Guns Of the Timberlands (1955)

by L'amour, Louis

  Hank looked dourly down the valley. “Bill Coffin said he seen Stag Harvey and Jack Kilburn in town. You want to hire them boys?”

  “Too much blood behind ‘em, Hank. I don’t want shooting if it can be avoided.”

  Hank prodded at a rock with his toe. He was a lean, tall man, looking older than his years. He had come west with a herd from Ogallala, and before that had punched cows in Wyoming, Arizona, Nevada, and Utah. He was a veteran of three sheep and cattle wars, and although by no means a gunman, he was a tough old puncher who knew how to fight.

  “I say if they want fight, give it to ‘em.” He looked up. “What’s next, then?”

  “Fell some logs and build a barricade across The Notch. That’s their best route to the plateau.”

  Hank Rooney spat. “Reckon he knows about The Notch? Makes a man figure some. How come he knowed about this place, anyway? Nobody’s been around, no strangers, anyway.”

  “Somebody told him about this timber,” Bell said. “It had to be a local man. But even the local men don’t know I filed on this land. At least, I don’t think they know. I rode all the way to the capital to file, and I doubt if there are four cattlemen in the state who have actually filed on or bought land. They merely squatted and started to run cows, claiming the land by living on it.”

  Bell stripped the saddle from his mount. “I’d like to know who tipped him off. Have we got enemies, Hank?”

  “Schwabe don’t cotton to us much. And it’s a cinch Devitt didn’t fall into this by accident. It looks like he came all primed to strip the logs off this range. Wonder if he’s made a deal with the government?”

  Clay Bell walked to the veranda and sat down. He built a smoke while mentally reviewing the approaches to Deep Creek. The only two routes belonged to him. For a time he could deny access to the inner valley. But if Devitt acquired a right from the government he could not legally refuse right of way across his ranch.

  He must think of everything first, to be ready, then sit tight and let Devitt make the first move. When he started there would be time enough to stop him. If he wanted to play rough—well, there was no man among the dozen employed by B-Bar who had not played rough before. His crew was small, but they were fighting men.

  His ranch buildings lay athwart the entrance to Deep Creek by way of Emigrant Gap. The long abandoned road had passed through the Gap and across to leave by The Notch. Devitt might know of the road, for the existence of the timber had been made known to him somehow. This was not timber country; therefore Devitt had to have a local informant.

  Sitting on the veranda, Bell examined the situation. The house was built of native rock and had walls three feet thick. There were five rooms—living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and an office. The house was surrounded on all sides by the veranda, low-roofed and cool, and shaded by several huge old trees. When Bell ate at home, which was not often, he preferred to sit on the veranda where he could look down the valley. Nobody could approach from the valley side without being long under observation from the house. The house stood at one corner of a rectangle of ranch buildings and corrals. East and north of the house lifted sheer walls of rock. No more than thirty yards from the house was the stone chuckhouse known as the “wagon.” Beyond it, separated by about thirty feet, was the long, low, stone bunkhouse, and at the far end of the rectangle was another stone building divided into separate rooms. These were respectively the saddle and harness room, the tool house, the storeroom, and the blacksmith shop. The other side of the rectangle was a long stone barn with a loft filled with hay, and three corrals, two on one side of the barn, one on the other.

  The stone buildings of the ranch effectually blocked all access to Deep Creek through Emigrant Gap unless two gates were opened by ranch personnel. One of these gates was between two of the stone ranch buildings.

  Deep Creek plateau and the valley lay seven hundred feet higher than the ranch itself. That seven-hundred-foot rise was covered in two miles of trail, the last half-mile through a canyon that was a veritable bottleneck.

  Bell paced the veranda restlessly. Despite the suggestion that Morton Schwabe might have been Devitt’s informant, he did not believe it. Schwabe was essentially a small-calibered man. Owning a small ranch, Schwabe would willingly do almost anything to injure Bell, but he would scarcely think of a thing like this.

  Uneasily, he accepted the realization that behind this move lay another force, someone who had brought Jud Devitt into the country for his own reasons. Someone who had his own plans against Bell.

  Hank Rooney was already at the table in the chuckwagon when Clay walked in. “Boss,” he said, “we might send Rush and Montana over to The Notch right away.”

  “Good idea. Rifles and plenty of grub, but no shooting if it can be avoided—but no trespassing, either.”

  “And if they show up?” Rush Jackson was a bow-legged puncher from the Big Bend country of Texas.

  “Send up a smoke. A straight smoke that they’re coming, and a single puff for every five men or less. We’ll have a man on Piety Mountain to relay the signal.”

  During the excited talk that followed, Clay Bell ate in silence. There had been no trouble for him in Tinkersville, and he had hoped there would be none. He turned the matter over in his mind, trying to decide what the best solution would be. But his mind refused to cope with the problem. Instead, he kept thinking of Colleen Riley.

  When supper was finished he walked out on the porch and looked down the long valley. A faint rose still showed along the serrated ridges of the mountains beyond, but soft shadows gathered in the valley, and in the stillness of early evening sounds were magnified.

  Somewhere out there a quail called, and there was a rush of wings in the darkness; a lone star had appeared, bright as a close-up lantern or a signal fire. The star hung in the Prussian blue of the sky above the mountain ridge, the last remaining light.

  This was no country for fighting. It was a country for peace, for homes—but he rightly guessed there would be little peace for him in the time just ahead, and few evenings again when he could look with content upon the empty stillness of the valley.

  Was she really in love with Jud Devitt? Certainly, he must seem an attractive man, and he was one with a reputation for success. He was no simple cattleman, but a man from her own world, a man who got things done.

  Clay rubbed his cigarette out on the stone sill and was turning away when Bill Coffin stopped and called out, “Boss, did you see that blonde?”

  “No—the one I saw was a redhead.”

  Chapter 4

  In the bank at Tinkersville, Noble Wheeler hitched his heavy, corpulent body around in the swivel chair to face his visitor. That Jud Devitt was upset was obvious.

  Devitt dropped into the chair across the desk from Wheeler and put his white hat on the desk. His black hair was parted to perfection and plastered down to his skull. He had a square face and a head like a block of granite. This morning his eyes were hard and impatient. Jud Devitt liked a good fight but there were aspects to this one that did not appeal to him.

  Victory had become the usual thing for Devitt, and he had grown to be impatient of those who challenged his decisions or delayed his success. The present move depended much on speed of accomplishment, and he was in no mood to be thwarted. Especially, with Colleen Riley in the gallery.

  Clay Bell had not been frightened. He had not only had the nerve to challenge Devitt openly, but had publicly whipped one of his toughest lumberjacks. That Colleen was obviously interested in the man was an added irritation.

  “About this man Bell,” Devitt began abruptly. “You hold his paper, and he’s going to be an obstacle to our realizing on that timber. He refused to move his cattle, and if you can’t influence him to move them, we’ll have to do it for him.”

  Wheeler shifted his heavy body and spat into the cuspidor. Thoughtfully, he chewed at the corners of his yellowed mustache. “No,” he said finally, “I can’t butt in. I tipped you off to this timber, but there�
��s no way I can come into the open.

  “Pullin’ his cows off that range will break Bell, an’ everybody knows it. You’re here only until you log off the timber; I’m here for good. Anything I do will have to be done under cover.”

  “Suppose he wants a renewal on his loan?”

  “That I can refuse. I can tell him that with you in the picture he has become a bad risk.”

  Devitt nodded. “That will do nicely. He’s going to need money for this fight.”

  He started to rise, but Wheeler lifted a staying hand. “You know anything about this here Bell?”

  “What should I know?” Devitt was impatient. “He’s in my way, that’s all I need to know.”

  “You sit down, Jud. Sit down an’ listen to me. I got a stake in this, too.” Wheeler put his fat hands on his chair arms and leaned forward. “You’re a smart man, Devitt. You get things done, and I like that. You ain’t particular about ways and means, and I like that, too. But don’t make any mistakes about this man Bell. He’s a fighter.”

  “Fighter, is he?” Devitt laughed without warmth. “I’ll give him plenty of fight!”

  “You listen to me! Bell was fightin’ Comanches when he was fourteen. Then he was in New Orleans a while, doin’ I don’t know what. After that he was a Texas Ranger two years, and then in the cavalry durin’ the War Between the States.

  “Got to be a major. After the war he rode with trail herds, hunted buffalo, and prospected the goldfields up to Bannock an’ Alder Gulch. This man knows how to fight and when to fight.”

  Jud Devitt was all attention now, watching Wheeler closely and raking in every word. He was conscious of irritation again. Why hadn’t he been told all this before? The man might be dangerous … the fact that he had been a major showed something—either ability to command, or friends in the right places. In either case, Bell could be dangerous.

  “Those who know this man Bell says he’s a gunfighter. He’s never throwed a gun on anybody hereabouts, but that’s no proof. An’ don’t think he’s alone! That Hank Rooney is an old curly wolf off the dry range. Rush Jackson was a Ranger in the same outfit with Bell, and Montana Brown was a sergeant in Bell’s command durin’ the war.”

  “We’ll have the law,” Devitt assured him, “and I’ve the men and the money. This contract for ties to the Mexican Central is juicy enough, and the saving in transportation will more than pay the cost of rooting Bell out of there.”

  Jud Devitt walked out into the sunlight. He bit off the end of a cigar and lighted it, squinting against the sun. He felt good; the prospect of a fight always gave him a lift. Bell would be more dangerous than he had believed, and he would have friends, too.

  That was the worst of it with western men. A man never knew what he might be facing. Nor what a man’s background might be. The unshaved man seated next to you on a restaurant bench might have pulled stroke with the Oxford crew. Many adventurous young foreigners had come to the West looking for adventure and excitement, and many of them were fighters who asked no favors from any man.

  Devitt’s eyes shifted toward the trail that led to the mountains. It would stand up under the weight, all right. Tomorrow he would get his donkey engine and sawmill loaded on the wagons and then he would move right in. The route lay up the old trail through Emigrant Gap, and their move would call Bell’s bluff.

  He chewed his cigar thoughtfully, watching the street. If this job went as he hoped, this would be the last of his ventures in this country. He was growing now, he was moving out. There was no need for him to restrict himself. In a country like this, a man who used his head could find many opportunities, but he wanted to go east, move in the circles of big financiers. He had ability, and once there he could become as big as any of them.

  Bell? He was another cattleman. Tough, perhaps. Jud Devitt chuckled. Tough? He would show him a few tricks. He would teach him how to be tough. And there was no reason for guns—the man had already talked fight with his fists, and when the time came…

  He scowled, remembering Noble Wheeler. The banker had evidently gone to some length to find out what he knew about Bell. His fund of information was wide and complete. Why? It was a point to be considered.

  Jud Devitt knew himself and had no secrets from himself. He was a man unhindered by scruples, a fighter to whom winning was all that could be considered. Ends and means counted for nothing as long as there was no delay and the cost was kept down.

  He had planned his moves with care, studying the maps provided by Wheeler, and other maps, less detailed, of the area. He had underestimated Bell, but it would not pay to take too lightly the old man back there in the bank. Noble Wheeler must have something more in his mind than the profits from the tie contract which he would share. Devitt had allowed him only a small percentage of that profit, and Wheeler had accepted too meekly.

  How Wheeler had learned of the Mexican Central tie contract, Devitt did not know. Wheeler had come to Santa Fe and made contact with Devitt, explaining that there was plenty of timber, several hundred miles closer than Devitt had believed.

  The banker showed his skillfully drawn maps, indicated sources of water, and the old route through Emigrant Gap. Devitt sent Tripp and Williams to cruise the timber without making their presence known. Slipping through The Notch when snow was still on the ground and no cattle had been driven to the high country, they made their survey and got out unseen. Their report was more than satisfactory. The proximity of the timber to the border would almost double the profit to be made on the deal.

  Devitt moved swiftly. Immediately he got in touch with Frank Chase, in Washington. Chase set about getting a timber grant for Devitt, but Jud had no plans to await due process of law or the long process of cutting Washington red tape. He had proceeded to move into the area with his equipment, and now he was going to log off Deep Creek; and if his grant did not go through—well, who was to do what? Rolling his cigar in his lips, he considered the situation anew. What had he forgotten? Chase would handle the Washington end. The R&R would refuse cars for Bell’s cattle shipment, and Wheeler would hold back on future loans. It took money to fight a war, and through Wheeler he knew Bell’s financial position down to the last dollar.

  Clay Bell, riding his palouse toward Piety Mountain, had come to the same conclusion at which Devitt had arrived. He was going to need money.

  He studied the forest with a more attentive eye. It was a stand of mingled fir and ponderosa pine, and Bell could appreciate Devitt’s problem. Yet these mountains, once stripped, would be ruined forever as range. The thin topsoil would wash away, the hills would become bare, and this island of forest would be gone.

  Turning the palouse, he drifted down through the trees and into a succession of grassy meadows. Already the cattle from the flats had begun to scatter out, walking and feeding in the rich grass of the well-watered uplands.

  Wind stirred the tall grass, and in the distance, above the rough shoulder of Piety Mountain, an eagle soared. It was very still. His horse dipped his head and caught up a mouthful of grass. On the far slope the trim columns of the fir made a row of bars against any higher advance, a wall of splendid trees, uniform in size as if cast from a mold.

  It troubled him that he knew so little of that part of the Deep Creek range which lay beyond the creek and west of The Notch. In the business of running cattle and building a ranch there had been little time for exploration. So far as he knew, it was rough and heavily forested country into which there was neither opening nor outlet except from across the creek on his own range.

  Bell drew up on a little knoll, almost bare of trees. From his vantage point he could look over the tree tops and see much of what lay within the circle of mountains.

  On his left and just ahead loomed the great mass of Piety Mountain, and highest point in many miles. Far away to the west lay the serrated ridge that formed the far wall of the basin, whose only opening was The Notch. For a long time he studied that range, and studied the tree tops of the area across the creek as
if to read what lay beneath them.

  A little snow lingered in the cracks and hollows of the mountain, and the wind that came down from the ranges was cool. It was a good country, a man’s country. At the thought of it lying waste and barren, stripped of those magnificent trees, he felt a sharp pang. This was virgin timber, untouched by man, but scarred in places by fires created by lightning.

  Since he had taken over the range he had established a fire watch on Piety, and a dozen times in the past few years all hands had come out to fight fire. Usually they had managed to put out blazes with a quick rush of riders and some hot, fast work. But once they had fought fire for days, and he had hired extra men from the town to help put out the blaze.

  He rode on now, taking the long trail that led up the mountain, sometimes under the trees, occasionally out on the open side of the mountain. Once he saw a mountain lion, and a dozen times he came upon deer trails. Bill Coffin was on duty atop Piety when he rode up to the shelter on the peak.

  “Rider comin’,” Coffin said. “Looks like a woman.”

  He was a lean, well set-up young man with blond hair and a thoughtful face. A quiet man, but tough and capable.

  Coffin offered his glasses and Clay studied the rider with interest. The morning air was clear and the sun bright, but along the trail from town there were occasional clumps of smoke trees and desert willow that obscured the rider for minutes at a time. Finally, as she emerged from behind a sandhill, he made her out. It was Colleen Riley.

  There was a steep trail, useful only to a skilled rider on a good mountain horse, that led off Piety on the town side. He handed the glasses back to Coffin. “I’m going down there.”

  He started his horse, then turned in the saddle. “Devitt will probably start moving today.”

  The sun was warm and he tipped his hat lower over his face. He went swiftly down the dangerous switchback trail, sliding the last few feet, then breaking into a canter through the cat-claw and mesquite. He came out on the trail just as Colleen appeared, not twenty yards away.