The Chick Bowdrie Short Stories Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  Bishop’s eyes were on him and Bowdrie felt a tide of recklessness welling up within him. He had no evidence at all, but regardless of what Coker had said of Bishop, that ranch was simply too well located for what had been happening. He pushed his luck.

  “The well-planned crimes are often the simplest. A plan is a design like that of a weaver, and all you have to do is get hold of one of the threads and it all begins to unravel.”

  “And you’ve found the thread?”

  Bishop’s eyes reflected his skepticism, but under that lay something else. Apprehension, maybe?

  “I’ve got two or three threads,” Bowdrie said. “The trouble with well-planned crimes is that the planner is never content. He always wants to take another stitch here or there. The first thread was that this mysterious crime was simply too mysterious. It was overdone. Nobody saw anyone entering or leaving town and there were no tracks. The second thread was the hour of the crime and the way it was done.

  “Then came the added touches. A snake in my bed that was intended to kill or scare me. The next touch was the shot somebody took at me, which indicates whoever did this crime is not sure of himself. Or somebody connected with it isn’t sure.

  “That was pure stupidity. I was sent alone on this job, but if I got killed you’d have a company of Rangers in here turning over every stone in town.

  “It also proves what I suspected from the beginning: there were no tracks because the thieves never left town. They are here now, right in Kimble.”

  “That’s absurd!” Bishop sounded angry. “This is a nice little town. Everybody knows everybody else. Why would they stay in a town with everybody hunting them? I was on the search myself and we found nobody.”

  “Exactly. Nobody thought of searching houses, merely of getting out on the trails. A thief would be running, so they would chase him. All the thieves had to do was sit tight, and with friends in town, that would be easy.”

  “Friends?”

  “They had to have friends. Somebody had to tell them when there was enough money in the bank to make it worthwhile.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Bishop said. “I am afraid you’re going off on a tangent.”

  “It makes a lot of sense,” Bowdrie persisted. “Whoever pulled this job is outsmarting himself. That shot today, for example. As a miss it was very revealing.”

  “Revealing? How do you mean?”

  “How does a man vanish off the face of the earth? I don’t believe in magic, Bishop. I am a practical man.”

  Bishop shrugged. “I know nothing of crime, so I hope you find the guilty men. We’ve tried very hard to build a law-abiding community here. Sheriff Borrow and I worked out a plan to protect the town from just this sort of thing.”

  “It was a good setup,” Bowdrie replied mildly. “Sheriff Borrow told me about it.”

  “We’ve tried very hard to build a good community here. That’s why we all contributed to the church and the school.”

  “That makes sense.” Bowdrie smiled. “A good community is a prosperous one. One with money around.”

  John Bishop threw him a sharp glance, as if trying to see meaning behind the comment. Bowdrie’s expression was innocent.

  “You’re ranching yourself, are you not?” Bowdrie inquired. “Horse ranching, I think? I’ve noticed some fine horses around town, some with plenty of speed.”

  Bishop did not reply. His fingers gripped the cup Ellen had brought him.

  “By the way,” Bowdrie continued. “What’s Red doing now?”

  The fingers on the cup tightened. Bishop looked up, and the pretended friendliness was gone from his eyes. “He’s ranching in Sonora.” Bishop pushed back his chair. “I’ll see you later.”

  He stood up and turned to go, but Chick’s voice stopped him. “By the way …” Bowdrie’s tone was gentle. “Don’t leave town, and tell your brother not to.”

  Bishop turned sharply around. “What do you mean by that? I told you …” He paused, gaining control of himself. “I am beginning to see what you have in mind, but it won’t work, Bowdrie. Don’t try to frame me or my brother.”

  Bowdrie got up and stepped past him to the counter where Ellen was standing. “Let me treat Mr. Bishop,” he said cheerfully. “I enjoy doing it. In fact, I plan to arrange for all his meals … as long as he will need them!”

  “Don’t start anything you can’t finish!” Bishop’s eyes were mean. “I am a friend of the governor!”

  Bowdrie smiled. “Perhaps, but is he your friend?”

  Bishop slammed the door and Chick smiled at Ellen. “You know, I always did like a girl with freckles on her nose!”

  He walked outside and glanced along the street. He was displeased with himself. He had not intended to push Bishop so far, although in his own mind he was sure he was merely a smooth crook. Under the guise of being a public-spirited citizen he could have planned and pulled off this robbery without being suspected. What the case had needed was a fresh viewpoint, someone from outside the town, unimpressed by Bishop.

  The worst of it was that Bowdrie had pushed too far without a bit of proof. He was sure that Bishop and his brother had engineered the robbery and killed Josh Phillips. Moreover, he was sure they had tried to kill him, but he could prove nothing. Yet Bishop was worried; that much was obvious.

  Coker was loafing in front of the saloon. “Get on your horse and light out of here,” Chick advised. “The first telegraph station you hit, wire to McNelly. Ask him to come runnin’.”

  “You’ve been talkin’ to Bishop?”

  “He’s our man, I’m sure of it.”

  “I’ve been thinkin’. It’s possible. Nobody would notice extry horses over there, nor a few extry men around. He carries a stock of grub and he’s the only place aside from the restaurant that could feed men for more than a day or two.”

  “I’m going to see Borrow, but you’d better get out fast. I’ve a hunch my talk with Bishop will blow the lid off. He’s supposed to be smart, but doesn’t have sense enough to just sit tight.”

  The sheriff’s office door was closed, but Bowdrie turned the knob and stepped in. He stopped, the door half-closed behind him. Just beyond the corner of the desk and inside the bedroom door Bowdrie saw a pair of boot toes turned up.

  He sprang past the desk and stopped with his hands on the doorjamb. On the floor, lying on his back, was Sheriff Walt Borrow, the manner of his death obvious. Under his breastbone was the haft of a knife.

  Bowdrie stopped and touched the dead man’s hand. It was cold. He straightened up and glanced around. The picture became clear when he saw the chair in the shadows near several coats hung from a clothes tree.

  Crossing to the chair, Bowdrie seated himself. He was facing the doors but well back in the shadows. Whoever sat in the chair would see whoever came in from the street, but Borrow, coming in from the glare of the sun, would not have seen his killer.

  Near the chair were three cigarette butts, lying where the killer had dropped them. Borrow, as did most men of the time and the area, smoked cigars. Cigarettes were a Mexican custom only beginning to cross the border, so these might have been smoked by someone living south of the border.

  Here the killer had waited. There was no evidence of struggle, and Borrow had been a strong, tough man. The killer might have struck from his chair, but it was likely that he had risen as Borrow drew close and driven the knife upward to the heart. Soundless, abrupt, and final.

  But why?

  Bowdrie recalled the old man’s kindly features at their first meeting. “I’m stumped,” Borrow confessed. “The answer keeps naggin’ at me. It’s right on the trail edge of my thinkin’, but I can’t quite get it out into the open.”

  He had glanced at the blanket roll Chick was carrying. “Might’s well leave that here. You won’t need it at the hotel.”

  And the tight roll of his poncho and blankets still stood in the corner where he had left it, yet the roll was neither as tight nor was it rolled in quite the same w
ay now. Why would Borrow, or anyone, open his blanket roll?

  Dropping to his knees, he pulled the roll loose. As it opened, a fold of paper fell out. Taking it up, Bowdrie opened it for a quick look. It was all he needed. Instantly he was on his feet.

  Hurriedly bundling the roll together, he tossed it into a corner. The door opened almost in his face, and Ellen, the freckles dark against the paleness of her face, stood there.

  “Oh, Mr. Bowdrie! Please be careful! They’re after you!”

  “Who is?”

  “They were talking out in back of the restaurant. They did not guess anyone was around. One of the men said they would get you when you left the office.”

  “Then they saw you come to the door. That’s bad, Ellen!”

  “I thought of that. If they ask, I’ll tell them you forgot to pay for your meal and I came after you.”

  “Good!” He reached into his pocket and counted out some money. “There! That’ll pay for what I ate and the next two meals, if I should forget again.”

  He put the money in her hand. “Now, do something for me. If you see that lantern-jawed blond drifter they call Rip, get to him and tell him what is happening. Tell him where I am but not to come here. Understand?”

  She turned away quickly, clutching the money in her hand. She paused an instant, flashing him a quick, frightened smile. “Good luck, Chick!”

  He listened to the click of her heels on the walk, hoping she would not be stopped. He watched her enter the restaurant, from which she would be able to watch the trail into town.

  They would not wait long now. If he did not appear on the street, they would come here. They had proved themselves to be impatient men. Somehow they had discovered the sheriff had finally found the solution and had killed him. Now they must kill Bowdrie.

  Chick took stock of his position. The sheriff’s office was separated from the saloon by a gap of about thirty feet. On the other side there was nothing but an open slope.

  The building comprised four rooms. Two solidly built cells on one side of a narrow hall, on the other the office itself, and farther along, the sheriff’s living quarters.

  Bending over the dead man, he removed his gunbelt and pistol. The pistol was fully loaded. From the gun rack he got down the sheriff’s old Sharps and his Spencer as well as a double-barreled shotgun. From a drawer he took ammunition for these guns and arranged it in neat rows on the desk.

  Then he took up the body and carried it to the bed, where he straightened it out and covered it with a blanket.

  Bowdrie knew that in this situation he could not depend on Rip Coker. The Ranger would go through hell and high water to do his duty, but the telegraph operator might be a friend of the Bishops or of Young. He would undoubtedly send his message both to McNelly and to Major Jones, who was actually in charge in this area.

  The wise course was to depend on neither. The problem was his, to be solved here and now. Even if the message got through, there was small chance they would arrive in time. If they did, an arrest might be made without a fight through sheer numbers, but considering the type of men he was facing, even that was doubtful. Chick Bowdrie preferred to make arrests without trouble, but such occasions were rare in a land where the border was so near, escape so possible.

  Undoubtedly the robbery had been pulled off by Red Bishop and the Decker-Latham outfit. John Bishop and Hardy Young had no doubt planned it, knowing of the money in the bank and choosing the time. Riders would attract no attention on Bishop’s ranch, and there was plenty of cover for going and coming.

  Due to the sheriff’s recollection, Bowdrie knew how the bandits had arrived as well as where the shot came from that was meant to kill him.

  The afternoon was warm and still. No breath of wind stirred the thick dust in the long, hot street. The false-fronted buildings across the street looked parched and gray.

  Bowdrie mopped sweat from his face, loosened his neckerchief, then sat down behind the desk. There was a bucket of water in the shadowed bedroom, but no food.

  Food did not worry him. This fight would be history before he had a chance to be hungry again.

  He hoped to kill no one, but he was alone against five or six desperate men who had shown their style in torturing Phillips.

  Nor could he expect help from the town. None of them would believe Bishop was a thief. Nor did they know Borrow was murdered. There was a pot of coffee on the stove. Hot though it was outside, he poured a cup. It was strong and bitter, but he liked it.

  Down the street he heard a few steps on the boardwalk, then silence. Well, if he got himself killed, he had no family to worry about it. He was a loner. His family was the Rangers, his world was his job.

  Ellen … now there was a likely lass. But even if she were interested in him, how could he ask any girl to marry a man who might end up on a slab at any moment? Still, a lot of the Rangers were married, and happily, too.

  Bowdrie walked back to the cells, and keeping his head from in front of the small window, he peered out. There was a pile of scrap lumber back there, and watching it, he saw the grass stir. So they had a man out there, too.

  He walked back to the office, and at that moment Bishop called out, “Bowdrie? Step over here a minute, will you? I’ve got something to show you.”

  “Bring it over here, John,” Chick called back. “I’m not going to make it that easy for you.”

  He was impatient for them to get on with it. He had lain for hours without moving when stalking someone, but when the chips were down, he disliked waiting.

  “Whoever fired that shot from the rocks gave you away, John!” he called out. “I know all about that old watercourse now!”

  Somebody swore and Bishop stepped back out of sight. Then there was silence.

  Bishop was handling this all wrong. He had the total sympathy of the townspeople, but now they would begin to wonder. Why was John Bishop, their mayor and leading citizen, trying to kill a Texas Ranger? Bowdrie had yelled, hoping others would be listening, and wondering now.

  In the midst of the stillness Bowdrie had a sudden inspiration. Taking a couple of rawhide riatas Borrow had hanging on the clothes tree, he knotted one over a nail over the door to the bedroom, and crawling across the floor, knotted the other end over a nail near the outside door.

  Crawling back, he took a turn around the doorknob, rigging a crude pulley. Then he fastened the end of his riata through an armhole of Borrow’s poncho in such a way that by pulling on the riata he could make it move by the window. The light was such that anyone outside would see movement but could not detect who or what it was unless standing right outside.

  He pulled the poncho opposite the window, then pulled again. Instantly the poncho jerked and a rifle bellowed. Bowdrie was watching, and when the rifle flashed, he fired.

  There was a crash of glass and a startled yelp. If he hadn’t hit somebody, he had at least scared him. His shot was followed by a scattered volley that broke much of the front window.

  Keeping the Spencer in his hands, Bowdrie waited. Sweat trickled down his chest under his shirt. He wiped his hands on his pants. A searching shot struck the wall over his head, but he knew they could not see him, although given time, they might figure out his position. Bishop and Young must both have seen the inside of this office many times.

  He refilled his cup, sipped coffee, and sat back in his chair, waiting. He had two front windows and a side window, and the glass in the front windows was more than half gone. By now the people around town were wondering just what was going on.

  He waited, not wanting to waste a shot and hoping they would believe he had been hit.

  Nothing happened. Chick yawned. If they waited long enough, the Rangers would be here. Of course, they could not know that. Yet even if he left the office somehow he was handicapped in not knowing the men he was fighting.

  A shot rang out and a bullet cut a furrow in the desk and buried itself in the wall. Another struck the floor and ventilated the wastebasket. They were probin
g with fingers of lead.

  He reached for his cup and caught a glimpse of movement from the window on the second floor of the harness shop across the street. There was a curtain inside that window, but he could detect a reflection of movement.

  A man was inching his way along the rooftop to fire from behind the false front of the building next to the harness shop and directly opposite. The man was getting into position to fire down into the office. He was out of sight behind the false front but dimly reflected in the window over the harness shop.

  Bowdrie took a swallow of coffee, put the cup down, and took the Spencer from his lap. He studied the window and then the roof. Taking up the Spencer, he took careful aim, drew in a breath, and let it out slowly and then squeezed off his shot.

  The heavy rifle leaped in his hands, firing right into the false front of the building. A pistol bullet would penetrate several inches of pine at that distance, and the .56-caliber Spencer would not be impeded by the half-inch boards on the front opposite.

  He heard a rifle clatter and fall into the dirt; then a man slid to the roof edge, clawing madly to keep from sliding on the steep roof, then falling.

  The man scrambled up, obviously hurt but moving. As he started to run, Bowdrie, with only the wide posterior for target, squeezed off another shot. There was an agonized yell and the man disappeared.

  Bowdrie thumbed two shells into the Spencer, then hit the floor as a hail of bullets riddled the windows and the door. One bullet ripped through the desk, leaving a hole in a half-open drawer right in front of his face.

  The shooting died down and he got up just in time to see a man sprinting across the street. Bowdrie fired and the runner drew suddenly to his tiptoes, then spilled over into the dust. “If you weren’t one of them,” Bowdrie said aloud, “you used damn poor judgment!”

  He slipped down the hall to the back cell. There was still a man behind the lumber pile, but there was no chance for a shot.

  Returning to the office, he stood well back in the room and searched the line of buildings opposite. He could see nothing.