My six-shooter was out, but I wasn’t lookin’ at Riding. He was beyond my reach, but there was a movement in the junipers close down, on our side of the fence, and I turned and saw Harvey Kinsella there behind us. He had a smile on his face, and I could almost see his lips tighten as he squeezed off his first shot.
When I started burnin’ powder I don’t know. Somethin’ hit Kinsella, and he went back on his heels, his face lookin’ sick, and then I started walkin’ in on him. It helped me keep my mind on business to walk into a man while I was shootin’.
Somebody blazed at me from the brush, and when I tried a snapshot that way, I heard a whinin’ cry and a rifle rattled on the rocks. But I was walkin’ right at Kinsella, and his guns were goin’. I could see flame stabbin’ at me from their muzzles, but when I figgered I had four shots left, I kept walkin’ in and holdin’ my fire.
Behind me them Walkers was blastin’ like a couple of cannon from the war atween the states. I wasn’t worried about Sonora takin’ out on me. He was an hombre to ride the river with. Besides, we each had us a job to do.
Then Kinsella was down on his face, the back o’ his fancy coat stainin’ red. Two other hombres were down, too, and I could hear the rattle of racin’ hoofs as some others took off through the brush.
Then I turned, thumbin’ shells into my guns, and Sonora was there, leanin’ on a fence post, one o’ those big guns danglin’ from his fist.
Me, I walked over to the fence, haulin’ the wire cutters from my belt, the pair I picked up at the girl’s ranch. My head was drummin’ somethin’ awful, like maybe there was still more shootin’. But it wasn’t that—it was deathly still. Y’ couldn’t hear a sound but the loud click o’ my cutters.
When I finished, I turned toward Sonora. He was slumped over the fence then, and there was blood comin’ from somewhere high up on his chest. I took the gun out of his fingers and stuck it in his holster. Then I hoisted him on my shoulder and started for his mule.
That mule wasn’t noways skittish. I got Sonora aboard and then crawled up on the moro. When I was in the saddle again, I looked around.
Riding was dead, anybody could see that. He’d been hit more than once, and half his head was blowed off. There was another hombre close beside him, and he was dead, too.
As for Kinsella, I didn’t have to look at him. I knowed when I was shootin’ that I was killin’ him, but I walked over to him.
Three times on my way back to Ruthie’s I had to stop and straighten Sonora in the saddle, even with his wrists tied to the horn.
Before I got through the gate, Ruthie was runnin’ down toward us, and Jack, too. Then I must’ve passed out.
When my eyes cracked to light again, it was lamplight, and the room wasn’t very bright. Ruthie was sittin’ by my bed, sewin’.
“Sonora?” I asked.
“He’ll be all right. He’d been shot twice. You men! You’re both so big! I don’t see how any bullet could ever kill you!”
Me, I was thinkin’ it might not take a bullet, but a rope.
Kinsella got me once, low down on the side. Just a flesh wound, but from what Jack told me, it must’ve bled like all get-out.
When it was later, Ruthie got up and put her sewin’ away; then she went into another room and to sleep. I give her an hour, as close as I could figger. Then I rolled back the blanket and got my feet under me. I was some weak, but it takes a lot of lead to ballast down an hombre big as me.
Softly, I opened the door. Ruthie was lyin’ on a pallet, asleep. Me, I blushes, seein’ her that way, her hair all over the pillow like a lot of golden web caught in the moonlight.
Easy as could be, I slipped by. Sonora’s door was open, and he was lyin’ in Jack’s bed, a chair under his feet to make it long enough.
Well, there he was, the hombre that meant my ranch to me. I’d strapped on my guns, but as I stood there lookin’ down, I figgered it was a wonder he hadn’t shot it out already. That reward was dead or alive.
Suddenly, I almost jumped out of my skin. Only one o’ them big Walker Colts was in its holster! Why, that durned coyote! Lyin’ there with a gun under the blanket, and the chances was he was awake that minute.
Hell! I’d go back to bed! It never did a man no good to run from the law, not even in the wild country! Soon or late, she always caught up with him.
IN THE MORNIN’, I’d just finished splashin’ water on my face when I looked up and he was leanin’ again’ the door post. “Howdy,” he said, grinnin’. “Sleep well?”
My face burned. “Well as you did, y’ durned possum-playin’ maverick!”
He grinned. “Man in my place can’t be too careful.” He looked at me. “Ready to ride, or is it a showdown?”
Sonora had his guns on, and there was a quizzical light in those funny eyes o’ his’n.
He was a big man, big as me, and the only man I ever saw I’d ride with. “Hell,” I said, “ain’t y’ goin’ to eat breaf’st? I’ll ride with you because you’re too good a man to kill!”
Ruthie was puttin’ food on the table, and she looked at us queerly. “What’s between you two?” she asked quicklike.
“Why, Ruthie,” I said, “this here hombre’s a Texas ranger. He figgers I’m the hombre what robbed that bank over to Pierce!”
She stared at me. “Then—you’re a prisoner?”
“Ma’am,” Sonora said, gulpin’ a big swaller o’ hot coffee, “don’t you fret none. I reckon he ain’t no crook. Just had a minute or two o’ bein’ a durned fool! I reckon that bank’s plumb anxious to git their money back, and I know this hombre’s got it on him because last night”—he grinned—“when he was asleep, I had me a look at his money belt!”
Before I could bust out and say anythin’, he adds, “I figger that bank’s goin’ to be so durned anxious to git their money back, they won’t fret too much when I suggest this hombre be sent back here, sort of on good behavior. I’d say he’d make a good hand around a layout like this.”
Then I bust in. “Y’ got this all wrong, Sonora,” I told him. “Y’ been trailin’ the wrong man! Rather, y’ trailed the right man, and then when y’ walked into the Chuck Wagon, y’ took too much for granted.
“I didn’t rob no bank. I’ll admit I got to thinkin’ about ownin’ a ranch, and I rode into town with the money in mind. Then I heard the shootin’ and lit out. The man who robbed the bank,” I said, “was Harvey Kinsella. I took the money belt off him. His name’s marked on it!”
He stared at me. “Well, I’ll be durned!” he said.
Ruthie was lookin’ at me, her eyes all bright and happy. “Man,” I was sayin’, “I figgered you fer the bandit, first off. I was figgerin’ on gittin’ you fer the reward, needin’ that money like I was fer a ranch.”
“An’ I was tryin’ to decide if I should take y’ in or let y’ go!” Sonora shook his head.
Ruthie smiled at me and then at him. “I’m going to try and fix it, Sonora,” she said, “so he’ll stay here. I think he’d be a good man around a ranch—some place where he could take a personal interest in things!”
There was a tint o’ color in her skin.
“Just what I think, ma’am,” Sonora shoved back his chair. I got up and handed him the money belt. “And Ruthie,” he continued, “if I was to ride by, y’ reckon it’d be all right to stop in?”
She smiled as she filled my cup. “Of course, Sonora, and we’ll be mighty glad to see you!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
DEADWOOD DICK
AMONG BLACK RIDERS famous for their skills were Matthew (Bones) Hooks, Nigger Add, Bronco Sam Stewart, and, of course, in later days, Bill Pickett, who invented bulldogging.
There has been much talk about Deadwood Dick, but there was no such person. He was a creation of a writer of dime novels, Edward L. Wheeler, who wrote for Beadle & Adams. Many men claimed to be the original Deadwood Dick, and Richard Clarke, of Deadwood, South Dakota, was selected by the city fathers to play the part. Bert Bell, a publicity man
prepared the stories and found the outfit of clothes Clarke was to wear. He was sent east to invite Calvin Coolidge, then president, to Deadwood. Clarke succeeded so well that he never gave up the role of Deadwood Dick.
In 1927, when Clarke was selected to play the part, there were few horses on the streets of Deadwood and a great many cars. There is no evidence that Richard Clarke ever fired a rifle or pistol in his life, but suddenly, through Bell’s efforts, he became a celebrity. There were free drinks, free meals, and a much better life than he’d known, and Clarke was wise enough to accept what the gods—and Bert Bell—had given. He played Deadwood Dick until his death.
GRUB LINE RIDER
THERE WAS GOOD grass in these high meadows, Kim Sartain reflected, and it was a wonder they were not in use. Down below in the flatland the cattle looked scrawny and half-starved. He had come up a narrow, little-used trail from the level country and was heading across the divide when he ran into the series of green, tree-bordered meadows scattered among the ridges.
Wind rippled the grass in long waves across the meadow, and the sun lay upon it like a caress. Across the meadow and among the trees he heard a vague sound of falling water, and turned the zebra dun toward it. As he did so, three horsemen rode out of the trees, drawing up sharply when they saw him.
He rode on, walking the dun, and the three wheeled their mounts and came toward him at a canter. A tall man rode a gray horse in the van. The other two were obviously cowhands, and all wore guns. The tall man had a lean, hard face with a knife scar across the cheek. “You there!” he roared, reining in. “What you doin’ ridin’ here?”
Kim Sartain drew up, his lithe, trail-hardened body easy in the saddle. “Why, I’m ridin’ through,” he said quietly, “and in no particular hurry. You got this country fenced against travel?”
“Well, it ain’t no trail!” The big man’s eyes were gray and hostile. “You just turn around and ride back the way you come! The trail goes around through Ryerson.”
“That’s twenty miles out of my way,” Kim objected, “and this here’s a nice ride. I reckon I’ll keep on the way I’m goin’.”
The man’s eyes hardened. “Did Monaghan put you up to this?” he demanded. “Well, if he did, it’s time he was taught a lesson! We’ll send you back to him fixed up proper! Take him, boys!”
The men started, then froze. The six-shooter in Kim’s hand wasn’t a hallucination. “Come on,” Kim invited mildly. “Take me!”
The men swallowed, and stood still. The tall man’s face grew red with fury. “So? A gunslinger, is it? Two can play at that game! I’ll have Clay Tanner out here before the day is over!”
Kim Sartain felt his pulse jump. Clay Tanner? Why, the man was an outlaw, a vicious killer, wanted in a dozen places! “Listen, Big Eye,” he said harshly, “I don’t know you and I never heard of Monaghan, but if he dislikes you, that’s one credit for him. Anybody who would hire or have anything to do with the likes of Clay Tanner is a coyote!”
The man’s face purpled and his eyes turned mean. “I’ll tell Clay that!” he blustered. “He’ll be mighty glad to hear it! That will be all he needs to come after you!”
Sartain calmly returned his gun to its holster, keeping his eyes on the men before him without hiding his contempt. “If you hombres feel lucky,” he said, “try and drag iron. I’d as soon blast you out of your saddles as not.
“As for you”—Kim’s eyes turned on the tall man—“you’d best learn now as later how to treat strangers. This country ain’t fenced, and from the look of it, ain’t used. You’ve no right to keep anybody out of here, and when I want to ride through, I’ll ride through! Get me?”
One of the hands broke in, his voice edged. “Stranger, after talkin’ that way to Jim Targ, you’d better light a shuck out of this country! He runs it!”
Kim shoved his hat back on his head and looked from the cowhand to his boss. He was a quiet-mannered young drifter who liked few things better than a fight. Never deliberately picking trouble, he nevertheless had a reckless liking for it and never sidestepped any that came his way.
“He don’t run me,” he commented cheerfully, “and personally, I think he’s a mighty small pebble in a mighty big box! He rattles a lot, but for a man who runs this country, he fits mighty loose!”
Taking out his tobacco, he calmly began to roll a smoke, his half smile daring the men to draw. “Just what,” he asked, “gave you the idea you did run this country? And just who is this Monaghan?”
Targ’s eyes narrowed. “You know durned well who he is!” he declared angrily. “He’s nothin’ but a two-by-twice would-be cattleman who’s hornin’ in on my range!”
“Such as this?” Kim waved a hand around him. “I’d say there ain’t been a critter on this in months! What are you tryin’ to do? Claim all the grass in the country?”
“It’s my grass!” Targ declared belligerently. “Mine! Just because I ain’t built a trail into it yet is no reason why…”
“So that’s it!” Sartain studied them thoughtfully. “All right, Targ, you an’ your boys turn around and head right out of here. I think I’ll homestead this piece!”
“You’ll what?” Targ bellowed. Then he cursed bitterly.
“Careful, Beetle Puss!” Kim warned, grinning. “Don’t make me pull your ears!”
With another foul name, Targ’s hand flashed for his gun, but no more had his fist grabbed the butt than he was looking into the muzzle of Kim’s six-shooter.
“I’m not anxious to kill you, Targ, so don’t force it on me,” he said quietly. The cattleman’s face was gray, realizing his narrow escape. Slowly, yet reluctantly, his hand left his gun.
“This ain’t over!” Targ declared harshly. “You ride out of here, or we’ll ride you out!”
As the three drifted away, Kim watched them go, then shrugged. “What the devil, Pard,” he said to the dun, “we weren’t really goin’ no place particular. Let’s have a look around and then go see this Monaghan.”
While the sun was hiding its face behind the western pines, Kim Sartain cantered the dun down into the cuplike valley that held the ranch buildings of the Y7. They were solidly built buildings, and everything looked sharp and clean. It was no rawhide outfit, this one of Tom Monaghan’s. And there was nothing rawhide about the slim, attractive girl with red hair who came out of the ranchhouse and shaded her eyes at him.
He drew rein and shoved his hat back. “Ma’am,” he said, “I rode in here huntin’ Tom Monaghan, but I reckon I was huntin’ the wrong person. You’d likely be the boss of any spread you’re on. I always notice,” he added, “that redheaded women are apt to be bossy!”
“And I notice,” she said sharply, “that drifting, no-good cowhands are apt to be smart! Too smart! Before you ask any questions, we don’t need any hands! Not even top hands, if you call yourself that!
“If you’re ridin’ the grub line, just sit around until you hear grub call, then light in. We’d feed anybody, stray dogs or no-account saddle bums not barred!”
Kim grinned at her. “All right, Rusty. I’ll stick around for chuck. Meanwhile, we’d better round up Tom Monaghan, because I want to make him a little deal on some cattle.”
“You? Buy cattle?” Her voice was scornful. “You’re just a big-talking drifter!” Her eyes flashed at him, but he noticed there was lively curiosity in her blue eyes.
“Goin’ to need some cows,” he said, curling a leg around the saddle horn. “Aim to homestead up there in the high meadows.”
The girl had started to turn away, now she stopped and her eyes went wide. “You aim to what?”
NEITHER HAD NOTICED the man with iron-gray hair who had stopped at the corner of the house. His eyes were riveted on Sartain. “Yes,” he said. “Repeat that again, will you? You plan to homestead up in the mountains?”
“Uh-huh, I sure do.” Kim Sartain looked over at Tom Monaghan and liked what he saw. “I’ve got just sixty dollars in money, a good horse, a rope, and a will. I aim to get thr
ee hundred head of cows from you and a couple of horses, two pack mules, and some grub.”
Rusty opened her mouth to explode, but Tom held up his hand. “And just how, young man, do you propose to pay for all that with sixty dollars?”
Kim smiled. “Why, Mr. Monaghan, I figure I can fatten my stock right fast on that upland grass, sell off enough to pay interest and a down payment on the principal. Next year I could do better. Of course,” he added, “six hundred head of stock would let me make out faster, and that grass up there would handle them, plumb easy. Better, too,” he added, “if I had somebody to cook for me, and mend my socks. How’s about it, Rusty?”
“Why, you insufferable, egotistical upstart!”
“From what you say, I’d guess you’ve been up there in the meadows,” Monaghan said thoughtfully, “but did you see anyone there?”
“Uh-huh. Three hombres was wastin’ around. One of them had a scar on his face. I think they called him Jim Targ.”
SARTAIN WAS ENJOYING himself now. He had seen the girl’s eyes widen at the mention of the men, and especially of Jim Targ. He kept his dark face inscrutable.
“They didn’t say anything to you?” Monaghan was unbelieving. “Nothing at all?”
“Oh, yeah! This here Targ, he seemed right put out at my ridin’ through the country. Ordered me to go around by Ryerson. Right about then I started lookin’ that grass over, and sort of made up my mind to stay. He seemed to think you’d sent me up there.”
“Did you tell him you planned to homestead?”
“Oh, sure! He didn’t seem to cotton to the idea very much. Mentioned some hombre named Clay Tanner who would run me off.”
“Tanner is a dangerous killer,” Monaghan told him grimly.
“Oh, he is? Well, now! Tsk, tsk, tsk! This Targ’s sort of cuttin’ a wide swath, ain’t he?”
The boardinghouse triangle opened up suddenly with a deafening clangor, and Kim Sartain, suddenly aware that he had not eaten since breakfast, and little of that, slid off his horse. Without waiting for further comment, he led the dun toward the corral and began stripping the saddle.
Collection 1983 - Law Of The Desert Born (v5.0) Page 17