The Desert Rider

by L. P. Holmes

  * * * * *

  In his office, Tasker Scott had jerked out of his chair at the sound of that first shot. He ran to the office door, swung it open. He saw Pecos die, he saw Stump die, and saw Braz Boland die. And he saw Lee Cone down, half sitting, half lying. But Lee Cone wasn’t dead. On the contrary, he had caught up his gun in his left hand, and was struggling to his knees.

  The movement at the door of Scott’s office caught Lee’s eye. He looked and saw Tasker Scott there, and Scott was just beginning to reach inside his coat for his shoulder-holster gun. Scott was cursing without sense or meaning, and he was throwing down on Lee.

  Lee pushed his gun out and the recoil of it drove his elbow back.

  Sudden paralysis seemed to strike Tasker Scott. Any movement in him stilled. Then he slid down into a sitting position in the doorway of his office and his head sagged forward. He looked like a man dozing, or sunk in deep meditation. His head dropped lower and lower while all substance seemed to melt out of him. Then he was just a crumpled, lifeless bulk.

  Lee Cone rocked back and forth on his knees, staring blindly at nothing.

  X

  Lee came back to earth out of a nightmare of pain due to the smell of the iodoform. He swore weakly at a burly doctor for hurting him. The doctor merely grinned in response and caused him pain again when he stuck a needle of some kind into him. After that, he slept.

  He awakened in a shadowed room, feeling weak and puny, but otherwise fairly good, except for his right shoulder, which hurt with a throbbing, devilish persistence. Occasionally a gray-haired woman appeared who fed him a thin broth and made him take pills. Then he would sleep again.

  It went on like that for days, it seemed, though each time he awoke the pain in his shoulder was less severe.

  Finally, one day when he opened his eyes, it was to see Buck Theodore and Jack Dhu.

  “Where you jiggers been?” demanded Lee in a weak anger.

  “Handy all the time, boy,” answered Buck. “You scared the hell out of us. Recollect what happened?”

  Lee nodded. “Rotten mess, wasn’t it?”

  “Cleared the air a heap though,” Jack Dhu assured Lee. “We didn’t ask for it, Lee … they did. Don’t go to brooding about it.”

  Lee looked up. “You saved my skin, Jack.”

  Jack’s answering smile was faint, but it warmed up his face immensely. “You did all right yourself. But don’t you worry about nothing for now. Just you hurry and get well, so I can enjoy myself cussing you. Now you two got things to talk about. I’ll be around later.”

  Jack moved away and the door closed softly.

  Buck Theodore moved in closer to the bed, commenting: “There goes one damned good man, boy. Sure glad he’s going to stay on with us out at the ranch.”

  “The ranch? We ain’t got no ranch, Buck. Now that Tasker Scott’s dead, we can’t make no deal for it.”

  Buck sat on the edge of the bed. “We got our ranch back, Lee. And a check for all the cattle Scott rustled from us. Lucy Scott saw to that.” Buck let that sink in before he continued. “When things quieted down again after that ruckus, Lucy sent for me. She handed me the deed to our old spread and a check for the cattle. Said she wanted to right some of the wrongs she felt she was equally responsible for with Tasker Scott. We’re all set for the future, boy.”

  Lee lay quiet for some time. Finally he stirred a little. “How did she seem to feel about what happened to … Tasker?”

  Buck shrugged. “Got a lot more courage than I thought she had, Lucy has. I’ve been doing a lot of apologizing to myself for things I’ve thought and said about her. A strain of pretty good color showed up in her when the chips were down. She’s gone away on a long trip. I doubt she’ll ever come back, for I understand she’s left all her affairs in the hands of the banker to liquidate for her.”

  “Wherever she is,” Lee said softly, mostly to himself, “I wish her luck.”

  “Speaking of luck,” said Buck. “You got more than you deserve, young fellow. It’s waiting right outside the door of this room.”

  Buck gave Lee a small squeeze on his good shoulder and scurried out of the room.

  Lee twisted his head at the sound of a soft step and watched as Kip Vail crossed over to his bed. And by the look on her face he knew that Buck was certainly right about his luck.

  She stood for a moment looking down at him. Then she dropped on her knees beside the bed, put her face in her hands, and started to cry.

  “That terrible day,” she whispered brokenly. “I … I saw it all from the door of the store. Those … those guns hammering. Men going down … and you one of them. Oh, Lee … Lee!”

  With his sound left hand he patted her tear-wet cheek. “Anything that brought you to me is worth it, Kip,” he told her gently.

  Presently she got up and sat on the bed.

  He smiled at her. “Lot of good dawns to face together. I’m thinking of one dawn right now … just you and me beside the river. Remember?”

  She leaned low and kissed him. “I remember,” she murmured.

  The Desert Rider

  I

  “Do you really think he will come, Uncle Jack?”

  Sheriff Jack Carleton nodded. “I reckon he will, Donna. Folks do say Buck English is kinda chary about givin’ his word to anything. But when he does give it … it’s as good as an oath. He never breaks it.”

  They were in Jack Carleton’s office in Cedarville. Through the open door the sunlight glimmered in dazzling reflection from the white, powdery dust of the street. It was two hours past midday and for those entire two hours Donna Carleton had been sitting there beside her uncle, waiting for Buck English.

  Donna’s face, in repose, was not in accord with the accepted standards of feminine beauty. Her mouth was too wide and her chin was too strong. But there was character there—character and strength and a certain softly brooding wisdom.

  From a Spanish mother, who had died at the girl’s birth, Donna had inherited a silken crown of sleek, blue-black hair and dusky, warm coloring. From her father, who had been Jack Carleton’s elder brother, she had gotten a pair of level blue eyes and her forceful chin and mouth. She was of medium height, slender—free-limbed as a boy. Perhaps her greatest charm lay in the aura of sparkling health and well-being which surrounded her. She was the apple of her uncle’s eye.

  “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ve always heard that you would gamble on anything, Uncle Jack. But it seems to me that this idea concerning Buck English is the longest chance you ever took. To put a man of his reputation in charge of our ranch looks almost like inviting a wolf to look after some lambs.”

  Jack Carleton chuckled. “You’re bound and determined to make Buck out a no-good scalawag, ain’t you, honey? Mebbe you’ll be surprised.”

  “But,” argued the girl, “you’ve told me yourself that Buck English is wild … that he’s killed men … that he is liable to step beyond the law at any time. And, knowing what a stickler you are for law and order … well, it just seems queer to me.”

  “I’ll grant you that I’ve said that about Buck. It’s the truth. Only … he ain’t exactly got beyond the law yet. But he’s liable to at any time. And there ain’t nothin’ I’d hate any worse than havin’ to go out and get Buck … I mean, put the cuffs on him and bring him in.” The sheriff paused briefly to shift in his chair.

  “You know … Buck’s daddy used to be sheriff of this county. There never walked or breathed a squarer, finer, gamer man than Martin English. He was my friend … and your daddy’s friend. And Martin English caught and brought to justice the men who killed your daddy. Sure we both owe the English clan somethin’ for that.

  “I was with Martin English when he died … from a slug that caught him in the back by a dirty rat who wasn’t fit to lick his boots. At the time Martin didn’t say so, but I know his last thought and hope wa
s that Buck would make a worthwhile man of himself. The kid ain’t had a great deal of chance to do it yet. I admit he’s been runnin’ kinda wild. But he worshiped his daddy and his dad’s death sorta broke him all to pieces. He flew off at a tangent, you might say. I’m hopin’ to drag him back to travelin’ the safety of a straight line. The best way I know of doin’ it is to give him work and responsibility. That’s why I intend to offer him the job. And somethin’ tells me I ain’t gamblin’ a bit, either. I got a hunch the kid will make good.”

  Donna smiled, before she repeated: “Kid! Kid! To hear you talk Uncle Jack, one would imagine Buck English hadn’t reached voting age yet.”

  “Well, by my calculatin’ he ain’t far past it, at that,” said the sheriff, tamping tobacco into a black, stubby pipe.

  Jack Carleton was a sparely built man of middle age, with a thin face and blue eyes set deep beneath shaggy brows. His somewhat thin hair was sandy in color, as was the drooping mustache that bracketed his stern mouth.

  “He ain’t a day over twenty-five, if my memory serves me correct. Just a kid … a sick and sad kid.”

  “Sick!” exclaimed Donna.

  “Mentally sick,” confirmed the sheriff as his thoughts seemed to drift off for a few seconds. Then he nodded and continued: “See, Donna, it’s like this. Physically Buck would pass as a high-grade young tiger anywhere. Like I said … his daddy’s death broke Buck all up. It give him the wrong slant on things … made him bitter and hard … hard as flint. And when a twenty-five year ole kid gets that way … well, he’s sick. Why if he was normal for his age, he’d be laughin’ his way through life, fallin’ in and out of love at every jump, crowdin’ in on dances and parties and things of that sort.

  “They tell me Buck won’t even look at a woman. He drinks a little, gambles the same, and will fight a buzz saw at the drop of the hat. He’s throwed his guns and got his man twice … in self-defense. But that’s an unhealthy life for a boy his age. I’m gonna shake him outta it or know the reason why. And I expect you to help me, honey.”

  Donna’s eyebrows lifted. “How can I help? I never dreamed I’d be asked to play the part of guardian to a rapidly developing bad man.”

  “Nobody is askin’ that of you. What I want you to do is just act natural with Buck … same as you do the rest of the boys around here. Accept him like he was any other nice, clean-cut youngster. Smile at him, talk with him, ride with him. I reckon that’ll take the tough edges off of him quicker than anything else.”

  Sheriff Carleton stopped at the sound of a horse outside. “Well, that there must be him coming in now.”

  Carleton jumped to his feet and went to the open door, where he stood waiting.

  Donna was slower to get up and join her uncle. But as she leaned out around him, she caught a glimpse of a rider just jogging to a stop in front of the office. Suddenly a little panic gripped her, and Donna Carleton was not easily stampeded. She felt almost as though she was being called upon to face a wolf of some sort. To hide her agitation she walked over to the side window of the office, from which she could see the boldly jutting rim of Red Mesa, five miles to the south.

  She heard her uncle call a greeting as he stepped out onto the plank walkway to which was given a deep answer in a flat, repressed voice. Boot heels clumped on the low steps and spur chains clashed musically. Donna turned slowly.

  Her uncle had stepped aside and there, framed in the doorway, was a tall, wide-shouldered figure in faded blue shirt, flaring batwing chaps, and dusty, worn boots. Cartridge belts crisscrossed lean hips to end up in a pair of big, walnut-butted guns, jutting from open topped Mexican-style holsters.

  A brief handclasp passed between the two men before Jack Carleton turned and waved his hand.

  “Have a seat, Buck. Oh yeah … meet Donna, my niece. Donna … this is Buck English.”

  The rider pulled off his hat and bowed stiffly. For a fractional second his eyes met Donna’s and the sheriff’s niece felt as though she had been shot through with icicles. She forced a smile she did not feel as she murmured an answer to his curt: “Glad to know you, Miss Carleton.”

  Carleton slid a chair over to his visitor, then sat down himself.

  “Buck,” said the sheriff abruptly, “I got a proposition to offer you. Things ain’t been goin’ any too well out at my Red Mesa Ranch. Sundown Sloan, who’s been roddin’ for me, is a good man. But he’s gettin’ along in years. He ain’t able to ride as much as he used to and some of the boys have been takin’ advantage of it. They ain’t hittin’ the ball like they should. Sundown come to me about it and asked for me to take the responsibility off of his shoulders and put it on a pair of younger, stronger ones. Right away I thought of you. I’d sure admire to have you take the job. How about it?”

  The rider was plainly a little taken back by the abruptness of the offer. He hesitated a moment, before answering. “Why … sure … that’s mighty handsome of you, Jack … to think of me,” he said, his voice still that deep, queerly repressed tone. “It’s a royal chance for a fellow my age. But ain’t you takin’ quite a gamble? What makes you think I could handle it?”

  “I knew your father,” Carleton said quietly. “You’re a lot like him in most ways, Buck. And he was the most capable man I ever knew. Also … I reckon it’d make him mighty proud, Buck … if he knew his boy was foreman of a spread like the Red Mesa Ranch.”

  Buck English was still for some time. Donna covertly studied him. His face was lean and brown and looked as hard as granite. There was power in that face. It told of a man who would never vacillate between good and bad. He would either be straight as a string or something awesomely malignant. His shadowed eyes gleamed that same brilliant, cold gray—inscrutable—piercing.

  There was a boyish cast to his head, heightened in effect by the slightly curly brown hair that clung close to the contours of his skull. His brow was high, the brow of a thinker. There was force, almost ruthlessness in his arched nose and tightly clipped jaw. It was the mouth that made him appear older than his years, however—bitter, slightly twisted—sardonic.

  Presently he spoke again. “I can’t help wonderin’, Jack … whether you’re offerin’ me this job because you really figure I can straighten out your spread … or whether you think it’ll be the right sort of thing to keep me out of trouble.”

  The sheriff smiled slightly. “Both, Buck,” he admitted. “You’re old enough to know what the kinda pace you’re goin’ always leads to. Sooner or later you step over the edge. The law was one of the most sacred things in your daddy’s existence, boy. He slaved for it … gave up his life for it in fact. He …”

  “That’s right,” grated English harshly. “He gave up his life for it … for a damned cowardly law that sent him unarmed to gather in those yellow-backed snakes. Nobody knows what the law did to my dad better than I do. A bunch of whining dollar mongrels stripped him of his guns. It hurt business, they said, to have a sheriff take on the hard nuts in their ten-cent town and rock ’em off. Gun play had to stop.

  “They made him go after his man with nothin’ but his bare hands. So … a coyote who wouldn’t have dared stay in the same county with him, had Dad been packing a gun … shoots him in the back, never givin’ him a ghost of a chance. So much for your law. I got nothin’ but contempt for such a law, Jack. You’ll have to use some other kind of argument.”

  He was breathing hard as he finished, his lean, muscular hands clenched, his mouth more twisted and bitter than ever.

  “You’ve spoke the truth, Buck,” Carleton drawled quietly, “But that don’t change the facts. Every man must have some purpose in life … some ideal that shapes his thoughts and actions. If he ain’t got it … he’s not a man. He’s a clod. Man to man, I can understand your feelin’s and I can’t blame you a lot. But it comes right down to what would have pleased your dad more than anythin’ else.” Carleton paused to let his words penetrate the son of his
good friend.

  “He was your ideal … and I reckon you were his pride,” he finally picked up. “You sure owe somethin’ to both them ideas. And you won’t be payin’ the debt by hellin’ around and finally runnin’ foul of the very law your dad gave his life for. It’s up to you to make your choice, Buck. I don’t know of a man who I thought more of than your dad … and I’ve always thought a lot of you. But I’m givin’ it to you straight that, if it becomes necessary, I’ll go out after you … and get you, just as quick as I would any other man. I wouldn’t want to, understand … but I’d do it just the same. For you see, Buck, I’m the same kind of a fool about the law that your dad was. Think it over.”

  English did, for some time. A twisted smile gripped his lips as he looked up.

  “Should I take you up on your proposition, Jack … I hope it wouldn’t be because you thought I was scared of that last threat.”

  “Oh, you danged stiff-necked young chump!” exploded Carleton. “Of course not. I never saw an English that was afraid of anythin’. That’s just the trouble. If you’d get a little shaky over somethin’ once in a while, you’d be easier to handle. No, kid … I’m not tryin’ to threaten you or bully you in any way. I’m just makin’ you an offer and paradin’ some facts to prove you oughta take it.”

  English drew a deep breath. “¡Bueno! I’ll do it, Jack.”

  The sheriff’s thin face split in a joyous grin. The two men stood up and gripped hands.

  Carleton knew the supreme success of a worthwhile victory; English the passing of futility and thwarted purpose, and the presence of something substantial in life at last. Each was richer.

  “When can you go out to the ranch and take hold, Buck?” asked the sheriff.

  “Soon as I can get there. I got my war bag out on my horse. Do I get it right that I can use my own methods in startin’ the wheels turnin’, Jack?”