Harlan's Point: Lawman Ethan Cobb, #2

Harlan’s Point

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Leona Grace

Copyright 2017 Leona Grace

License Notes

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, events or locations is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this book are 18 years of age or older.

This book is written in British English.

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Cover art: Copyright 2017 Ex Aureolis

Photos: Depositphotos

Sharat Ganapati under the (CC BY 2.0) license

Cover images do not imply model/photographer endorsement

and have been remixed and transformed

Edited by L.O.

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Dedication

Dedicated, as always, to the friend who set me on this course

and to all who have given me support and encouragement.

Table of Contents

Title Page

License Notes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Author's Note

About Leona Grace

Chapter 1

The river, once wide and dangerous at this point, was now little more than a stream with a few sluggish pools under the sloping banks on the other side. Cobb flicked the reins and urged Zeph into the slow moving water; there was not much to see on the other side but one of the homesteaders had come into town complaining about missing cattle and as County Sheriff it was his duty to check. There was little he could do about it even if he found any carcasses – too many animals were dying from lack of water as it was. He let the buckskin mare stand for a while to cool her feet and wet her lips.

The land was parched. The wide pasturelands – at other times rich with grass and purple sage – were now pale and arid, the arroyos in the hills devoid of water and animal life. Cattle clustered close to the river in case this precious source might disappear. As it was, one of the town pumps had stopped working and another couple close to drying up. He pulled off his battered Stetson and wiped his brow but even this early in the day the sun was too fierce to manage without the protection and, grunting with annoyance, he replaced the hat and flicked the reins. Another few miles before he reached the official crossing point for the town, but here the river was shallow enough to allow a child to walk across in safety.

Zeph headed for the other side, the bank low enough to let her clamber out with ease. Another flick of the reins and she set off, a slow and easy walk to get them back in town in a half hour. Not in time to have a bite to eat and say good morning, but he would make it up to Leah somehow.

He rode through the town, Zeph eager to stop for a drink at the horse trough outside the saloon but it was half-full and thick with scum and he made a mental note to speak to the barkeeper when he returned. Bad enough wild creatures had to go thirsty, but there was no excuse for hard-ridden horses to be neglected. He would go to the livery instead; another delay but a welcome one.

The stables were busy when he rode up: a couple of boys carrying buckets of water from the pump across the street, horses milling around in the corral. Dust and dirt and the smell of fresh dung. Cobb dismounted with a creak of leather and a thud of boot on the ground, Zeph whickering a greeting to the red-headed teenager hurrying out to meet them.

Marshal. A somewhat formal title but that was fine with Cobb. The boy would decide what to call the man soon to become part of the family though ‘step-uncle’ sounded even more impersonal. It wasn’t as if Tom or the girls objected to the thought of having Cobb as part of their family, it was just a matter of finding the right name for him. And although he no longer wore his U.S. Marshal’s badge, it was still there in his office, a reminder of long years of service under General Hoffman.

Just passing through. Zeph needed a drink. And he did as well, though he dared not go over to the boarding house across the street much as he might like a glass of fresh buttermilk.

He let Zeph take her time, using the opportunity to refill his canteen from one of the buckets of water – Tom too good a liveryman to give any horse water not fit for a man. It was tempting to put off his errand until tomorrow but he had given his word and besides, it was yet another of his obligations, as he was discovering, along with Town Council meetings and an unending stream of paperwork.

Tell your aunt I’ll be back in plenty of time for supper.

Sure? You missed breakfast again and you know she worries when you work long hours.

I’m sure. One last job today and that shouldn’t take too long.

Going out to the railroad camp? Tom ran one hand down Zeph’s muzzle, holding his fingers up to show a covering of thick dust. She needs a good brushing.

Trying to make me feel even more guilty? Cobb sighed and patted the mustang, raising dirt and dust from her coat. You’re right though. I’ve been keeping my eyes open for another mustang to start training but nothing’s caught my eye. I’ll try staying in town tomorrow – give her a rest if you can see to her?

Zeph? Always. Here you are. Tom held out a broken carrot for her. Remember, supper at seven. 

Cobb shook his head in resignation. It was well over a week since he’d managed to sit down for a meal with the family, instead he’d ended up eating at the kitchen table by himself while Leah prepared bread for the next day or sewed clothes for the children. And too many mornings had seen him up and dressed before dawn, out patrolling the boundaries of the town and keeping a watch out for predators looking for easy pickings. The drought was hurting more than just the farmers and the townspeople; wolves were prowling the dry arroyos to the north, starving and vicious and coming within a couple of miles of the town. But the predators were not just animals. There’d been rumours of gangs of out-of-work men heading for the area, looking for jobs perhaps but mostly seeking anything they could steal.

He slung his canteen on the saddle and remounted, the mare huffing with discontent as he settled himself. A click of his tongue and she set off down the main street busy with another wagon train delivering to one of the new stores. The sound of men at work, hammering nails into wooden boards, new facades and signs and rails being put up to attract customers.

A couple of youthful looking railroad workers, no doubt heading for the saloon where drink was cheaper, climbed down from one of the wagons that travelled between town and railhead. He thought about directing them to the barber’s shop and bath house but he had enough work to do before supper and he urged Zeph on until they were outside the town and following the well-trodden track to the railroad encampment several miles further on through Harlan’s Pass.

The pass was more of a wide gorge, carved out millennia ago by a long forgotten river. Steep escarpments pock-marked by caves made it an uneasy place for a single rider, even one with a Sheriff’s authority, and despite the presence of groups of men clearing boulders with pickaxes and shovels in preparation for dynamiting later, he was glad when the curved walls of the gorge opened up and he could see the railhead in the distance. He reined in, tilting his hat to keep the glare of the sun from his eyes as he regarded the sprawling mess of tents and half-boarded rough buildings clustered close to the ongoing line.

Steel rails lying next to untidy stacks of rough-hewn wooden ties, a huge mound of spikes next to heaps of coal and charcoal, men huddled in groups round camp fires while waiting for drinks of bitter, burned coffee. The smell of bad meat, of unwashed bodies, of inadequate latrines. The sound of men fighting as disagreements turned physical. Zeph shook her head, snorting, and he urged her onwards towards a wooden cabin set well apart from the tents.

He stayed in the saddle. Easier to see trouble from this height – to catch sight of a man who’d had too much to drink and wanted a fight, or to spot one of the curs slinking from behind a tent to attack Zeph with bared teeth. He held her on a tight rein, aware of her trembling beneath him. The cabin door opened.

Sheriff. Jake Ritter, railroad superintendent. A tall man in clean shirt and vest and pants, one hand fingering a gold pocket watch. A surprise. I wasn’t expecting you. Scant welcome in the cool voice.

Not stopping. Just headed out to check how things are going. He cast an eye over the long stretch of railroad line heading for Harlan’s Crossing. Progress was slower than expected, but it would only be a matter of weeks before the railhead was through the Pass and the camp would be re-siting closer to town. He wasn’t looking forward to the prospect.

Thefts from the supply wagons? I did as you advised and doubled the guards on the route though the company weren’t at all happy. I’ll take the cost out of the men’s wages seeing as how they’re the ones needing the supplies. He lit a cheroot, took a long drag, his boot crushing the spent match beneath his heel. "By the way, the area manager’s coming out tomorrow for a few days. He’ll be staying in town and it’d be a good idea to see he’s looked after properly – if you get my meaning. He’ll