Shawn Starbuck Double Western 3

by Ray Hogan

  Shawn turned his attention to the small structure. From its thick walled interior he could hear the muffled sound of a deep voice rising and falling.

  “He’s got Dave Archer in there,” Rhoda said. “Been giving him holy hell for the last half hour over something.”

  Blackburn listened for a long minute, seemingly undecided as to whether he should interrupt or not. He ran his finger around the inside of his collar, cleared his throat.

  “There been trouble or something going on?”

  “No more than usual,” the girl answered. “Rustling, of course. Never stops. Hired help quitting or getting hurt, stock foundering in the quicksand along the San Fernando and getting lost in the brakes—things like that ... Every time we lose a steer you can hear him hollering all the way to Mexico. You’d think his life depended on one flea-bit cow.”

  Blackburn nodded woodenly and continued to stare in the direction of the hut. “Well, maybe I’d best take this fellow back to town,” he said hesitantly. “I’ll lock him up and your pa can ride in—”

  “No sense in that,” Rhoda said, shrugging. “Just go right on in. He’ll be through dressing down Dave in a few more minutes. Ron’s inside there, too, waiting for him.”

  “You figure it’d be all right?”

  “Of course it will. I’ll even go with you. I’ve a feeling I ought to be there.”

  Ira Blackburn made no reply. He gave it all a few moments additional thought and then jabbing Shawn with his pistol, jerked his head toward the hut.

  “Let’s go,” he said almost reluctantly. “And you’d best mind your manners.”

  Five

  They crossed the narrow distance that separated the rack from the hut. With each step the thunder of Price Hagerman’s voice increased in volume, and as Rhoda, slightly ahead of Shawn and the marshal, opened the door and entered, she gave the tall rider a half smile.

  “Welcome to the lion’s den,” she murmured.

  The hut had two rooms, the first now serving as a sort of waiting or lobby area while Hagerman conducted business in the one adjoining which was cut off by a connecting slab door.

  Shawn, eyes adjusting slowly to the abrupt change from brilliant sunlight to deep shade, halted in the center of the small cubicle. The barrel of Blackburn’s pistol was pressing into his back and he turned to the old lawman, frowning.

  “You don’t need that,” he said impatiently and stepped away, noting then the man lounging against the wall.

  He would be Hagerman’s son—Ron. A slender, dark man with eyes like Rhoda’s. He appeared to be a few years older. Shawn nodded slightly to him.

  Hagerman returned the greeting coolly. There was a reserved quality to him, a withdrawal that was almost a fear. He’d been a target all too often for his father’s wrath; such was easy to see.

  “I don’t give a good goddam who it was! You’re the foreman around here!”

  Price Hagerman’s words hammered through the intervening door and wall. Rhoda smiled wanly again, shook her head. Ron stirred, shifted his weight from left leg to right, ducked his head at Shawn.

  “Who’s he?”

  “A gunman, so the marshal thinks,” Rhoda replied, studying her brother intently as she spoke. “Figures he’s the one that was coming to kill Pa.”

  Ron Hagerman straightened. His mouth tightened into a tight line.

  “What makes you think that, Ira?”

  “Several things—stranger ... just blew into town. Gun he’s wearing shows a lot of use. Trigger spring’s been honed down.”

  “Not much to go on.”

  “Ain’t just that, he—”

  “Bottom dollar on them steers’d be eighteen dollars a head!” Price Hagerman’s outraged voice again filled the small room. “Eighteen goddam dollars, hear? That’s better’n two hundred for the twelve you lost!”

  “Ain’t just that,” Blackburn said again when the rancher’s tones had once more lapsed to a low grumble. “Tells me some fool tale about a brother he’s hunting that makes no sense.”

  Ron’s brows lifted questioningly at Starbuck. Shawn only shrugged, seeing no point in going into details again. As well wait and do his explaining where it would count—to Price Hagerman.

  Blackburn glanced nervously at the closed door. “Think your pa’ll be much longer? I could come back later.”

  “Expect he’s about through with Archer,” Ron answered, resuming his position against the wall. “Been roasting him now for—”

  “I ain’t taking the loss—I’ll tell you that right now, Dave! You’re paid good, hard money to look after my beef—something I expect you to do!”

  Archer’s voice finally lifted to a point where the sound of it could be heard, but his words were still unintelligible.

  “The hell! Proves nothing! Now here’s the way it’s going to be! I’m taking no loss, like I said. You’re working the next two months for nothing—paying off for them steers! Understand? Two months’ wages’ll just about cover what them steers was worth. You got it straight?”

  Archer made some sort of reply.

  “All right then—get yourself back on the job, and, by God, I’d better not lose no more stock or else—” The inner door jerked open. Dave Archer, a man of middle age with a sun and wind burned, craggy face, stepped into the room. Eyes burning, ignoring all those waiting, he crossed to the screen, elbowed it aside and stalked rigidly to his waiting horse.

  “All right, what do you want?”

  At Hagerman’s roughly put question, Shawn turned to the rancher. Blackburn, who had been watching Dave Archer’s ignominious departure also, came about hastily.

  “Like to see you a minute, Price—was you not too busy,” he stammered.

  Hagerman’s bristling bulk filled the doorway. He wore a full mustache peppered black and gray as was the thick shock that crowned his head. His face appeared as a series of horizontal lines—square cut chin, slash mouth, hedgerow brows and straight across hairline. His eyes were small, piercing, seemed colorless in their deep sockets. His offspring took more from their mother in both appearance and mannerisms, it would seem.

  “What’re you hanging around for?” he demanded, ignoring Blackburn and fixing his gaze on Ron. “You know the rule—nobody’s to be on the place while there’s work to be done.”

  “Which is all the time,” Rhoda observed lightly.

  The rancher swung his glance to her. “We can do without your lip, missy,” he snapped, and again turned to his son. “I asked you a question. Seems I recollect telling you to ride down to the Cow Creek pond, get that branding finished up. You fall down on that, too?”

  “No, Pa,” Ron said wearily. “It was all done when I got there. I came back to see what else you wanted me to do.”

  “Goddammit!” Hagerman exploded. “I got two hundred thousand acres with forty thousand cows running on it and you can’t find yourself something to do! You sure you don’t want me blowing your nose for you?”

  Ron stirred in a helpless sort of way and looked down. “Well, I thought maybe—”

  “Hell, don’t bother thinking! Only get you in a mess, same as it always has. If you can’t find nothing better to do, get on down to the stable, fork manure. Ought to be a job you can handle with no trouble.”

  Ron Hagerman’s face crimsoned. He shook his head, drew away from the wall.

  “Now, what’re you doing here, Blackburn, and who’s this jasper with you?”

  The lawman came up with a start. “Stranger I seen riding in and figured—”

  “You want something?” Hagerman broke in, attention now centering on his daughter as he once again ignored the marshal.

  Rhoda smiled, arched her brows. “Just listening. Just go right ahead—don’t worry about me.

  “I never do,” the rancher snapped. “Not that it would do me any good.”

  “That’s right, Pa,” the girl said with exaggerated sweetness.

  “All right, Blackburn—talk up! What do you want? I’ve got work to d
o—have to depend on myself for everything around the damned place. Can’t bank on nobody, not even my own foreman. Let me lose twelve prime steers out of pure carelessness—and me paying him higher wages than he could get from any other outfit in the country! Spit it out, Ira—what’re you after?”

  “He’s been trying to tell you, Pa,” Rhoda said, “but you won’t give him a chance. He thinks he’s caught the would-be killer.”

  Price Hagerman drew himself up to his full height. His eyes narrowed. “That right?”

  “Pretty sure of it,” Blackburn said. “Stranger that just rode in. Telling a crazy yarn about hunting a brother.”

  The rancher moved into the room, pulled up close to Starbuck, stared hard at him. His broad face was stolid.

  “So you’re the sonofabitch that’s come to put a bullet in me—”

  Shawn’s knotted fist smashed into Hagerman’s jaw, drove him back a step. A small cry burst from Rhoda’s lips as Hagerman’s hand swept down for the pistol on his hip, paused as Blackburn jammed his own weapon into Starbuck’s spine.

  Shawn, glowing with anger, faced the rancher. “Nobody calls me that—not you or anybody else,” he said coldly.

  Hagerman, fingers probing tenderly the area along his chin, considered Starbuck thoughtfully. A ghost of a smile tugged at Ron’s lips and a light had come alive in Rhoda’s dark eyes.

  Blackburn locked his fingers around Shawn’s wrist with his free hand, pressed harder with the pistol clenched in the other.

  “You want me to take him in, lock him up, Price?” he asked worriedly. He was blaming himself for his carelessness—and dreading the consequence.

  Hagerman wagged his head slowly. “Forget it. I’ll take care of him.”

  The lawman frowned. “Ain’t it something for the law to—”

  “Said I’d handle it!” the rancher barked. “That his gun you’ve got stuck in your pants?” he added, pointing.

  Blackburn pulled Shawn’s weapon from his waistband, passed it to Hagerman. “Well, if that’s how you’re wanting it, Price.”

  “It’s how I want it. Now, get on your way. Maybe you can scare yourself up a couple of drunks on the way back to town.”

  Ira Blackburn made no reply, simply wheeled about and moved toward the door. The rancher glanced to Ron.

  “What the hell you still doing here? Told you to start working.”

  The younger Hagerman immediately swung in behind the lawman, trailed him out into the yard.

  “Believe I’ll stay,” Rhoda announced brightly as her parent’s attention swung to her.

  “You will like hell! Get out of here, find something to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “How the devil would I know? What are girls who’re letting themselves turn into old maids supposed to do? Knit ... cook ... make things—”

  “Such as babies?”

  Hagerman’s eyes flashed. “Dammit—don’t give me any of your cute lip! I won’t stand for it. I raised you decent, and, by God, you’re going to stay decent or—”

  “Or?”

  “Get out of here!” the rancher roared in exasperation, and took a long stride toward her.

  Rhoda smiled, backed for the doorway. Reaching it she paused, gaze on Shawn. “I hope I’ll be seeing you later, Mr. Starbuck. I’d like to get better acquainted.”

  Shawn nodded, amused by the girl’s independence. “Like as not I’ll be around.”

  “Fine,” she murmured and stepped out into the sunlight.

  Price Hagerman stared after her. He shrugged helplessly. “Hussy—acts like a regular hussy. Don’t know how she comes by it.” His words broke off suddenly as if abruptly aware he had been speaking aloud. The hardness came again into his features as he settled his eyes on Starbuck.

  “All right,” he said, pointing into the other room. “Get in there and set down. Want to know who you are and what brought you here if it ain’t to put a bullet in me.”

  Six

  “You’ve been told,” Shawn said indifferently, moving into the rancher’s office.

  The room was plainly furnished—a table that served as a desk now littered with papers; a chair behind it, two more placed to face it, a lamp. The walls were bare except for a smudged calendar that bore a lithographed reproduction of Abraham Lincoln.

  Hagerman eased himself into his seat. Laying Shawn’s pistol on top of the clutter before him, he motioned the tall rider to one of the chairs.

  “Might as well set. Makes talking some easier,” he said in a conciliatory tone.

  Starbuck’s shoulders twisted indifferently. He drew one of the chairs near, dropped into it, feeling the rancher’s small eyes drilling into him.

  “This brother you’re hunting, what makes you think you’ll find him here?”

  Shawn’s mouth parted into a small smile. “That mean you don’t figure I’m the killer?”

  “Not made up mind yet. Answer my question.”

  “I was told a man answering the description I gave of him worked for you.”

  “That so? What’s he look like and what does he call himself?”

  Starbuck went through the details he customarily outlined. When he had concluded Price Hagerman stared at him from hooded eyes.

  “Mighty thin, all right,” he said finally. “I can see why the marshal got all worked up. But I reckon I can believe it.”

  “Suit yourself,” Shawn said, settling back.

  The rancher grunted. “You’re a mite proddy, seems to me.”

  “It’s the people I come up against ... You think you maybe’ve got somebody answering the description riding for you?”

  “Hell, I don’t know! I got fifty men working on this ranch and don’t know a third of them—less’n that by name.”

  Starbuck rose, stepped to the lone window in the adjacent wall and peered out. “Must make it hard to tell the rustlers from the hired hands,” he said dryly, eyes on two horsemen loping in from the direction of the mountain.

  Hagerman laughed. “By God, that’s a good one,” he said, “and I reckon it’s the truth. You know, I’m taking a shine to you. It real important you find this brother of yours?”

  “Plenty,” Shawn said, coming back around. “My pa died about a year after Ben ran off. Left everything to us, but before I can get my share I’ve got to find him, take him back to Muskingum or else have proof that he’s dead. Otherwise I lose it all.”

  The rancher shifted, sighed deeply. “I see ... Doing some judging, I’d say you was a cut above the usual. Got some education under your hat. Your pa responsible for that?”

  “My mother. She was a fine woman. Been a school teacher before she married, saw to it Ben and I got a little more than our share of learning. Pa was a farmer. About all we got from him was how to box—fight with our fists.”

  “And be an honest to God man,” Hagerman added, a faint thread of wistfulness in his voice. “You win that belt buckle you’re wearing fighting?”

  “No, it was Pa’s. He used to put on exhibition matches when I was a kid. Neighbors all got together, presented it to him.”

  “He a champion?”

  “Could have been, I guess, had he wanted, but he was more taken by farming—and to my mother. She meant everything to him. He was never the same after she died.”

  Hagerman’s eyes were on his big ham like hands lying clenched before him on the table. The knuckles shone whitely.

  “I understand that. A woman can be everything to a man—the sum total of what he is, what he aims to be ... My wife—Eunice—she passed away, too. Left me mighty high and dry.”

  Hagerman fell silent. Somewhere along the sheds in the yard chickens were clucking and far out on the range a gunshot flatted hollowly. The rancher stirred, glanced up.

  “What I was getting at—I got a job here for you if you’re willing.”

  “Riding shotgun over you?”

  “More or less—but not for the reason you’re maybe thinking. Hell, I ain’t afraid of dying. Come close t
o it a couple of times already—and once you’ve been there, been near to dying, I mean, the next time don’t scare you much. It’s that I can’t afford to let it happen.”

  “Afford?”

  “Not money-wise. It’s that there ain’t nobody to take over Hash Knife was somebody to cut me down.”

  “You’ve got a son—and a daughter.”

  “Son!” Price Hagerman snorted. “Hell, you mean I’ve got a useless, unreliable, no-good boy—that’s what I’ve got. And the girl—hell, females are for one thing only—marrying. She’ll be marrying off one of these days, anyway, and moving on, so you have to count her out.... Aim to take care of her, sure—big dowry and all that, but it ain’t having a son to take over the place, keep it going right.”

  “Ron looked all right to me,” Starbuck said. “Maybe you don’t give him a chance.”

  “I’ve given him plenty of chances. Messed up on every one. Flat-assed failed me. Hell, I don’t dare turn nothing that’s important over to him. Wouldn’t be no need to hire on a foreman every now and then if he had anything good in him.”

  Starbuck said nothing, turned again to the window. The two riders had disappeared and now a small jag of cattle being herded by a solitary cowhand was moving toward the ranch from the hills.

  “Which brings me to what I’ve got in mind,” the rancher said. “Ain’t never come right out and admitted it to anybody, but I am a bit jumpy about getting myself shot. Expect you can see why now.”

  “Then you figure there’s something to the talk about a gunnie coming after you?”

  “I reckon. I got a few enemies—more’n most, I guess. Man can’t help making them when he sets out to build up something big as Hash Knife. And like I told you I plain can’t afford to die right now. Have to stay in the saddle until Ron grows up and I’m able to trust him, or—” Hagerman paused, cocked his head to one side, peered at Shawn and added: “—or my girl finds herself a man who’d be strong enough and willing to take over.”

  The rancher let his words hang for a long breath while he continued to study Starbuck. Finally he straightened, and brought his hands together.