Philip Harbottle [Harbottle - Snake Vengeance

Snake Vengeance

Philip Harbottle

Philip Harbottle 2004

Philip Harbottle has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 2004 by Robert Hale

This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Frontier, an imprint of Endeavour Media Ltd.

To Claire, Richard and Eleanor

Table of Contents

1. The Stolen Ranch

Suitcase in hand, Larry Ashfield stepped from the train. He paused, watching the one or two men in cowboy garb and the women in cotton dresses who, like himself, had alighted at Buzzards Bend; then his gaze moved to the train as it continued on its way. The clanging of its bell sounded mournfully amidst the clouds of steam belching into the shimmering Arizona spring air.

Larry began walking. He was fairly tall, but thin about the shoulders, and twenty-seven years of age. Black, well-brushed hair showed under the grey soft hat he had pushed to the back of his head. His features were regular without being handsome. His pale complexion contrasted sharply with the deeply tanned features of his fellow-passengers, and his grey, well-cut London suit looked out of place here in Arizona. Narrowing his eyes in the glaring sunlight, he caught up with an elderly man in dirt-smothered trousers, and tapped him on the shoulder.

Excuse me, sir.

The man gave a slight start, then relaxed as he decided this stranger was harmless. He looked at him quizzically, chewing steadily.

Where do I find the Double-L ranch? Larry asked him.

Double-L? The old man spat casually and went on chewing. I guess its about three mile yonder straight that-away. And he jerked his grey head to one side.

I suppose Ill have to walk it?

Reckon so. Unless you mebbe hire a horse when we get into town. That is, he added dubiously, if you can ride one. Youll be from England, I guess?

Yes to both questions, Larry smiled, as he fell into step alongside the man. Im from London. Im here to take over my uncles ranch the Double-L. Youll probably know of him Brian Ashfield. Came out here some years ago. Owns a gold mine, too, quite near his ranch. Larry shrugged his lean shoulders. Im talking as if he were still alive. He died three months back and left everything to me in his will.

Yeah, he sure died, the old man agreed. Fell off his horse in front of a steer and it near kicked his brains out. You may be his nephew, son, but youre nothin like him. He was big and tough and one of the fastest shooters hereabouts.

Ive never had cause to be like that, Larry answered. Anyway, thanks Ill be on my way. I wont follow you into town just for a horse. I dont suppose a three-mile walk will hurt me.

He began moving away, but the old mans voice called him back.

Hold on there, son! Who dyou figure youre goin to meet when you get to the Double-L? Simon Galts runnin the spread now. Took possession about a month back.

He what ? Larry frowned and returned to the old mans side. But he cant have done! Im the rightful owner, as my uncles next of kin.

I wouldnt know anythin about that, son. Just tellin you how things stand. I reckon youd mebbe best see Cliff Makin before you go trailin off to the Double-L. Makins the lawyer who runs things around here and I happen to know he was your uncles legal adviser.

Where can I find him?

In the main street of town half a mile or so down the road yonder. His office has a big sign you cant miss it.

Larry grunted his thanks, deeply puzzled. In a moment or two he had so quickened his pace that he had left the old man far behind and had arrived at the start of a dusty trail stretching ahead rather like the cart-track to a farm back in England.

Larry mopped his face now and again as the merciless sun continued to beat down. It was hanging just clear of the mountains. In the opposite direction pastureland extended into an expanse of yellow brittle-bush. He winced when he mentally compared its rural primitiveness with the Kensington from which he had come.

He was even more surprised when he saw the town of Buzzards Bend for the first time as he turned a corner. It reminded him somewhat of an ancient village back home, except that the buildings were of white, sun-blistered wood instead of bricks or cobbles.

The trail he was tramping along ran straight through the centre of the agglomeration of dwellings. They were all shapes and sizes, many of them ramshackle. In front of them ran a boardwalk, overhung by a wooden veranda. In the rutted mass of the main street itself men and women moved, oblivious to buckboards and horses bustling back and forth. The town at least seemed busy enough, even if it was preposterously behind the times compared to London.

At length Larry gained the extreme end of the main street. Wonderingly, he looked about him, dodging the buck-boards and teams that occasionally bore down upon him. He realized that he was liable to meet with an accident, so he took to the nearest boardwalk, grateful for the shade the wooden veranda afforded.

Completely preoccupied, he failed to notice the curious looks cast in his direction as townsfolk passed him. Most of the women smiled as though they wanted to be neighbourly, but the men seasoned veterans of this sun-fried dump winked at each other or spat meaningfully over the boardwalk rail. A white-faced young man with narrow shoulders didnt impress them. The men of Buzzards Bend lived the hard way, and had no time for anybody who didnt.

Larry was checking out the buildings as he passed them. There was the Lucky Dollar saloon across the street, and next to it a general stores. Elsewhere he spotted a livery stable, a stage halt, an assayers office, the sheriffs headquarters, the mayors office and then, on his own side of the boardwalk, he came suddenly upon a window with gilt letters upon it CLIFFORD MAKIN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Gauze netting reached half-way up the window, hiding the interior.

The office was small and littered from floor to ceiling with various documents. Dusty maps hung on the walls. Filing cabinets and a big safe were in one corner. A powerfully built man in shirtsleeves and open waistcoat sat at a roll-top desk, busy with his pen. He turned as Larry entered, swinging round in his swivel chair and putting big hands on the tops of his muscular thighs.

Howdy, stranger, he greeted. Something I can do for you?

Larry made no immediate reply. He stood looking rather like a schoolboy before the headmaster except that there was nothing scholarly about Cliff Makin. He was the kind of man from whom bluff exuded as freely as the perspiration staining his shirt. In a cumbersome kind of way, with his dark eyes and thick and wavy black hair, he was handsome. He was in his early thirties but developed physically by ten more years. At one hip, Larry noticed, sat a pearl-handled .45. Evidently his lawyers business was liable to sudden challenges from the tougher members of the community.

Im Larry Ashfield. Larry put down his suitcase. I suppose you are Mr Makin?

Sure I am. Makin rose, a good six-foot-two, and gripped Larrys hand firmly. Glad to know you, son. Mr Ashfields nephew, presumably?

Larry frowned at being addressed again as son by a man little more than five years his senior.

Yes, thats me, he agreed. Ive just spoken to a local man who told me somebody called Simon Galt is running the Double-L. Thats not right, surely?

Well, now Im afraid it is. Makins dark eyes glinted for a moment, and he grinned dubiously. Have a seat whilst I explain. Try a cigarette?

Larry accepted both and waited, considering Makins heavy features through the blue tobacco haze as he resumed his swivel chair and latched his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets.