Shadows From Boot Hill

by L. Ron Hubbard

  McCloud instantly thought of fight as the steers rumbled by on either side. He grabbed his Colt and started to snap down on the rider made phantom by the billowing dust. A shot drove the steers even faster, but it had come from their wake. McCloud’s gun, with a bright gash in the stock, flipped to the platform and McCloud was holding his wrist.

  The three guards felt needlessly exposed, not sure but what the next shot would down any one of them, uncertain that the gallows was safe from the steers who shook it to its foundation in their passage.

  Enwrapped in the dust now, the guards took the wiser course and threw up their hands.

  With drawn guns, Lynn charged up the steps on the buckskin. He leaned out of the saddle and took the rope from around Frank’s neck and slashed the bonds which confined the boy’s arms. Frank yanked off his black hood and grabbed up McCloud’s fallen gun.

  “Stay where you are!” warned Lynn. And with Frank up behind him he rode down the steps and up the front of the general store. Men went out the back door when the two came in the front.

  Presently all was quiet in Pioneer and the steers, no longer driven, quietly searched out the grass on the plain beyond. Two by two and ten by ten, cattlemen ventured forth into the street. The guards, not certain but what they were still covered from the general store, stood with their hands stiffly in the air, still shocked by the fact that a man marked dead had turned up so astonishingly. McCloud still sat on the planking and nursed his hand.

  A clear voice from the store struck into the throng. Lynn, both guns showing above a molasses barrel, sang out, “Gents, you’ve made a mistake. And I ain’t clearin’ out of this town until you fix it up.”

  McCloud found courage. He stood up and waved his arm in a sweeping motion. “Go get him!”

  “The first man up here gets it,” said Lynn. And behind another barrel inside the door, Frank’s gun was also showing and his eyes looked eager to see a target down its sights after his late injustices.

  “I got the evidence,” said Lynn, “that Fanner McCloud has played you gents for suckers.” The crowd stiffened and Lynn surged on. “He pulled all them robberies himself and then tried to cover them up by hangin’ Frank Taylor and incidentally getting Frank’s spread. Gents, if you care to look, I’ll lay you ten to one that you’ll find last night’s dispatch box under McCloud’s floor. Go look and see.”

  Several went and looked. McCloud started to find a way through the crowd.

  A short time later, the searchers charged forth with a yell. “There’s eight dispatch boxes under that floor! Don’t let that guy get away!”

  McCloud had stopped moving. He had a gun jammed into his stomach and behind the gun stood ex-Sheriff Hawkins.

  “There’s your murderer! There’s your thief!” shouted Lynn. “And there’s the gallows!”

  About midnight the celebration of the hanging of Fanner McCloud began to wane and Frank and Lynn withdrew to the stable and saddled up.

  Hawkins met them as they led their horses forth.

  “Lynn,” said Hawkins, “I got to thank you.” And he gave his star a burnishing brush. “I hope you’ll stick around this country for a while. I allus did like you Texans. But how the hell did you know where them dispatch boxes was?”

  “Yeah,” said Lynn, swinging up, “that is a puzzle, ain’t it. C’mon, Frank. I never did get a chance to look at this ranch of yours.”

  Ride 'Em, Cowboy!

  CHAPTER ONE

  TheWinner

  THE Ellensburg Rodeo was in full tide.

  Twenty-five thousand packed the stands and made a blurred sea surging up from the other side of the track.

  The arena boss and the judges and wranglers were hurrying on important errands across the wet green turf of the arena.

  Flags and Indians and violent-shirted punchers made the day loud and bright.

  The band was playing “Cheyenne, Cheyenne,” but Long Tom Branner, sitting on the gate of chute five, saw and heard very little of it. He was watching with hungry eyes Miss Vicky Stuart as she climbed up to the runway and came toward the chute which held Dynamite.

  Long Tom sighed. Vicky was all in white, all creamy silk and leather. And just now she was pushing a strand of corn-colored hair back under her Stetson. Her golden spurs clink-jingled and they made the only sound in the world which Long Tom Branner could hear.

  He hooked his high heels more solidly into the third bar and sat up straighter, prepared for the worst.

  “Give him hell, Vicky,” said Long Tom.

  She stopped and looked across at him. Dynamite was screaming murder and death and kicking the chute into splinters.

  “Thank you, I will.”

  He wished she wouldn’t treat him so. She wasn’t this rough on the rest of the world. To everybody else she was a charming kid with more nerve and skill than most buckaroos possess.

  He knew that if he said anything he would make it worse. But suddenly he heard himself saying, “Watch him. I had him last year at Pendleton and he sunfishes right after he takes his first jump. I—”

  “Thank you,” said Vicky with so much sweetness that it was acid. “I am sure it is very kind of the champion bronco buster of the world to give me advice.”

  Long Tom felt his face getting red and knew he would get mad in a minute. Damn it, why couldn’t she treat him like she used to when Old Man Stuart paid him wages?

  A devil prodded him. She looked so cool and self-possessed there on the runway.

  “Yeah,” said Branner. “It ain’t everybody that needs it.”

  She lifted her head and then abruptly whirled and swung down into the chute.

  Another devil jabbed Long Tom. “Don’t fall off. You’ll get mud on yourself!”

  She didn’t even look at him. Settling her hat, she stood with feet wide apart on the rails and Dynamite lunged and screamed under her while two punchers tried to hold his head quiet.

  “Drop!” yelled the man at the gate.

  Vicky dropped into the saddle. The brute lunged sideways and almost caught her leg.

  “Let ’im go!” she yelled.

  The gate swung wide and the blind came off and Dynamite went plunging like a rocket into the open.

  Long Tom held his breath. The arena was muddy and Dynamite never bucked straight up. He sunfished.

  Off was Vicky’s white hat. She beat it against the bellowing demon’s flanks. She dug deep with her golden spurs and Dynamite went five feet off the ground. He sunfished, head lowered, fighting the hackamore and when he hit he was stiff-legged.

  Vicky took the shock. She beat harder with her hat and dug deeper with her spurs and above the band and the crowd and the announcer could be heard her cry, “Go it, you black devil!”

  Long Tom was still holding his breath as he counted. Dynamite was exploding all over the sky. Vicky was limp-shouldered, as graceful as a gull.

  “Go it, you black devil!”

  Dynamite slipped as he hit, fell heavily on his side and leaped furiously up again.

  Vicky whipped his flank with her white hat and dug her golden spurs.

  “Go it!”

  The gun cracked and she had made a ride. Two mounted men swerved in beside her, one to grab Dynamite’s head and the other to haul Vicky from the still-lunging mount. She made it and Dynamite was headed away, still fighting.

  The rider lowered her to the ground and she ran with swift, excited steps back to the chutes.

  Dynamite was exploding all over the sky. Vicky was limp-shouldered, as graceful as a gull.

  She passed within three feet of Long Tom but she didn’t even look up at him when he said, “Swell ride, Vicky.”

  Gloomily he looked at the grandstand again. Everybody was cheering, but that didn’t matter. Everybody was going crazy about that ride, and that was natural.

  Vicky Stuart was the enigma of the buckaroos. She was slightly built and had the manners of a duchess and talked much better English. She was the kind of girl, on appearance, that one would expe
ct to haunt teas and operas, but, marvel of marvels, she could take a beating on the back of a bucking horse and always come off smiling, just as though she had done nothing so very unusual.

  Long Tom sighed.

  For two years, ever since Old Man Stuart had died, Long Tom Branner had tried to keep near Vicky. At least a dozen times he had striven to make a serious proposal, but Vicky was as quick afoot as she was mounted. She always slid out.

  Long Tom knew, vaguely, what was wrong. There was nothing too terrible about his personal appearance, as he was lean and young. But for some reason unknown to himself he kept winning championships as a rider. And the more he won, the colder Vicky Stuart got.

  A long time ago, when he was just a puncher riding for her old man, he and Vicky had almost reached an understanding. Long Tom had not pushed his suit, thinking that if he could make a name, he would be worthy of her hand.

  And then Stuart had died, leaving nothing. And Vicky, raised among horsemen and an excellent rider in her own right, had suddenly taken it into her head to win the world for her own.

  There is no one quite so alone as a famous bronc twister. And with Vicky high-hatting him, Long Tom could not help but feel low.

  He had to do something.

  He had to somehow make Vicky understand that he loved her and wanted her. . . .

  “Mr. Branner,” said the arena boss respectfully, riding close, “you’re out on Jesse James from chute six in about a minute.”

  “Yeah,” said Long Tom. “Yeah, that’s right. I forgot.”

  He climbed up to the walk and went to the top of the next chute.

  Jesse James was a sorrel with one blue eye and one brown eye. He had feet like ashcans and was so thickly built that he could throw most men in the first three leaps.

  The band changed off to “Tipperary.”

  Long Tom stood up on the rails and watched Jesse James lunge against the bars. Tom’s feet were wide apart and suddenly he could concentrate on only one thing, this ride.

  The announcer roared, “Long Tom Branner! The Champeeen bronco buster of the world! Coming out of chute six!”

  Everything hushed. The band stopped and the judges were motionless and the crowd forgot peanuts and sat very still.

  Jesse James lashed out with a savage kick and splintered the gate.

  “Let ’er go!” said Long Tom.

  He dropped, jamming toes into stirrups. He heard the gate whine as it was rushed back. It was suddenly light in the chute.

  Jesse James drew in like a spring compressing. Suddenly he streaked straight out and up. Ten feet from the chute his hind feet hit.

  Long Tom fanned and roweled.

  Jesse James went skyward, turning. Earth and sun and people and band were all scrambled in a swift montage. Jar, slam, blowie! With buckjumps vicious enough to kill a man, the outlaw fought his rider.

  Sunfish, lunge and then swap ends!

  Indians and punchers and judges and wet earth all mixed up with clouds.

  Long Tom rode straight up, head high, a grin on his lips, shoulders loose, hat swinging in rhythm to the leaps of the maniac horse.

  In a moment the gun would go. And nothing Jesse James could do could disturb this lean and graceful rider.

  And in that instant a horrible thought hit Long Tom. If he made this ride, he would be beating Vicky. She was the runner-up. He would not lose his belt as it was not at stake. He did not need the purse. And if he beat Vicky Stuart, he would never have a chance. Not a chance.

  He swung his arm around and touched his horn.

  And the gun banged.

  He felt funny. That was the first time he had ever done that. He had pulled leather!

  A pair of riders jerked the horse one way and Long Tom the other. Long Tom eased himself down to the ground.

  Vaguely he could hear people cheering and the announcer was bellowing something which was flattering, and a rider said, “Gee, that was pretty, Mr. Branner.”

  Long Tom went swinging back to the chutes. He was irritated suddenly by that “Mr. Branner.” Everybody called him “Mr. Branner” now and nobody ever came near him. It was as though he had measles or something.

  Before he got to the chutes he saw Vicky. Three mounted judges were gathered about her and she was slim and straight and angry.

  When Long Tom came near they all turned and stared at him, so he edged in that direction.

  He could see that Vicky was mad. When she got mad she got taller and prettier and her eyes were hot sparks. She got very dignified and held her chin high and frost was white upon her words.

  “Mr. Branner,” said a judge, “we saw you touch your horn. Possibly we were mistaken. You were making a beautiful ride and I can’t understand. What was the cause of it?”

  “I touched it,” said Long Tom.

  “Of course, you know that that will give today to Miss Stuart,” said the judge.

  “Yes,” said Long Tom.

  Vicky looked at him levelly. Her clenched hand was trembling at her side. “You deliberately threw that contest to me!”

  Long Tom looked uneasy. He could not quite understand this. What was there about winning which could make her so mad?

  “You’re despicable,” said Vicky coldly.

  “Huh?” said Long Tom.

  “You purposely threw this contest to humiliate me!”

  Long Tom blinked and then suddenly he was angry. He stared at her with narrowed eyes. “Well, why not?” he said savagely. “There’s no percentage in beating a woman!”

  He turned on his heel and stalked away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Vicky Retaliates

  VICKY STUART walked through the Indian village which was studded with horses and papooses on this, the second day of the rodeo. Here and there sat heavy-jowled elders upon blankets, looking very wise and self-satisfied. In the tepees and back of them scurried the women, dressed in beaded elkskin but working just the same.

  A few young bucks wearing business suits and braids looked cautiously at Vicky as she passed. They knew her and were most respectful. The old men nodded and the women smiled brightly and the papooses gurgled.

  But Vicky’s mood was black. Her silk-crowned head was held high and the golden spurs jangled viciously as she stamped over the green turf.

  A hundred dollars was heavy in the pocket of her batwings. The hundred-dollar day money which she had won by Long Tom’s condemned dishonesty. Nothing had ever been as heavy as those paper bills. She could feel them dragging down her spirit as though she were burdened with anvils.

  She had to stop to let a young kid get a string of mustangs in line and she looked around her and had the funny feeling that the whole Indian village was about to leap at her.

  A young buck was arguing vigorously with a squaw, evidently his mother, and the woman was shaking her head. Vicky knew the boy as a good bulldogger.

  She saw them stop and look at her and nod. She forced herself to say, “Hello, Bucking Colt. How’s everything?”

  “Rotten,” said the youth, spitting. “I’ve got the fastest pony here and she won’t let me have a nickel to bet on him.”

  Vicky straightened up. She gave her Stetson a swift tug and stepped nearer to Bucking Colt. Out of her batwing pocket she pulled the hundred dollars and extended it.

  He took it swiftly enough.

  His mother tried to stop him. “He spendum, get drunk!”

  “Throw it away for all I care,” said Vicky.

  She went on. But she didn’t feel right yet. Before twenty-five thousand people, Long Tom had pulled leather and now he was going around telling everybody that “there’s no percentage in beating a woman!”

  She looked coolly beautiful. But she felt mean and little inside.

  This had started so long ago that she had almost forgotten the beginning. Long Tom had been a bashful, gangling kid, getting thirty a month for helping handle Stuart’s rodeo string. Nobody had thought he would ever amount to much because he was so quiet. But he had begu
n to practice riding and roping. He had worked and he had grown.

  And if he had not persisted in showing her how he did everything, she would never have gotten so mad at him. He was always so superior, always telling her what to do and what not to do, always bossing her around.

  She had said that she would show him someday. And when Stuart had died, leaving her without a cent but with a riding education seldom equaled, she had started on her way.

  Long Tom had a belt. A beautiful belt. He wore it all the time. It was diamond-studded and upon it were letters in gold, “World’s Champion Buckeroo.” That was hateful. She could never get such a belt. She was a woman. They always told her how surprised they were that she could ride, damn them! Punchers were always making up to her with, “You’re too pretty to wear chaps.”

  Damn them!

  She hated men. She hated punchers. But most of all she hated Long Tom Branner.

  He was so sure of himself, so superior! He knew he was lean and good-looking. He knew that women fell all over themselves to get at him. He knew that he looked like a god on the back of a raging horse.

  Tan Stetson and golden, glittering belt.

  She hated him!

  She got to the gate and the ticket-taker stood back to tip his hat and let her through. She went swinging through the carnival grounds and the hoot-hoot bing-bang of the merry-go-round infuriated her.

  She kicked at a tin can and sent it soaring.

  The contests were still going on. Today she had a good horse. A good, tough horse. Whiskers, they called him. He sometimes went straight up and came down on his side. She’d teach him manners.

  As she came through the grandstand side, people turned and looked at her, the men very admiringly. Somebody made so bold as to say, “Lo, Vicky.” She froze him into a pillar of ice.

  She realized that she was doing things backwards. She should have walked around to the other gate in the first place. But she had been too angry to obey anything.

  Down below her she saw groups of mounts on the track just under the stands and knew that the pony express race was about to begin.

  Something was happening. A youngster was standing on one foot and holding his side and arguing with the arena boss down on the turf. Suddenly she knew what was wrong. The youngster was part of this pony express race and he had been hurt in the bucking contest of the day.