Draw Straight

by Louis L'Amour

  By sundown I was bedded down in the pines, watching the Tin Cup ranch house. All through the final hours of daylight, I watched it and studied the trails. I wanted no traps laid for me, although I doubted if they would think of the Tin Cup right away.

  * * * * *

  It was well after midnight before I started down the trail to the ranch, and I took my horse only a short distance, then left him tied in the brush and cat-footed it down by myself, leaving my spurs on the horn of my saddle.

  Nothing looked very good right then. I had killed Gene Bates and resisted arrest. Hugh Taylor, who I’d considered my best friend, had tried to trap me into an ambush, and Maggie Dolliver, the girl I wanted more than anything in life, was in love with Hugh. Right then I’d about as little to live for as any man, but I’d a lot of resentment—nor was I one to bow my head before the storm and ride off letting well enough alone.

  When I did ride off, it would be with my name clear, and also I would know and the world would know who had killed Uncle Tom Bell. Until then, I had a job to do.

  The warm sun of the late afternoon had baked the ground hard after the rain, and I moved carefully. The stone house was dark and still when I tried the door, and it eased open without a sound. Once inside I wasted no time, for while Win had been making coffee on the day of the killing, I had seen where the food was kept. Hastily, I reached for the coffee sack. It was almost empty!

  Puzzled, for it had been nearly full when 1 last saw it, I reached for the beans, and they were gone. And then there was a whisper of movement behind me, and I turned, palming my gun as I moved.

  “Don’t shoot!” The voice was low, but the very sound of it thrilled me so that I couldn’t have squeezed a trigger if I’d wished. “The food is on the table, all packed.”

  “Mag! You did this for me?”

  I couldn’t believe that, and moved around the table toward her. She had been in that inner room, waiting behind the blanket covered door.

  “Yes.” The word was simple and honest. “I did it for you, and I’ve no idea whether I’m doing right or not. Maybe all they say about you is true. Maybe you did kill your uncle, and maybe you did kill Simon Ludlow.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  “No,” she hesitated, “no, I don’t believe I do. I know Ross Lynch, Wat … that’s your name, isn’t it? He has been mixed up in so many wrong things. It was the only fault I could find with Howie … that he trailed with Lynch and that devil, Bill Keys.”

  In the darkness I could not see her eyes, but suddenly my hands lifted to her shoulders. “Mag,” I said softly, “I’ve got to ride out of here. Whatever else I do, I’ve got to clear myself, and I’m going to do it, and if the trouble strays over on somebody else’s range, I’m going to follow it there.

  “I could go away now, taking the blame for Ludlow like they’ve already hung the blame on me for Uncle Tom, but I won’t do it. I won’t have you doubting me, even if I never see you again. Nor do I want folks to think I’ve killed Uncle Tom, after he did so much for me.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, and with her arms all warm under my hands, it was all I could do to keep from drawing her close. Finally, she spoke.

  “Do what you have to do, Wat. I know how you feel.”

  “But, Mag, suppose that somebody you … well, I mean, suppose that when I find who did this killing, I find it was somebody close to you. What then?”

  She looked up at me again. “Why, then, Wat, it would have to be that way. I guess I knew you felt like this, I knew who you believed was guilty, but I came here and got this food ready for you, sure that you’d come. I brought your horse, too, Wat. He’s in the shadow by the stable.”

  “Rowdy?” My voice lifted, then lowered. “You did that? Oh, you darling! Now I’ll feel like a man again. This pony, he tries hard, and he’s got a great heart, but he’s not Rowdy.”

  “I knew how you felt about him.” She drew back. “Now you’d better go. Ride out of here, and good luck, whatever you do, or whatever comes!”

  IV

  That was just the way I left, with that pack over my shoulder, slipping out to find Rowdy, who nudged me with his nose and stamped contentedly. But I waited there until she was on her horse and gone, and then I slid into the saddle and headed for the hills. When I got to where I’d left the pony, I tied the bridle reins up and turned him loose, knowing he’d find his way back to the T.

  Already I’d had an idea. Bill Keys had come from the Bradshaws, and that was where I was heading, right for Horsethief Canyon. There had to be a tie-up there. Nor was I waiting until morning. Rowdy was rested and ready for the trail, and I took it, riding west across the mountains, skirting Latigo, and heading on west. On the third night, I camped at Badger Spring, up a creek from the canyon of the Agua Fria, and, after a quick breakfast in the morning, crossed the Bumblebee and Black Canyon and headed up the Dead Cow. Skirting the peak on a bench, I cut down the mountainside into Horsethief Canyon.

  Western men knew the West, and it was no wonder that even as far east as Dimmit County, Texas, we knew about the horse thief trails that cut through the country from Robber’s Roost and the Hole in the Wall to Mexico. This place was only a way station, but, from all I’d heard, I knew some of the crowd that trailed stolen horses, and they were a hard bunch of men.

  Rowdy had a feeling for trouble. The big black pricked his ears toward the ramshackle cluster of cabins and corrals that lay on the flat among the mountains. Nobody needed to tell me that we were watched all the way down that trail, and when Rowdy drew up in front of the combination saloon and store that was the headquarters at Horsethief, a half- dozen men idled on the steps.

  Across at the big barn, a man sat on a bench with a Henry rifle across his knees, and another man whittled idly in front of a cabin even further along.

  When I swung down, I tied Rowdy to the rail and stepped up on the porch and dug out the makings.

  “Howdy,” I offered.

  A lean, hatchet-faced man who looked the type to murder his mother-in-law, looked up.

  “Howdy.”

  Nobody said anything, and when I’d built a smoke, I offered the tobacco around, but nobody made a move to accept. A short, stocky rider with run-down heels on his boots squatted against the wall. He looked up at me, then nodded at Rowdy.

  “Quite a hoss. Looks like he could make miles.”

  “He made ’em to here.” I looked at Shorty again. “Want a drink? I’ll buy.”

  He got up with alacrity. “Never refused a drink!” he warned me.

  We pushed through the doors and bellied up to the bar. There was a smell of cured bacon, dry goods, and spices curiously intermingled. I glanced around the store and sized up the fat man in the dirty shirt who bounced around to the bar side and made a casual swipe at the bar top with a rag.

  “What’ll it be, gents?”

  Shorty chuckled. “He says ‘what’ll it be’ ever’time, and he ain’t had nothing but Injun whiskey over this bar in a year!”

  Fatty was indignant. “Injun whiskey, my eye!” he exploded. “This here’s my own make, and mighty good rye likker, if I do say so! Injun whiskey!” he snorted. “You’ve been drinkin’ out of horse tracks and buffalo wallers so long, you don’t know a good drink when you get one!” He placed two glasses on the bar and a bottle.

  Shorty poured for them both, but Fatty reached for the bottle as he put it down.

  “Leave the bottle,” I told him, “we’ll want another.” I placed a gold piece on the bar, and Fatty picked it up so fast, it looked like a wink of light.

  “Better not flash that coin around if you’ve got more of it,” Shorty warned. “Especially when Wolf Kettle is around. He’s the hombre you talked to out yonder, and while Davis is away, he’s ramroddin’ the outfit.”

  “Things look kind of slow,” I suggested.

  “Th
ey sure are!” Shorty’s disgust was evident. “Nothing doing at all! From what we hear, there’s to be something big movin’ soon, but you can’t tell. Where you from?”

  “Down Sonora way. They call me the Papago Kid.”

  “Shorty Carver’s my handle.” He looked up at me. “Sonora, is it? Well, I sure figured I knew you.” He spoke softly all of a sudden. “I’d’ve sworn you were an hombre I saw sling a gun up to Dodge, one time. An hombre name of Wat Bell, from a Texas outfit.”

  “If you think I look like him,” I suggested, “forget it. He might not like the resemblance!”

  Shorty laughed. “Sure thing! You can be anybody you want with me. What’s on your mind? You wantin’ to join up?”

  “Not exactly. I’m huntin’ a couple of friends of mine. Bill Keys and an hombre named Taber.”

  Shorty Carver’s face hardened. “You won’t find ’em here, and if they are friends of yours, sure you’d better hunt another sidekick than me. That Taber and I didn’t get along.”

  I took a sidelong look at Shorty. “He’s been here then?”

  “Been here?” Shorty looked around at me. “He was here yesterday!”

  “What?”

  My question was so sharp that a half dozen heads turned our way, and I lowered my voice.

  “Did you say … yesterday?”

  “Sure did! He rode in here about suppertime, and him and Davis had a long confab. Then Davis takes off for Skull Valley, and where Taber went, I don’t know. He rode out of here, headin’ east.”

  For several minutes I didn’t say a word. If Hugh was out here, that meant the time for a showdown had come. Yet what had I found? Nothing to date that would help. That Hugh Taylor had been known to the outlaws of Horsethief Canyon was something, but not much.

  Right then I began to wonder for the first time about those absences from the ranch when Hugh was growing up. And that time he had returned with that silver mounted saddle and a good bit of money. It was becoming more apparent where that money had come from. Had Uncle Tom Bell guessed? He was a sharp old man and had not ridden the trails and plains for nothing. He could read sign wherever it was … and here was another thought: perhaps he had read the truth and guessed at what lay behind those absences and jumped Hugh about it.

  Had Hugh killed his uncle?

  There was enough of the old feeling for Hugh left to make me revolt at the idea, and yet it began to seem more and more possible. Uncle Tom and I had had a violent quarrel, and I left. What would be easier than to kill him and let me take the blame? His surprise at my sudden return could have come from his consternation at what it might mean to him, and also he might have believed those rumors that I had been killed in Mexico.

  Certainly, he managed to get me out of the country without seeing anyone else.

  The swinging doors shoved wide, and Kettle came in. He took a sidelong glance at me and walked up to the bar at my side and ordered a drink. I could smell trouble coming and could see there was something in Kettle’s craw.

  He got his drink and turned to me. “We don’t welcome strangers here!” he said. “State your business, and ride on out!”

  That turned me around, but I took my time. The man irritated me, and I didn’t feel like sidestepping trouble. I was tired of running and ready for a showdown, and ready to back it with lead.

  “Kettle,” I said clearly, “I didn’t come in here to see you. I never heard of you. You may run a big herd where you come from, but where I ride that herd looks like a mighty small gathering!”

  His face darkened a little, and the yellow lights in his eyes were plainer. He half turned before I spoke, but I gave it to him fast.

  “Don’t try to run any blazers on me, Kettle, because they won’t stick. If you make rough talk with me, it’s gun talk, and if you draw on me, I’ll kill you!”

  Shorty Carver had stepped wide of me and was standing there facing the room. What his play would be, I couldn’t know. He was a friend of only a few minutes, yet there had been some spark of comradeship there, such as one often finds with men of the same ilk and the same background. He spoke before either of us could make a move.

  “He came to see Taber and Keys,” Shorty warned. “They sent for him!”

  “What?” Carver’s statement obviously stopped Kettle. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I told him,” I said simply.

  He glared at me suspiciously. Something was gnawing at the man, and it might be something about me, but I had the feeling that he was naturally mean, a trouble hunter, a man with a burr under his saddle.

  “Where’d you know Taber?” he demanded.

  “In Texas,” I said calmly, “and I knew Bill Keys in Sonora.” That last was sheer hope, for whether Keys had ever been below the border, I didn’t know.

  “He’s the Papago Kid,” Carver said.

  “Never heard of him!” Kettle returned sharply.

  Another man spoke up, a lean-faced man with a drooping black mustache. “I have,” he said. “He’s the hombre that killed Albie Dick.”

  Kettle’s eyes sharpened, and I knew that meant something to this man. Albie Dick had been a dangerous man, and a killer with fifteen dead men on his trail when we tangled in Sonora.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” I said calmly. “I want to talk to Howie Taber.”

  “You’ll have to wait,” Kettle said grudgingly. “He ain’t here.”

  Somehow, men relaxed. Shorty returned to the bar and took another drink. “You’d better watch yourself,” he warned under his breath. “Wolf was never braced like that before. He’ll be careful to make his play at the right time, but you’ve got trouble. The man’s mean as a rattler.”

  He downed his drink. “Also,” he added, “I’m beginning to remember things. That Wat Bell who downed that man in Abilene was ramrodding an XY herd … and that’s the ranch we’re going to use in Texas!”

  “What do you mean? Going to use?”

  He looked at me quickly, sharply. “So? You don’t know the inside on this, do you?” He was silent, tracing circles on the bar with the bottom of his glass. “Just what is between you and Taber, Kid?”

  That was a sticker, and I hesitated. Shorty had said earlier that he had no use for Taber. Right then I knew my time here was short, and a friend would be a help. Another enemy would be little worse.

  “Taber’s my cousin,” I said frankly, speaking low. “I think he killed my uncle and framed me with the murder while I was in Mexico. Furthermore, I think he sent me out here to lay low and planned to have me murdered when I arrived.”

  Quietly, I explained in as few words as possible, and from time to time he nodded.

  “Glad you told me,” he said. “Also, there’s no posters on Wat Bell out here, so you must be right on figuring that Lynch was out to get you.”

  “No posters on me? How do you know that?”

  He grinned, and he said softly: “Because I’m a Cattle Association detective, pardner, and I’m studyin’ into the biggest steal of horses and cattle ever organized.”

  Together we walked outside, and the story he told me answered a lot of questions. For several years a steady stream of stolen stock had been sent south over the old horse thief trail from the Hole in the Wall and Robber’s Roost to Mexico, and this valley was one of the important way stations. Lately, it had become apparent that even larger things were in the wind, for a man lately associated with the gang had suddenly become owner of a Panhandle Ranch in Texas. There was a reported tie-up with the XY in central southern Texas, and large quantities of stock had begun to disappear and move south toward the border. It had begun to look as if mass stealings of stock had begun, moving south under cover and with large ranches as way stations.

  “Who’s behind it?” I asked him. “Any guesses on that?”

  “Uhn-huh. There is.” Shorty Carver lit a sm
oke. “Howie Taber’s behind it. That cousin of yours has turned out to be the brains of the biggest stock-stealing ring in the country.”

  From the time he was sixteen until he was twenty, Hugh Taylor had been absent from the XY. He had gone again shortly after, and obviously he had been gone at least once during the time I was in Mexico. It was then, no doubt, that he had begun to round up old cronies of his earlier days and build the ring that Carver now told me about.

  “Shorty,” I said, “can you slip out of here?”

  “Uhn-huh.”

  “Then wire the sheriff in Dimmit County. See if I’m really wanted there for murder. Also, check on Tom Bell’s will, see who that XY spread was left to when he died. I’m having a talk with that cousin of mine.” I hesitated, thinking. “See you at the Tin Cup.”

  “Watch your step!” Shorty warned. “Hugh isn’t so bad, but you watch Bill Keys and Kettle.”

  V

  After he was gone, I idled around, getting the lay of the land and thinking things over. It was well along in the afternoon, and night soon to come. By this time Hugh would know that I was still alive, that the plot to get me at the Tin Cup had failed.

  Evidently, the Tin Cup had been chosen because of its secluded position, and that Lynch and Keys had been informed by the friend where I had stopped last that I was coming. Accordingly, they had evidently waited. It might be that I had been spotted and reported at several places since then, and they had come out to meet me, either at the Tin Cup or on the trail near there.

  Probably they had managed to get Ludlow away from his ranch, or had reason to believe he would be away. Then they had either killed him by mistake, or had killed him because he returned too soon. No doubt they had plans for the Tin Cup, anyway, as the ranch was ideal for such a venture as they planned.

  The jumpiness was in me now that presaged danger. I could sense it all around me, and I was restless. Every man here would be an enemy once it was realized who I was, and at any moment Bill Keys, Hugh Taylor, or Ross Lynch might ride in, and then the lid would blow off. I was surrounded by unfriendly guns, and to blast my way out would be a forlorn hope.