Several poker games were in progress in the Wagon Wheel, a few punchers were casually bucking a faro layout, and four men stood at the bar. One was a tall, fine-looking man in a white hat and neat range clothes. The other was shorter, heavier, and roughly dressed, with a brutal, unshaved face and a mustache. He wore a low-crowned sombrero with a crease through the middle.
He muttered something to his companion as Bowdrie came to the bar, but the bigger man merely shot a glance at Chick and went on talking.
“Darcy better sell while the sellin’ is possible. At this rate he won’t have anything left.”
The man with the creased sombrero stared at Chick. “Right nice horse you led into town,” he commented, “and a good many of us are wondering what became of its rider.”
Chick turned slowly. His left elbow rested on the bar; his right hand held a glass of rye. He stared into the yellow eyes of the man in the creased sombrero, and somebody in the room swallowed audibly. Menace seemed to rise like a cloud in the smoke-laden air of the room.
Bowdrie’s Apache face did not change. He lifted his glass and drank the rye, putting the glass back on the bar. Tension in the room was a living thing, and the studied moves of the young man at the bar awakened something in the minds of the onlookers.
“I said,” the man in the creased sombrero repeated, “a lot of folks want to know what became of the rider.”
Chick’s eyes held steady, and then in a casual, almost bored tone he said, “The name is Russ Peters,” making it clear he referred to the man he faced. “Used to call himself Rusty Padwill. Fancies himself a gunfighter but is always careful who he does his shootin’ with. Ran with the Murphy-Dolan crowd in the Lincoln County War. Wanted in Colorado for stealin’ horses, suspected of dry-gulchin’ a prospector in Arizona. Run out of Tombstone by Virgil Earp.”
Peters’ mouth dropped open and he started to speak, but Chick Bowdrie continued.
“I might add that the man who rode that horse I brought in was dry-gulched, and I suspect everybody in town knows who is most liable to shoot a man in the back.”
Peters had been startled into immobility by the quiet recital of his background. His face turned white, then red as a wild anger swept over him. “You pointin’ that at me?” he demanded.
“When you throw a stone into a pack of dogs, the one that yelps is the one that got hit.”
Overcome by fury, Peters lunged at him, but Bowdrie brushed Peters’ grasping hand away and snapped a jolting right uppercut to the chin. Peters’ knees buckled and he fell forward.
Bowdrie moved back a step to let him fall, then said to the astonished bartender, “I’ll have one more. The riding across country was kind of dry an’ dusty.”
Peters pulled himself to his knees, shaking his head. Realization struck him and he lunged to his feet, grasping for his gun. He got his hand on it and stiffened. He was looking into the unwavering muzzle of Bowdrie’s gun.
“I’m in no mood for a shooting,” Bowdrie said, “and this ain’t your night. You’d better mount up and head back for the home ranch.”
Murray Roberts glanced over at Bowdrie. “That tip is appreciated, mister. We had no idea Russ was a wanted man.” He glanced at the two guns. “You handle yourself pretty well. Where did you say you came from?”
“I didn’t say.”
“If you’re huntin’ a job, drop out to the H&H. We need men.”
“If Peters is a sample of what you have”—he drained his glass—“I reckon you do.”
Turning on his heel, he walked out, leaving Roberts staring after him, his features taut with anger.
Bowdrie had reached the hotel porch when a dark figure detached itself from the shadows.
“Hold it!” The man lifted a hand. “I’m friendly!” He was a short, blond man in worn boots, jeans stuffed into them.
“You’re talking,” Bowdrie said. “Shall we step inside?”
The young man wore a gun, a black-and-white-checkered shirt, and an unbuttoned vest. He had a wide, friendly face, very worried now. “You led a black horse into town? A California rig?”
“I did.”
“What happened to the rider?”
“Shot in the back about ten miles south. Do you know him?”
“He was my friend, and I was expecting him. I’m Jack Darcy, of the Pitchfork. That was Dan Lingle, and he was coming in to help me.”
Bowdrie was surprised, then irritated with himself. He should have known the man. “That was Dan Lingle, the lawman? The one who cleaned out the Skull Canyon crowd?”
“That’s him. What beats me is why they would shoot him. Nobody knew he was coming, nobody even knew I knew him. Lingle was my brother-in-law. Then my sister was killed.”
“Killed? How?”
“Some hand she hired while Dan was away. She caught him stealing. He knocked her down. In falling, she struck her head, apparently, and died. Dan knew the man by sight, and he was hunting him.”
“When did your fight begin here?” Bowdrie asked. “Tell me about it.”
Darcy hesitated, then shrugged. “We were getting along all right, the H&H an’ me. In fact”—he flushed—“I sort of was courtin’ Meg Howells.
“Murray Roberts come in and hires out to Howells. Before long he’s got Herman and Howells down on me. He showed ’em some doctored brands, and I never rustled a cow in my life! Then he started courting Meg, an’ they wouldn’t let me on the place.
“I’m no gunfighter. He drew on me, Roberts did, and I reckon he’d of killed me if Meg hadn’t grabbed his arm. She claimed it was my fault and said I wasn’t to come back.”
Bowdrie sat down on the cowhide settee and motioned Darcy to join him. They were sitting so Bowdrie could watch both the window and the door without being seen. “How long has Roberts been here?” he asked.
“Six months, I’d say. His partner, Russ Peters, he showed up about a month ago, but he’d known Roberts before, I believe.”
“Six months?” Disappointment was obvious in his tone. Rising, he started toward the stairway. “I’ll be riding your way tomorrow, Darcy. Might put up with you for the night. Maybe I’m not the man Dan Lingle was, but—”
“Gosh a’mighty, man! Come ahead! I can use all the help I can get, but you’re welcome, anytime! Fact is,” he added, “it gets kind of lonely out there, with nobody coming by and me not seeing Meg anymore.”
He turned to go, then stopped and looked back. “You didn’t say what your name was?”
“I’m Chick Bowdrie.”
“Chick Bowdrie, the Texas Ranger? I’ve heard of you.”
Bowdrie went up the stairs, and the desk clerk, rising from his chair, watched until Darcy mounted his horse and rode out of town. The clerk came from behind his desk, glanced quickly around, then ran down the street.
Bowdrie came down the stairs and followed, keeping to the shadows.
A few minutes later, standing in the darkness outside an open window at the other end of town, he listened as the desk man told his story to Murray Roberts, Russ Peters, and a heavy-set man with a bald head.
“Chick Bowdrie, is it?” Roberts was saying. “That means we’ve got to kill him or we’re through here.”
“Then we’ll kill him”—the fat man took the cigar from his lips—“and we can’t waste any time. If he finds any evidence, he’ll let McNelly know.”
The fat man looked over at Roberts. “Who killed Lingle, Murray?”
Murray Roberts shrugged. “Not me!” he protested.
“Well, it wasn’t me, either!” Peters said. “I’m damned if I know!”
“Murray, you ride back to the ranch. I’ll keep Russ here. Ride herd on the old man. We can’t let him start guessing or he might come up with some answers.” The fat man paused and pointed a thick middle finger at Roberts. “You watch him, not that girl! Women will be the death of you yet!”
Chick Bowdrie returned to the hotel, slipped up the back stairs to his room, and went to bed. There were never any simple case
s anymore. Maybe there never had been.
He had started hunting a killer with no accurate description except that he was carrying two diamond rings, a watch, and four beautiful Morgan horses—a stallion and three mares.
It had been a cold trail from the start, but one thing he knew. The killer had sold no Morgan horses. Wherever he was, he still had them.
“Better check those ranches tomorrow,” he told himself.
He clasped his hands behind his head. Just to think! He, Chick Bowdrie, a Texas Ranger! No idea had been further from his mind a year ago. He’d grown up, at least part of the way, on a ranch not far from D’Hanis, a town near San Antonio. At sixteen he had killed his first man, a cow thief who was trying to run off some of his employer’s cattle, but even that had not been his first fight. At six years old he had helped load rifles for his father and uncle as they fought Comanches, and by the time his sixteenth birthday came around, he had been in a half-dozen Indian fights.
His experience was not unusual for the time and the area. Indian fights and over-the-border raids were all too common, but skill with guns had come naturally. Like many another boy or girl of his time, he had been hunting meat for the table from the time he could hold up a rifle.
Yet the way things had gone, he might have wound up on the wrong end of the law. It was only chance and Captain McNelly of the Rangers that turned him around.
The H&H ranch lay six miles west of Hacker, and Chick Bowdrie made it by a few minutes after daylight. He reined in among some cedar at the end of a long hill and looked down upon the ranch.
It was enough to make a cattleman dream. Miles upon miles of green, rolling range spreading out like a great sea behind the cluster of ranch buildings. And there were cattle. As far as a man could see, there were cattle, scattered over the range or gathered along the stream that watered it.
Over against the foothills he could see what must be the Pitchfork holdings. Inquiries made before riding in here had told him what to expect. The Pitchfork cattle, or what he assumed to be them, ranged up the draws that led into the hills and along the flanks of the hills themselves.
Only within the past year had trouble arisen. H&H cattle had been missed, brands had been blotted, and Rack Herman had been led to believe that Darcy was rustling. Then Roberts had come in, was taken on as foreman, and complaints against Darcy multiplied. Then a Darcy hand was reported to have killed an H&H rider.
Chick studied the situation thoughtfully. He had grown up on the range, punching cows and riding the open range. He knew how range wars developed and on how little evidence accusations were often made.
Nobody had seen that H&H rider killed. He had been found near Pitchfork range, shot through the back. The H&H then killed a Pitchfork rider, and the H&H began hiring gunmen.
“It looks like somebody wanted trouble,” Bowdrie surmised, but he was too experienced to draw any firm conclusions.
The trouble had started before Murray Roberts appeared, so he, apparently, was not the cause.
H&H hands were riding out on the range now. He sat his horse, watching them go. The fewer around, the better. Finally he started the roan and cantered down to the ranch yard.
A girl came running down the steps to drive some chickens from a flowerbed, her blond hair blowing in the wind. When she saw him she stopped, shading her eyes against the sun.
He drew up. “Howdy, ma’am. How’s for a cup of coffee?”
“Of course. I am sure there’s some left. We try to have coffee throughout the day for any of the hands who might ride in. Will you come in?”
He swung down and tied the roan to the hitching rail, and followed her into the house. The Chinese cook was just cleaning up after the cowhands. Seeing Bowdrie, he asked no questions but brought coffee, then some eggs and sliced beef.
“You will be Meg Howells,” he said abruptly.
“Yes.” She studied him. “How did you know?”
“Why,” he said blandly, “I run into a feller who said you were the prettiest girl in these parts. He surely was no liar.”
“Oh? You met Murray?”
He swallowed some coffee and used the fork on the eggs. “No, ma’am. His name was Jack Darcy.”
“Oh?” Her voice was cool. “How is he?”
She tried to keep her tone disinterested, but underneath it he could detect not only curiosity, but interest.
“Looks mighty peaked, like maybe things were goin’ bad at the ranch or maybe he lost his best girl or something.” Before she could respond to that, he continued, “Of course, he did lose his best friend.”
“Jack did? Who could that be?”
“Mighty fine man named Dan Lingle, a law officer from out California way. He was ridin’ in here to visit Jack, and somebody dry-gulched him. Shot him from ambush and in the back.”
“How awful! That’s just terrible! And that’s just how Jack’s …!”
She hesitated, frowning.
“Jack’s what?” Bowdrie asked.
He was no judge of women-folks. It was not like reading trail sign. Women made queer tracks, yet even he could sense that Meg Howells had something on her mind.
“Why, it just struck me that Jack’s father was killed that way. He was following some rustlers. It was about eight months ago. He was found lying beside the trail and he had been shot in the back.”
He sipped his coffee, and suddenly she turned on him. “Who are you? Are you looking for a job?”
“No, ma’am. I’m a Texas Ranger. I’m following a man who married a woman, murdered her, and then drove off her cattle. He told folks he was migratin’ west, that his wife was sick in the wagon. After he was gone, they found her body. He’d taken the rings her father gave her, and four Morgan horses.
“There was another killing of a woman after that, but we’re not sure the same man did it.”
“Four horses?”
“Yes, ma’am. A stallion and three brood mares. Fine stock. Have you seen any such horses?”
“No. No, I haven’t.”
She seemed suddenly eager to be rid of him, so he pushed back his chair and got up. “Mind if I look around a little? You’ve a fine place here.”
“Please do! Go right ahead!”
She was already hurrying from the room. He drained his cup of coffee and walked outside. Taking his time, he strolled toward the stable. When he saw the row of saddles on a railing, his lips tightened a little.
“Somewhere,” he told himself, “you’re going to find a saddle with wooden, California-style stirrups. Real old-time stuff, and some of the wood will have been rubbed off, just recently, on a rock.”
No such saddle was in this lot, however. He was just turning away from them when a harsh voice cut into the silence, a voice that sent little prickles along the back of his neck.
“Who are you, and what are you doin’, prowlin’ around here?”
Chick’s face was blank. “Just lookin’ around,” he said. “I asked Miss Meg if it would be all right.”
“Well, it isn’t all right.” He was a short, enormously fat man with a thick neck rising from massive shoulders. Chick was suddenly wary. This man was not just fat. There was an ease and dexterity in his movements and the way he used his hands that belied his bulk. At least two inches shorter than he, the man must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. “Anybody who wants to look this ranch over comes to me!”
“I heard,” Chick said mildly, “that the place belonged to Howells and Herman.”
“That’s right. I’m Rack Herman!”
“Yeah?” Something about the man stirred all the antagonism within him. “From the way you talked, I figured you were both of them.”
Herman’s features seemed to tighten. The easy-appearing fat man vanished and the face Bowdrie looked at was brutal.
“Think I’m just a fat slob, do you?” His tongue touched his lips, and into his eyes came a queer eagerness that made Bowdrie cringe as though he had touched something unclean. “I like to beat cleve
r fellers like you!”
“Take it easy, boss.” Murray Roberts appeared in the doorway behind Herman. “That’s Chick Bowdrie.”
Rack stopped in mid-stride, and the transformation was amazing. In an instant his face was all smiles.
“Bowdrie? Why didn’t you say so? I thought you were some driftin’ cowhand lookin’ for something he could steal! Shucks, if I’d knowed you was the law …
“Come up to the house, will you?”
“Thanks, but I’ve some riding to do. However, if it is all right with you, I might stop by on the way back.”
“Of course! Stop by anytime! Glad to have you at any time!”
Bowdrie walked to his horse and swung into the saddle. Turning his horse toward the Darcy range, he wiped the sudden sweat from his brow. “That, Mr. Bowdrie,” he said aloud, “was a close one!”
Rack Herman was a new element in the situation, but the rancher was no tinhorn crook, but something more. He was a monster, a being of concentrated evil such as one rarely found on western range … or elsewhere, for that matter.
He was crossing the slope of a hill out of sight of the H&H when a movement caught his eye. It was Meg Howells on a small gray horse, approaching by a roundabout way and heading for the hills. Circling through the trees, keeping out of sight, he rode until he cut her trail; then he fell in behind. The girl was riding fast and she was going somewhere, obviously with a destination in mind.
Glancing down his back trail, he glimpsed another rider whose route had not crossed his. Hurriedly Chick Bowdrie pulled back into the trees until the horseman rode past. It was Murray Roberts.
The trail itself was dusty, so Bowdrie held to the grassy side of the road to raise no dust. It was simple enough to avoid being seen by keeping to low ground until suddenly Meg rode up a low hill and through a cleft in the rock wall.
Until now she had been riding a known trail, but she hesitated before going into the notch, obviously uncertain of what she might find. Hesitating from time to time, she rode on.
Pulling the roan to a stop, Chick watched Murray Roberts allow the girl some time before he entered the cleft. He had the impression this was no new trail to Roberts.
The Chick Bowdrie Short Stories Bundle Page 5