Chapter 3: Riverboat Gambler

Steve Dunne sat his horse atop the ridge that loomed over the ugly straggle of buildings widely, though not officially, known as Hell’s Elbow. The place wasn’t marked on any map. Among the cognoscenti, it had acquired the first part of its name from a reputation for harbouring outlaws and the second from its proximity to the river which rolled in from the northwest, then swung southwards, confining the settlement between its northern bank and the rocky escarpment on which Steve had halted. For him, it was the end of a journey of over a thousand miles, the last hundred on a rented gelding.

So this was the domain of Claude Turnbull, leader of a band that deferred not even to that of the James brothers in notoriety. The location of Turnbull’s hideout wasn’t common knowledge. Had it been so, lawmen galore would have descended upon this corner of Texas. Steve Dunne had come upon the spot by diligent application of his usual combination of enquiry, hunch and persistence.

Short of a tedious trek northwest or south, Steve’s only way into Hell’s Elbow was to take the barely detectable serpentine path down the steep slope, which would put him in full view of the buildings during the whole of his approach. For him, it was an easy choice, as he intended to be seen well ahead of his arrival. He nudged the horse forward, beginning the zigzag descent.

It was late afternoon when Steve reached the settlement. The path ended in a one-sided street, comprising a dozen or so wooden structures – an unprepossessing redoubt for those enjoying the proceeds of their crimes.

Most of the buildings gave no indication of their functions, but one had the batwing doors of a saloon. Steve took note of this as he passed along the street to a ramshackle heap that was a livery barn of sorts. No one was in attendance, so he saw to his horse then walked back to the saloon, finding it cold, dimly lit and altogether thoroughly uninviting. Until his arrival, the bartender had been the only occupant.

Steve ordered a beer and was pleased to find it better than he’d expected. “We don’t get many strangers here,” said the barman, a tall, thin fellow whose lugubrious expression matched his surroundings.

“I don’t aim to be a stranger for long,” replied Steve. “I’m looking for Claude Turnbull. Heard he runs a spread hereabouts.”

The remark was intentionally provocative and drew the response Steve had expected. Raising his eyebrows, the barman stared hard at the newcomer. “Nobody of that name around here, mister, “ he said. “Only ranch in these parts is owned by Tom Ashcroft.”

Steve grinned. “No need to be cagey, friend,” he said. “You know he calls himself Ashcroft, I know it and guess everybody else here does. We all know he’s Claude Turnbull.”

The barman shook his head slowly. “You’d better be careful what you say,” he answered. “Talk like that could get a man into trouble. There’s nothing goes on around here that Ashcroft doesn’t find out about, pretty quick.”

“That’s okay by me,” said Steve. “I intend to join up with him.”

“Oh. Does he know that?”

“Not yet.”

The saloonkeeper swished a towel across the bartop. “Well,” he said, “maybe you know what you’re doing, but you’re a pushy gent. If I was you, I’d watch my step.”

“Thanks for the advice,” said Steve. “Now, if you can fix me up with a room for tonight, I’ll drop in on Turnbull tomorrow. Kind of surprise him.” Like Steve’s opening show of bravado, this was a deliberate ploy. If his guess was right, the barman wouldn’t let the matter rest there.

Upstairs, there were three cheerless bedrooms. Steve took the least disagreeable one and after getting himself a meal at the dingy eating house along the street, he bought a bottle of the saloon’s best whiskey and settled himself down for an early night. He had made as good a start as could be expected.

The barkeeper didn’t waste much time and neither did Claude Turnbull. It was dawn when the visitors came. Steve was awake, working out how he would play his hand. He heard only the faintest sound of a boot scraping the floor outside his room, then the door was kicked open and two men, handguns drawn, advanced upon the bed. “No sudden moves,” rasped one of them. Steve obliged.

The men differed only in size, one tall, the other short. Both were slim, dark-faced, stubble-jawed types. Four cold, hard eyes were fixed on Steve as steadily as the two gun barrels. “Get dressed,” said the taller man. “You’re takin’ a ride.”

“No need for the big show, boys,” Steve answered, pulling on his boots, “but you could have waited till after breakfast.”

“Cut the gab,” snarled the tall man. “We got your horse outside. Just walk between us, an’ remember there’s a couple of itchy trigger-fingers around.” His partner swept up Steve’s gun belt and weapon from the bedpost.

The newcomer hadn’t expected the reaction to his arrival to be quite so prompt, but wasn’t put out. These hardcases could only be Turnbull’s minions. He would go along with them up to a point but given the right opening, he would do things his way. With the shorter man leading and his companion at the rear, the party descended the stairs and clumped across the creaky floorboards.

For an instant, Steve considered trying something with the batwing doors, but rejected the idea. There would probably be a better opportunity. There was, and it came quickly. Outside, at the hitchrail, Steve’s horse was between those of his captors. The short man moved to his mount. His partner nudged Steve with a .45. “Go to your bronc,” he grunted. “Don’t get aboard before I tell you to.” When he was satisfied that Steve was in position, he swung up onto his horse, finally holstering his gun, confident that he had a defenceless prisoner. “You can mount now,” he said.

Steve weighed up the position. These two messengers were probably under instructions to use no more force than necessary. They wouldn’t be bargaining with catching a tiger by the tail in their own stronghold. The horses were standing close together and, reasoning that there might not be another chance, Steve acted. He got his left foot into its stirrup, then, as his right leg swung up, he lashed it out, backwards and upwards.

The move was risky, but it worked. Steve’s boot thudded into the mounted man’s right arm, thrusting his body to the left. As much from surprise as from the impact, the man toppled out of his saddle, his right foot flying free, the left one failing to clear the stirrup. The man’s head and shoulders thumped to the ground. Rounding the startled horse, Steve was upon the fellow in a flash, slamming a fist at his jaw and using a knee to pin his right arm to the ground. Grabbing the man’s gun from its holster, Steve silenced him by rapping the barrel behind his ear. Confused by the sudden action and the poor light, the other man, not yet mounted, hesitated. Steve, no stranger to swift violent action, took the initiative. “Keep still,” he snapped. “I’ve got your pard out cold and I can see your legs. If you move one of them, I’ll shoot the other.”

The short man stood irresolute for a moment, then made his decision. “Okay,” he said. “I ain’t bein’ paid to get plugged. Not this time anyway.”

“You’re talking good sense,” Steve replied. “Now, just throw your gun and mine over there into the street, where I can see them, then step clear, nice and slow. And keep your back to me.” The man obeyed and Steve recovered his gun, tossing away the other two weapons. He strode over to the short fellow, jabbing him in the back with the gun barrel. “Now,” he said. “I guess you’re from Turnbull, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Good. Here’s your choice. You can direct me to his place and live, or refuse and die. It’s all the same to me. What’s it to be?”

“Hell, mister, there’s no need to get rough. You just head east, down the trail. It’s only four miles.” He jerked his thumb back over his head to show the way.

For a moment, Steve thought of marching the inept duo ahead of him, then, seeing a lariat slung on the tall man’s saddle, he reconsidered. Taking the rope and cutting it in two, he trussed both would-be abductors across their horses, then moved the party off in line abreast, himself in the middle.

It was full daylight when Steve and his involuntary escort reached the Turnbull place, an apology for a cattle spread, with a scatter of dilapidated, weather-beaten wooden outbuildings around the adobe ranch house. The threesome got to within fifteen yards of the house when a man came to the door.

Steve had seen enough pictures to have no doubt in the matter of identification. He was looking at a man around forty-five years old, of middling height, heavily built, with a bulging mid-section. The hatless head was well thatched with salt and pepper hair, the sharp blue eyes set in a round, fleshy face. This was Claude Turnbull all right. He looked mildly amused, but didn’t speak immediately.

Steve cut the ropes binding his hapless would-be captors to their horses and heaved the two men to the ground. “Morning,” he called to Turnbull. “I was coming to see you anyway. If you wanted me sooner, you didn’t need to send these two hunks of buzzard bait.”

Turnbull waved a hand at a wiry little man, standing at the door of the log bunkhouse. “Mort, get these boys out of the way. I’ll talk to them later.” The voice wasn’t raised much, but covered the thirty yards between the two men. Then Turnbull’s full attention was once more focused on Steve. “Well, sir, whoever you are, you know how to make an entrance. I’ll give you that.” The tone was low, clear and well-controlled. “Light down and tell me what you want here.”

Steve dismounted. “I’d a notion to join the famous Turnbull outfit,” he said, matching the gang leader’s quiet tones. “Seems maybe you need somebody if these two rannies are the best you have.”

Turnbull smiled and made no attempt to deny his identity. “No,” he said. “They’re not the best I have. Mr Hanratty here could give you a better introduction to our little ways.” He waved an arm and the sound of heavy footsteps preceded the appearance in the doorway of a great slab of a man, around six-four in height and weighing, Steve guessed, a good two hundred and thirty pounds. Turnbull switched his attention back to Steve. “This is my foreman,” he said. “Now, if you’ll look over to the bunkhouse, you’ll see two rifles pointing at you, so I’ll trouble you to dispense with your gun.”

Steve didn’t bother to look. He unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall. “Now, Mr Whoever,” Turnbull continued. “You can try conclusions with Pete here if you wish. Frankly, I wouldn’t advise it, although I’d enjoy the entertainment. We’re a little short of that here.”

“I’ll have to disappoint you,” Steve replied. “I know my limits. I might outgun him, but I don’t believe I could outfight him.”

Turnbull chuckled. “Well, that makes you smart enough,” he said. “I think you’d better come inside.” He led the way, motioning Steve to one of the two armchairs flanking the fireplace. He produced a bottle of brandy and two glasses, pouring generously, then took the second seat, giving his stormy visitor a wry grin. “I like your style,” he said in that quiet, unemotional voice. “Could be we’d better get on different terms before you damage any more of my boys. Now, who are you and what are you really doing here?”

“It’s no big secret,” Steve replied. The name’s Steve Dunne. I’ve been playing a lone hand for a while. Things have got uncomfortable lately and I reckoned I’d be better off throwing in with the right people. Everybody knows you’re the best, so I just found you. I guess you could say I’m applying for a job, in a way.”

Turnbull looked closely at his guest, assessing him correctly as a little over thirty and noting the tough, raw-boned frame, the short straight black hair, the clear grey eyes, the clean-shaven face, dark complexion and long, stubborn-looking jawline. “Hmn,” he said. “I never heard of any Steve Dunne. How about some proof and maybe some evidence that you’re my kind of man?”

Steve fished in his shirt pocket, pulling out three sheets of paper and tossing them to the gang leader. “I don’t expect you to take me on trust,” he said, “but I believe these say enough.”

Turnbull unfolded the offerings. The first, two years old, was a document stating that Captain Stephen Dunne had been dishonourably discharged from the US Army. The gang leader read it, then fixed his eyes on Steve again. “Captain, were you?” he said. “So you’re not a common roughneck. What did you do to earn this?”

Steve summoned a bleak smile. “Officially, the reason was irresponsible handling of my men during a reconnaissance outing. The truth is that I was something of a ladies’ man, and one of the women I got involved with was the wife of my commanding officer. He found out and had it in for me. Gave me one near-impossible assignment after another. It was sure to be only a matter of time before I came to grief. Frankly, I think I did pretty well to survive as long as I did before the blow fell.”

Turnbull nodded, then looked at the other two items. They were ‘wanted’ posters, one a little over a year old, the other almost new. In both cases, the name was Stephen Dunne and the face was unmistakably that of Turnbull’s visitor. On the older dodger, the reward was $2,000, the crime being armed robbery. The newer one added two further similar offences, plus one of murder and the bounty had increased to $5,000.

Turnbull handed the papers back to Steve. “You appear to have been a busy man since you left the army,” he said. “Now, I can pick up hardcases anytime, even fairly intelligent ones. The fact is I don’t need them any more. Maybe I could have used you five years ago, when I started up, but everything runs its course and we’ve just about had our day. The game’s over and I’m breaking up the gang, so it seems you’ve come along too late. Now, if you can give me a good reason why I shouldn’t have you killed right now, you’d better do that.”

“I can give you sixty-five thousand good reasons,” Steve answered. “I didn’t come here empty-handed. There’s a little job I have in mind and it’ll need more than one man. I figure four or five could do it, but a couple of spare hands would be all to the good. If you’re interested, I’d like to cut you in. If not, I’ll try the Cole brothers, or maybe Tyson’s gang. Trouble is they’re both up north and this job is here in Texas.” Turnbull lit a cigar, offering another to Steve, who accepted. The gang leader sprawled back. “I’ve nothing to lose by listening,” he said, “but it had better be good. I’ve heard my share of hare-brained schemes for one lifetime and I’ve already got enough salted away to move over the border and live out my days in style. Anyway, go on.”