Borden Chantry

by Louis L'Amour

  “Came to you? Johnny did?”

  “Yes, sir! He surely did. He come in here in a hurry. He said he was wishful of talking to you, confidential, and could I get you up here so’s he could meet you accidental-like. He said he had reasons for not wanting to walk right up to you.”

  “Was he sober?”

  “Well, he was comin’ off a drunk, if you know what I mean. You know, Johnny started to sober up right there before he was killed. He was right worried about something but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. He said George never wanted to get me involved and he had no right to. But he had to see you…right off. I mean, he was in a hurry, Borden. And then he was dead. Right after he left here.”

  Borden shifted uneasily in his chair, and it creaked under him. Warily, he took up his cup. Dover, Riggin, the stranger, and now McCoy…Four unexplained killings in less than a year, and two of them right close together.

  “I wish George was here,” he said. “I’m no detective. I’m not really much good as a lawman, Ma. I just keep order and throw a drunk in jail now and again, so’s he can sleep it off.”

  “Don’t fret, son. George thought you were just the man for the job. Said you were persistent, and that was what it took.”

  He put down his cup. There was so much he did not know. So many things were more important than just walking the streets with a badge.

  Men had been murdered here. True, it was a violent time, yet that was passing, and this town was evidence of it. The dusty streets, the few scattered buildings, already weatherbeaten while yet so new, these were a bulwark against desolation. This was a place where people met to trade, to exchange ideas, to pray, to learn. Even this shabby little trail town had its civic pride, its love of home, its desire to become better.

  For death to occur was natural, and in a violent land a violent death was more to be expected than otherwise. This did not necessarily mean a death by the gun or arrow, but one might die in a multitude of other ways, all violent.

  To fall ahead of stampeding cattle, to be gored by an angry steer or a cow, to be thrown and trampled by a wild mustang, to be frozen to death or to die of thirst, these were the order of the day. Yet there were dozens of other ways in which a man might die on the plains or in the mountains, and men accepted these ways.

  It was customary to settle disputes between men with weapons. The pistol was the most prevalent weapon and the one most often used.

  Murder was quite another thing. It was more than a crime against an individual, it was a crime against society, against its accepted customs, its way of thinking. To permit such a killer to go unpunished would be a blow to the world they were struggling to build.

  “Ma,” he said wearily, “I want to do my job. If I find the murderer he will have to stand trial. I wouldn’t want to arrest a man without sufficient evidence, but I’m worried. Whoever he is, something’s bothering him, and I think he will kill again, and I think he’s one of us…somebody right here in town.”

  “Can’t never tell. Way I heard it, that dead man had money when he come to town…Where is it now? You can bet that whoever has it will want to spend it. What Pa always said. ‘You let a thief have money,’ he used to say, ‘and there ain’t one in fifty can keep it hid. They got to go out an’ live high on the hog…All you got to do is watch.’”

  “I can’t wait. Somebody else will die. Anyway, Time Reardon hinted that if the dead man was who he thought it might be, we might have somebody comin’ in here huntin’ him. Somebody who would set the town on its ear.”

  “You let ’em come. We got Winchesters enough in this town to fight us a war, and there’s enough fightin’ men here to handle ’em.

  “This here town is like most western towns. Hyatt Johnson, now, he was a major in the Rebel cavalry. Sure, he’s a banker now, but he’s got him a rifle hung up back of his desk and he’s got a thirty-six Navy in his desk drawer.

  “Blazer over at the express office was a sharpshooter with Sherman, and he fit in three, four Indian battles. Ain’t hardly a man in any western town who wasn’t in the war on one side or t’other, and most have fit Injuns since they were boys…An’ most of them shot meat for the table. Anybody comes into one of these towns huntin’ trouble, he’s askin’ for a stakeout on Boot Hill.”

  Mrs. Riggin paused. “Borden, you should talk to young Billy McCoy. Now there’s a quick-witted youngster. Like his pa used to be, maybe more so. He sees nearly everything goes on around town, and believe me, Johnny knew something he was itching to tell you. It was something that scared him.”

  “I’ll talk to him.” Chantry got up, turning his hat in his hands. “You’ve got no idea who George suspected?”

  “No, I don’t, but George was a painstaking man, Borden. You remember that? He was not a man to leave things to chance, nor was he a trusting man.

  “I mean, George liked people, but he expected little from them. He often said all people were human, all could make mistakes. And many people had a little larceny in them, given the chance. George trusted no man to be free from error, and most particularly, himself.”

  Borden got up and moved toward the door, yet something in her words caught at his attention. He turned slowly. “Ma? Did George ever keep any notes? I mean, when he was working on a case? Did he keep it all in his head?”

  “Well…mostly. But not always, Borden. And on this last case I think he kept notes, but I never saw them. Like I said, he never talked much about his cases around home. Only once in awhile he’d come out with something or tell me where he was going. Like the day he was killed.”

  “Where was he going?” Even as Chantry asked the question it came as a shock that he had no idea…that so far as he knew nobody had ever inquired. He himself had not yet been appointed marshal and he had heard of Riggin’s death only at secondhand. He’d been busy trying to save something on his own ranch.

  “Out to see Blossom. They were old friends, you know. He and Ed Galey rode the trail together, bringing cattle up from Chihuahua, and he’d been studying about seeing her for some time, then finally decided on it. He was riding to see her when he was killed.”

  Chantry turned the knob, opening the door to leave. Mrs. Riggin got up from her rocker. “Oh…I almost forgot! George said Johnny McCoy was to have that fancy bridle of his, and Billy was to have his spurs, but he said most particular that you were to have his saddle.

  “Said it might need mending a bit, but you were a good hand at that sort of thing, and would fix it better’n new. If you want, you can pick it up now.”

  He thanked her, then walked out on the porch. For a moment he stood there, looking about. His head ached, felt like something was pressing down on him right over the eyebrows. He ran his fingers through his hair, then put on his hat.

  Oh, yes…the saddle.

  He walked around the house and into the small barn. The bridle was hanging on a nail where George always kept it. The spurs were on the table.

  The saddle was gone.

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  IN THE DUST of the barn floor there were boot tracks.

  Borden Chantry looked sharply around. No place to hide in the barn. He ran outside, glancing quickly around. Nothing moved nearer than the street, but there was brush at the back of the barn, and a path, he recalled, that ran to the bottom of the arroyo.

  Turning, he ran toward the path. Something crashed in the brush. He thought he heard running footsteps, then drawing a pistol, he ran after them.

  The arroyo broke into several branches, and he skated to a stop, listening. No sound…not a whisper. He started toward one branch, then halted. He glanced around for tracks, but at this point the floor of the arroyo was almost one sheet of solid rock. He swore softly, then walked up the nearest arroyo.

  It twisted and turned away from town. Walking back, he tried a second. It led back toward the hills. The other branch wound north along the back of the town, and he should have thought of it at once. There were a dozen places where a man cou
ld emerge with small chance of being seen, and whoever had grabbed the saddle had gotten away.

  But what of the saddle itself? A man does not run lightly and easily while carrying a heavy stock saddle.

  Walking back to where he heard the crash in the brush, it took him only a few minutes to find it. Obviously, whoever had stolen the saddle had thrown it aside to enable him to get away. Borden shouldered the saddle and walked away from the arroyo, past the house and into the street.

  He was tired, and the running had started his head to aching again. He crossed the street to the Bon-Ton and went in. He did not want anything to eat, and he did not want coffee. He wanted only to sit down, just for a moment.

  Dropping into the first chair, he stared around him, suddenly dizzy. Ed crossed the room and put down a pot and a cup. “You all right, Marshal? You look done in.”

  “It’s that rap on the skull. I must have had a mild concussion when I got hit the other night. I’ll just sit here a moment until I feel better.”

  “Take your time. Did you see Hyatt? He was askin’ for you.”

  “I’ll see him later.”

  “Looks like George Riggin’s saddle,” Ed commented. “He sure set store by it, but it ain’t as good as yours.”

  “He wanted me to have it.”

  “Well, I guess a man can use an extry saddle oncet in awhile. He sure give that one some wear. That ol’ saddle could tell some stories, given a chance and a tongue.”

  Ed walked back to the kitchen and Borden lowered his head to his arms. Only for a minute. If he could just rest for a minute.

  “Bord?” It was Lang’s voice.

  He looked up. “Sit down, Lang. I’m just resting a bit.”

  “You look all in,” Lang’s voice was worried. “Bord, you’ve got to take it easy. In your condition you shouldn’t be out running around. After all, if you’re right about this and it is a local man he isn’t going anywhere. You’re just killing yourself for nothing.”

  “You’re right. Bess tells me the same thing. Have some coffee?”

  Lang filled their cups. Bord leaned back in his chair. He had always envied Lang, a cool, confident man who knew where he was going and what he wished to do.

  “It’s hot out there,” Lang commented. “With that head you’re carrying it could make you sick.” He glanced at the saddle. “What’s the idea? You going someplace?”

  “It was George Riggin’s saddle. He wanted me to have it.”

  “Why? You’ve got a saddle.”

  Borden shrugged. “A man likes to pass something on. He left his spurs to Billy McCoy.”

  “You know, Bord,” Lang paused. “I’ve been thinking about Billy. When Blossom and I are married, we could take the boy out to the ranch. He’d like it there, and he could be a help to us in summer, and could go to school in winter. We’d like to make a home for him.”

  “Have you mentioned it to Blossom?”

  “Oh, sure! She’s all for it. You know Blossom, got a heart as big as the world and she always liked Johnny, anyway. In fact, she and Johnny were old friends.”

  “I suppose so. This is a big country but there’s mighty few people. Sooner or later everybody knows everybody…and everything about everybody.”

  Lang glanced at him. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, you know how it is. There’s no secrets in a country where there are so few people. An eastern man might think he could come out here and lose himself, but he’d be wrong. A man can’t move in this country without somebody knowing.”

  Lang sipped his coffee. “Then catching your man should be easy, shouldn’t it?” He smiled. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just call on me. Any riding, asking questions…anything of the sort.”

  “Thanks, Lang. I appreciate that.” Chantry got to his feet. “I’ve got to see Hyatt, but it will have to wait. Bess will be worried about me.”

  “Want me to come along? Or if you want to see Hyatt now, I could carry your saddle home for you. Keep it in the barn, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll take it. I’m only a few steps away now.”

  He took up the saddle on one arm and went out the door. The full weight of the sun struck him like a blow. For a moment he stood still, closing his eyes against the glare. Then he walked to the corner of the café and, turning it, walked back to his own house.

  Bess opened the door for him. “Borden! I’ve been so worried! Are you all right?”

  As he nodded, edging through the door with the saddle, she said, “Borden, please! You’re not going to bring that old saddle into the house!”

  “Got to. I want to have it close by.” He gestured to it. “This was George Riggin’s saddle.”

  “It’s old and it’s smelly. Borden, please. Leave it in the stable.”

  “No, I want to have it close by. Besides, Tom has been wanting a saddle. Maybe I can fix it up for him. He’d like riding the saddle the old marshal rode. Make him the envy of every kid in town.”

  “You know how I feel about that.” She spoke a little sharply. “I don’t want that kind of life for Tom, Borden, and you know it. I want him to be a gentleman. A doctor or a lawyer or something of the kind…A professional man.”

  It was an old argument, and he was in no mood for it now. “I think the boy should decide for himself,” he said quietly. “Maybe my life hasn’t been the best, but I’ve been a free man, riding wide country under a wide sky. Bess, maybe you don’t understand, but I’ve loved it.”

  “That was all right for you, but Tom is growing up into another world, a world without all the riding and shooting.”

  He went on into the bedroom and put the saddle down on the floor. Then with a sigh of relief he lay down, not even taking time to remove his boots, just letting them hang over the edge of the bed.

  Needed work, George had told his wife. That was nonsense. George never let anything of his need work. He was a slow-moving man, but meticulous about having everything in shape. When at home he was always sewing on leather, polishing, oiling his guns, repairing whatever needed it.

  Borden Chantry closed his eyes and slowly let his long body relax. The bed felt good, and he was tired, so very, very tired.

  Suddenly, he was awake. He must have slept for some time, as it was already dark. He lay for a moment, eyes wide, staring up into the darkness and listening…What had awakened him?

  Bess was in bed beside him. She had simply taken off his boots and let him rest as he was. Slowly, anxious not to awaken her, he sat up, putting his sock feet to the floor. His mouth was very dry and tasted bad, but his head felt better. He got to his feet, and very carefully went through the bedroom door into the short hall.

  He paused there, listening. He had no idea what he was listening for, but supposed it might be the sound that had awakened him. Yet perhaps it had been no sound, but simply that he had rested somewhat and as his sleep became lighter his clothes began to bother him. He should just undress and go back to bed.

  Yet he was wide awake now. There might be some coffee in the pot and it was a good time to think, to try to put it all together.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he decided to light no lamp that might awaken Bess or the boys, but just to get his coffee and sit in the kitchen and think this out, with nothing to hold his attention but his thoughts.

  He needed to sit down and clarify the problem. If he could state it clearly, present the arguments pro and con, he might come to a better understanding of what this was all about. The trouble was that he was no great brain, and he needed these times of quiet thought.

  The coffeepot was hot. The fire burned slow, but there was a good bed of coals. He lifted the lid on the stove and added a few sticks from the woodbox. Then he took a cup, filled it with coffee, and went to the table.

  In his sock feet he made no sound except the slight creak of the floorboards.

  Seated in the darkness he once again put together the little he knew.

  It left him with a number of quest
ions. What happened to the money the dead man had carried? Why was he in town? What had Johnny known that he intended to tell him? Why did the killer fear identification of the dead man? If Riggin had been murdered, what had he found out that made his death necessary to the murderer?

  Pin Dover had been the first to die. Was there any connection? He drank his coffee and thought about Dover.

  A good cowhand, an inoffensive man who got drunk occasionally on paydays and worked hard in-between. Easygoing, friendly, expert with a rope and a good rider. He had worked for a dozen outfits from the Llano to the Pecos, and at least two along the Picketwire.

  Suddenly, there was a soft step behind him. Startled, he turned quickly.

  Billy McCoy was standing there in one of Tom’s old nightshirts. “Mr. Chantry? I just woke up an’ remembered somethin’. Then I heard you.”

  “What is it, Billy?”

  “That brand…the one on the sorrel? I just remembered. It was either S’s or 8’s.”

  “S what? Or 8 what?”

  “It was S or 8, I can’t be sure which, then a S lyin’ down…You know, a Lazy S. Then there was another S or 8.”

  “S-Lazy S-S?”

  “I think so. I didn’t see it plain, and he hadn’t shed all his winter coat. It could have been eights.”

  “Thanks, Billy. Anything else?”

  “Only that Pa was worried about something. He was real worried. Pa was a drinker, you know, an’ he never swore off very often. On’y when he had a new job…for awhile…Or that time him an’ Blossom…”

  “He and Blossom what?”

  The boy’s face reddened. “Well, Pa an’ her, they knowed each other since they was young as me. I think they used to have a case on one another.

  “Pa, he saved his money when he was a boy. Blossom, she had a-plenty always. Pa wouldn’t marry her without he had money, and he worked to get some. Then he got drunk one time and when he come out of it, he an’ her had a quarrel. They busted up.

  “Pa got drunk again and when he come out of it he was married to Ma.”