Gunsmoke and Trail Dust

by Bliss Lomax

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Information

  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

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © 1949 by Harry Sinclair Drago.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

  Chapter One

  TROUBLE!

  HARVEY HUME RODE into Mescal this morning without any premonition of impending trouble. He was barely twenty-one, but he had been doing a man’s work for five years, and it had rubbed all the boyishness out of his young face. He had a keen sense of perception, and as he jogged up the street, he was quick to sense the uneasy quiet and air of suppressed excitement that had descended on the town.

  For a Friday morning, Mescal was crowded. A score of horses stood at the hitchracks. They bore familiar brands. Harvey had only to run his eye over them to know who was in town. It was enough to tighten his mouth unconsciously, and he jogged on with a definite sense of anxiety stealing over him.

  A little group of men, Mormon homesteaders like himself, had gathered in front of Downie’s blacksmith shop to listen to tall, bearded Webb Nichols, regarded by many as their potential leader if the long conflict with the big cow outfits flamed into violence again.

  “What’s this all about, Webb?” Harvey inquired, as he stepped down from the saddle.

  “The Association is havin’ a special meetin’,” Nichols answered soberly. “Ringe can’t usually git enough of ’em together for a quorum, but they’re all up there this mornin’—the whole sixteen of ’em!” With a jerk of his head he indicated the lodge room above the firehouse across the way. “Reckon there’s no question about what it means!”

  The others nodded grimly. One said, “They’re fixin’ to do somethin’ about the rustlin’. If John Ringe has his way, they’ll bring in a bunch of gun slingers, same as they did seven years ago!”

  “If they do, rustling will be only the excuse; the real purpose will be to make trouble for us!” another declared bitterly.

  “It’s a little late for us to be complaining,” Harvey said coolly. “If the Association turns loose a bunch of gunmen, we can blame ourselves. We’ve been asking for it for a long time. Trying to get even wasn’t the way to end this trouble.”

  “Harvey, yo’re a fool, say in’ anythin’ like that!” Nichols whipped out angrily. “What would you have had us do—turn the other cheek to those range hogs after what they done to us? They killed yore pa when they tried to run us out, seven years ago. Are you forgittin’ that?”

  “No, I’m not forgetting it.” Harvey realized they were all against him. He had the courage of his convictions, however, and he faced them defiantly. “But always preaching hatred and trying to keep the old grudges alive will never bring peace to the basin. You know as well as I do that we’re responsible for most of this rustling. We’ve got the votes today; we can pack a jury and acquit a man, no matter how much evidence there is against him. We’ve done it time after time.”

  “It’s no more’n Ringe and his friends had comin’ to ’em!” Webb protested vehemently. “If they want to make somethin’ of it, let ’em!”

  It was what the others wanted to hear. The youngster could only regard them pityingly, knowing it was useless to say anything further. Years of conflict had so embittered them that when trouble threatened, their only recourse was to rally around men like Webb Nichols. But there were other young men like himself who felt as he did.

  “When you start whooping up the war talk, you want to remember you’re speaking for yourselves this time,” he told them. “There’s some of us who don’t propose to be dragged into another fight.”

  Turning to his bronc, he swung up and jogged off on the business that had brought him to town.

  Mescal was the same sun-bleached Arizona cow town he had first seen as a boy of fourteen. Cut off to the south from the rest of the state by the mighty gorge of the Colorado, and still as far as ever from a railroad, its only contact with the outside world was through southern Utah.

  And yet, in ways that didn’t meet the eye, Mescal had changed. The town was no longer subject to the dictates of the dozen or more Magdalena Basin stockmen who once had had undisputed sway over this wide stretch of country from the Grand Wash to Hurricane Ledge. Out in the basin, the changes were more apparent. Harvey Hume could remember it when it was unbroken free-range. It was dotted with small ranches like his own today.

  Harvey left his bronc at the hitchrack in front of the post office and stepped inside. Dad Beazley, the postmaster, was behind the counter.

  “Did yuh see any signs of the meetin’ breakin’ up as you came up the street?” Dad inquired, running through the mail in the H pigeonhole.

  “No, they’re still up there, Dad.”

  The old man found several letters and the weekly paper from St. George for him.

  “Reckon that’s all there is, Harvey.” He pushed the mail across the counter. He looked up suddenly, his eyes bright and keen in his shrewd, puckish face. He liked to pop a question at a man and catch him by surprise. “What yuh figger they’re plannin’ to do?”

  “I don’t know. Put down the rustling, I suppose.”

  Ab Beazley shook his head pessimistically. “That’s easier said than done, mister! This corner of Arizona has allus been a rustler’s paradise. If a man’s got to make a run for it, he can head west and be in Nevada in a few hours. Don’t take even that long to git acrost the Utah line.”

  A faded reward notice was posted on the wall. Five hundred was offered for information leading to the arrest and conviction of one Steve Jennings, a known rustler. Dad indicated the notice with a jerk of his head.

  “That thing’s been up there a year. Offerin’ rewards and dependin’ on the law to trip him won’t bother Steve none.”

  “Nor any of the rest of them, Dad. They’ve got the run of all that wild, mountain country east of the basin. Nobody’s going to go looking for them up on those timbered plateaus.”

  “I dunno!” Dad contradicted thoughtfully. “There’s men with guts enough to go after ’em and hang on to their trail all the way down through the red bluffs to the Colorado, if need be. We did it more’n once when I was a young man. We carried the law with us on our saddles, and when we caught our rustlers, we strung ’em up where we found ’em, and no nonsense about bringin’ ’em into Mescal to have a jury say whether they was guilty or not. That’s the way to handle things! Stretch a few necks and it’ll drive a wedge between these cow thieves and you folks in the basin and bring some of yuh to yore senses!”

  Harvey was used to old Ab’s violent harangues and positive opinions. “I thought you were neutral, Dad,” he said, lightly.

  “And so I am!” the postmaster insisted fiercely. “I allus claimed no one side had all the right with ’em. But I draw the line at protectin’ blacklegs, Harvey! The Association don’t want another war any more’n you little fellers, and when they got together this mornin’, I figgered it wouldn’t take ’em ten minutes to decide that the only way to clear the air was to fergit all about the law and hang every rustler they got their hands on. But they bin up there waggin’ their tongues fer over an hour.” Ab shook his head disgustedly. “Seems like the dang fools
don’t know how to pull together no more!”

  That was stating the case correctly, for the special meeting of the Magdalena Stockmen’s Association had produced some wide differences of opinion among its members. A proposition had been placed before the organization. Hot words and pointed accusations had been tossed back and forth across the long table, in the lodge room over the firehouse, and most of them had been directed at John Ringe, its author.

  But storms were of no consequence to him, and it was not until the course he had counseled appeared to be getting lost in acrimonious debate that he got to his feet and rapped for attention. He was a big man, as straight and sturdy as he stood there as one of the giant yellow pines that dotted his Santa Bonita ranch. His hair, long, flowing mustache, and bushy brows were as white as the snow that tipped those pines in winter.

  “It won’t do us any good to sit here wrangling all day,” he said, with unexpected patience. “We’re all agreed that something will have to be done. If you won’t go along with what I proposed, suggest something of your own, but don’t tell me there’s any sense in waiting for the law to step in and put down this rustling. We pay the taxes and foot the bill for this end of the country, but we don’t have any more to say about how things are run than a bunch of Piute Indians!”

  “Damn my britches if that ain’t the truth!” a fiery little man at the end of the table burst out, as big John sat down. He banged the table with his fist to give emphasis to his feelings. His face was the color of old saddle leather, and wind and sun had dried him out so thoroughly there wasn’t much left of him but skin and bones. With his hooked nose and faded, squinting eyes of the desert man, he looked like nothing so much as a scrawny old eagle.

  In the dim past he had answered to the name of Robert, but northern Arizona knew him as Coconino Williams, the first white man to run cattle in Magdalena Basin. He glared around the room, challenging anyone to take issue with him.

  “Most of these damned nesters wouldn’t know where their next meal was comin’ from if they couldn’t go out and drop their loop on our beef! But they kin vote, and that’s all that bunch of political tinhorns down in Kingman is interested in! A tax collector and a deputy sheriff who wouldn’t make an arrest if you rubbed a cow thief under his nose is the size of what we git fer our money!”

  His inflammatory words received the hearty approval of some. Ed Stack, an unsmiling man, who sat at Coconino’s elbow was unmoved by it. Of all the men seated at the table, only John Ringe ranged more cattle than he.

  “We all know what the situation is,” he said in his determined, unhurried way. “What we’re looking for is something that will improve it.” He wasn’t speaking for himself alone. All through the meeting he had had the support of the faction that hoped to avoid hostilities. “Mebbe we’d do better if we tried to get along with these homesteaders instead of always bucking them tooth and nail. We made a mistake seven years ago, and we’ve been paying for it ever since. I let you and John talk me into that, Coconino. I’m telling you flatly I won’t be a party to bringing in gunmen a second time.”

  John Ringe reared up, shaking his head like an angry mountain lion, his patience a thing of the past.

  “You can’t twist my proposition into anything like that!” he roared. “I’m not asking this Association to bring in gunmen! I’m asking for a first-rate stock-detective—a man who can throw the fear of God into these rustlers and stop ’em! When you throw it up to me that we made a mistake seven years ago, I can tell you the only mistake we made was in not going through with what we started! We weren’t dealing with homesteaders then; Virgin and Travis Hume were the only ones who had title to the land they occupied; the rest were just squatters! They’d have gone, and there wouldn’t have been any bloodshed if Virgil Hume hadn’t fired the first shot!”

  “Times have changed, John,” Pat Redman, Ringe’s neighbor on the Santa Bonita, spoke up. He had lost a son in what was always referred to as the Magdalena Basin War. “The less that’s said about the past, the better. I agree with Stack that these folks is here to stay. That don’t mean we’ve got to stand for the deal they’re handin’ us. I wouldn’t be up on my ear if it was just a case of them helpin’ themselves to a little of my beef now and then. But damn their hides, they’re coverin’ up for the real rustlers! I don’t know how the rest of you figger it, but I reckon if we put our losses together we’d find that seven, eight hundred head of cattle was hazed up Cochinilla Wash and through the Desolation Mountains this past year.”

  “I reckon it’d be nearer a thousand head!” old Coconino interjected shrilly. “And once they got ’em across the Utah line into that San Juan country, we kin kiss ’em good-by! The stuff is sold to that rustlin’ ring up there and sent on to Wyomin’! You know that as well as I do! If we’re goin’ to stop it, we got to stop it here! Clay Roberts is the man fer the job. If he’ll take it, I say, send fer him!”

  “So do I!” Redman seconded heartily. “If he can do half as good for us as he’s done for stock associations in West Texas and New Mexico, I say send for him, John, and to hell with hagglin’ over what it costs! He’s a lone wolfer, and he gets results. I’ve heard tell of how he went down into the Pecos River country and cleaned it out singlehanded. When he moves in, rustlers move out! And by damnation, that’s what we want!”

  It was greeted with varying degrees of approval by some. Ed Stack and his following signified their opposition. John Ringe glanced about the room, counting noses. His hasty tabulation warned him that sentiment was about evenly divided. Bristling with indignation, he focused his attention on Stack.

  “Ed, you admit we’ve got to do something. Why are you opposed to hiring Roberts?”

  “Clay Roberts is a killer,” Stack declared soberly. “Turn him loose and we’ll have a war on our hands whether we want it or not. I know his record. He gets results; but he gets them with his trigger finger.”

  “Wal, I’m everlastin’ly bedamned, if that don’t take the cake!” Coconino Williams howled. “You aimin’ to hire a hoss doctor for this job, Ed? I don’t care how many rustlers Roberts kills!”

  “Nor I!” Stack flared back hotly. “But this ain’t a two-sided fight. It won’t be only rustlers he’ll go after; he’ll make a mistake and some homesteader will get knocked off. The fat will be in the fire, then.”

  “That’s nonsense!” Big John boomed. “Clay Roberts didn’t make his reputation by bungling things that way! When I was in Denver last fall, I spoke to a dozen men who know him—U.S. marshals, stockmen, and the manager of the Pinkerton office—and they all have the highest regard for him. When I first wrote Roberts, I told him exactly what the situation was. I explained that we didn’t want any trouble with these folks in the basin. He told me he knew of no reason why there should be trouble with them. And he guaranteed me if there was, it wouldn’t be of his making. I’m chairman, so I don’t feel free to make a motion—”

  “I’ll make it!” Coconino called out. “I move that—”

  “Just a minute!” Ringe interjected. “The majority may feel that the Association shouldn’t take any action. If that’s the way it turns out, I won’t be a dog in the manger. On the other hand, if we’re going to do anything, we want to do it today. It’ll take Roberts a week to get here. The snow is going off up in the mountains. The passes will be open before we’re half done with the spring work. The next we’ll hear is that someone is losing stock. Charlie Petrie was the first one to holler last year. Are you going to stand by and let them get in on you again this spring, Charlie?”

  The question sounded innocent enough, but the big man from the Santa Bonita wasn’t as guileless as he pretended, for Petrie had stood with Stack all through the meeting. Now that the spotlight was turned on him, he squirmed in his chair.

  “By grab, I’m goin’ to stop ’em if I can,” Petrie declared uneasily. “I know I can’t stand another dose like last year. There ought to be somethin’ we could do.” He glanced at Stack, as he wavered in his allegianc
e. “If Roberts will do as he says, mebbe we ought to hire him, Ed.”

  It broke the back of the opposition. Another man switched sides. It left no doubt of the outcome. When the vote was taken, Stack stood alone.

  “Why don’t you change yore vote and make it unanimous, Ed?” Coconino urged. Stack shook his head.

  “That ain’t necessary. Things have gone your way, and I’ll have to go along with you. I only hope it doesn’t turn out to be a mistake.”

  Ringe penned a letter to Roberts, and when it had been approved, the meeting broke up. Down the street, at the post office, the northbound stage for St. George and the railroad, at Lund, Utah, was waiting. When it pulled out in its long, 100-mile journey, the summons from the Association was in the mail pouch.

  Chapter Two

  OLD GRUDGES

  NEWS OF THE ACTION Association had taken ran from lip to lip and was all over town before the stage was out of sight. Frank Dufors, the deputy sheriff, was among the first to hear it. He made his permanent headquarters in Mescal and was the sole representative of the law in that part of the county. Dufors, a rangy Texan, with an unpleasantly prominent jaw, was well aware of the contempt in which he was held by the big cowmen. It bothered him not at all, for he was cunning enough to realize that it wasn’t men like John Ringe and Stack and old Coconino Williams who buttered his bread. He had played his cards carefully in the three years he had served under Sheriff Hector Barry, who appeared in Mescal only at six-month intervals.

  In miles, the county seat was not so far away. But to reach Mescal, Barry had to cross over into Nevada, take the railroad to Lund and come down by stage. This isolation gave Dufors such authority as a deputy sheriff seldom enjoyed.

  Even so, Frank Dufors was a dissatisfied, embittered man, for though he nursed every dollar out of his job that he could find ways of extracting, the pay was poor. This morning, as he sat in his little adobe brick jail, moodily contemplating the step the Association had taken, he was overwhelmed by the sorry realization that he was a big frog in a very small pond.