Rider in the rain a scot.., p.1
Rider in the Rain (A Scott Siegel Classic Western), page 1
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Cort Lacey rode back to the valley he had left twelve long years before. Now he was famous—but for all the wrong reasons. There was a woman, too, a special one, and she expected him to do something about the range-hog who was crowding the settlers out of the valley.
Haunted by his own reputation and the bloody victories that had built it, Cort realized he had one last chance to wipe the slate clean … but to do it, he would have to stop the land-grabber and his army of gunfighters in their tracks …and stop them for good.
RIDER IN THE RAIN
By Scott Siegel
First published by Manor Books in 1979
Copyright © 1979, 2021 by Scott Siegel
First Electronic Edition: January 2021
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
In loving memory of my mother.
Chapter One
John Bell, as was his custom, stopped at the Mustang Saloon for a drink before taking that long ride back to the Five Fingers. He came in out of the hot sun, limping through the bat-wing doors, only to find that more than half of the Mustang’s customers were hands from the Double C. It was easy to tell. They were the ones with coins jingling in their pockets. An honest cow-puncher couldn’t afford getting drunk as often as the Double C riders did.
John couldn’t help but think of the change in the Double C—and with it, the valley—since Howard Cliffords died. It was a change that could only be measured by the gulf between what is best in man and what is a good deal less than best. Howard originally owned the entire valley, but had opened it up to people looking for a fresh start. Cliffords made money, but on the whole, he had been generous and helpful to the poorest of the poor, who saw in his valley a chance to build a future. Now Howard was gone, and his kid brother, William, was running the Double C. William Cliffords was nothing like his older brother ...
A tumbler of rye awaited John at the bar as he said hello to the few friendly faces he could find scattered among the new, rough-looking Cliffords bunch.
He put his lame leg up on the bar-rail, took off his hat, and wiped his brow. There was a strange tension in the air. It made him uneasy. A man gets a sense for trouble living in a rough country, and John had felt it when he walked in the door. The looks on the faces of his friends deepened that feeling. And the voice that bellowed, “John Bell, I hear you used to be real good with a gun before you got yourself crippled!” confirmed his worst fears.
He motioned to the bartender for another drink. Usually he had only one, but he didn’t want to turn around. “No trouble,” he promised himself. It was a difficult promise to keep.
A large, meaty hand grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him away from the bar. He half-stumbled as he tried to place his left leg firmly on the saloon floor. As he spun around, he caught sight of William Cliffords smiling wickedly in the doorway of the Mustang Saloon.
John Bell heard that same bellowing voice say something about his courage, but he didn’t listen. He was concentrating on finding a way out of this. The loudmouth bucking for a fight was a stranger. Maybe John could beat him at slapping leather and maybe he couldn’t. He didn’t want to find out.
What troubled him most was that he didn’t know why he was being goaded into a fight—at least he didn’t know until he caught the eye of a neighbor who had a small ranch across the valley. That man was looking up to him, hoping he had the sand in his gut and the speed in his hands to stop whatever William Cliffords might be planning.
John Bell was a modest man. It wasn’t until that hopeful look from his friend that he realized he was the closest thing to a gunfighter the small ranchers had. Get rid of him and start harassing these peaceful folks and that most would get the fear in them and they would leave.
William Cliffords, with all the money, land, and cattle his brother, Howard, left him, was trying to grab for more. And John Bell was the first obstacle. Yes, John was the closest thing to a gunfighter the small ranchers had, and he wasn’t much. Twelve years ago, before his leg was blasted out of shape, he would have had a better than even chance. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He just stood there and listened to his name being cursed and didn’t move. “I won’t fight. I won’t,” he repeated to himself, trying to close his mind to the epithets being hurled his way.
Then he heard his wife’s name come slithering out of the foul-minded cowboy’s mouth. John never had a chance. He was provoked, yet, was the second of the two to get his gun clear of leather. A bullet ripped into his throat. His eyes bulged out in a stare that saw nothing as blood gushed out of his neck and life poured out of his body. John Bell toppled over and was dead when he hit the floor.
When a man is killed before a large gathering of people, somehow, despite the wide open spaces of the west—the deserts, mountains, and Indian country—despite all this and more, somehow, the news travels. Maybe a disillusioned ranch-hand, a fearful drummer, or just a wanderer had been in the Mustang Saloon that day and saw the incident for what it was: murder.
So this fellow, sick with the sight of greed or scared at the sight for a man acting worse than an animal, makes a point of drifting. Maybe the next stop is a mining town or a boomtown with the railroad coming through. This drifter, with the evil he’s seen still in his mind’s eye, tells the dirty tale. Those he tells it to, tell it to others. Some of these folks go to other mining towns, boomtowns, or cow towns and repeat the story.
“There was a lame cowboy,” they’d say, “who didn’t fight no matter what dirt-eating names were shoved into his craw by a hired gun ... until the paid killer bad-mouthed the cripple’s wife. And then the poor bastard was shot down.”
And so the story would spread. From Wyoming to the Dakotas to Texas ... to everyplace men get their backs up when an honest man dies for no good reason. And maybe, just maybe, a drifter, who heard the story from a bartender, who heard it from a drummer, who heard it from a railroad man, will repeat what he’s heard to a man who makes a difference.
Chapter Two
The worst of the storm was over. The thunder and lightning had stopped over an hour before, but a cold rain continued to fall steadily over the water-soaked ground and the lone rider heading toward Cliffordsville.
He had been riding a long time. Exhaustion could be easily detected in the dun’s lowered head and in its rider’s slouch in the saddle. Keeping warm and dry were given up long before. Trying to fight nature’s bitter elements was more tiring than just taking the chill of wind and rain down the back of the neck.
Cort Lacey was silent astride the rider. No cursing at the rainclouds overhead, no self-reproach for leaving the abandoned cabin he had slept in the night before. It didn’t matter to him if it rained all day or all week. The only thing that mattered was getting to Cliffordsville.
Tired, wet, and very much alone, Lacey slowly closed the gap between himself and his destination. “What’s going to happen when I get there?” It was a thought that often crossed his mind. Probably nobody would take much notice of a cowboy drifting into town. There were precious few people in the valley who could recognize him. Precious few. And what would they think of him now?
The constant rhythm of the rain and his horse’s slow but steady pace, allowed Cort Lacey’s wearied mind to return to a time over twelve years before. He was a kid growing into a man, and his friends had a slap on the back for him, a sincere smile, and a loyalty, now remembered, that warmed his chilled and wind-blown soul. “They were good people,” he thought to himself, “and they still are ... it’s me that’s been in the whirlwind.”
He remembered how it was when Thaddeus Clark took his brother Sam aside one day in the bunkhouse. Cort was young and his brother stood up for the both of them.
“I’ve got an idea,” Thaddeus had said, “of how my family, you and your brother Cort, the Sloans, John Bell and Rusty Howell can get out of working wages and set up a place of our own.
“I’ve been getting good money as foreman. I know you’ve been putting money away, Sam, and so have the others. Each of us has a dream of having our own spread someday. How many times have you ridden drag on a drive and been choking on dust but takin’ no notice of it ’cause you’re lost in a daydream of branding your own cattle?
“Sure, we’ve all had the same hopes but where does it get us? I’ve been saving since my daughter Clare was born and still ain’t got enough saved to get a ranch off the ground. I’m telling you, no matter what you and your brother save, you’ll be as old as me before you have the makin’s of a decent stake ... and sure, that goes for Steve Sloan, John, and Rusty, too.
“Look, I like those fellows. They’re hard-working honest men. And I like you and your brother. What I’m suggesting is this—th
Thaddeus Clark’s rugged features had softened as he spoke. There was more in his eyes than the hope of drawing in a fifth man with some money in the bank.
Sam, no doubt, saw in Clark’s eyes just what Steve Sloan and his wife Linda did, and just what John Bell and Rusty Howell had ... a man giving up the hope of a personal cattle empire that he had carried over twenty years—giving it up and asking his closest friends to do likewise so that they might have something more than a dream. It would be a place in the here and now where they could lean on each other, help each other, and mostly, stay together.
It was a lot for a man like Thaddeus Clark to admit out loud that he liked you. And to a man, they all liked and respected him. When all the talking was done, no one hesitated. Sam, like the others, was proud to count himself a friend of Thaddeus Clark.
Later that night, handshakes sealed the five-way bargain. After a couple of drinks in celebration, someone came up with the idea of naming their future ranch “the Five Fingers”. A shout of approval went up and they drank to the name and to themselves.
Five months later, however, Thaddeus Clark was still foreman of the Cross-Key outfit and trail-bossing a cattle drive pointing for the railhead. Plans for their new ranch had been discussed and made and then rediscussed and then re-made. There was never any real anger when someone’s ideas were voted down, but frustration was growing because they just weren’t getting anywhere.
It was Thaddeus Clark’s wife, Cassie, who finally put her finger on why everyone was disagreeing. The simplicity of it embarrassed the men folk because they had been fools to overlook the obvious. How could they possibly decide how much cattle to buy the first year, or how big the barn should be, and so many other things, when each of them had a different idea of what the lay of the land would be?
It was on this cattle drive, three and a half weeks out of the Cross-Key, that all the disagreements ended. Rusty Howell, whose job was to scout ahead for the drive, and, off the record, do a little land prospecting for the Five Fingers group, came galloping toward a point where Thaddeus Clark was talking to a drover.
Old Rusty rode like a bullet shot out of a Sharps buffalo gun. Most of the cowpunchers pulled rifles out of their saddle scabbards, figuring that Rusty was being chased by the Comanch’. Thaddeus Clark, Sam and Cort Lacey, John Bell, and Steve Sloan, however, were standing up in their stirrups, eyes straining well beyond the point where their friend was now riding. They were trying to see a stretch of land where their new home and new lives would be. They were mostly optimists by nature and so they hoped for the good word. But if Old Rusty was bringing news of a war party of Comanche, they would be quick to react, for by nature they were also hard western men—bred to fight like the devil.
As he drew closer to Thaddeus, the trail boss could see a wide, laughing grin on the scout’s face. Even before Rusty pulled his gray to a stop, Thaddeus Clark had motioned for the Five Fingers riders to join him at point. With wide-eyed faces and a lot of happy hollering that perplexed some of the other drovers, they all put spurs to their mounts and came up to Thaddeus and Rusty to hear the news.
Bunched together ahead of the herd, they made quite a sight. First quiet, then laughing, and then, just as suddenly, quiet again.
Thaddeus had been the first to speak. He asked what all of them were wanting to know. “Well, you redheaded old mule, why the hell you come ridin’ in here like a norther with a grin as wide as a canyon?”
Rusty looked innocent-like at all of them and everyone just started in to whooping it up. They were sure he had found something.
When they settled down, Rusty took out the makings and started in to fashioning a quirly. No one moved. Everyone was waiting with growing impatience for Rusty to let the cat out of the bag. Finally, it was Cort Lacey, the least patient of the group, who said, “Dammit Rusty, a joke’s a joke, we gotta know what you saw!”
The leathery old scout was a little miffed at the youngster snapping at him, but the news was too good to let something like that sour the moment. He lit up his cigarette, cleared his throat, and simply said, “I think I found us a home.”
Then came a flood of questions.
“How far?” both Cort and John asked simultaneously.
Rusty, looking more at John than at Cort, replied instantly. “Just about sixteen miles as best as I can figure. Over the northwest and over those hills a piece.”
“What about the land?” Thaddeus asked, practically holding his breath.
Rusty looked right into the foreman’s eyes and held his glance for a long moment before getting off his horse. The grass was sparse so it took no time at all for him to clear enough out of the way and to begin making a map in the dirt. By the time he had put his finger to the ground to draw the first defining line, the other five men were hunkered down beside him.
“Is there enough water for a big herd?” Steve blurted out.
“Does anyone own the land you’ve seen? Did you find out how much it will cost us?” Sam questioned.
“Yeah, and is there a town nearby? We’ll need supplies,” John added.
“What about other ranchers? Do we have a lot of neighbors?” Cort asked on the heels of all the other questions.
Old Rusty didn’t answer their rapid-fire queries. He didn’t even look up. He just continued making lines on the ground ’til the shape of a valley, grazing land, and symbols for water were written into the earth. And finally, after smiling up at Thaddeus, who had asked long moments before—“What about the land?” Rusty told them everything he knew ...
“It’s a large valley,” he began, pointing down at his little masterpiece, “with lots of good rich grass almost everywhere. The best land for cattle is in the northeastern quarter of the valley and in the southwest because of the way the mountains will shield the sun in the summer and cut down on the wind in the winter. And then there’s the water. Lots of fast running cold creeks. Most of them are in the southwest, but there’s plenty of water for a good-size herd in the northeast quarter too.” He stopped and looked up at Sam. “ ... your question about whether or not the land is owned—the fact is, the entire valley is all bought up, but we can buy us a real nice layout ... ”
Steve, John, and Cort had figured on moving in on unclaimed land, and they became uneasy at this news. Being youngest, they were more easily troubled by life’s complications and so they started to get restless. Cort even said something about how they had all better get back to the herd pretty soon.
Realizing for the first time that he might not convince them all that this was an ideal spot for the Five Fingers, Rusty turned to Thaddeus and Sam for help.
Sam, surprised by his kid brother’s sudden lack of interest and very much interested himself, needed little prodding. Looking at Cort, he said sternly, “I think Rusty has more to say. You gonna listen?”
“Sure, Sam,” Cort said quietly but fiercely, “only I kinda thought we’d be starting out fresh somewhere, not move into a valley where everybody knows everybody and we’re the outsiders; where we’d be buying a stretch of land from some poor duster who couldn’t feed himself let alone his cattle.”
Old Rusty burst out laughing. “You got it all wrong kid. You let me finish saying my piece and you’ll be riding out of here in front of us all, heading toward that valley like heat lightning.”
Everyone jumped at Rusty’s sudden laughter, and then a new intensity gripped them. “I guess I kinda misled you folks,” Rusty apologized. “When I said all the land was bought up, I didn’t mean we was Johnny-come-latelies. It happens that whole valley is owned by just one man ... a Mr. Howard Cliffords by name, and a downright sociable feller too.
