorp walked along the side of the livery building and above the sound of his spurs he heard the shuffling gait of the old man following behind.

Thorp stopped and leaned on a corral rail, narrow slate-grey eyes studying Tom Durey.

A mite taller than Thorp, at about six-two, Durey was not a man to be easily chastised. His arms and thighs carried big muscles but he was also laden down with a load of lard round his midriff, where his red checked shirt bulged. His straggly long brown hair and beard intimated that Durey was not quite tame. Maybe he too needed breaking in. His left eye was half-closed, a scar tracing its way from brow to chin. His right eye was dark brown and glared maliciously at the stallion as he cracked the whip.

Understandably displeased, the palomino reared up. A thin red welt appeared on its golden flank. Its eyes wide, the animal snorted and tugged, but Durey was a heavy and strong man and wasn’t going to let go so easily.

Thorp sighed, unfastened his bullwhip and ducked under the lodgepole rail and stood upright in the corral. Normally quite faint, the scar on his left temple was now livid.

‘This I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna like,’ the old man whispered behind him.

Before Durey could thrash the palomino again, Thorp’s bullwhip snaked out and lashed itself around Durey’s wrist. Bracing himself against a corral post, Thorp tugged and Durey abruptly let go of the palomino’s reins as he tried to prevent himself from being dragged through the dirt.

‘What the hell?’ Durey exclaimed, head turning to the owner of the bullwhip.

‘Hell is where you’re going, Durey,’ Thorp snarled, ‘if you continue mistreating horses like that!’

The palomino backed off and snorted, head down, studying Durey and then Thorp. A shiver ran through its body and it shook itself, the flaxen mane coruscating in the last rays of the sinking sun.

Durey unravelled Thorp’s whip and lowered his head into his shoulders, telegraphing that he was about to charge. ‘You made a big mistake, stranger, tanglin’ with me!’ Growling like a cougar on heat, he ran at Thorp, head down, close-set eyes in shadow, his own whip in one hand, a swiftly unsheathed hunting knife in the other.

With a lithe motion, Thorp side-stepped to the right and stuck out his foot. Durey tripped and sprawled in the dust. Thorp cracked his bullwhip down hard, the tip tearing the man’s shirt at the shoulder and breaking the skin. Flinching with pain, Durey dropped his knife.

‘If you want a matching scar for the other eye, just keep right on charging me,’ Thorp advised.

Holding his cut shoulder, Durey growled, ‘You haven’t heard the last of this, stranger!’

He doubted if he’d heard that worn-out phrase for the last time, either. ‘No need to consider me a stranger. The name’s Thorp. Jim Thorp.’

‘It’ll sit well on your tombstone!’

‘I’m real obliged you want to contribute, even if you’re a mite premature.’ He bowed, grinning broadly. ‘If you can spell,’ he added, speaking very slowly, ‘it’s James Dexter Thorp.’

‘Go to hell!’

‘Very likely. But not before you, I reckon.’

‘You bastard, you’ve no right to interfere when a man is training a crockhead!’

‘You don’t train a horse with a whip. In fact, you don’t deserve that horse.’

‘Oh, yeah? And you’re going to buy it off of me, are you?’

‘Maybe. How much?’

‘More’n you could afford, Thorp.’

‘Mr Thorp!’ called the old livery man.

Durey took advantage of the interruption and rose to his feet and dusted down his pants.

Thorp strode over to the livery man on the other side of the corral poles, mindful of Durey’s actions. Whispering, the man told him what the palomino had cost. Nodding, Thorp dug into his pocket and flung a few bank notes at Durey’s feet. ‘The deal’s done, Durey. I advise you to take it and get out of town.’

‘You ain’t no sheriff!’

‘No, but I’m sure losing patience with you. I’ve just come off the trail and I’m tired and hungry. And if I don’t get a bath and some food soon, I’m liable to get real irritable.’

‘So, what’s that to me?’

‘You don’t want to see me irritable,’ Thorp said, his tone like ice.

Durey growled something unintelligible under his breath and collected the money. He hastily counted it and arched his unblemished eyebrow at Thorp, perhaps surprised that he hadn’t been short-changed. His brow crinkled and his good eye glared. ‘Bastard!’ He bent down to reach for his fallen whip; he wasn’t fool enough to pick up his knife.

Thorp’s bullwhip cracked against the ground, sending dirt into Durey’s face. ‘When I hear you’re treating horses with proper respect, I might consider returning that whip to you. Not before!’

Scowling, Tom Durey backed off. Then he lumbered towards town, occasionally glaring over his shoulder.

‘You sure didn’t make a friend there, Mr Thorp,’ said the old man as they walked back to the front of Zachary’s Livery.

‘I doubt if he has many friends anyway.’

‘Well, I’d like to shake your hand. It isn’t every day I see that bully bested!’

As they shook hands, the old man asked, ‘What do you want me to do with the palomino?’

Taking off his hat, Thorp ran a hand through his burnt-almond hair. ‘I don’t rightly know. I must admit I hadn’t intended getting a second horse. Maybe I could start up a pony express business?’

‘Nope. You’d need more mounts than two.’

He made a mental note not to use irony on the old timer in future. ‘Well, take care of him till I decide what to do, will you?’

‘Sure, Mister. That should be two dollars but I won’t charge for the palomino as that’s the best evenin’s entertainment I’ve had in a long while.’

‘Thanks.’ Thorp handed over a dollar.

He pocketed the money. ‘Are you wantin’ to stay at a saloon or a fancy hotel? Neither don’t come cheap.’

Thorp ran a hand over the day’s whiskers. ‘Maybe. What do you recommend?’

‘Me, I’m real comfortable with the bed and board provided by Mrs McCall. Her place has a shingle. "Cherry Tree Boarding Rooms" it’s called on account of the cherry tree out front.’

‘That’ll do me fine. She a good cook?’

‘I ain’t got no complaints. Bettern’ than that fancy hash-house that’s opened – they call it a restaurant. Bringing new-fangled food fidfads from back East.’

Thorp pulled his Henry repeating rifle from its saddle holster. He unfastened his saddle-bags and slung them over his broad shoulder. Tonight he had no need of his bed-roll. ‘I guess I’ll see you at dinner?’

‘Sure, Mister.’ He unfastened the reins of Thorp’s sorrel. ‘I’ll just tank up your horse and make him comfortable then I’ll be right along. It ain’t wise to keep Widow McCall waitin’.’ He was about to take Thorp’s horse when he hesitated. ‘Name’s Amos, by the way.’ He held out his hand.

For an old timer he had a strong handshake. Thorp said, ‘Amos Zachary?’

‘No, Amos Jones. I manage the livery for him – Zachary Smith. He’s gone up in the world. Part-owner in The Gem – the saloon on the east side. You don’t want to frequent that place. Wet your whistle at El Dorado – much fairer prices...’

‘Well, I’m real obliged, Amos. My name’s Jim.’

‘Yeah, I heard.’ Amos grinned, as if pleased to be on first-name terms with a man like Thorp. He started to lead the sorrel into the stable. ‘See you at dinner, Jim,’ he called over his shoulder.

Thorp strode up the street, his rifle gripped in his left hand, his slate-grey eyes slanted to either side of the main street, missing nothing.

There was the usual hotchpotch of false fronts – on the left, The Bella Union, obviously the town’s cathouse, with its over-ornate veranda and balconies, where a couple of courtesans displayed red petty-coats, frilly garters and a length of leg as they draped themselves enticingly on the rails: he good-naturedly waved away their importuning gestures. On the right, Oren Tatch, Blacksmith; then the El Dorado saloon beckoned, opposite Monroe’s Stage Depot.

Thorp stepped up onto the boardwalk and pushed open the batwing doors of the saloon.

It was too early in the evening for the place to be full. Besides the barkeep, there were four men playing faro at the back, and on the right, two men sat at a table, jawing over pitchers of beer, while on the left there was a black pianist and a Mexican chanteuse who were murdering some song from back East – that is, until they noticed Thorp in the doorway.

He was used to the silence that followed his entrance into strange rooms. He was tall and broad and didn’t carry an ounce of fat. His linen shirt and broadcloth trousers didn’t show the sweat-stains but the fine film of dust clearly announced he had just come in off the trail. He removed his hat and beat it against a leg to dispel some of Dakota’s dirt. Several pairs of eyes met his, but only briefly, then glanced away. It was a rare man who stared at James D. Thorp.

The singer and pianist started up again as Thorp dumped his saddle-bags and hat on the bar counter. He rested the rifle against the side.

Limping over the duckboards behind the counter, the bartender wore a salt-and-pepper moustache, a fairly white shirt and a lugubrious expression. His face gave the impression that he’d seen and heard it all, but he was game if you wanted to talk. ‘What’ll it be, stranger?’

‘A whiskey and some information, if you’d be so kind.’

The barkeep’s shoulders hunched, as if implying that he’d heard that before as well. ‘Sure, sir,’ he said in a non-committal tone. The shot glass was topped to the brim with the honey-coloured liquor and the bartender expertly slid it smoothly over to Thorp without spilling a drop. ‘First one’s on the house.’

‘Thank you. That’s mighty friendly of you.’ Thorp drank it in one gulp, the fiery liquid reacquainting his throat with a pleasurable sensation he had hankered after for many lonesome trail days. ‘And the information?’

‘That’ll come free as well, sir, when you buy your next drink.’

Thorp’s grin was broad. ‘I like your style, barkeep. Make it another one, then.’

As he obliged, the bartender asked, ‘What do you want to know, sir?’

‘Where can I find the Comstock place?’

‘No problem, sir.’ The bartender smiled. ‘And, seeing as you’re a friend of Miss Comstock, I shan’t be charging you for your second drink, neither.’

‘That’s mighty fine of you.’ Thorp didn’t disabuse the man of his assumption as he sipped his drink. ‘Do many men pay court on Miss Comstock?’

‘A few have thought on it but she never showed no interest. Dedicated, she is. Our daughter Mabel’s doing real fine with her writin’.’ A thought creased the bartender’s brow and he voiced it: ‘You ain’t thinkin’ of takin’ her away from us, are you?’

‘No,’ Thorp mollified. ‘I’m here strictly on business.’ Deadly business, but the barkeep didn’t need to know that.

***

Fit to busting, Thorp struck a sulphur match against Mrs McCall’s veranda post and lit a thin cigar.

Not only on account of his full belly did he stroll a mite slowly down Main Street.

Amos had been right about Mrs McCall’s cooking. He had never tasted anything quite like her flank steak with rye whiskey marinade. Who’d have thought of cooking with liquor? Some hard-ass drinkers might quail at the apparent waste, but he wasn’t one of them. He reckoned that the meat was too good to have come off of a steer, and he told her so. She was pleased to hear it. Then, to finish off, there was her wild berry shortcake; it simply melted on his lips. He barely had room for three cups of Java.

He would have been happy with just one cup of coffee, but he had kept drinking because he was putting off this walk to the end of the street.

Sometimes, he hated what he did. This was one of those times.

With a belly full of good food, fresh from a bath and having had a shave, he almost felt civilised again. Fanciful thought, that, he opined, as killing is not civilised, no how.

Stopping at the white picket fence that circled the town’s school house, he glanced at the dim yellow light flickering in the upstairs window. He dropped the cigarillo and his boot trod it into the ground. He fished out his father’s silver fob time-piece and clicked it open. Ten after ten. Maybe that was late in these parts. Come back tomorrow, he told himself, straight after school’s out. His lips pursed. No. Get it over and done with now.

Replacing the fob watch in his trouser pocket, Thorp quietly unlatched the wooden gate and carefully closed it behind him. He walked past a row of struggling rose plants amidst dry earth and slowly climbed the steps to the veranda. On the left was a rocking chair and a small round table, both carpentered from pine. A kerosene lamp glowed from the veranda ceiling. He pulled the metal ring on the right of the door.

A distant light tinkling noise, maybe coming from the kitchen.

Then a sash window opened noisily above. ‘Yes, can I help you?’ came a disembodied woman’s voice, an edge of irritation laced over a fine gentle timbre. Shades of memory, yet older, more confident, he thought, his heart pounding.

He stepped back off the veranda and raised his hat in greeting. ‘Good evening, do I have the honour of addressing Miss Comstock?’

She was in silhouette, stray strands of hair creating a halo round her head. ‘Yes, you do, but this is not the time to be selling...’ She paused and a hand went up to her mouth. ‘Do I know you?’

‘You surely do, Anna.’

‘Jim? Jim Thorp?’

‘Yes, it’s me all right!’

‘Praise the Lord, you’re alive!’

He was relieved that she was pleased to see him. Craning his neck, he called up, ‘Do you think you could either talk to me through a downstairs window or open the door? Otherwise I’m liable to get a permanent crick in my neck!’

She laughed, a most pleasant sound that he had quite forgotten. ‘Yes, of course, I will be down momentarily.’ She slammed the window shut.

By the time he got to the door again, she was opening it, her cheeks flushed with physical exertion and perhaps something else.

Having taken off his hat now, he held it nervously in front of him. He was glad he’d bothered to spruce himself up at Mrs McCall’s. ‘No need to run on my account, Anna. I can wait.’

‘Well, that may be so.’ Suddenly she grabbed his wrist and hauled him in over the threshold, slamming the door after him. ‘But I’m done waiting, James Dexter Thorp!’ Standing on tip-toe, she embraced him and planted a long and delightful kiss on his lips.

The images of several women in his past flitted through his mind and were instantly obliterated as he tasted her.

Abruptly remembering his reason for being here, he gripped her upper arms and gently eased her away from him. ‘Whoa, Anna, let me get my breath!’

‘Five years ago you couldn’t get enough of my kisses!’ she snapped, her grey-green eyes glaring.

‘Is it really that long?’ he asked, a glint in his eyes.

The lobby was small and intimate, lit by the yellow glow of a kerosene lamp.

Anna Comstock stood before him in her blue calico dress with its v-neckline hinting at a shadowy cleft that made his pulse race. She had celebrated her twenty-third birthday February last, he knew. When he’d last seen her she had been a precocious and beautiful girl on the cusp of womanhood. Now her generous curves told him she had entered that mystical realm and was comfortable there. He fleetingly recalled her firm bosom pressed against him moments before and regretted all the time lost. Her lips were full and pouting, still slightly moist after their contact with his.

‘My, let me look at you! You’ve thickened out, Jim.’ She fingered his scar. ‘And you’ve definitely been in the wars.’

‘Most of us have a scar or two to show for our efforts, Anna. A few have scars inside that don’t show...’ He grinned. ‘And let me look at you!’

Humouring him, she twirled slowly there in the lobby. Her raven black hair was swept back from her oval face and tied in a typical school-marm’s bun. But nothing else about her was typical. Her cheeks were unblemished by sun, weather or premature ageing and possessed an attractive flush. Sparkling in the lambent light, her blue-green eyes were just as he remembered them, capable of being mischievous one second, angry the next.

She would have good cause to be angry tonight, he thought.

Suddenly breaking the mood, she hooked her arm in his. ‘Come to the kitchen. We have a lot of catch up to do. I imagine you could do with a coffee.’

Thorp swallowed as his stomach grumbled in protest but he refrained from declining. ‘That would be swell, Anna.’

She led him along the short passage. A door on the left had a sign on it: School-room. At the end they came into the back kitchen.

As she went over to the range, he sat at the rough wooden table and he glanced around. ‘Nice place you have here. You made your dream happen, I see – the school and all.’

While she poured from the coffee-pot, she said, ‘Yes, we got here in the spring of ’63. It has been three long years of hard work, but I think I can safely say everything is working out just fine now.’

His heart sank but he went on, ‘I’ve had some fulsome testimonials from the El Dorado’s barkeep and Mrs McCall.’

Her cheeks glowed now. ‘That’s nice of you to say so.’ She settled herself opposite him, the calico skirt swishing. ‘So that means that you didn’t come straight here to see me, did you?’ She spooned some sugar into her cup and stirred meditatively. The sweetness had deserted her tone: ‘Even after five years?’

‘No.’ Fingering his tight waist-band, he hitched the gun-belt slightly and looked down at the hot coffee. ‘Smells good.’

‘You’re supposed to drink the stuff, you know, not just smell it.’

He nodded and raised his head. He looked into her eyes and, his tone deep and husky, asked, ‘Does Clyde live here with you these days?’

Her brow furrowed. ‘No, he works out at the Maxwell ranch.’ She added with a hint of pride, ‘He’s the foreman.’

She flushed again but now steel had entered her eyes and the tone in her voice chilled his bones. ‘I am a fool. You didn’t come to see me, did you? It’s Clyde you want, is that it?’

Again he nodded and this time he sipped at the coffee; it scalded his throat, but he ignored the sharp discomfort as he really thought that he deserved that little amount of pain at least. Because that was nothing compared to the pain he was going to inflict on Anna.

Sure, she had a right to know, but how do you tell the only woman your heart had room for that you’re here to kill her brother?

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