Riding for the Brand (Ss) (1986)

by L'amour, Louis

  We don’t have more than fifty head of cattle on the place, and only four saddle horses.”

  He went out the back door and vanished. Or so it seemed. Tess, glancing out a moment later, could see nothing. She should have told him about Silva, the guard at the dam. Silva was a killer and quick as a snake.

  She turned again to the house and began putting things in order. First, she barricaded the front door and then opened the window a slit at the bottom. She got out her rifle, checked it, and laid out some ammunition.

  Barney Shaw had seen the draw when he approached the house by the road, so when he left the house he hit it fast. It was deep enough by a head, and he started away. Fortunately, it led toward the dam. It was the old stream bed.

  From the shadow of a gigantic boulder, he J looked up at the dam. Largely brush, logs, and earth, it was a hasty job and homemade. He watched for twenty minutes before he saw the guard. Silva, a Mexican, had found a place for himself where he could command all the approaches to the dam.

  In the moonlight, a rock cedar made a heavy shadow. Barney Shaw moved, and then as Silva’s head moved, he froze. He was out in the open, but he knew the light was indistinct. For a long time he stood still, and then as Silva’s head moved again, Shaw glided forward to the shelter of the rock cedar.

  He was no more than a dozen feet from the guard now, and through a hole in the bushy top of the cedar he could see Silva’s long, lantern jaw, and even the darkness seemed to mark the thin mustache the man wore.

  When Silva stood up, Shaw could see that the man was tall, yet feline in his movements.

  Silva stretched and then turned and came toward the cedar, walking carelessly. He had put his rifle bar aside and walked with the aimlessness of a man I without care. Yet something in that very carelessness struck Shaw as the guard moved closer. :

  I Silva stepped past the tree and then whirled greater-than to were and dived straight at Shaw, his knife flashing in the moonlight! were Only that sense of warning saved Barney Shaw. He stepped back, just enough, and whipped a left hook for Silva’s chin. It landed, a glancing blow, and the Mexican dropped.

  But catlike he was on his feet and, teeth bared, he lunged again. Shaw stepped in, warding off the knife, and slashed with the edge of his hand for the Mexican’s neck. The blow was high and took the man across the temple and ear.

  Silva went to his knees and lost his hold on the knife. Barney stepped in, and as the Mexican came up, he hit him once, twice. The blows cracked like whips in the still air, and the guard dropped to his face.

  Dragging him roughly into the open, Shaw hastily bound him hand and foot. Then he walked over and picked up the guard’s rifle. It was a Winchester and a good one.

  Rustling around, he found an ax and a pick.

  Without so much as a glance toward the guard, he dropped down the face of the dam and, setting himself, sank the ax into one of the key posts. When he had cut through the posts and the timbers back of them, he was sweating profusely.

  He was aware, too, that the ax was making a ringing sound that would carry for at least a mile in that still air.

  Putting the ax down, he took the pick and began digging at the dirt and rock that were piled on the water side of the dam. In a few minutes there was a trickle of water coming through, then a fairsized stream.

  Carrying the rifle, he went back to the edge of the draw where the timbers had been fitted into notches cut into the rock with a double jack and drill. It took him more than an hour, but he cut two timbers loose.

  Dropping his tools he walked over to look at Silva. The Mexican was conscious, and his eyes blazed when Shaw looked at him, grinning.

  “Don’t worry”… Barney said grimly.

  “Yuh’re safe up here, and when the dam goes out they’ll be up here in a hurry.”

  He turned and started away, keeping to the shadows of the cedars. And before he had walked a hundred yards he heard a whoosh and then the rustle of rushing water.

  It was a small stream, and the water wasn’t much, but it would more than fill the pools down below where Tess Bayeux’s cattle came to drink.

  There was no warning, and he was still some distance from the girl’s cabin when he saw a rifle flash. Simultaneously something struck him a terrific blow alongside the head and he tumbled, face downward, into the gravel. He felt his body sliding head first, and then he lost consciousness.

  When Barney Shaw opened his eyes it was daylight.

  He tried to move his head, and pain shot through him like a burning iron. For an instant then he lay still, gathering the will to try again.

  The side of his head and face that was uppermost was caked with dried blood, and his hair was matted with it. That the morning was well along he knew, for his back was hot with sun, and from the feel, the sun was high.

  Shaw moved his head and, despite the pain, forced himself to his knees. His head swimming, he peered about.

  He lay on a rocky hillside. Below him, half hidden by a clump of cedar, and almost two miles away, was the house of Tess Bayeux.

  At his right he could hear water running, and that meant the stream he had released had not yet been stopped.

  His rifle and pistol were still with him. Gingerly he felt his head. It was badly swollen, and the scalp was furrowed by a bullet. He had bled profusely, and he decided that if his dry-gulchers had looked at him they had decided the bullet had entered his skull.

  What about Tess? Had they thrown her out?

  Or was she still holding the place? The silence was ominous, and obviously hours had passed.

  Whoever had shot him had no doubt left him for dead and had also freed Silva. How many enemies were there? He had no way of knowing, and Tess had told him nothing. Harrington, Silva, and Clyde were three, and of them all, George Clyde was the most dangerous because he was the most intelligent.

  From a position behind some boulders and cedar Shaw studied the small ranch house.

  There was no evidence of activity, nothing to indicate how the tide of battle had gone.

  Then a door banged at the house and he saw a man come out, walking toward the corral. He roped two horses, and in a few minutes two riders started off to town. One of them was Silva.

  It took Barney Shaw a half hour of painstaking effort to get to the wall of the house without being seen. He edged along to the corner and then stopped. Cautiously, he peered around.

  Not ten feet away a man was sitting on the edge of the porch, a rifle on his knees.

  He was a short man, but square jawed and tough. As Barney looked, the man put the rifle against the post, took out a pipe, and began to fill it. Shaw made a quick calculation of his chances and decided against it. With Harrington, perhaps.

  Not this jasper. This hombre was different.

  Suddenly Barney Shaw saw a slim piece of pipe, and it gave him an idea. Picking it up, he glanced to see if it was clear and then looked around for some pebbles. He selected a half dozen. In school, too many years ago, he had been an artist with a beanshooter.

  The man on the porch had a beak of a nose that jutted out above his heavy jaw like the prow on a ship. Taking careful aim, Shaw blew the first pebble. It missed.

  The man glanced in the direction of the sound where the pebble hit the ground and then turned back, pulling contentedly at his pipe. Then Barney fired a second pebble.

  It was a direct hit. The pebble, fired from the beanshooter with force, hit him right on the nose!

  With a cry of pain, the man leaped to his feet, one hand grasping his nose. His pipe had fallen to the ground.

  Instantly, Barney was around the corner. The man, holding his nose, his eyes watering, never saw him coming. It was only when Barney, picking up the rifle, knocked it against the porch, that the man whirled about. And Shaw slapped him alongside the head with the butt of the rifle, swinging it freehanded.

  The fellow went down, grabbing for his gun, but Shaw stepped in and kicked it from his hand.

  Then as the fellow started
to rise, Shaw slapped him across the temple with a pistol barrel. The man went down and out.

  Coolly Barney shouldered the fellow and, walking with him to the barn, tied him securely and dropped him into a feed bin. Then he went outside and roped a horse. When it was saddled he led it to the house, left it ground hitched, and took a quick look. There was no sign of Tess Bayeux. Hiding the extra rifle, he swung into the saddle and started at a canter for town.

  He was a tough-looking figure when he rode into town. His shock of black hair was still thick with dust, and his face was stained with blood.

  The two pistols were thrust into his waistband, and he carried a rifle in his hands.

  He was cantering up the street when he saw Silva. The Mexican had come to the door of the saloon, and when he saw Barney he swore and dropped a hand for a gun. Shaw swung the rifle and fired across the pommel of the saddle.

  The first shot knocked the gun from Silva’s hand, the second slammed him back into the wall. It was a shoulder shot. Silva stood there, staring stupidly.

  Swinging down, Barney tied the horse and walked along the boardwalk. A dozen people had rushed out at the sound of a shot, but he ignored them. He merely walked to Silva and stopped.

  For a long time he looked at him.

  “Next time I’ll kill yuh”… He said, and walked inside.

  Three men were in the bar besides the bartender.

  One of them was a powerfully built man with big hands and a flat nose. Behind the bar were some photos of him, posed like a boxer.

  “You a fighter?” Shaw demanded. “If yuh are, I can lick yuh!”

  The man looked at him, his eyes hard.

  “I fight for money”… He said.

  “So do I”… Shaw said. He looked at the bartender.

  “I’ll fight this hombre, winner take all, skintight kid gloves, to a finish!”

  The bartender’s face whitened and then turned red.

  “Yuh know who this is?” He demanded. “This is the Wyoming Slasher!”

  “All right. Line up the fight.”… Shaw hesitated.

  “One thing it must be one thousand dollars for the purse.”

  The bartender laughed.

  “Yuh’ll get that, easy. If yuh win. The boys like to see the Slasher fight!”

  Barney Shaw nodded and walked out.

  “Who was that?” Harrington demanded as he burst in from the back room. “Who was that man?”

  “Some gent with his face all bloody, dusty as sin, wantin’ to fight the Slasher for a thousand dollars!”

  “The Slasher? A thousand dollars?” Harrington’s eyes hardened. “Why, I’ll fix his clock!”

  “No you won’t.”… Clyde walked into the room.

  “Let it ride. The Slasher will kill him. That will settle everything!”

  Barney Shaw walked to the hotel, carrying his rifle in the hollow of his arm. He was going up the steps when he saw Tess. Her eyes widened.

  “I thought you were dead or gone”… She exclaimed.

  “No.”… He looked at her. “What happened?”

  “They surprised me, just before morning. The sheriff was with them, and he made me leave.

  They had some papers, and they said I had to leave. If I can pay in ten days I can go back.”

  “In ten days yuh’ll pay”… He promised and walked past her to the desk. “I want a room and a telegraph blank”… He told the clerk.

  The clerk shook his head.

  “We don’t have any rooms.”

  Barney Shaw reached over the desk and caught the clerk behind the neck and dragged him half over the desk.

  “Yuh heard me”… He said harshly. “I want a room and a telegraph blank! Yuh never sold this hotel out since it was built! Now get me that room!”

  “Yes, sir”… The clerk swallowed and turned the register. “I just remembered. There is a room left.”

  He put a blank on the desk, and Barney wrote hastily, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.”… Then he signed his name. He told the clerk to send the message to the depot and have the agent get it off at once.

  Tess came over and stood beside him.

  “What are you going to do?” She asked.

  “Fight the Slasher for a thousand dollars”… He said. “That will pay off for yuh.”

  “The Slasher?” Her face paled. “Oh, not him, Barney! He’s awful! He killed a man in a fight!

  And those men with him! That Dirk Hutchins, McCluskey, and the rest. They are awful!”

  “Are they?” Barney smiled at her. “I’m goin’ to wash up, then sleep.”… He turned and walked upstairs.

  A man got up from across the room and walked over to the desk.

  “What do yuh think, Martin?” He asked.

  Martin Tolliver, the clerk, looked up and his face was grim.

  “This one’s different, Joe. I’m goin’ to bet on his aim. “I think I will, too”… Joe said. “But we’ll be the only ones.”

  “Yes”… Martin agreed. “But he took hold of me. Joe, that hombre’s got a grip like iron!

  It was like bein’ taken in a vise! I was never so scared in my life!”

  By noon the day of the fight, punchers were in from the ranches and miners from the mines.

  The ring had been pitched in the center of the big corral. Martin Tolliver, the hotel clerk, and Joe Todd were betting. They were getting odds.

  A little after noon the train came in. By that time everyone was at the corral waiting for the fight to start, and only Silva saw the men get off the train. There were nine of them who got out of the two passenger coaches. Four were cattlemen, one was a huge, bearded man with blue anchors tatooed on his hands, and the other four were nondescripts in caps and jerseys.

  The Wyoming Slasher was first in the ring. He came down, vaulted the ropes, and stood looking around. His hair was cropped short and he wore a black John L. Sullivan mustache. His eyes were blue and hard, and his face looked like stained oak.

  Harrington and another man were in his corner. The sheriff had been selected as the referee.

  Barney Shaw came from the hotel, walking across the street wearing an old slicker. As he stepped through the ropes a stocky man in a checked suit and a black jersey stepped up behind him and put a professional hand on his shoulder.

  They got into the ring and walked to the center. The Slasher was half a head taller than Shaw and heavier. His wide cheekbones and beetling brows made him look fierce. The back of his head slid down into a thick neck.

  Shaw’s hair had been cut, and it was black and curly. He looked brown, and when he turned and walked to his corner, there was an unexpected lightness in his step.

  The Wyoming Slasher dropped his robe, and there was a gasp from the crowd who looked at the rolling muscles of his mighty shoulders and arms. He was built like a wrestler, but his weight was in his gigantic shoulders and deep chest.

  He strode to the scratch, skintight gloves pulled on. The sheriff motioned, the slicker slid from Barney’s shoulders, and he turned and came to scratch. His broad shoulders were powerful and tapered to narrow hips and slim, powerful legs. The Slasher put up his hands and Barney hit him, a quick left that tapped the blood at his thin lips. The Slasher lunged, and Barney slid away, rapping a quick right to the body.

  The Slasher strode in, and Barney tried a left to the head that missed, and the Slasher grabbed him by the waist and hurled him to the ground.

  Shaw lit in a pile of dust, and the sheriff sprang in. “Round”… He shouted.

  Shaw walked to his corner.

  “He’s strong”… He said. He waved away the water bottle.

  “Them new Queensbury rules would be better for you”… His second said out of the corner of his mouth. “London Prize Ring rules was never no good. Yuh hurt a man and if he goes down the round is over.”

  They started again at the call of time, and Barney walked out quickly. The Slasher rushed, and Barney lanced the fellow’s lips with anothe
r left and then stepped around and jabbed with the left again. There was a mix-up. Then Barney stepped away, and the Slasher hit him.

  It was a hard right, and it shook Shaw to his heels, but he stepped away. He was skillfully, carefully feeling the bigger man out. Instinctively he knew it would be a hard fight. The other man was like iron, big and very, very strong. It would take time to down him. Barney was trying each punch, trying to find out what the big man would do.

  All fighters develop habits. Certain ways of blocking lefts, ducking or countering. By trying each punch a few times Barney Shaw was learning the pattern of the Slasher’s fighting, getting a blueprint in his mind.

  When the second round had gone four minutes, he took a glancing left to the head and went down, ending the round.

  When the minutes were up, he went out with a rush. The Slasher put up his hands and without even stopping his rush, Barney dropped low and thrust out his left. It caught the Slasher in the midriff and set him back on his heels.

  Instantly Barney was upon him. Hitting fast, he struck the Slasher five times in the face with a volley of blows before the bigger man was brought up by the ropes. Then setting himself, he whipped a hard right to the Slasher’s ribs!

  The crowd was yelling wildly, and the Slasher came off the ropes and swung. Barney went under it and whipped a right to the heart. Then the Slasher’s left took him and he rolled over on the ground!

  He was badly shaken. In his corner, “Turkey tom”… Ryan, his second, grinned.

  “Watch it”… He said. “He can hit, the beggar!”

  They had wiped the blood from the Slasher’s face, and the big man looked hard. Near the Slasher’s corner Barney could see George Clyde.

  Barney Shaw went up to scratch and as the Wyoming Slasher rushed he stabbed a left to the mouth, parried a left himself, and hit hard to the body. Inside, he hammered away with both hands. He took a clubbing right to the head that cut his forehead and showered him with blood.

  But suddenly he knew that his time had come, and instead of backing away, he set himself and began slugging with everything he had.

  The Slasher was caught off balance. He tried to get set, but he was too heavy. He struck several ponderous blows, but Barney was knifing his face with those skintight gloves. Jabbing a left, he turned his fist as it struck and ripped the Slasher’s face. Then he stepped in and threw a wicked uppercut to the body. Then another and still another.