Chapter 22: Hadley’s Vacation

Neil Hadley had covered more than three hundred miles in a week, and like his Appaloosa mount he was ready to give the riding a rest for a while. It was early in the evening of a murky October day and darkness was gathering when Hadley reached the small township of Stansfield, Wyoming. Already there were lights in most of the houses and such stores as were still open. Heading along the main street, the new arrival recalled his last visit to the place, two years earlier. He now reckoned that if there had been any change in the meantime, it wasn’t for the better.

The journey had been almost due south from the Montana ranch where Hadley worked. When the young cowhand had shown his boss the letter he had received from his uncle, the rancher had given him a month’s leave, which Hadley felt would be enough to either solve the problem or fail in the attempt.

Uncle George was Hadley’s only living relative. At fifty, George Hadley was now exactly twice his nephew’s age, though the generation gap had never mattered to either man. The two saw little of one another, but maintained contact through occasional letters and rare brief visits.

George was a homesteader, located five miles south of Stansfield. He had been shrewd enough to get land abutting a reliable water supply running down from the Wind River Mountains. Proving up his land wouldn’t have posed too many problems but for the fact that, in common with many settlers, he had found himself at cross-purposes with the ranching community, or rather with one member of it, for the others were unambitious small-time operators. Tom Spencer was different.

From the beginning, Spencer had seen George Hadley as particularly irritating. The rancher had initially limited his hostility to talk, then it had become more open, including trespassing and harassment. Twice before, George Hadley had mentioned this when writing to his nephew. The latest letter had left Neil in no doubt. Uncle George was a tough, independent man, not given to whining, but the younger Hadley, reading between the lines, had detected a note of desperation. His boss, who had an accommodating attitude toward settlers, had gladly given Neil the time off.

Halting outside Dutton’s saloon – the only watering hole in Stansfield – Hadley was undecided. His journey was almost over, but he was weary and the prospect of a couple of beers was tempting. The saloon matched the day in that, defying the dusk, it showed no lights. A man inside passed the doors, looked out, then moved back further into the barroom.

After a minute’s hesitation, Hadley dismounted, crossed the boardwalk and pushed at the batwings. The next instant would be imprinted upon his mind for a long time. From behind the right-hand door, a huge fist whirled out of the gloom. Hadley, struck on the chin, was momentarily aware of a large form facing him, then he was tottering backwards. He caught a heel on the warped planking and fell into the street. Getting to his feet, he heard ribald laughter from within the saloon. He massaged his jaw. Painful, but not broken.

Hadley was not a man to accept such treatment without retaliation. He reached into his bedroll, pulled out his old revolver and a box of bullets, loaded the gun and wedged if firmly beside the sheathed knife he always kept hanging from his belt. He would shoot only in defence of his life. Though no gunfighter, he had half-expected to need the weapon, if not quite so soon. He looked at the front of the two-storey saloon. Nothing helpful there.

The building was bracketed by two alleyways. Hadley walked along the left-hand one. At the rear, the ground floor was used as a storeroom and was a blank wooden wall. The upper floor had four single casement windows. Three were closed, but the left inner one was either badly warped or open a crack. The back wall was lined with empty beer casks. Hadley heaved one atop two others under the likely-looking spot and mounted the improvised platform. He was prepared to break in if necessary, but found that the window was open an inch or so. He yanked at the frame, swung his legs over the sill, eased himself to the floor and began to step across the room. His entry had not been noiseless and as he approached the door, a high, tremulous female voice called out from the bed: “Who’s there? What are you doing?”

“It’s all right ma’am,” Hadley replied. “I mean you no harm. I’m just trying to get to the barroom.”

The woman’s voice lowered slightly. “Who are you? What do you want? And what’s wrong with the doors?”

“My name’s Neil Hadley ma’am. I’m sorry to intrude like this. Didn’t know you were here. I tried to get in the usual way and somebody punched me.”

“Oh, that would be Block,” the woman answered.

“Block?”

“Yes. His real name’s Jack Petty, but everybody calls him Block, on account of his size. He sometimes does that with strangers. It’s kind of a game with him.” Her tone had subsided to conversational level.

“It’s a queer pastime,” Hadley replied. “Doesn’t anybody react?”

The woman was now fully composed. “Not when they see Block.”

“Don’t you have any law here?”

“What we have is a long way off. Just a minute.” There was scrabbling sound as she fumbled with matches at her bedside commode, then a lamp lit up the room. “Come here,” she said.

Hadley took off his hat and walked over to bed. The woman was sitting up. She had straight black shoulder-length hair and dark eyes, set in a broad pale face, marred by a three-inch scar, running over the cheek from the outer corner of the left eye.

What the woman saw was a rawboned six-footer, a hundred and ninety pounds in weight, clean-shaven, black-haired and dark complexioned. “Block did this,” she said, pointing at the disfigurement.

“Why?”

“No special reason. He was drunk. He hit me with a broken glass. That’s why you don’t need to worry too much about intruding. I don’t get many callers now.” Hadley nodded. “Well, this Block has something to answer for, hasn’t he, ma’am?”

“Yes. I hate him. And you needn’t bother with the ‘ma’am’. My name’s Molly Parker.

“Okay. Is anything keeping you here?”

“Nothing except that so far I haven’t saved up enough money to leave.”

“I see. Well, Molly Parker, I’m going to pay Block for what he’s just done. Maybe I’ll give him a bonus for what he did to you.”

“Be careful. He works for Tom Spencer, who’s top dog around here.”

Hadley recalled the name from the correspondence with his uncle. “How do I spot Block?” he asked.

“You can’t miss him. He’s very big and his face is a mass of black whiskers.”

“I’m obliged to you. If I finish what I came here to do, I’ll ... er ... intrude again sometime, if that’s all right with you.”

“It is.”

Hadley crossed to the door, opened it a crack, then dropped to all fours. Peering out, he found himself roughly midway along a landing, the stairs at the end leading down to the barroom, where the lights were now on. The saloonkeeper was sitting on a chair, reading a newspaper. The only patrons were five men, standing in a group near the bar. There was no mistaking Block. He gave the impression of being about a yard wide and stood seven or eight inches above the tallest of his companions. Hadley put him at six-four and at least two hundred and fifty pounds.

One of the group turned to the barman, asking for a pack of cards. That was the cue for the five men to seat themselves around one of the half-dozen tables, Block sitting facing the batwings, with his back to the landing.

Hadley left the door ajar, crept back and looked around the bedroom, Molly Parker following his roving eyes. “Are you seeking something?” she asked.

“Yes. I need some kind of surprise.” As Hadley spoke, he noticed the water pitcher and basin on the commode. Walking over, he hefted the jug. “Nearly full,” he said. “Seems a shame to break it, though.”

Molly pointed at the corner by the wardrobe. “If it’s only water you want, there’s plenty in that pail. You’re welcome to it.”

Hadley picked up the nearly full two-gallon oak bucket. “Thanks,” he said. “This might do.” He carried the unlikely weapon over to the door. “Now, ma’am ... sorry, Molly Parker, wish me luck.”

“Believe me, I do.”

Hadley opened the door wider, finding that the card game was in progress. Standing upright, he was able to see that the back of Block’s head was five feet or so below the landing, laterally about eight feet distant from it and almost directly in line with Molly’s door. All the players were studying their cards and the barman was still engrossed in his newspaper. There would be no time for tiptoeing around or taking careful aim, but it was now or never.

Hadley stepped out onto the landing. Giving the bucket a swing, he heaved it over the handrail. The shot wasn’t quite right, but good enough. The vessel fell a little short, hitting the back of Block’s neck, flinging his head and upper body across the table. Hadley couldn’t afford to wait to see the full effect. He swung over the banister, steadied himself for a moment by dangling one-handed from it, then dropped to the barroom floor.

Block had already pushed himself back from the table, kicked his chair away and turned to face the source of his discomfiture. For a brief moment the scene was frozen, then the woolly mammoth closed in. “I don’t know what your game is, mister,” he grunted, “but it’d better include prayers.”

Knowing what an awesome sight he was, the bully boy obviously expected his opponent to retreat. Instead, Hadley stepped forwards, his fists weaving in a comical caricature of prizefighter style. So intent was Block on the newcomer’s eyes and those weird hand movements that he failed to anticipate what came next. Satisfied that he had captured his opponent’s attention, Hadley lashed out with his left leg, his boot thudding into Block’s crotch.

The big man was completely taken aback. His eyes opened wide as breath whooshed from his gaping mouth. He dropped to his knees, both hands clutching the injured spot. That suited Hadley nicely. As his left foot returned to the floor, the right one swung up, the sole and heel hitting Block in the face, mashing his nose and mouth. Hadley hadn’t spared the vigour. The kick threw Block backwards and downwards, his head banging on the floorboards, blood and teeth spraying from the mangled features.

Instantly, Hadley drew his gun, leapt upon the fallen man and rammed the weapon through his beard. “You may be a big fish here, Block,” he snarled, “but this is a small pool. Out in the real world, you’re not even minnow.” Block had difficulty in speaking through shredded lips. “You crazy?” was all he could manage.

“That’s right. I’m a madman. There’s no telling what I might do. Now, you’ll soon be able to talk right again. When you can, tell Spencer I’ll be calling on him.” Standing, Hadley waved his gun at the barman. “You,” he snapped. “Fill that pail. Take it up to Molly Parker and tell her I apologise for disturbing her. And remember that I’ll be along later to check that you’ve done it.” With that, he backed out of the saloon, leaving Block groaning on the floor, the barman doing as he was told and the other four men silent and motionless.

An hour later, Hadley sat facing his uncle. George Hadley had built his place with comfort in mind. It was made of sawn lumber, with two rooms, a pitched roof and floorboards raised over a foot-high void. The older man was delighted that his nephew had responded to the veiled call for help. “I was never so glad to see anybody,” he said, ladling out stew for both men.

Neil Hadley recounted the incident in the saloon. George was not surprised “It’s what you’d expect, Neil,” he said. Then he went on to relate how Tom Spencer had been intimidating him in every way short of personal violence, which seemed imminent.

“How many men has he got?” asked Neil.

“Besides himself, seven hands, including Block, plus a cook, then the foreman, Stewart. Funny thing about him. He hasn’t been around long and he never comes here with the others when they’re bothering me. I don’t think his heart’s in it.”

Neil Hadley nodded “Well,” he said, “you’re here legally, aren’t you?”

“Sure I am, but this is traditionally open range country. Spencer figures he’ll keep it that way if he gets rid of me. He’s scared off some of the other settlers.”

“He’s living in the past,” Neil Hadley replied. “In a few years, there won’t be any open range.”

“Maybe, but there’s more to this. Now, you know how the water runs down here from the mountains?”

“Sure. So?”

“Well, you’ll have noticed that around where my land starts, the river curves and widens.”

“Yes.”

“Right. Now, do you know what happens when a waterway does that?”

“I’ve never thought about it?”

“I’ll tell you. It throws more deposits than in other spots. And what do you think it’s deposited right here?”

Neil Hadley’s eyes widened. “Not gold?”

“Yes, gold. There isn’t much. This is no Sutter’s Mill, but it’s nice pickings for a man who’ll work hard enough. I’ve been sifting for two years. Come with me and I’ll show you.”

George led the way into the bedroom, where he dragged aside the bunks, pulled up a loose square in the floorboards and hauled out a flour sack, showing his nephew twenty pounds of nuggets and dust.

“There it is,” he said. “Worth over six thousand dollars. I’ve no other kin. It’s yours as much as mine.”

George Hadley replaced his hoard and the two men went back to the other room. “What do you think, Neil?” said George.

“Does anyone else know about this?”

“No. I only pan when there’s nobody watching. That’s why it’s been such a long haul. I get barely half an ounce a day, but it adds up.”

“How do you value it – compared with the homestead, I mean?”

“Hardly at all. It means little to me. I’d far sooner work my land here undisturbed. The gold’s just a bonus. You could call it a sort of insurance in case I’m forced out. Trouble is that apart from being a nuisance to me directly, Spencer’s leaning on the general store in town. I’m having trouble getting supplies.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s it. ‘Course, the law’s on my side as regards water.”

“How’s that?”

“I didn’t know about it until I was told by a man who claimed he’d had a good deal to do with these things. He said that the systems are different east and west of the Mississippi.”

“In what way?”

“In the East, they have what’s called riparian rights. That means if you have river frontage along with others, you can take what you want from any part of the waterway, not just the bit adjoining your land, so long as what you do is otherwise legal. Here, it’s called water rights. That means you have sole claim to make use of whatever you find in the stretch that abuts your land, no matter where it comes from.”

“I get it. You mean in the East, anybody can, say, moor a boat on your bit and drag up what suits him. Here, he can’t.”

“I’ve never had it checked by a lawyer, so I could be wrong, but that’s my understanding. I don’t know what happens if two people have riverbank land directly opposite one another. Maybe they each have rights as far as the middle. Anyway, it doesn’t help me, with the law being so far away and not always friendly to settlers.”

“Don’t worry. Let’s get some sleep. We’ll work it out.”

At nine the following morning, Neil Hadley arrived in Stansfield on his uncle’s buckboard, halting outside Elroy’s general store. George Hadley had wanted to go along, but Neil argued otherwise, saying that with only the two of them, it was better that they should avoid being caught together. It was a specious argument, for the younger man’s real reason was his desire to act alone.

As Hadley jumped down, a man left the store, sauntered along the sidewalk, then turned to face him. Nothing was said for ten seconds, but that was long enough for Hadley to sense something about the fellow. He was around five foot ten, slimly built, clean-shaven and remarkably well turned out in all respects. From light-brown Stetson hat, through spotless buckskin coat and open-necked cream shirt to black boots of tooled leather, everything about him was immaculate. Hadley, far from scruffy himself, thought that he had never seen a smarter-looking fellow.