The Bolas by Caleb Rand

Author:Caleb Rand [Rand, Caleb]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Latch took off his hat, swiped at the ash powder around his shoulders and legs. ‘I’ve been breathin’ this goddamn stuff,’ he remarked. ‘Let’s get the hell out o’ here. I feel like a lump o’ jerky.’

Hours had passed since the horses had watered. Latch lifted his waterbag off the saddle, poured water into his hat and wet the mare’s lips and mouth. ‘Sorry, we ain’t finished yet,’ he growled. He swabbed the horse’s nostrils, waited until it sucked the hat dry. ‘There’s a few more miles to go.’

‘Where’d you reckon you’ll be going then, Latch? Do you hear that?’ Will nodded out to the valley where a handful of riders were at a headlong gallop in the direction of the Bluestem ranch. ‘They’re not out for any promenade,’ he said, drily.

The two men waited silently as the others rode on, squinting against the darkness as the noise of the Bolas riders faded across the swags and hog wallows.

‘No, it’s us they’re after,’ Latch agreed. ‘But their mounts won’t make it much further. Their hearts’ll bust afore they catch anythin’.’

‘We could be on our knees ourselves before morning’s out,’ Will said.

‘I’m hopin’ for a cold beer in town.’ Latch spat something from the corner of his mouth. ‘The Big Bella, wasn’t it?’ he asked and spat again noisily.

‘Near enough,’ Will replied. ‘Tell me about Henri.’

‘He’s in the barn with a rifle for a nurse.’ Latch dropped his reins, rubbed the palm of his hand around his wrinkled face. ‘There’s half o’ that ol’ Frenchman just itchin’ for a Bolas scalp.’

‘We didn’t see Ben Shoeville ride away from Bolas.’ Will reminded Latch. ‘Do you reckon Ogden will cut him down?’

‘Not with a town sheriff as witness.’ Latch heeled his horse into a canter. ‘The way I see it, the only chance we’ve got is go to town, then come back again along the White Mesa road.’

‘After you’ve had that dust cutter,’ Will prodded.

‘Yep. I gave my horse the last water.’ Latch paused. ‘Besides, I’m out o’ that chaw baccy.’

‘You’ve never used it.’

‘From now on I’m goin’ to. Reckon I’ve been driven to it.’

When they reached the edge of town, they rode to the bridge, drew into the deep shadow of a cotton-wood as two horsemen crossed the creek. They continued, took a side street until they levelled with Preston Mower’s mercantile, rode on to the Bello Hotel.

Four horses were hitched outside the hotel saloon, and as Will and Latch dismounted and tied in their own mounts, the smack of horse sweat and scorched hair was unmistakable. Bolas riders had made town before them.

Latch stood and listened for a few moments. He caught Will’s quizzical glance, who shrugged. ‘Go on then,’ he said, ‘We haven’t rode here for nothing.’

They blinked as they stepped into the bright lamplight of the bar. Latch moved to the left, Will to the right of the door. Two Bolas riders stood close to the bar, one nearer the door, one in the far corner, among the poker tables.

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