The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five

by Louis L'Amour

  Audrey kept her face averted as he was led from the room. He saw Bernie Quill mounting his horse, and then they took him away to jail. They started to turn away then.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. Spilman and Esslinger turned.

  “Marshal, I wish you’d get in touch with Ransom, in El Paso,” he said. “Ask him about Tex Kilgore, and about me.”

  “The Ranger captain?” Spilman studied him coldly. “Why?”

  “Both of us were Rangers. There’s something more here than meets the eye, Spilman. Why didn’t Wakeman come right to Black Rock, instead of getting off the stage at Sulphur Springs? Ask yourself that. Then tell me who tipped you off that I had the clothes?”

  “Mogelo. He went to your cabin, glanced in the window and saw you hidin’ them. Then we hunted for the body today while you were gone.” Esslinger studied him. “Why do you think Wakeman got off at the Springs?” Then he added, “And how do you know he did?”

  “I think it was because he didn’t want his own ranch foreman to know he was comin’. I think he wanted a little private look around. I know he got off there because he hired a rig in the Springs. He was dry-gulched at Massacre Rocks, the rig burned, the horses taken away.”

  Esslinger looked at Spilman. “Well, he’s tellin’ us how it was done.”

  Fargo kept his eyes on Spilman. “Something else you might think over. The hombre at the livery stable told me the kid had a Paterson thirty-four caliber. It wasn’t on his body. Maybe the killer threw it away. And then again, maybe he kept it.”

  Carefully, he explained the finding of the body, the final shot. “Figure it for yourselves,” he said. “Why, if I had the clothes, would I tear out the labels? Wouldn’t I have burned them? Anyway you look at it, just tearing the labels out doesn’t make sense. The man who killed Billy Wakeman expected the body to be found when the snow went off—without any identification.”

  Con slid a hand in his shirt pocket and brought out the notes he had taken from the dead man.

  “See? I took these because I figured to find out who was killed, and why.”

  Spilman cleared his throat. “You make it sound good,” he said, and turned on his heel. Esslinger followed him out.

  Fargo gripped the bars, staring after them. His words seemed to have had no effect. Knowing the summary way of most western courts, and how all newcomers were disliked here, he realized he had small chance. Most of all, he was hurt by Audrey Wakeman’s willingness to believe him guilty. Art Brenner had done his work well.

  HE HAD AN IDEA what was behind it all, but without proof his idea amounted to nothing.

  No matter how much he believed Brenner to be the motivating force behind the trouble and the killings, without proof it meant nothing. The fact that Mogelo had been an outlaw and killer also meant nothing, for many men in the West had outlived tough reputations to become respected citizens.

  Much would depend on what Quill and Morales could find. And such a search might require months, for the hills east and west of his own place were probably unknown to anyone.

  For two days he paced the floor, growing more and more anxious. Spilman came in occasionally, bringing his food. He saw no one else. Then José came in, followed by Spilman. The marshal watched them a moment and then went back inside the office.

  “This Esslinger? He go up the hills. I see him. Two day he no come back. Bernie Quill he go, he no come back.”

  Fargo scowled. Now what? If Esslinger had gone into the mountains, it could mean the Pinkerton man had believed him. But still, why to the hills? He had not even suggested his own theory to the man. He shook his head.

  “José,” he said, “get me two blocks of wood about six inches long, two inches thick. Bring them back here. Then go back to the ranch and keep a sharp eye out.”

  “Two blocks of wood?” José shrugged, his eyes puzzled. “It makes no sense.” He turned and went out.

  Con Fargo yelled for the marshal, and when the lean old man came up to the bars, he grinned at him.

  “Listen,” he said, “I’m goin’ nuts. How about something to do? How about a file, or a saw.”

  “Nothin’ doin’!” Spilman said. He spat. “You’re not gettin’ out of this calaboose, son, I promise you!”

  “Well, I can whittle, can’t I? At least let me have a couple of sticks and a knife.”

  Spilman shrugged. “All right, all right! I’ll tell that Mex cowhand of yourn.”

  A few minutes later, the door opened and José, with Spilman at his elbow, brought in the blocks of wood.

  “This marshal say bring sticks,” José said, smiling.

  Twice, later in the evening, Spilman walked to the bars. Con was busy, carving a wooden horse. He grinned at Spilman.

  “Marshal,” he said, “when I get this horse finished I’m goin’ to ride him right out of here!”

  Spilman grinned, his frosty eyes softening a little.

  “If you can ride out of here on a wooden horse, you can go!” he said cheerfully. “Not a bad horse, at that!” he added, grudgingly.

  When the marshal had gone, Fargo slipped the other block of wood from under the blanket and went to work. Three hours later, an hour after Spilman went out, closing the office door after him, Con was ready.

  “Now, let’s pray that lock is well oiled!” he said.

  In his hand he held a six-inch wooden key, neatly carved from the second block of wood.

  “Lucky you noticed that key when he opened the door for chow,” he said to himself. “Now if this’ll only work!”

  Carefully he inserted the key in the massive lock. Slowly he turned it. As naturally as though it was the original key, the lock turned and the door opened. Softly, he closed it after him.

  Grinning, Fargo picked up the wooden horse and stepped out into the office. His guns hung from a nail on the wall. Belting them on, he shouldered into the buffalo coat, feeling the other gun as he did so. Pocketing the wooden key, he placed the wooden horse in the middle of the marshal’s desk. Then picking up his rifle, he slid out through a crack of the door.

  It was snowing again. He crept around the wall of the jail and started for the trees. Yet he had scarcely reached them when he heard a low voice.

  “Here, señor!”

  “José!” he said. “You here?”

  “With two horses, señor boss. José he think, mebbe so this boss have one idea, no? Perhaps she work.”

  Mounting, they turned up through the timber, skirted around and headed for the hills. As they rode, Morales talked. Bernie Quill was still missing on his search into the hills. Nor had Esslinger returned. Did he know the way taken by Quill?

  “Sí, señor. Each day we mark on map how we go, how much we search. Bit by bit we cross off the map. Now is left only a little bit.”

  THE SNOW WAS FALLING fast, but winds had blown earlier snow from the trail, or what remained had become hard-packed. They made fast time. Con Fargo was laboring under no delusion. Spilman would be after them. When he returned to the jail, he would look in on his prisoner before turning in, and when he found him gone he would not wait for daybreak. Yet, if Fargo could get into the hills, there was a chance he could trail Bernie Quill. He could not believe the young puncher was dead.

  It would be deathly cold in the mountains, no weather for any man to be out at night. Esslinger, too, was gone.

  They rounded the last turn of the trail, and Morales grasped his arm.

  “Señor, a light!”

  The cabin windows were aglow. Bernie, perhaps? He slid from the saddle at the door.

  “José, saddle two fresh horses—the buckskin and the grulla!” He swung the door open and stepped inside.

  Audrey Wakeman stood, her face white, in the center of the floor.

  “You?…Here?” He walked toward her, shedding the buffalo coat and dropping it on the bed.

  “Yes.” She stepped toward him. “How can you ever forgive me? I thought you’d killed my brother, and then I found this.” She held out the Paters
on .34, her brother’s gun.

  “Where’d you find it?” he demanded.

  The voice that cut across his words was sharp and even.

  “Hold right still, Fargo! And don’t get any ideas. If you haven’t guessed, I’m Bent Ryler!”

  “Sure,” Con said, “I guessed, Brenner! You were too durned scary about Rangers. Then I got a tip you’d come from the north. That made me guess who you was. Bent Ryler was wanted for murder in Butte.”

  Ryler sneered. “Doesn’t do you much good, does it? The great Con Fargo, under my guns!” He smiled quizzically. “Might have been quite a show at that, Fargo. Ryler and Fargo! They say we’re two of the fastest men in the West.”

  “Do they?” Con shrugged. “Ryler, you’re a tinhorn and you know it. You never saw the day you could draw with me. You got the drop, so you can talk, but with an even break…man, you wouldn’t have a chance.”

  “No?” Bent Ryler’s face hardened. “Well, if it’s an even break you’re fishing for, you won’t get it. Nobody knows I’m Bent Ryler but you and the girl here. They still call me Brenner. In a few minutes I’m going to drop you, and then when I’m through with her, she won’t want to talk.”

  The door opened and Keller came in with Ross. They grinned at Fargo and covered him with their guns.

  Keller’s mean little eyes gleamed with triumph. “Got you, huh?” he said.

  That Ryler would kill him, Fargo had no doubt. The man was cold-blooded and had always been. If only Audrey were not here! Without her, he could take a chance. Still, death might be a break for her. Bent Ryler was no break for any girl.

  Where was José? Had they got him?

  “I’m going to kill you, Fargo,” Ryler said. He slipped his guns back into their holsters. His lips thinned. The fingers on his hands spread, hovering over his guns. “When I do, I’m goin’ to let you see what a fast draw is!”

  Suddenly, there was a crash of broken glass, and José’s smooth voice said:

  “If you please to lift the hands?” The rifle barrel was wavering between Keller and Ross.

  Ryler swore, and his hands dropped. Fargo glimpsed their blurring speed; then a gun thundered and Ryler, his gun clear of the holster, stopped with his hand half lifted. He teetered on his feet, an expression of blank astonishment on his face.

  Almost unconsciously, Con Fargo had drawn and fired. Now, he fired again. Bent Ryler’s gun boomed at the floor, and then he crumpled to the boards.

  “You beat me!” he gasped, amazement frozen into his features.

  Con Fargo faced the others. Keller was back against the wall, blood dripping from his right hand. Ross was down on the floor. Con had never even heard the shots that stopped them.

  CHAPTER IV

  BULLETS FOR PAYMENT

  Quickly the door swung open and Morales came in. Behind him were Marshal Spilman and Lucky Chance with three other men, all armed.

  Spilman glanced at the men on the floor, then at Fargo.

  “What happened here?” he demanded sternly.

  Quickly, Fargo explained. When he had finished, Audrey Wakeman nodded.

  “What he said is true, Mr. Spilman. I reached here just a few minutes before Brenner—Ryler, I mean.

  “He was riding to the Bar M with me, and we stopped in passing his place. I waited in the house while he gave some orders, and saw a heavy coat hanging on a hook. The butt of a gun was visible from the pocket, so I took it out—I guess there was something familiar about it. Then I saw it was Billy’s Paterson. I knew it from a scratch on the butt.

  “I ran outside and got on my horse and rode here as quickly as I could. I wanted help, and then I was,” she hesitated, glancing at Con, “awfully sorry for accusing him when I had known Mr. Fargo was my father’s friend.”

  Spilman stared at the bodies thoughtfully; then he looked up at Fargo.

  “I never was sure,” he said. “Your story sounded good. Esslinger, he figured you was guilty. But then he says to me that while he’s sure, he’s goin’ to check up. I ain’t seen him since.”

  A faint yell sounded from outside, and Fargo lunged to the door. They scrambled out of the way, and he threw the door open. A weary horse was struggling through the snow. One man was on his back, another over the saddle in front of him. The rider was Bernie Quill.

  “Hurry!” he said faintly. “I guess I’m—all in!”

  Morales grabbed him as he fell. The second man was Esslinger. The detective had been shot twice. Quill had a hole in his leg and one trouser leg was soaked with blood.

  One of the possemen swung into the saddle and started for town and a doctor. Fargo went swiftly to work on Esslinger while Audrey Wakeman cut away Quill’s trouser leg and began to bathe the leg wound.

  Quill’s eyes fluttered open. “Never reckoned you’d be workin’ on no wound for me, ma’am,” he said, grinning faintly. He looked up at Spilman. “Esslinger found the rustled cattle, same time I did. Then Cabaniss and Looby rode up on him. They shot him down. Me, I was under cover, so I opened up and drove ’em off.

  “I got Esslinger into the woods, and we holed up in a cave. He was in durned bad shape, and they kept me so busy I couldn’t help much. He’s game, though, plenty game! He told me what happened.”

  Bernie’s face twisted with pain. “He got busy after Con talked to him at the jail. Didn’t figure it was true, but he checked at Sulphur Springs, then checked Massacre Rocks. Then he found out about the messages Con sent, askin’ about recent shipments of cattle. That gave him a lead, and he puts it all together, like Con done, and figured there must be rustled cows in the mountains.”

  Spilman looked around as Con got up. “Lost blood, mostly. The doc can tell you more’n I can. I reckon he may get through, all right. Somebody’d better find a way to get more blood into a wounded man, shot like that.”

  “What happened, Fargo?” Spilman asked. “What was goin’ on?”

  “The way I figure it, Mogelo and Ryler worked out a deal between ’em. Kilgore figured he was the first to find that pass, but Mogelo and Ryler were usin’ that pass to get rustled cattle out. They had a place back there somewheres, where they was holdin’ cattle, then shippin’ ’em out.

  “When Tex moved in, he camped right across their trail. They couldn’t get in to the cattle without being seen, and they couldn’t smuggle no more through the pass. By accident he sure choused up the layout for ’em.

  “If they was goin’ on with the rustlin’ and they maybe figured to bust up both ranches and buy ’em cheap—they had to get Kilgore out of there.”

  Quill’s eyes opened again. “Indian Valley,” he said. “They got about six hundred head of cows and two mighty fine gray horses up in that valley.”

  “Two gray horses?” Fargo turned to the marshal. “There it is, Spilman. Those were the horses Wakeman hired from the livery stable at the Springs. I’ve got the footprints of the killer stuck in a hole in the rocks down there, and a piece of the wheel hub, too.”

  SPILMAN TURNED. “Well, Chance, you and the boys come along and we’ll pick up Butch Mogelo and his pals!”

  When they had gone, Audrey walked over to Con. She put her hand on his sleeve.

  “I’m sorry, Con. I don’t think I ever really believed it, but when they found Billy’s body here and his clothes…. Well, it was so much evidence, and then, Ryler was so smooth about it. He made it seem obvious that you should be the one.”

  She looked up at Con. “Daddy always liked you, Con. You were his favorite. Time and again he used to wonder what ever became of you. He used to say he hoped Billy would be half the man you were.”

  Quill opened his eyes. “Didn’t Daddy say nothin’ ’bout me? Shucks, now. That ain’t fair!”

  “Shut up!” Fargo said, grinning. “You’re a wounded man!”

  Horses’ hoofs beat on the hard-packed snow. Glancing around, Con’s face went pale.

  “Audrey,” he said quickly. “Stay out of sight! It’s Butch Mogelo.”

  Quickly, he ch
ecked his guns, then stepped to the door. He opened it and stepped out on the snow.

  It was a gray day; flat, expressionless clouds lay across the sky, and a chill wind whispered through the pines. Butch Mogelo had dropped from the saddle. Steve Cabaniss and Mace Looby still sat their horses.

  “Looks like the showdown,” Butch said, grinning through his broken teeth. “You busted up a good deal, Fargo. Now we bust one up for you!

  “Waited back there,” he jerked his head at the trees, “until the marshal rode off. Reckoned to have you here alone. Then, when we get through with you, we can finish off that detective and that kid cowhand of yourn.”

  “Con,” Quill’s voice sounded from the door. “If you’ll shift a little when the shootin’ starts I’ll be durned pleased to show Mogelo this kid cowhand can handle a six-gun.”

  Propped against the doorjamb, Bernie Quill stared at the three, smiling pleasantly.

  Snow crunched at the stable door, and Con’s quick eye caught the lazy figure of José Morales. “Sí, señor,” he said. “You have send for Quill and I for the fight. Now here it is!”

  Butch Mogelo’s face twisted. “Evened it up, huh? Well, let it go this way, then.” His big hands swept down.

  Con stepped aside and started blasting with his right-hand gun. His first bullet turned Mogelo half around, and then the big man steadied down and opened up. The bullet knocked Con’s hat into the snow, and Fargo fired his gun twice more, holding it low.

  He could hear the pounding of other guns, saw Cabaniss topple into the snow, struggle to get up, and then be smashed back as though struck by a mighty fist. He walked toward Mogelo, snapping another shot. The big man’s face was twisted with hate.

  The big gun in his hand came up, and he was sneering. He went to his knees, then got up. Chill wind blew across Con’s face, drying the sweat. He spread his legs and using the border shift, swapped hands with his guns. He turned his left side away, and fired fast, two quick shots. Mogelo’s face was struck blank, and then across the sudden whiteness came a thin trickle of blood. He took one slow, questioning step forward, and fell on his face.