Chapter 12

• The broad, level river bottom was a land of contrasts. By day, the ancient willows_ those yellow-green outcasts among the dying, parched vegetation_ stretched their limbs in unnatural defiance across the barren mountain-desert. As twilight descended, these sentinel trees seemed to wither into mournful silhouettes, their trailing branches whispering secrets like the hushed voices of long-forgotten ghosts. Even on a still day, a sound, faint as a sigh, could be heard as their leaves caressed one another in a guarded murmur, as though the earth itself were recounting ancient sorrows.
• In a modest clearing among these spectral trees, Cole Grimwood and his hardened companions had gathered. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of embers and earth, and a fire_ now reduced to smoldering coals_ cast trembling shadows on their faces. They waited in tacit expectation for the arrival of their fifth member. At length, a solitary figure approached with deliberate calm. With a courteous wave, the newcomer joined the circle, immediately setting about caring for his horse. His appearance was a study in contrasts: on one side, the youthful face of a good-natured lad, and on the other, a jagged scar etched from his right eyebrow to the corner of his mouth, distorting his features into a permanent grimace. When he spoke, his tone bore the air of secrecy and half-hidden sorrows.
• Will Durov possessed of a natural gift for cooking_ had just gathered the dying coals and was now preparing bacon and coffee for this unexpected guest. The newcomer squatted near the fire, watching Durov with an intense, discerning gaze. Only when the meal was finished did Grimwood break the silence.
• “What news, Williams?” he inquired, his voice a low command that brooked no delay.
• For a long moment, Williams_ whose regretful eyes lingered on an empty coffee cup_ seemed to wrestle with his thoughts. Finally, he answered in a hushed tone, “There ain’t much to tell, sir. But I suppose you heard about that chap you beat up at Grinder’s place the other day?”
• Grimwood’s eyes narrowed. “Who in the world knows that I struck him?” he demanded sharply.
• “None, sir,” replied Williams, “but when I heard the description of the man who hit Trillin’ Jack with the chair, I reckoned it was none other than Cole Grimwood himself.”
• A murmur of disbelief rippled among the gathered men. Before any could speak further, Danny interjected, “What about Mercer?” His question hung in the smoke-laden air.
• Williams’s gaze never wavered from the chief. “They say, in general, that you needed that chair, Cole. Is that right?”
• A heavy silence fell as the others exchanged furtive glances. Grimwood’s hand clenched into a massive fist, a silent testimony to his mounting fury. “He went loco, and I had no choice but to slam him,” Grimwood admitted, his tone rough as flint.
• “The cut on his head wasn’t deep_ but he was left lying in the saloon that night. And come the next mornin’, old Joe Harrington, not knowing that Trillin’ Jack was in there, went and touched a match to the joint. The whole place went up in smoke and took Jack along with it.”
• For a long heartbeat, not a word was spoken. Then Grimwood’s voice rang out, heavy with unspent wrath: “Then what of that whistlin’ I heard down the road behind us?”
• A burst of rolling bass laughter erupted from Will Durov, soon joined by Jim Case’s high-pitched tenor. “We told you, Cole,” Case managed between chuckles, “there wasn’t any whistlin’ behind us. We reckon you’re makin’ something out of nothin’. Am I right, boys?”
• “Sure are,” agreed Durov, shaking his head. “I didn’t hear a sound.”
• Grimwood’s eyes rolled in fury as he glowered from face to face. “I’m mighty sorry the lad got his in the fire. I’d have given anything for another chance_ just five minutes alone with Trillin’ Jack.” His words carried a venomous promise, and for a heartbeat, even the hardened men felt the sting of his loss. When he turned away, a spark of reluctant mirth passed among them.
• Jim Case then clapped Durov on the shoulder. “Will, if Trillin’ Jack is dead, then who’s left to master that dog?” His tone brimmed with mischief.
• “What do you mean, him?” growled Durov.
• “I’d like to try my hand with him,” Case declared, his lips twisting in a mix of challenge and dark humor. “Did you see that black devil, snarling at me out front of Grinder’s place? He didn’t look too friendly.”
• “He surely didn’t,” Durov muttered.
• “Maybe if I had him on a chain,” Case continued conspiratorially, “I could set him straight_ a daily whipping until he licks my hand in submission.”
• “By God, he’d be done in before long,” Durov grumbled. “I’ve known that kind of beast_ a dog, maybe even a wolf.”
• “Perhaps he’d die, but mark my words, I’d try if I had to ride a hundred miles and swim a river to get him,” Case said, eyes glinting with reckless daring.
• Their conversation soon turned to talk of horses and rivalries, and Will Durov’s heart ached as he confessed a secret longing. “There are men, for years on end, who hunt for a girl whose picture they keep hidden away. But I don’t care for women folk. No, I’ve traveled far with a single image in my mind_ the image of Nightfall, that hoss, whose shoulders, head, and burning eyes drive a man to lay down his life. I won’t rest till I’ve felt those satin sides between my knees.”
• Ted Danny listened silently, his thoughts far away_ dreaming of yellow hair and blue eyes, of Ellie Harrington. He drifted over to Williams and, speaking quietly, said, “Tell me more, Bart_ about Trillin’ Jack’s death, about the burnin’ of the saloon.”
• Williams lowered his voice, careful not to let Grimwood’s suspicious ear catch every word. “I’ll tell you what I know. Old Joe Harrington, that stubborn fool, woke one mornin’ and, without a word, went down to the saloon. He touched a match to it, and by the time his girl, Ellie, was told what happened, the place was a pile of red hot coals. Folks reckon Jack went up in the flames.”
• Danny muttered, “What of Mercer’s fight with Grimwood?”
• Williams shrugged, “There isn’t much to say. From what I gathered, Jack cut loose and raised hell with more fury than a dozen mavericks all at once.”
• Danny’s eyes hardened. “It wasn’t a pleasant sight. One moment he was as harmless as an eighteen-year-old’s laugh; the next, he was a panther who had tasted blood. And then Grimwood_ well, Grimwood is known for his rough hands.”
• Williams’s lips curled into a wry smile. “We all know that, don’t we?”
• Just then, a crackling sound from the underbrush a few hundred yards away drew their attention. A voice called out, “Start up your works again, Will! Here comes Shorty Rhinehart_ he’s overdue!”
• In moments, Shorty swung from his horse and joined the group. Despite his nickname, earned for being but an inch taller than Grimwood and yet far thinner, his face bore the deep, sorrowful lines of one who’d seen too much loss. Grimwood immediately approached him. “You seen Hardy?” he asked.
• Shorty replied, “I did, and it’ll be the last time I visit him in Townvill, mark my words.”
• “Did he give you the dope?” Grimwood pressed.
• “No, not a word,” Shorty answered. “I was sent to the Wells Fargo office, and the clerk turned me back to find Hardy in the back room. When Hardy saw me, he changed color. I barely got a greeting before he locked me in and asked what I was doing in Townvill.”
• Shorty recounted, in low, urgent tones, how Hardy had insisted he was tired of the whole works_ of being hunted by marshals, of the whole gang getting wise. Then, leaning in close, he whispered, “You know who’s on your trail now, Grimwood?”
• Grimwood’s hand moved to his six-gun. “Who?”
• “Sam Riggs,” Shorty breathed.
• Grimwood’s eyes blazed. “Sam Riggs’s a fool. He ought to know better than to trail me.”
• “Yet he’s fast with his gun,” Shorty ventured.
• “Don’t I know that? Alvarez, Bradley, Hunter_ God knows how many more could rise from their graves_ and they'd all agree he’s quick. But I’m the one man on the range faster than them all,” Grimwood declared with grim resolve.
• A tense silence fell. Then, Grimwood addressed the assembled men in a voice that brooked no dissent: “Boys, listen well. Shorty here just told me that Sam Riggs is after us. I’m bettin’ my draw will be half a hair quicker than his. He might die shootin’, though I wouldn’t wager my life that I can nail him before he draws his iron. Who among you takes that bet?”
• Their eyes slid over Grimwood, each man recalling in hushed tones the many tales of Sam Riggs’s fabled speed. Shorty waited silently as Grimwood turned to him, his gaze as hard as flint. “Now, tell me what he had to say about the coin.”
• “Hardy says the shipment’s delayed_ he ain’t sure how long,” Shorty replied.
• “Delayed? How so?” Grimwood asked.
• “He reckons Wells Fargo got a hunch you were laying for the train meant to carry it. When I pressed him, he hedged, saying he’s quitting on us cold,” Shorty finished.
• Grimwood’s face twisted in regret and fury. “I was a fool to send you, Shorty. I’m goin’ myself. Danny, you take charge of camp. I must ride to Townvill and see for myself.”
• He saddled his roan with a sudden decisiveness. As he pulled up the cinch of his saddle, Grimwood stopped short, turned, and raised a single hand for silence. The group fell into a hush so complete that even the whisper of the wind seemed to hold its breath. Jim Case leaned his weathered face toward the ground, straining to catch distant sounds. After a moment, he straightened and murmured, “What is it?”
• “Shut up,” Grimwood muttered, the words barely audible. “That damned whistlin’ again.”
• Every face turned toward the nearby willows. At a rustling of leaves, Bart Williams started, then cursed softly under his breath, breaking the spell. “It’s the whisperin’ of the willows,” Case offered.
• “Lies,” croaked Grimwood hoarsely. “I hear the sound growing nearer.”
• Before any could reply, Danny interjected, “Mercer is dead.”
• Grimwood whipped out his revolver in a vain gesture_ and then shoved it back into its holster. “Stand by me, boys,” he pleaded, his voice trembling with both fear and defiant bravado. “It’s his ghost comin’ to haunt me! You can’t hear it because it ain’t comin’ for you.”
• They stared at him with a mixture of fascination and dread. “How do you know it’s him?” asked Shorty, his voice barely a whisper.
• “There ain’t no sound in the world like it,” Grimwood said. “It’s part bird’s song, part mournful wind_ a lament of Trillin’ Jack’s spirit.” His tone turned quavering. “That eerie whistlin’ is the ghost of Jack himself.”
• At that moment, the tall roan lifted his head and whinnied softly_ a sound that cut through the tension like a spectral bell. It was as if the beast alone could hear the lament that had transformed Grimwood into a quivering man. Here were five seasoned fighters, fearsome in their own rights, yet in that moment, none could counter the power of a ghostly sound.
• The whistling subsided briefly. Grimwood drew a shuddering breath, only to have the sound resume_ louder, closer, unmistakably real. The men exchanged glances, their faces pale as if touched by an otherworldly chill. Jim Case cried out, “I heard it, chief! If it’s a ghost, it’s hauntin’ me too!”
• Grimwood cursed in bitter relief. “It ain’t no ghost. It’s Trillin’ Jack himself,” he insisted fiercely. “And Bart Williams, you ain’t been carryin’ us lies! What in hell do you mean by it?”
• “I ain’t been fibbin’ you,” Williams snapped, his tone hot with indignation. “I told you what I heard. I never claimed anyone saw his dead body!”
• The ghostly whistling began to fade into the encroaching dusk. Murmurs of conjecture and exclamation filled the air for a heartbeat, but Grimwood, still pale around the mouth, swung up into his saddle with a final, defiant cry: “That Trillin’ Jack I’m leavin’ to you, Danny. I’ve his blood on my hands, and if I meet him again_ there’ll be another notch on my shootin’ iron!”
• With that, he spurred his roan forward into the gathering shadows, leaving behind a circle of men haunted by the echo of that phantom whistling_ a sound that mingled grief and vengeance in the fading light, sealing the fate of those left behind on this desolate, unforgiving range.