Law of the Range

by Hank Madison

  “So-so,” the man growled. He was wide and short, with no apparent neck to support his egg-shaped head. His bushy eyebrows screened his dark eyes, and Harlan studied the man well, taking in the squat appearance. There seemed to be something evil about the face, and the high forehead was accentuated by a receding hairline. The lank hair was grey.

  “This is Steve Harlan’s son. Steve, this is Ike Doberman. He owns this place.”

  “I can see he’s Harlan’s son,” Doberman said. “And he’s gonna need his old man’s luck to get through here without trouble.”

  “We already found some of that,” Horn retorted, and explained what had happened in the barn. “But I recognised both those guys. Clant Carter and Buster Craig. They used to run with Grove, but, from what they said, there’s been a split in the gang. What’s going on around here, Ike? Don’t I have to pay for protection any more?”

  “It wouldn’t help you if you did,” Doberman replied, uttering a harsh laugh. “The law has been moving in on the rustlers this past year. Grove has gone on the dodge. He’s still in the county, trying to keep up his old contacts from a hideout, but Clant Carter has taken over around here. He’s gonna do all he can to take on Grove’s old business.”

  “He just snatched my money-belt,” Horn said thinly. “Have you got a couple of sixguns we can borrow until we get back to our camp?”

  “You know I have,” Doberman replied, reaching under the bar and producing six revolvers. “These are left with me by men needing some grub but who ain’t got the dough to pay for it. A real man would rather starve than part with his gun, but I guess the old type is dying out.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” Horn replied, reaching for a gun. “It’s about time the law took a hand around here. This place has been a thieves’ kitchen for more years than I can count.”

  “Thanks,” Ike Doberman said, grinning. “But I’m clean. I run this place as a business, and it ain’t no concern of mine who comes and goes. All money is the same to me. I give good value for it, and I’m happy.”

  Horn knew that the trader did more than just operate a trading post. Doberman had been in with the rustlers and other crooks for most of his life, and that was why he was able to operate in this rough country without trouble from the outlaws and jaywalkers.

  Harlan was studying the harsh faces of the four men standing alone the bar. They were taking a keen interest in what was being said, he could see, and checked the gun that Horn handed to him. The weapon was empty.

  “What about some shells?” he demanded.

  “Sure.” Doberman came from behind the bar and crossed to the other side of the room. He rummaged among a litter of goods on a wide shelf, then returned. He placed a box of .45 shells on the bar. “Help yourselves,” he invited. “I’d hate to see any man defenceless in this country.”

  Harlan reloaded the gun and holstered it. He put a handful of cartridges into a pocket. When he got back to the cow-camp he was going to change his gunbelt for a cartridge belt. He knew that most Westerners wore belts that were looped to hold maybe a hundred cartridges, and that most cowboys filled half the belt with ammunition for their sixguns and the other half with rifle cartridges. But he had never done more than wear a gunbelt and carry a spare box of shells. He had learnt how to use a gun, and proved to Horn, who had taught him, that he had his father’s natural flair for weapons, but he never figured to get dragged into shooting trouble.

  One of the four men started for the door, and Harlan watched him carefully until the door closed behind him. He could be another pard of those two who had taken Horn’s money-belt. He grinned as he thought of their feelings when they discovered that the belt was empty.

  “Let’s have a drink while we’re here,” Horn said. “You know me, Doberman. You should have set up a bottle as soon as you saw my wet nose.”

  “Yeah, I’m forgetting my manners,” the trader replied, grinning. He set up a bottle and a couple of glasses. “Help yourself. The first one for you is on the house, Harlan.”

  “Thanks,” Harlan told him.

  “Don’t thank me. It’s a custom in these parts, but I reckon it’s damned silly, and bad for business,” Doberman retorted. He took Horn’s money and grinned. “You had your free drink in here about twenty years ago, huh?”

  “Yeah, I can recall the day, and, ever since, I’ve been waiting for you to treat me to another.”

  “If I treated every man who came through that door I wouldn’t have lasted here five minutes,” the trader retorted.

  “So what’s the situation in this part of the country?” Horn pursued. “It’s been so damned rough these past twenty years that I wouldn’t know how to take it any other way. Is the law having any success?”

  “Not much. You know how folk get set in their ways around these parts. It’ll take a time, but the rustlers are still busy. The last herd through lost a thousand head after passing this place. Grove still gets his cut, and Clant Carter, like I told you, is after a big cut. He ain’t got the manners of Grove, though, and he’s a damned sight rougher. If you take a look round the back of the barn, you’ll see half a dozen graves.”

  “Bad as that, huh?” Sim Horn threw a keen glance at Harlan, who shrugged. “Looks like we’re gonna have to watch our step from here on. But it’s only another week to Dodge City. I’ll be damn glad when this trip is over. It’s been the toughest for some time.”

  “The rain ain’t helped you, huh?” Doberman demanded.

  “You can say that again,” Horn replied. He downed his drink and then started for the door. “Some of my boys will be coming in here later for a spell, Doberman,” he said. “Take good care of them. I still need them.”

  “They’ll be okay here. Do them good to get in out of that rain.”

  “They ain’t gonna stay long enough to dry out.” Horn snapped. “I aim to push on through this country as fast as I can.”

  Harlan followed the trail boss to the door, and when they were outside, Horn flattened himself against a shadowy front wall and peered around. After a moment he moved to a window that flanked the door and peered back into the building. Harlan joined him, and saw Doberman giving instructions to the three men still at the bar.

  “I’d give a month’s pay to know what he’s saying right now,” Horn said. “I’ll bet he’s telling them to find Grove or Carter and warn them that we’ve arrived. Come on, Steve, we’d better get out of here. I don’t like this set-up. If Grove has lost his power in this country then we can expect real trouble. We’ll be hit for sure, and I don’t intend to lose the herd after trailing all this long way from Texas. I got a feeling that this is gonna be the toughest trip I’ll ever make, and you can believe me when I tell you that, if you survive this one, all the others will be easy as eating pie. Now you stay here and keep watch while I go fetch the horses. It’ll be better for us to say apart in case there is any more trouble. Carter must have found out by now that I didn’t leave the dough in the money-belt. He never was one for jokes, especially that kind, so we can expect trouble from him for sure.”

  Horn stepped out into the driving rain and disappeared quickly into the night. Harlan shivered as droplets of cold water blew into his face. The wind was moaning around the far comer of the long building, and he felt tense inside. He was almost out of his depth in this situation. He hadn’t knocked about the West like most of the young men of his age. At twenty-one he was a veritable greenhorn in this country where he was born. He had come back from the East to start learning all over again.

  The minutes passed slowly. His eyes ached from staring around into the gloom. This was the hell of a country, and no mistake. They had just on three thousand head of cattle out there at the camping-ground, and with only a week’s drive left they should have been able to start relaxing after the arduous four months it had taken them to travel the thousand miles from Texas. He slipped his hand beneath his slicker and grasped the butt of the gun Doberman had given him. He sighed noisily. If anything happened to th
at herd he would never live it down, although he was not in charge.

  He wondered where the hell Horn had got to. A glance in at the window by the door showed him that Ike Doberman was now alone at the bar, and Harlan frowned. What had happened to the other three strangers? He saw that there were several doors in the far wall of the building, and wondered if they had gone off to bed. He relaxed a little when the thought came to him. It was obvious that no one in this country could be trusted.

  As time passed he began to get worried about Sim Horn. The old man was surely taking his time to saddle up a couple of horses. He stepped out from the shelter of the wall and shivered as the full force of the rain hit him. He started for the corner of the building, and pulled his hat brim low over his eyes as he turned it. Rain beat him like pellets from a shotgun. He struggled through the deep mud towards the barn, and was halfway across the yard when he suddenly realised that the horses standing out in front of the post when he and Horn rode in were no longer there. He frowned as the knowledge came to him. He had stood motionless for perhaps five minutes, and yet the fact had escaped him. Fear suddenly cut through him and he started running, floundering in the thick mud. He raced into the barn, slithering on the damp floor, and then pulled up sharply. The lantern had been turned down low, and for a moment he hesitated. This could be a set-up, he thought, but shrugged the thought aside. Sim Horn had come in here five minutes ago, and now Harlan wanted to find him.

  He drew the .45 and cocked it as he made for the lantern. He turned up the wick and yellow glare chased out the flickering shadows. He turned to survey the interior of the barn, and saw immediately the motionless figure of his trail boss. He gritted his teeth and hurried to the old man, thinking that someone had struck him down with a gun barrel. But he changed his mind quickly as horror flooded him. There was blood staining Horn’s slicker, and a waxy gleam on the trail boss’s face told him the man was dead. By the look of the rip in the front of the wet slicker, it seemed as if Sim Horn had been stabbed in the chest.

  TWO

  For a long time Harlan stood staring down at the dead man, unable to believe his eyes. He dropped to one knee and touched the cold face, recoiling from the dead flesh. Horn was certainly dead; had reached the end of his trail, and someone was going to pay for the crime. Harlan straightened, gazing around. He drew a long, deep breath, and tightened his grip upon his gun. He meant to get to the bottom of this.

  He turned on his heel, his spurs jangling, and started out into the night, unmindful now of the spraying rain. He stomped across the dark yard and threw open the door of the big building. Ike Doberman looked up at his entrance, and grinned at sight of him.

  “Want some more whisky, huh?” the trader demanded.

  “Never mind the firewater,” Harlan told him in a harsh tone. “Sim Horn is lying dead out in your barn. He’s been knifed in the chest.”

  “What the hell!” The trader straightened, his face turning grim. “Who did it?”

  “That’s what I mean to find out. I was standing out front waiting for him to saddle our horses. Who were those four men in here when we arrived, and where are they now?”

  “I can’t help you there,” Doberman replied slowly. “I never set eyes on them four before tonight.”

  “You’re a liar,” Harlan told him, tightening his grip on the gun. “I was looking inside here through the window. I saw you having quite a talk with the three. The fourth pulled out before we did, and he led away the horses that were tied to the hitch-rail when we came in. You’d better give me the straight of it, Doberman, or I’ll shoot you. Sim Horn was my father’s oldest friend, and he sure enough taught me everything I know. Now he’s been murdered and I aim to find out who did it.”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree,” the trader said softly. “Don’t start getting tough. This is a rough country, and even wild men are eaten hot around here. So Horn is dead. Well, that happens every day in this country. I’ll take care of his body if you like, but it’ll cost you ten dollars.”

  “Who are those four men and where did they go?” Harlan repeated. “Have you got a back door to this place?” He paused and grinned tightly. “But I shouldn’t ask such a damn-fool question like that. In this country I reckon every house must have at least two back doors.” He approached the bar and waggled his gun menacingly at Doberman. “You better open your mouth and tell me what I want to know or I’ll shut you up permanent.”

  “You can’t get blood out of a post. I don’t know a damn thing. I’m the blindest and the deafest man in this country. If I wasn’t then I’d have been killed long ago. I’m sorry about Horn. I’ve known him for years. But I don’t know a damn thing, youngster.” Harlan leaned across the bar and struck savagely with his gun barrel. The big foresight caught Doberman’s cheek and ripped it open. Blood spurted and dripped down the man’s face, and he hurled himself backward with a curse of pain and anger.

  “I mean business,” Harlan snapped. “You know what’s going on around here, and you’re gonna tell me before I get through with you. I might be only a youngster in your eyes, but the man who’s lying dead out there in your barn sure taught me a thing or two. You’d better start opening up or I’ll bust you clean in two.”

  “You damn senseless pup,” Doberman snarled. “Damn your hide! You and the rest of your kind figure you can come on up here and do just as you please. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that your side lost the war?”

  “I know all about that,” Harlan snapped. “Just keep your tongue off what I don’t need to hear. Who were those four men in here when I arrived?” He menaced the trader with the gun. “Now open up or I’ll tear out your eyes, curse you.”

  Doberman’s small eyes under the shaggy brows were filled with hatred. He shrugged his thick shoulders, and his brawny arms dropped slightly, the huge hands moving under the bar.

  “Stop that or you’re a dead man,” Harlan commanded.

  Doberman grinned and lifted a sixgun into view. Harlan gritted his teeth and squeezed his trigger, aiming for the trader’s right shoulder. He braced himself for the kick of the gun, the crashing report, but nothing happened, and Doberman laughed, levelling his own weapon.

  “Put down that gun, you fool,” the trader snarled. “I ain’t as green as I look. That gun you got there is busted. It ain’t got no firing-pin. I took the precaution of busting it, like the one that Horn took. Horn didn’t have that five hundred on him, did he? So where is it? I reckon you can tell me that. You’ve got it. So get wise, sonny. Get rid of that gun and come up with your dough.”

  Harlan triggered the gun again before he believed the trader’s words. Doberman cocked his gun, grinning, and blood dripped from his face.

  “I’ll overlook this little scratch you gave me,” he said with a thin smile. “I reckon that money you intended for Grove will pay well enough for it. Put down that gun before I plug you, and start reaching for your dough.”

  Harlan dropped the gun. He gazed at the trader with blue eyes that were slitted and mean-looking. Then he smiled grimly and unbuttoned his slicker. He lifted his hands outwards, shrugging his broad shoulders.

  “I ain’t got the dough, wise guy,” he retorted. “You’ve just made your first mistake.”

  “And I ain’t got nothing to lose,” Doberman retorted. “All I’ve got to do is shoot you and say that you had a run-in with some guys who were here. But I needn’t even bother to do that. Your herd is gonna be run off tonight, and if I know anything about the men who will do it, your crew will be face down in the mud when they get through. So a couple of stiffs here won’t change the odds. Now back off and don’t try anything. I don’t want blood all over my floor. Play it cool and you’ll go easy. Give me any trouble and you’ll get a bullet in your guts and it’ll take you an hour to die.”

  Harlan could do nothing but obey, and stepped wearily away from the bar. Doberman came around it, holding his gun steady. The trader was grimfaced and intent, and Harlan felt a pang of fear stab through him. He w
as really up against it, and this time he was on his own. He grimaced wryly when he realised that even if he got out of this he would never have Sim Horn to help him again. The old trail boss was dead.

  It wouldn’t be right to die without trying to get some sort of revenge for Horn’s killing, he thought, and tightened his lips. He tried to forget his fear, and let his hard blue eyes study Doberman’s intent face. If the man was going to take him outside to finish him off then he was going to take a chance and try to jump him before the trigger was pulled. If he was to die here and now he wanted to go out fighting. He had nothing to lose, and the thought struck him callously.

  “Out the back door,” Doberman ordered, closing in, the gun steady in his huge hand. “Make it quick. I want to get this over with. No sense prolonging the agony, huh? Take that middle door there, and don’t try anything. I’m pretty hot with a Colt.”

  Harlan moved slowly towards the door indicated by the trader. His heart was pounding. His nerves were taut like fence wire, and the lump in his throat was so big that he thought he was choking. He reached the door and pulled it open, and heard the trader’s boots thump the floor as the man closed in on him. He tossed a glance back over his shoulder, and Doberman grinned at him.

  “Don’t try it,” he advised. “I can see what you’ve got on your mind, but it won’t do you any good. Do like I say and you’ll go quick and clean. That’s about all I can do for you.”

  The wind tugged at the door, and Harlan had to use his strength to hold it. He started through slowly, but as Doberman followed him he slammed the door with all his surging strength and started running fast away from the building. He heard a yell of agony as the heavy door smashed to, and grinned mirthlessly. He had taken that fat crook by surprise, but he was still in bad trouble. There was nowhere he could run to, and there were four more men around some place. He wondered which one of them had killed Horn, and a half-formed thought in his mind told him that he intended finding out.