The Chick Bowdrie Short Stories Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  He smiled again. “You can’t prove I was anywhere near Pistol Rock Spring. And how would I know about the money? How would Moody know?”

  “I know how you knew about the money.” Tom Robley stepped around the corner of the house. His eyes flickered to Bowdrie and back. “I’d have beat you here, but I was looking for the girl first.”

  “What girl?” Butler demanded.

  “Mary Boling. It was she told them about the money. She with all her talk about New Orleans and fancy clothes. She put poor Jim Moody up to it. She’s partly responsible for both Irwin an’ Moody bein’ dead. Me, I’m mostly responsible.”

  “You?” Butler exclaimed. “Now, Tom, you just—”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’d nothin’ to do with stealin’ the money or the killing. It was my mouth. I was so busy tryin’ to convince Mary what an important job I had that I just ran off at the mouth. Because of my loose tongue, two good men are dead.”

  Harshman laughed. “You think Mary had a hand in it? You’re a fool, Tom Robley, a double-damned fool. Suppose you had told Mary? What could that mean to me?”

  Chick Bowdrie stood listening and curious. Watching the scene, every sense alert, quick to hear every word, he was also aware that three saddled horses, packed for the trail, stood at the corral.

  The big rancher wore a dark blue shirt, two of the front buttons unfastened. His boots were highly polished, and he looked quite the dandy. Bowdrie smiled, understanding a few things.

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself, Al, but Sam Butler and me, we trailed you. We know a left-handed man sat against a rock at Pistol Rock Spring and smoked cigarettes. He tossed the matches at the fire with his left hand.

  “We trailed you from the spring, and it wasn’t even hard. You wrapped your horse’s hooves in burlap sacking so you wouldn’t leave a trail. We have the sacks.”

  Harshman shrugged. “There are a lot of sacks around. Can you prove those sacks were mine? Don’t be foolish! Those sacks could have belonged to anybody.”

  “I found gray horsehairs that will match your gelding, and there’s blue clay on them, as there is around your well.”

  “So? There’s blue clay around half the wells in the county, and as for horsehairs, how many gray horses are there?”

  “We’ve got somethin’ else, Al,” Bowdrie said. “Folks told me you were ambitious. That you had brains. Mary spoke mighty highly of you back there at the dance.

  “You were smart, all right. You had ideas. You decided to try something new, Al. You had some cottonseed shipped in here so you could try planting it.

  “So? Is that criminal?”

  “Not at all. You were away ahead of everybody else around this part of the country. You sent for cottonseed and you got it. Some of it came in that sack you used, Al. I found some of the cottonseed in the sack.”

  “Bowdrie!” Robley shouted. “Look out!” Robley’s hand slashed down for a gun, and a shotgun roared from the window of the house and Tom Robley staggered, firing toward the house.

  It was one of those breathtaking instants that explode suddenly, and Bowdrie saw Harshman grab for a gun—with his right hand!

  The hand darted into the gaping shirtfront and the gun blasted, but a split second late. Bowdrie had palmed his six-gun and fired, then took a long step forward and right, firing again as his foot came down.

  Al Harshman was on his knees, his face contorted with shock and hatred. Vaguely Bowdrie knew other guns were firing, but this was the man he had to get. Harshman had dropped the derringer hideout gun and was coming up with his other pistol.

  Bowdrie held his fire and the gun slipped from Harshman’s fingers.

  Butler was at the cabin door, gun in hand. Robley was down, covered with blood.

  Sam Butler turned to Bowdrie, his face gray. “I never killed no woman before,” he muttered. “Dammit, Bowdrie, I—!”

  “You did what you had to do. Anyway,” he added practically, “it might have been Tom.”

  Robley was dying. Bowdrie knew it when he knelt beside him. “Mary? Wha … happened?”

  “Mary’s gone, Tom. She was killed. So is another man in there.”

  “Her brother,” Butler said. “We didn’t even know he was around.”

  “Mary … it was Al all the time,” Robley was saying. “It wasn’t Jim or me.”

  He lay quiet and Bowdrie got slowly to his feet. “Too bad,” he said. “He was a good man.”

  “All because she was greedy. She couldn’t be content with the looks she was born with an’ clothes like the other gals had.” Butler swore softly, bitterly.

  “Me,” Bowdrie said, “all I want is a good horse under me, the creak of a saddle, and a wind off the prairies in my face.

  “An’ maybe, Sam, just like you, maybe I want to make things a little more peaceful for other folks. A man can’t build anything or even make a living when there’s somebody ready to take it from him.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” Butler said. “Maybe you just said it. I never could figure why I took this job in the first place.”

  Butler walked to his horse, and Bowdrie followed. “Ain’t more than six miles over to the Fernández place. She fixes the best frijoles anyplace around. We’ll just ride over there an’ hire him to haul these bodies into town.”

  “All right,” Bowdrie said, “let’s ride over an’ see Pedro.”

  “Miguel,” Sam Butler said. “The name is Miguel!”

  Bowdrie Passes Through

  There was no reason to question the authority of the Sharps .50 resting against the doorjamb.

  “Hold it right there, mister!”

  The voice behind the Sharps was young, but it carried a ring of command, and it does not require a grown man to pull a trigger. Chick Bowdrie had lived this long because he knew where to stop. He stopped now.

  “I didn’t know anybody was to home,” he said agreeably. “I was lookin’ for Josh Pettibone.”

  “He ain’t here.” The youthful voice was belligerent.

  “Might as well rest that rifle, boy. I ain’t huntin’ trouble.”

  There was no response from the house, and the gun muzzle did not waver. Chick found the black opening of the muzzle singularly unattractive, but he found himself admiring the resolution of whoever was behind the gun.

  “Where is Josh?”

  “He’s … they done took him off.” Chick thought he detected a catch in the boy’s throat.

  “Who took him off?”

  “The law come an’ fetched him.”

  “Now, what would the law want Josh Pettibone for?”

  “Claimed he poisoned a horse of Nero Tatum’s,” the boy said. “He done no such thing!”

  “Tatum of the Tall T? You’d better put down that rifle, boy, an’ talk to me. I’m no enemy of your pa’s.”

  After a moment of hesitation the rifle was lowered to the floor and the boy stepped out. He wore a six-shooter thrust into his waistband. He was towheaded, and wearing a shirt that had obviously belonged to his father. He was probably as much as twelve, and very thin.

  Bowdrie studied him, and was not fooled. Young he might be, but this boy was no coward and he was responsible. In Bowdrie’s limited vocabulary, to be responsible was the most important word.

  The boy walked slowly, distrustfully, to the gate, but he made no move to open it.

  “Your pa poison that horse of Tatum’s?”

  “He did not! My pa would never poison no stock of anybody’s!”

  “Don’t reckon he would,” Bowdrie agreed. “Tell me about it.”

  “Nero Tatum, he hates Pa, and Pa never had no use for Tatum. He’s tried to get Pa off this place two or three times, sayin’ he didn’t want no jailbirds nestin’ that close to him.”

  When the boy said “jailbirds” he looked quickly at Bowdrie for his reaction, but Chick seemed not to notice.

  “Then Pa got that Hereford bull off of Pete Swager, and that made Tatum madder’n ever. Tatum had sure enough wanted that Swag
er bull, and offered big money for it. Pete knowed Pa wanted it and he owed Pa a favor or two so he let Pa have it for less money. Pete was leavin’ the country.”

  Chick Bowdrie knew about that favor. Pete Swager had gone to San Antonio on business and had come down sick. His wife and little boy were on the ranch alone, and two days after Pete left, they came down with the smallpox, too. Josh Pettibone had ridden over, nursed them through their illness, and did the ranch work as well. It was not a small thing, and Pete Swager was not a man to forget.

  “Tatum’s black mare up an’ died, an’ he accused Pa of poisonin’ her.”

  “What have they got for evidence?” Bowdrie asked.

  “They found the mare close to our line fence, an’ she was dyin’ when they found her, frothin’ at the mouth an’ kickin’ somethin’ awful.

  “When she died, he accused Pa, and then Foss Deal, he claimed he seen Pa give poison to the mare.”

  “You take it easy, boy. We’ve got to think about this. You got any coffee inside?”

  The boy’s face flushed. “No, we ain’t.” Then, as Chick started to swing down, he said, “There’s nothin’ in there to eat, stranger. You better ride on into town.”

  Bowdrie smiled. “All right if I use your fire, son? I’ve got a mite of grub here, and some coffee, and I’m hungry.”

  Reluctantly, and with many a glance at Bowdrie, the boy opened the gate. He glanced at the roan. “He’s pretty fast, ain’t he?”

  “Like a jackrabbit, only he can keep it up for miles. Never seems to tire. There’s been a few times when he really had to run.”

  The boy glanced at him quickly. “You on the dodge, mister? Is the law after you, too?”

  “No, I’ve found it pays to stay on the right side of the law. A few years back I had a run-in with some pretty tough people, and for a spell it was like bein’ on the dodge.

  “Nothin’ romantic about bein’ an outlaw, son. Just trouble an’ more trouble. You can’t trust anybody, even the outlaws you ride with. You’re always afraid somebody will recognize you, and you don’t have any real friends, for fear they might turn you in or rob you themselves.

  “The trouble with bein’ an outlaw or any kind of criminal is the company you have to keep.”

  As they neared the house, Chick heard a slight stir of movement within, and when he entered, the flimsy curtain hanging over the door opening into another room was still moving slightly. It was growing dusk, so Chick took the chimney from a coal-oil lamp and lighted the wick, replacing the chimney.

  The boy stared at him uneasily, shifting his eyes to the curtain occasionally.

  “Tell your sister to come out. I won’t bother her, and she might like to eat, too.”

  Hesitantly a girl came from behind the curtain. She might have been sixteen, with the same large, wistful eyes the boy had, and the same too-thin face, but she was pretty. Chick smiled at her, then began breaking kindling to build a fire.

  Chick glanced at the boy. “Why don’t you put up my horse, son? Take your sister along if you’ve a mind to, and when you come in, you might bring my rifle along.”

  While they were gone, he got the fire going, and finding a coffeepot that was spotlessly clean, he put on some coffee. Then he dug into the haversack he had brought in for some bacon, a few potatoes, and some wild onions. By the time they returned, he had a meal going and the room was filled with the comforting smells of coffee and bacon.

  “Tell me about your pa,” he suggested, “and while you’re at it, tell me your names.”

  “She’s Dotty. I’m Tom,” the boy said.

  When Tom started to talk, Chick found there was little he did not already know. Three years earlier, Josh Pettibone had been arrested and had served a year in prison. Along with several other Rangers, Chick had always felt the sentence had not been deserved.

  Pettibone had torn down a fence that blocked his cattle from water, and had been convicted for malicious mischief. Ordinarily no western jury would have convicted him, but this was a case where most of the jury “belonged” to Bugs Tatum, Nero’s brother. The judge and the prosecuting attorney had been friends of the Tatums’, and Josh, having no money, had defended his own case. Chick Bowdrie had not been judge and jury, but he knew what he believed.

  “When does this case come up?” he asked.

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “All right, tomorrow you an’ your sister put on your best clothes and get out the buckboard and we’ll go into town together. Maybe we can help your pa.

  “In the meantime,” he added, “I’ll ride out in the morning and look the situation over.”

  It was not only a Ranger’s job to enforce the law and do what he could to protect the people, but in this thinly settled country where courts were few and of doubtful legality, they were often called upon to be judge and jury as well. They were advisers, doctors, in some cases even teachers. All too often the courts were controlled by a few big cattlemen for their own interests.

  Chick Bowdrie knew Josh Pettibone was not a bad man. A stubborn man, fiercely independent, and often quick-tempered, he knew the fencing of that water hole had been pure spite. By fencing the draw, Tatum had fenced out only Josh’s cattle, allowing all other cattle to come and go as they wished. Bugs Tatum had wanted Josh’s place, and while Josh was in prison, he got it.

  On his release, Josh got his children from a relative who had cared for them and filed on a new claim. Here, too, he encountered a Tatum, for Nero owned a vast range north of Pettibone’s new claim.

  Foss Deal had also wanted that claim, but failed to file on it, and was angry at Pettibone for beating him to it.

  Bowdrie was out before daylight and riding up the canyon. Young Tom had given him careful directions, so he knew where he was going. He found the dead horse lying near a marshy and reed-grown water hole in a canyon that branched off the Blue. It had been a fine mare, no question of that.

  Thoughtfully he studied the situation. He eyed the rocks and the canyon walls, which were some distance away, and finally walked up to the pool itself and studied the plant growth nearby. In the loose soil at the pool’s edge and among the rank grass were other plants, because of the permanent water supply.

  Squatting on his heels, he tugged one plant from the earth, noting the divided leaves and tuberous root. When he returned to his horse, he stowed the plant in his saddlebags. He led the roan off a little distance, and keeping a hand near his gun, swung into the saddle.

  He was almost back to Pettibone’s ranch when he heard several gunshots, then the dull boom of the Sharps.

  Spurring the roan into a run, he charged out of the branch canyon to see four riders circling the house, and heard a shrill cry from the stable. Lifting a hand high, he rode into the yard.

  One of the men rode toward him. “Get movin’, stranger! This is a private fight.”

  “Not ‘stranger,’ ” Bowdrie said. “Ranger! Now, shove that gun back in the boot and call off your dogs or I’ll blow you out of the saddle!”

  The rider laughed contemptuously. “Why, I could—!”

  Suddenly he was looking into a Colt. “Back off!” Bowdrie said. “Back off an’ get out!”

  A scream from the stable brought Bowdrie into action. Not daring to turn his back on the other man, he suddenly leaped his horse at him and slashed out with the barrel of his Colt, knocking him from the saddle. Wheeling his horse, he rode into the stable.

  A man was grappling with Dotty, his face ugly with rage, blood running from a scratch on his cheek. When he glimpsed Bowdrie, he threw the girl from him and went for his gun, but the roan knew its business, and as Bowdrie charged into the stable, the roan hit the man with a shoulder, spilling him to the floor.

  Bowdrie hit the dust beside him, grabbing him by the collar and knocking the gun from his hand with a slap of the pistol barrel, then laying him out with another blow, this one to the head.

  He whipped the gunbelt from the man’s waist and was just turning when he
saw two men charging into the barn. He covered them. “Drop ’em! An’ drop ’em fast!”

  Gingerly, careful to allow no room for a mistake, they unbuckled their belts.

  “Now, back up!”

  Tom Pettibone stepped from the house, the Sharps up and ready.

  “Cover them, Tom. If anyone so much as moves, blow him in two!”

  “Hey, mister!” one of the men protested. “That kid might get nervous!”

  “Suppose you just stand there an’ pray he doesn’t?” Bowdrie suggested.

  He walked over to the man he had pistol-whipped, disarmed and tied him. When he got back to the stable, Dotty was guarding the man who had been attacking her, holding a pitchfork over him.

  “Thanks, Dotty. I’ll handle him.”

  Jerking the man to his feet, he tied his hands, then brought him into the yard.

  “You’ve played hell!” one rider declared. “Nero Tatum will have your hide for this!”

  “So you’re Tatum’s boys? No sooner is the father of these youngsters in jail than you come over here. What are you doing here?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” one of them sneered.

  Chick smiled. “I will know. I intend to find out. Take a look at me again, boys. Does my face mean anything to you?”

  “You look like a damned Apache!”

  Chick smiled again. “Just think that over,” he said. He waved a hand around. “We’re a long way from anywhere, and I’ve just found you molesting a girl. Now, you know Texans don’t like that sort of thing. You thought you could get away with it and nobody would know. Before I am through, you will not only have told me what I want, but Texas won’t be big enough for you. Everybody in the state will know what a low-life bunch you are.

  “Maybe,” he added, “they’ll hang you. I’m a Ranger and I’m supposed to stop that sort of thing, but I can look the other way. Of course, to an Apache, hangin’ would be too good for you.”

  While Tom stood guard over the men with their hands and now their feet bound, Dotty brought up the buckboard.

  Meanwhile Chick had gathered sticks and a little straw from the barn and had kindled a fire. Into the fire he placed a branding iron. The prisoners stared at him, then at the fire.