Funeral By The Sea Read online

  Table of Contents

  FUNERAL BY THE SEA

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  FUNERAL BY THE SEA

  Oceanville, California nestled by the wide blue waters of the Pacific but it was no vacation resort. More like a retirement home. Leastways, strangers who stumbled on it never came out again alive and mostly never had time to say hi to the folks before they were dead. Unless they were kept around just long enough to pleasure Miss Eve. It was her brother who ran the vicious bunch of hoodlums and Mexican whores who made up the citizenry. So it looked like the end of the road for Barnaby Gold when he came into town, just aiming to buy a horse. But, sure as hell, he didn’t reckon on paying with his life.

  THE UNDERTAKER,

  FUNERAL BY THE SEA by George G. Gilman

  Copyright © 2014 George G. Gilman

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers.

  First Amazon Edition June 2014

  Conditions of sale, This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  For Tom T. Hall

  One story in appreciation of so many.

  CHAPTER ONE

  BARNABY Gold had been riding into a gentle west wind ever since he started out at dawn and from mid-morning the hot, slow-moving air currents were permeated with the saline smell of the ocean. But he knew he was several hundred miles south of San Francisco so there was no temptation to ask the black gelding for greater speed.

  He would see the great expanse of the Pacific in due course of time and it would inevitably recall memories of his early youth, times when he had stood on the very tip of Manhattan Island, peering out across New York Harbor at the Atlantic, daydreaming of the distant countries which lay on the far side.

  But the days for dreaming of what might be were over now for he was engaged in making hopes become reality, and although he was eager to fulfill a lifelong ambition, his feelings upon detecting the scents of the ocean again after so many years of being enclosed by the mountains and deserts of south-eastern Arizona fell far short of reckless excitement.

  He simply expressed a smile of quiet satisfaction that he had survived for long enough to reach this early stage of the journey which was planned all those years ago in New York City. Smiled then lit a cheroot and continued to allow his mount to move at an energy-conserving walk through the mountains beyond which was the ocean, used the reins only to keep the gelding on the trail that wound among the rearing rocks and sparse clumps of desert plants.

  Then at noon, when the promise of the Pacific was still no more than a subtle and elusive fragrance on the breeze, he veered his mount off the trail and into the hot shade of a rock overhang. Where he swung down from the saddle and stretched, easing the stiffness of the morning ride from his muscles. Then hand-brushed his clothes free of trail dust, took off his hat and shook it before he poured canteen water into it and gave the gelding a drink.

  Cleaned of dust, all his clothing was jet black. From the rolled brim hat to the shiny riding boots which he wore outside his pants.

  Between was a knee-length Ulster coat with a velvet collared cape hanging down to just below his elbows, only the top two brass buttons fastened. A silk scarf was loosely tied at his throat and all but concealed the shirt which would otherwise have shown between the plunging lapels of the coat. He did not wear a jacket or a vest. Nor a necktie.

  Even his gunbelt was black, relieved by the metal buckle and bullets in the loops.

  Slung low from the right of the belt was a holster in which nestled a wood-butted Colt .45 Peacemaker. On the left was another Peacemaker. This was an eagle-butted model with a mother-of-pearl grip and a cutaway trigger guard, fixed to the belt by a stud in a slot, a swivel rig designed for fast shooting.

  All his clothes were relatively new. The gunbelt and guns were well used.

  The man who wore this clothing so unsuitable for the climate of southern California was twenty-six years of age and looked younger. He was six feet tall and leanly built, giving the impression of being lanky and gangling and lacking in physical strength. He had a face that was youthfully good-looking, clean-shaven and evenly tanned, the skin uncrinkled except at the sides of the eyes and mouth. The eyes were green and surveyed the world with a supreme confidence which was easy to mistake for arrogance. The mouth was full lipped and firm-lined in repose. The forehead, nose and cheeks were all regular on the foundation of a good bone structure. The neatly trimmed hair with a parting slightly left of centre was the color of wheat ready for harvest.

  Barnaby Gold presented an incongruous sight as he sat on his haunches in the hot shade after watering his horse, resting his back against the rock below the overhang, chewing jerked beef and washing it down with canteen water. A fresh-faced young man - looking younger than he actually was - dressed in the somber-toned, heavyweight garments better suited for withstanding weather far colder than ever struck this part of the country. And packing a pair of Peacemakers in the manner of a fast draw gunslinger. Then taking a cheroot from a tin box and smoking it, expressing no pleasure in what occupied him, but neither did he show any sign of being discomforted by the situation.

  Until he heard the rattle of the diamondback. When, for an instant, he froze in the act of raising a hand to take the cheroot from his mouth. In the next instant got a bearing on the sound and realized the snake was no immediate threat to him.

  He snapped his head around then, as the gelding vented a snort of pain and reared high, with forelegs flailing.

  The horse had wandered some twenty feet along the base of the shade rock, nose to the ground in a vain search for grass that was not scorched by the blazing sun. Had found, instead, the lair of the diamondback.

  Gold caught a glimpse of the head of the snake - venomous fangs still exposed in the gaping mouth - just before it was withdrawn into the dark hole at the angle of rock and ground. He was already halfway up from his haunches by then, right hand streaking toward his holster, fingers curled to draw the Colt. But the snake was back in its lair before he had even closed a fist around the butt of the gun.

  Next the gelding became four-footed and made to wheel, intent upon bolting away from the cause of his pain. But then the horse turned his head to the side and began frenetically to toss it up and down as his equine brain demanded relief instead of escape. And so, with the lips curled back from the yellow teeth, the gelding scoured his muzzle on the rock face, rubbing off the skin and drawing blood from the area between the nostrils where the fangs had punctured him.

  The diamondback continued to give sound to his anger with the rattle in his tail, the cadence of the menacing noise increasing as Gold’s running footfalls came closer.

  The black-clad young man had abandoned the move to draw a Colt. Now lunged toward the suffering animal with both
hands outstretched, reaching for a double-barrel sawn-off Murcott shotgun that hung from the saddlehorn.

  He skidded to a halt and wrenched the gun free. Then, as he swung around to fix his green-eyed gaze on the dark hole in which the rattler lurked, he broke the gun to cock the internal hammers and had his finger curled to the forward trigger when the gun was snapped closed.

  The pain-maddened horse was snorting and scraping at the dusty ground with both forehooves. The motes billowed across the entrance to the diamondback’s lair.

  Gold went down on to his haunches again and thrust the Murcott forward in a one-handed grip. When the twin muzzles entered the hole, he felt the impact as the snake struck at the barrels.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  Was rocked back hard on to his rump by the recoil as the muzzle blast of the discharged shot was strangely muted by the confines of the snake’s refuge.

  The rattling was abruptly curtailed and for a stretched second there was a solid silence in the wake of the report. But then the gelding gave a snicker and collapsed on to his knees, struggled vainly to get up and rolled on to his side, legs flailing weakly.

  Gold allowed pent-up breath to hiss out between clenched teeth and came erect.

  There was no sign in the vicinity of the hole at the base of the rock to indicate that it had ever been disturbed. A few feet above and to the left, the sandstone was stained with drying blood to which horsehair adhered. Below this the gelding lay on his side in the dust, the visible flank rising and falling shallowly. It was not possible to see where the fangs of the snake had injected their venom amid the area of bloody pulp on the animal’s muzzle. There seemed to be apology rather than pleading in back of the helplessness and pain that showed in the eye that blinked up at the black-clad man, who tracked the Murcott toward a fresh target.

  He had a double-handed grip on the shotgun now and stooped down to aim it from the hip, so that the undischarged muzzle came within a fraction of an inch of resting between the eyes of the doomed animal.

  The horse made a small sound of disapproval as his nostrils flared to the stink of burnt powder. Then, in the moments following the second shot, there were just the involuntary sounds of instantaneous death. Which were finished before Gold had slowly uttered,

  ‘Goddamnit to hell.’

  He spoke for his own ears only to give vent to whatever emotion he felt in the wake of having to put down his horse. But the soft tones in which he spoke and the implacable set of his face did not reveal what brand of emotion he was experiencing.

  Then he leaned the Murcott against the rock and set about salvaging what he could from the situation, without making any conscious effort to avoid looking at the shot-shattered head of the gelding.

  First he unfastened the cinch from under the belly of the horse. Next removed the bedroll and the bloodstained bridle and reins. From the centre of the bedroll drew three sections of a dismantled, long-shafted shovel which he fitted together with two brass screw pieces.

  He did not take off his caped coat or even the scarf before he began to dig a tunnel under the carcass. Just deep and broad enough so that he was able, after an hour of hard and sweating work, to drag the saddle and accoutrements free. He swung the shovel with practiced ease and a strength that was not apparent in his lanky and gangling frame - and did not rest and take a drink until the chore was completed.

  Then, squatting in the greater area of shade cast by the afternoon sun, he ate some more jerked beef, retrieved the partially smoked cheroot he spat out before killing the diamondback and lit and finished it. This took some thirty minutes and then he rose and gathered up his gear, to stow the shotgun, shovel and bedroll on the saddle in the same manner as if he still had a horse to ride. The bridle and reins he put in a saddlebag.

  Just the clicking sound of his tongue against the roof of his mouth escaped his full lips after he had hefted his gear up on to his left shoulder and stepped out from the shade. His green eyes were totally lacking in expression as he glanced to left and right to survey the trail in both directions.

  The buzzards which had been circling high overhead for a long time did not begin to swoop down upon the carcass under the rock overhang until the man was several hundred yards closer to the ocean.

  He paid them not the slightest heed. For only if and when one of the Channon family’s hired guns was successful would such ugly scavengers take an interest in him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT was mid-afternoon when Barnaby Gold became aware of somebody on the trail behind him, heard the snort of a horse that was the first sound to intrude upon the regular footfalls of his trudging walk through the mountains.

  Had the gentle breeze off the distant Pacific been wafting across the sun-scorched rocks still, he probably would not have been aware of approaching company so soon. But the equine sound carried a long way through the unmoving air, directed by the geological formation of the terrain.

  He was moving along a low-sided gully up a gentle incline which narrowed to just the width of the trail at its crest. And he completed the easy climb to the top before he relieved himself of his heavy burden and rested to survey the way ahead, his lips parting to express a smile at what he saw.

  The sun shone as brightly as ever out there to the west, but within a few miles of his vantage point the arid terrain gave way to a verdant expanse of pine forest with an implicit promise of cool shade and fresh, sweet, running water. High ridges continued to intervene between Gold and the ocean, and the port of San Francisco was still many miles and several weeks away, but this view from the top of the gully marked another important milestone on the long journey he was determined to make.

  Then he allowed the smile to fade from his handsome face as he squatted down on his saddle, and shifted his gaze to look at the most distant point of his back trail that he could see.

  He reloaded the Murcott, breaking the gun fully so that the hammers were cocked, and leaned it against his thigh. The left one. Allowed his right hand to rest on his right thigh, close to the holstered Peacemaker. He had already noted that there was ample cover close at hand beyond the top of the gully should danger threaten from a range outside of his own capability.

  A few minutes after he took up his relaxed watch, a mountain wagon with a four-horse team in the traces came around the curve of the trail to start up the slope of the gully. It was moving slowly so that little dust was raised by hooves and wheels. Thus, Barnaby Gold could clearly see the bearded man who rode on the high, sprung seat and the large barrels that were lashed with ropes on the bed of the wagon.

  The driver revealed that he had seen Gold by a slight forward thrust of his head. But he made no attempt to halt his rig as the horses began to strain harder in the traces to haul the heavily laden wagon up the slope.

  A grey-bearded man of advanced years, Gold saw. Of medium height with a broad, muscular build. Wearing blue denim work clothes and a grey Texas hat. With a gunbelt around his waist, a holstered revolver on his right hip. But as far removed from a hired gunslinger as any man Gold had encountered in a long time.

  The team came to a halt of their own accord when they closed with Gold, as he rose and blocked the way over the narrowest stretch of the gully. And the driver locked the massive brake blocks to the rear wheels.

  He was close to sixty, his beard an unkempt extension of his sideburns, tobacco juice staining the whiskers surrounding his mouth. His skin was crinkled and dark brown. His eyes were blue, the white surrounds bloodshot. There was an expression of soured discontent on his grizzled face as he surveyed the man who stooped to pick up the saddle.

  ‘You’re the feller that near blew the head off that horseback along the trail I’m thinking?’ His voice was as embittered as his expression.

  Gold gazed up at him from below the seat and nodded. That’s right, sir. I’d appreciate a ride to someplace I can buy a new horse.’

  ‘Go lame, did he?’

  ‘Was bitten by a snake.’

  ‘It h
appens, son.’ The man was obviously near-sighted. Only now that Gold was close below him did he make a careful survey of the young man, and shake his head as he altered his expression to one of disapproval. ‘Another one, uh?’

  ‘Another what, sir?’

  ‘Hell, son! Get aboard and I’ll take you to Oceanville. Ain’t no business of mine what kids like you do with your lives.’

  He leaned down to take Gold’s gear from him and swung it atop the barrels at his back.

  ‘Appreciate it, sir,’ Gold said as he dropped on to the seat beside the old-timer.

  ‘Politest one I ever come across, I’ll say that for you. Name’s Harrow. Seth Harrow. What handle you usin’ right now?’

  He combined a command to the team with releasing the brake lever, so that the wagon did not roll back at all before the horses strained against the traces to drag it from a standstill on the slope.

  ‘Same as always, Mr. Harrow. Barnaby Gold.’

  The wagon crested the rise and the driver had to use the brake lever again, to hold the momentum of the heavy load on the downslope through the scattered rocks among which the trail wound.

  Harrow waited until the rig was rolling along a level stretch before he asked, ‘Ain’t you wanted or don’t you care?’ He looked at Gold and saw his passenger was about to take a cheroot from a tin box. And warned, ‘Can’t allow no smokin’, son. On account of I’m haulin’ kerosene.’

  Gold snapped the tin closed and replaced it in an inside pocket of his coat.

  ‘You’re welcome to a plug of chewin’ tobacco.’

  “Thanks, but no thanks, sir.’

  Harrow bit off a chew for himself and was silent for several moments until the juice began to flow. Then, ‘You get the rattler?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘With the shotgun?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Ain’t one to take chances, are you?’

  ‘Not when there’s no need, sir.’

  A shake of the head, with a spit of brown-stained saliva when he was facing to the side. ‘You ain’t at all like the rest of the fellers at Oceanville, son.’