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A KILLER’S BARGAIN, by Dean Owen
Originally published in 1960 by Dean Owen.
CHAPTER ONE
Rim Bolden knew that this day he would be lucky if he could leave town without using his gun on a man. At the very least it looked as if he would have to fight once, perhaps many times with his fists. And all because men were like they are in a wild place, with nothing to talk about but the war that had ended bitterly for most. Or talk about the market for beef or—talk about women. Mostly the latter, for there were only a few married ones at the lonely ranches around LaVentana, or in the town itself. Of course there were the fancy ones who journeyed up from Paso Del Norte after roundup twice a year. But when it came to single girls a man wanted to marry—Rim Bolden stood tall, his hat off, looking at the stage that had pulled up in front of the LaVentana Hotel in this far corner of the Territory of New Mexico.
The passengers had alighted. The two drummers with sample cases, giving the shabby business block a speculative look as they hurried past staring townspeople.
The driver, holding in the team, peered down at Allie Grindge, who owned the Jewel Saloon and considered himself the official greeter of LaVentana.
“Everybody out, Allie?”
“Soon’s I help the lady,” Allie Grindge said.
It was the lady that had brought the quick silence to the town. A silence that touched the nerves like the spring winds that howled down from the Mogollons beyond LaVentana. Rim stood awkwardly, knowing that he had faced many things in his twenty-nine years. He had walked from Richmond to Atlanta and beyond with the bullets of Sherman’s men seeking him. He had come to New Mexico last year and partnered up with Bert Stallart at Anchor ranch. A small partnership, but one that could bring financial reward to a daring man.
But he knew that facing up to trail dangers all the way to Kansas this spring, would not be nearly as jolting an experience as the one that shaped up now.
Allie Grindge had helped the lady to the walk and the stage pulled out. She looked around, her dusty bonnet tilted on pinned-up pale hair. Even though she was bundled in a great cloak any man with half an eye could see her condition.
“You’re Rim,” she said to the tall man in the street who wore his “meeting” clothes; white shirt and black suit, a little shiny from the hard seat of saddle and wagon.
Allie Grindge sa
id, “Welcome to LaVentana.”
She pulled away from Grindge and stepped awkwardly from the walk to the street, her skirts trailing dust. “I recognize you from your picture,” she said to Rim. “Uncle Bert sent it—”
Rim held his breath, waiting for the first man to speak. Waiting for the first remark, the first laughter. His tall body was like one great steel spring. His hair was black and under it the face that was long and wide at forehead and jaw seemed as pale as that of the female who faced him.
Allie Grindge said from the walk, “Your future bride, Rim.” There was a dead silence.
Allie Grindge was not noted for his perceptive powers. Aside from faulty vision which was not improved by steel-rimmed spectacles, his wit was lacking. And they said it would take a twenty-pound sledge to drive anything into his head.
Rim stood rigid. “Hello, Ellamae. I—I’ve got the wagon here.”
He took her arm, wishing he had worn his belt gun. He looked carefully at each man who sat stiffly on the loafer’s benches, or those who had come out of their stores to witness the arrival of the stage. Even five minutes ago they had been joshing Rim, asking him when the wedding would be. For the arrival of anyone as young and pretty as Ellamae Stallart was an occasion in this lonely place. And Bert Stallart, Rim’s partner at Anchor, had more than once passed his niece’s photograph around for all to see and admire. It was Stallart who had first braced Rim about “keeping Anchor in the family.” Rim should marry Ellamae when she came out from Joplin. How could a man do better? And Rim agreed that it was a tempting idea, but he pointed out to him marriage was something serious. A man married a woman because he loved her. Not just because she was niece to his partner and marriage to her would assure a larger financial interest in a potentially great ranch.
Rim watched the stony faces. He thought he saw amusement on some, but it was not open. No smiles, no digging elbows in ribs. Just silence.
It felt to him as if the very street upon which he stood was shifting. No foundation at all under the built-up heels of his town boots but quicksand. Through his mind spun the things Stallart had said, “If you do get married,” Stallart had told him, “it’ll take away some of the talk about you and Marcy.” Marcy was Stallart’s handsome dark-haired wife. It was the first time Rim had felt like hitting his partner in the face.
Rim Bolden walked Ellamae to the Anchor wagon. “Can you make it?” he said. “I mean can you climb to the seat by yourself?”
She nodded and he got behind her and steadied her foot on the step. He pushed and got her up to the seat.
He went around to the other side, his face ashen.
“Looks like you’ll have to be a mite quick with the preacher, Rim,” a voice cut out from the doorway of the Jewel Saloon. “She’s liable to drop her foal before you can get a ring on her finger.”
Rim turned slowly, conscious that the silence along the street had thickened even more. In the distance he could see the balloon of dust from the departing stage. He could hear a dog’s snarl of displeasure in the alley behind the saloon.
Rim said over his shoulder to a man standing by a fire barrel. “Will you hold the team so they won’t run?”
“Sure, Rim. Sure—”
A window banged up above the Jewel Saloon. A plump, powdered face, topped by a red wig was thrust out.
“Don’t have no trouble now,” the woman’s harsh voice shouted. “That poor gal’s sufferin’ enough as it is. Bolden, you better think twice about taking her all the way out to Anchor in a wagon. The jolting won’t do her no good at all.”
Rim looked at the upstairs window. “Daisy, maybe you could come down and give me a hand with her. And maybe one of you boys can get hold of Doc Snider.”
“Doc’s gone down to Mesilla.”
Rim clenched his teeth and for the first time looked directly at the man who had made the insulting remark about Ellamae dropping her foal.
The man was Rim’s height, six feet. He wore a brown wool shirt and brown pants and half boots. Around his waist was slung a .45 in a silver-studded rig. He had light blue eyes and hair nearly the shade of Ellamae’s. His ranch bordered on Anchor at the foot of the Mogollons near one of the forks of the Gila River. His name was Eric Ward. He had come here just before Christmas when the snow was deep. A poor time for a man to start ranching everybody said.
“Bolden, don’t let Ward push you into something,” Daisy yelled from the second-floor window. “That poor gal can’t stand to get all upset.”
Rim took a deep breath and turned his back on Ward. If possible, he wanted to get Stallart’s niece out of town. Then he could settle other things.
Rim started to take the reins from the man who was holding them. He heard a step behind him.
Ward said, “Stallart should give you a half interest in Anchor for doing this job, Bolden.”
Rim turned. “What job?” he asked quietly.
“Saving him from the disgrace of a niece who—”
“That’s enough, Ward!”
“You’ll marry her, won’t you?” Ward pressed on, his handsome face smiling. It seemed to Rim that Eric Ward was making an unnecessary point in all this. But the reason escaped him.
The crowd had moved up, the more venturesome. Others were hurrying into stores, taking refuge behind walls of ’dobe or brick.
“You do whatever Stallart tells you,” Ward said. “You’ll marry his pregnant niece—you’ll use a running iron on your neighbor’s beef.”
Rim had been watching Ward’s right hand. It started downward, fingers seeking the walnut grips of his .45. Rim closed in, got both hands on the strong wrist. He swung Ward around, tore free the gun and threw it into the street. The shouting caused horses to rear, and another man sprang forward to help hold the Anchor team.
Upstairs Daisy shouted shrilly, “Quit it. That poor kid is—” Her voice was drowned out.
Hanging onto the right arm, Rim used his body as a pivot. He spun Ward, sent him crashing into the fire barrel at the edge of the walk. The rotted slats gave way under the weight of Ward’s body. For an instant he seemed suspended by a shelf of slimy water. Then the water roared out and Ward fell into the wreckage.
Ward managed to get his elbows under him. “You gutless swine!” he cried. “You’re not man enough to come for me with a gun!”
“Next time I’ll wear one,” Rim said.
“Next time you’ll need one!” Drenched, Ward stood there angrily. Bits of cigarette paper clung to his clothing for the fire barrel was used as a repository for many things in LaVentana. Mostly it was known as a community spitoon.
Rim walked over to the wagon and jerked free his rifle from under the seat. He levered in a shell, faced Ward. “You’ve called me a thief. You’ve insulted a woman—”
“She insulted herself, by doing what she did with some man.”
“After this, keep out of my way,” Rim warned.
“I might give you the same advice. Particularly where it applies to my range. I have a fondness for my own beef. I don’t care to see my T brand end up as an Anchor Bar.”
Rim said, “It might be interesting to find out why you took a brand that could be so easily altered.”
“I don’t have to answer questions from a man who was traitor to his country.”
Rim looked at him. “I thought that question was settled when Lee gave up his sword.”
“It’ll never be settled in my mind.” Ward looked around. “In our minds.”
Nobody spoke up in defense of Ward’s ideas. But Rim noticed a few cautious nods of agreement.
He drove Ellamae out of town. The road to Anchor was rough and he tried to keep the team to a walk, but they were frisky and had not been run for nearly a week. He thought of how he had picked this spirited team, thinking it would give a girl like Ellamae a thrill to ride out to Anchor in fine style. But now—
> Ellamae said, “I didn’t think it would be like this. They said the stage would get in after dark. I—I didn’t think anybody would see me.”
“You can’t depend on a stage schedule in these parts. I’ve been in town all day waiting for you.”
“It’s a disappointment, isn’t it, Rim?”
“Call it surprise.”
“I—I wanted to write Uncle Bert, but—Uncle Bert’s wife, Aunt Marcy, wrote me such a nice letter and said I was always welcome. I thought that on a ranch I could—could have my baby without too many people knowing about it.”
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask who the man was.”
“I—I loved this one more than the others. Really. We were going to get married, but he—died.” She put a hand to her eyes. “I just hope I can make it up to Uncle Bert. Aunt Marcy wrote that he’s the most generous man she ever knew.”
Rim said nothing. He was thinking that more than one man said that Bert Stallart, once he was aroused, had the most explosive temper north of Ciudad Chihuahua.
One thing constructive had been accomplished this day at least. The undercover bitterness between Anchor Bar and Eric Ward’s T ranch had at last come into the open. As he drove, the New Mexico dust stinging his eyes, he thought of what Ward had said. He had called Rim Bolden a thief, in so many words. He said that Rim Bolden took Stallart’s orders. Whether it was using a running iron on a neighbor’s beef. Or marrying a pregnant niece—
Rim glanced at the girl riding so stiff on the seat at his side. He tried not to look at her swollen body, but how could you help it? He thought back to the meeting at the stage. How he had removed his hat and waited like some actor on a stage for her arrival. Ready for the joshing of the townspeople. Accepting it before the stage arrived, knowing it would be intensified once the girl was on his arm. Because those people would have a method in their teasing. A wedding was an excuse to put aside the work and remember that there were other things in life beside the constant fight for survival in a hard land.
Because there seemed to be an endless stream of men moving west; those of Eric Ward’s breed. Men dedicated to the taking of property that belonged to another. From the first day Ward appeared, after taking over the old 25 ranch, Rim had warned Stallart. But Bert Stallart said no man was fool enough to tangle with Anchor.