Chapter 20: None of Your Business

Dave Merrick was making his way southwest from Montana and had almost reached the southern end of Colorado. He was in no hurry and didn’t have any particular destination in mind. For the time being, his bankroll was adequate to support his frugal lifestyle and he would look for work again when he had to. That wasn’t likely to be a problem because he had plenty of experience as a ranch hand, had done a wide variety of other jobs and was usually willing to try whatever came up.

At thirty-four, Merrick was trying to put off the day when he might have to settle down. So far, he was footloose and fancy free and had hopes of remaining that way for some time. It was a few minutes after ten in the morning of a mid-August day and a brief downpour of rain had temporarily freshened up the hot, humid atmosphere.

With his horse at a plod, Merrick was passing through open country when he came upon an apparently abandoned homestead. Cutting across it, he was startled to hear what sounded like a human voice, though there was nobody in sight. Thinking that the dilapidated old shack ahead of him might be occupied, he headed for it. To reach it, he had to pass a well and it was there that he heard the sound again. Yes, it was a voice all right, and to his amazement it seemed to be coming from the well.

Merrick dismounted and peered over the well’s circular stone wall. He couldn’t see the bottom clearly. “Who’s down there?” he called out. The answer was an indistinct moan. The well was topped by two posts fixed to the stonework and connected by a free-turning iron pole with a handle, but there was neither a bucket nor a rope.

Fortunately, Merrick had a lariat. He attached it to the pole and with a few a bumps and grazes, lowered himself to the bottom of the shaft, where he found a man lying awkwardly atop a scatter of loose stones. “How did you get down here?” Merrick asked. The reply was an unintelligible groan. “Never mind,” said Merrick. “I’ll try to get you out.” There was just enough free rope for him to make a loop around the injured man’s chest and tighten it under his armpits, then Merrick used his own belt to strap the man’s arms to his sides, so that they wouldn’t be accidentally pulled over his head during the ascent.

Scrambling back up was harder than getting down, but Merrick made it without mishap, then he began turning the pole handle to haul the man up the shaft. It was hard work but in ten minutes the fellow was lying beside the well, grunting and gasping. Merrick carried him over to the shack, which didn’t offer much shelter, as more than half of the roof was scattered across the floor.

Merrick fetched his water bottle and managed to get the man to take a few sips. That enabled him to answer when asked how long he’d been in the well. “Not sure. I think it was five days. I scooped up a little water down there.” When questioned about his injuries, he replied: “Hurts like hell everywhere.” He gave his name as Eli Roach, then lost consciousness.

For several hours, Dave Merrick thought that Roach wouldn’t regain his senses, but he finally surfaced late in the afternoon, albeit in no better condition than he had been earlier. He couldn’t eat anything, but was able to respond when asked how he’d wound up in the well. “I was thrown down there,” he said.

“Who did that?”

“Feller named Dan Crow.”

“Why did he do it?”

“Just wanted my money – twenty-seven dollars. I was restin’ here for a while when he came by. Started out all friendly, then jumped me when I wasn’t lookin’. Took my horse as well.”

“And you didn’t know him?”

“Never saw him before.”

“So he had no reason for what he did, except to rob you?”

“That’s right. Guess he left me for dead.”

Merrick shook his head. “What a lousy trick.”

Roach seemed to go into a kind of delirium. He babbled incoherently, his breathing was stertorous and blood dribbled intermittently from his mouth. At shortly after eight in the evening he opened his eyes and saw Merrick still sitting by his side. With a great effort, he spoke: “I guess I’m about to cash in my chips.”

Merrick nodded. “I’m sorry to say that I think you are.”

“Well, would you do somethin’ for me?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“If you ever come across Dan Crow, maybe you’d mention me. You might even pay him back for what he did here, but you’d better not give him much time to talk about it. He gets into action mighty quick.”

“I’ll deal with him. That’s a promise. Any way I can recognise him, apart from his name?”

“He’s very tall and thin. Around six-two an’ I’d say he weighs less than one-fifty, but don’t let that fool you. He’s tough and real strong. Oh, an’ he has tooth missin’. Top front one, on his right side. I doubt he’ll get that fixed. Then there’s his hat.”

“What about it?”

“It’s a real expensive one, so I don’t think he’d change it. It’s low-crowned, light brown an’ he must’ve had an accident with it at some time. Left side as you look at it, near the front, where the brim curls. It’s kinda singed. Big dark patch. You can’t miss it.”

The effort of talking so much in his condition was the last straw for Roach. He’d been struggling all along. He tried to add something but after panting and choking for about twenty seconds, he gave a final gurgle and died.

The following morning, Merrick looked for some implement he could use to bury Roach. Finding nothing, he settled for covering the corpse with pieces of the shack’s fallen sod roof, topped off with stones, which he had to carry from the homestead’s periphery.

Having done what he saw as his duty, Merrick rode off. As did so, he was struck by a thought. If Roach and Crow were not acquainted before they met at the well, how did Roach know his assailant’s name? It seemed hardly likely that a man intending to kill a stranger would introduce himself. And why had Roach cautioned Merrick against allowing Crow to talk about what had happened? Ah, well, there wasn’t a lot of sense in pondering on either point. Not much chance that he’d encounter this Crow fellow.