Bowdrie (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  Chick stared down at him, astonished. In a flash of lightning he saw five holes in the big man’s vest. Five through the body, and he had kept on coming!

  Turning, Bowdrie started back to the shelter, then slipped and fell. That was odd. Puzzled, he stared at the ground, then pushed himself up and staggered erect. He managed two staggering steps, then fell on his face.

  When he opened his eyes, it was light. He blinked at the brightness of the light, then turned his head.

  “Chick? Are you all right?”

  He stared at the worried eyes. “I guess so. What happened?”

  “You killed John Queen, then you passed out. You have a hole through your thigh and another through the muscles atop your shoulder. You’ve lost quite a lot of blood.”

  “And you’ve been caring for me?”

  “Not exactly,” she confessed, “although I helped.”

  “You mean that lazy Ranger has finally got himself awake?” Rip Coker thrust his head into the shelter. “McNelly was afraid you might need help, so when I finished that job in Tascosa, he sent me to look after you.

  “Bowdrie, you disappoint me. Only five men? You must be losin’ your grip!”

  “Shucks,” Bowdrie said lazily, “if I’d had another girl like Jeanne along, there wouldn’t have been anything for me to do!”

  He frowned suddenly. “Whatever happened to Jake Murray?”

  “He went after that deer,” Jeanne said, “and he never came back.”

  “It was him told me where you’d be,” Coker said. “I met him down the trail and he spotted me for a Ranger. He said you wouldn’t need any help, but I’d find you up here.”

  “That all he said?”

  “He just said, ‘Enough is enough, and I’ve never been to Oregon.’”

  There was a silence, and then Bowdrie smiled. “Rip, I’m glad you came along. Somebody has to take our horses back to Texas, and me being wounded like I am, I’ll just have to ride back to Texas on the train, with Jeanne.”

  “That’s just like him,” Coker said, pretending disgust. “He’s ridin’ the cushions while I hit the saddle! He’s nothin’ but a red-plush Ranger, after all!”

  Historical Note

  IRA ATEN JOINED the Texas Rangers when he was twenty. A farm boy who became a cowboy, son of a Methodist minister, well-known for his skill with weapons, he served as a Ranger for approximately six years. Later he was a sheriff and then the manager of the XIT Ranch in west Texas. It was Aten who persuaded John R. Hughes to join the Rangers after the young rancher had helped him trail down and kill Judd Roberts, an escaped murderer.

  Aten took part in the Fence Wars and many gun battles, always on the side of the law. Finally, after moving to California, he died in 1953. He was ninety years old.

  MORE BRAINS THAN BULLETS

  THE HAMMERHEADED ROAN stood three-legged at the hitching rail in front of the Cattleman’s Saloon, dozing in the warm sunlight. Occasionally he switched a casual tail at a lazy fly or stamped a hoof into the dust.

  Nearby, against the unpainted wall of the Bon Ton Café, in the cool shade of the wooden awning over the boardwalk, Chick Bowdrie dozed comfortably in a tipped-back chair. Hat low over his eyes, pleasantly full of breakfast and coffee, he was frankly enjoying a time to relax.

  Fighting raiding Comanches and over-the-border bandits, as well as their own home-grown variety of outlaw, kept the Texas Rangers occupied. Moments of leisure were all too few, and to be taken as they appeared.

  He had no family, so home was wherever he hung his hat. Had it not been for Captain McNelly, who recruited him, he might have been on the dodge himself by this time. He had been a top hand since he was fourteen, but too good with a gun, and there were too many around who thought to take advantage of a boy on his own, ready to steal stock in his care, steal his horse, or simply ride roughshod over him, and Bowdrie had met them a little more than halfway.

  His family had been wiped out by Comanches when he was six, and for the next five years he had lived with his captors. Escaping, he was taken up by a Swiss family living near San Antonio. He attended school for three years, learned to speak French from his foster parents and a smattering of German from his schoolmates.

  He had become a disciple of the old western adage that “brains in the head save blisters on the feet.” A little rest and meditation often saved a lot of riding over rough country, and right now he had a lot to think about, when he got around to it.

  Two men came out of the café adjoining the saloon. The man with the toothpick was saying, “Who else could it be but Culver? Only the two of us had the combination, an’ I surely wouldn’t steal my own money.”

  “The boy’s a good lad, Lindsay. I’ve known him since he was a baby. Knew his pappy before him.”

  “We all knew old Black Jack Culver,” Lindsay replied. “The boy does have a good reputation. Maybe he is a good lad, but the fact is, somebody opened that safe with the combination! Nothing damaged anywhere. No signs of a break-in, and that safe’s a new one.”

  He spat. “Far’s his pappy goes, he rustled his share of cows, an’ you know it, Cowan!”

  Cowan chuckled. “O’ course I know it! I helped him! We all branded anything that was loose in them days, an’ there’s stuff runnin’ on your ranch right now whose mamas wore another brand. You can’t hold that against a man just because times have changed. Those days are past, and we all know it. We have the law now, and it is better that way. Besides, who knew in them days who a cow belonged to? Nobody branded for years, and of course, ol’ Maverick never did brand any of his stuff.

  “When you an’ me came into this country, all a steer was worth was what you could get for hide an’ tallow. After the Civil War, everybody needed beef an’ things changed.”

  Bowdrie had not moved. If they were aware of him at all, they probably thought him asleep. “The fact is, Cowan, I’m in a tight spot for money. I can’t stand to lose twenty thousand dollars just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Six thousand of that was in payment for cattle I haven’t delivered yet, cattle I sold to Ross Yerby.”

  “He buyin’ more cows? He picked up a thousand head from me just t’other day.”

  “Don’t I know it! You deposited that money with me, an’ part of it was in that safe!”

  “You don’t say!” Cowan was suddenly angry. “Dang it, Lindsay! What kind of a bank you runnin’, anyway?”

  “It was you didn’t want me to accuse young Culver. Looks different when the shoe’s on the other foot.”

  The two moved off, still talking. Chick sat quietly. No bank robbery had been reported to the Rangers, yet this seemed to be an inside job, embezzlement rather than a holdup. His curiosity aroused, he arose and sauntered back into the restaurant. “How’s about some more coffee? I sure like your make of it. Strong enough to tan your boots!”

  The ex-cow-camp cook brought a cup and the pot to the table. “I oughta know how a cowhand likes it,” he said. “I’ve made coffee enough to drown a thousand head of steers!”

  He dropped into the chair across from Bowdrie. He looked at the rider across the table, the dark, Apache-like face and black eyes—it was like looking into a pair of gun muzzles. “Huntin’ a ridin’ job?” Josh Chancy asked.

  “Maybe. Anybody doin’ any hirin’ around?”

  “Newcomer, name of Yerby, is buyin’ a lot of stock. Plans a drive to Abilene in another month or so. Big man, pays well, free with his money. He’s bought nigh onto four thousand head, an’ payin’ durn near what they pay in Kansas!”

  “Might be a good man to work for. Newcomer, you say? What’s he look like?”

  “Big. Mighty good-lookin’ man. Smooth-handed man, plays a good game of poker an’ usually wins. White hat, black coat, black mustache. He’s been courtin’ Lisa Culver, seems like. Leastways he’s been seein’ her a lot.”

/>   “Culver? Didn’t there used to be a Black Jack Culver?”

  “He was her pappy. Good man, too. I worked beside him for more’n a year. His boy’s a fine lad, too. He’s no rider, but he’s bright, got good sense. But that gal? She’s the best-lookin’ filly this side the Brazos!”

  Josh liked to talk, and the place was empty but for Bowdrie. “Young Bill, he works over at the bank for Lindsay. He’s been sparkin’ that girl of Mendoza’s. Don’t know’s I blame him, but she’s a fancy, flirty bit, but she’s got a temper worse than Mendoza’s, an’ nobody ever accused Pete of bein’ no tenderfoot. He’s a brush-wise old ladino, that Pete Mendoza is!”

  The door opened suddenly and Lindsay stuck his head in. “Josh, have you seen Yerby? Or Bill Culver? If they come in, tell ’em I want to see them, will you?”

  Chick Bowdrie sipped his coffee. It might be a good idea to stick around a day or two, for the situation smelled of trouble.

  He pushed back from the table and sauntered outside to resume his seat under the awning. The roan opened a lazy eye and studied him doubtfully, but when he seated himself again, the eye closed and the roan stomped at an annoying fly. They would not be moving yet.

  Maravillas was a one-street town with a row of false-fronted, wind-battered buildings facing each other across the narrow, dusty street. The fourth building across the street had a sign: “Maravillas Bank.”

  A girl came out of the bank and started up the street toward him. She was dark and her eyes flashed as she glanced at Chick. It was a bold, appraising glance. She had a lovely, passionate mouth and a free-swinging movement of the hips, and a body her clothing enhanced rather than concealed. A girl who, in this hot border country, was an invitation to murder.

  A young man came from the bank and stared after the girl. Bowdrie could not see his expression. The young man turned and walked to a stable behind the bank. From where Bowdrie sat he could just see the edge of the stable door and part of a window. He saw Bill Culver swing a saddle to a horse’s back.

  Soon after, Bill Culver crossed the street and went into the restaurant, emerging with a small package.

  A moment later Tom Lindsay went into the bank. Ross Yerby, or a man Bowdrie guessed was Yerby, came down the street and followed Lindsay into the bank. Instantly voices were raised in violent argument. One was Linday’s voice, the other was Culver’s. If Yerby was speaking, his voice could not be heard.

  Bowdrie saw Yerby come from the bank and cross the street toward him. Chick stood up, pushing back his black flat-crowned hat. “Mr. Yerby? I hear you figurin’ on makin’ a drive to Abilene. You need any hands?”

  Yerby had a quick, sharp eye. He took in Bowdrie at a glance, noting the tied-down guns. “I can use a few men. Have you been over the trail?”

  “I’ve been over a lot of trails, both sides of the border.”

  Yerby hesitated, then asked, “Do you know the Nation? And the Cowhouse Creek just north of here?”

  “I do.”

  “Stick around. I can use you.”

  Bowdrie dropped back into his chair. He was still seated there an hour later when he heard the shot. He was not surprised.

  The sudden bark of the pistol struck like a whip across the hot, still afternoon.

  Men burst from the café, the saloon, and several stores and stood looking and listening. Bowdrie remained sitting. From the grove back of the bank he heard the drum of horses’ hooves, a sound that faded into silence.

  Bowdrie slid from his chair and followed King Cowan into the bank.

  Tom Lindsay lay sprawled on the floor. He had been shot through the heart at close range. The rear door of the bank stood open. Glancing through the door, Chick saw no horse in sight. His dark features inscrutable, he stood by as Wilse Kennedy, the sheriff, took charge. “Where’s young Culver?” Kennedy asked. “He should be here.”

  A head thrust through the rear door. “His horse is gone, Wilse! Must’ve been him we heard ridin’ away!”

  “Culver had a motive,” Cowan agreed. “Tom was tellin’ me only this mornin’ that twenty thousand dollars had been stolen from the bank, and that only him an’ young Culver knew the combination to the safe.”

  “Must be him, then.” Kennedy looked around from face to face. “Lindsay must have accused him of it, and Culver shot him down. He wouldn’t have run if he wasn’t guilty.”

  “Don’t be too hard on the boy,” Ross Yerby interrupted. “Bill’s all right. I doubt if he’d do a thing like this. There’s probably a good explanation for his not bein’ here.”

  Bowdrie caught Yerby’s eye and commented, “There’s somethin’ to that. Can’t never tell by the way things look on the surface.”

  “What’s that? Who said that?” Kennedy looked around at Chick, his eyes narrowing. “Who’re you?”

  “He rides for me,” Yerby explained. “I took him on today.”

  “You punch your cows”—Kennedy was sharp—“I’ll do the sheriffin’.” He turned to Cowan. “Did you say twenty thousand was missing? How come he had that much cash?”

  “I paid him some of it,” Yerby said, “and some may have been Cowan’s. I bought cattle from him, too.”

  “Well, let’s get after him!” Kennedy said. “King, you mount up and come along. I can use you, too, Yerby.” Kennedy spoke to several others, ignoring Bowdrie, who stood looking down at the body. Familiar as he was with violent death, it never failed to disturb him that a man could be so suddenly deprived of life. Guns were something not to be taken lightly, but to be handled with care and used with discrimination.

  Instead of following the posse outside, he went out the back door. He had a hunch and acted on it. Bill Culver had been accused of stealing twenty thousand dollars. He had been seen saddling a horse. The banker was killed after a quarrel with Culver overheard by a number of people, and now Culver was missing. It appeared to be an open-and-shut case.

  Bowdrie’s hunch was no more than that. Among other things, he was sure the posse had ridden off in the wrong direction, for he was sure Bill would ride around to see his sister. Moreover, if his hunch was right, there would be action in town before many hours were past.

  Bill Culver’s horse was gone, that was obvious. Chick glanced around, then walked behind the stable. In the dust lay the stub of a freshly smoked cigarette. He put it in a folder in an inside vest pocket. Then he went back across the street to the Bon Ton Café for coffee.

  “You didn’t ride with the posse?” Josh asked.

  “No, I didn’t. I think they’re chasin’ the wrong man, Josh. Culver sizes up as an unlikely killer.”

  “Ain’t no better boy around!” Josh said belligerently. “I don’t believe he done it!”

  The door burst open and a lovely blond girl came in. “Josh! Is it true? Did Bill shoot Tom Lindsay?”

  Bowdrie looked around. “They say he did, ma’am. They say he took twenty thousand dollars. He’s gone and his horse is gone.”

  “He couldn’t have!” she protested. “That’s not like Bill! He wouldn’t do a thing like that!”

  The door opened and a short, thick-set man entered. He had a hard, swarthy face and black eyes that swept the room. “Lisa, where’s Bill?” he asked.

  “I have no idea, Señor Mendoza! They are saying he killed Tom Lindsay!”

  “So? My Rita is gone. She has run away.”

  Lisa Culver was shocked. Chick took a quick swallow of his coffee, eyes shifting from face to face. They all had jumped to the same conclusion, that Culver had robbed the bank, killed Lindsay, and run away with Rita Mendoza.

  Mendoza turned on his heel and left the room. Bowdrie stared after him. What would Mendoza do?

  Lisa stood a moment in indecision, then fled. Chick sipped his coffee. “Busy little place,” he commented. “Things happen fast around here.”

  He put his cup do
wn. “Yerby buy cattle from anybody but Cowan an’ Lindsay?”

  “Huh?” Josh glanced around irritably, obviously upset by what had happened. “Oh? Yeah, I reckon he did. He bought a few head off old Steve Farago, over at Wild Horse. Five hundred head, I think it was.”

  Chick finished his coffee, then crossed to the bank. The white-faced clerk who had taken over was filled with importance. At first he refused Bowdrie’s request point-blank, but at a flash of the Ranger badge, Bowdrie was given the information he wanted.

  Swinging aboard the roan, Bowdrie headed out of town. Wild Horse Mesa was sharply defined against the horizon.

  He would have preferred to stop at the Culvers’, but decided against it. Later, returning from Wild Horse, would be soon enough.

  Shadows were reaching out from the high cliffs of the mesa when Bowdrie loped the roan into the ranch yard. “Hello, the house!” he called.

  There was a sudden movement inside, a crash as of a broken dish. Bowdrie dropped from the saddle and started for the house, walking warily. There was no further sound. Nor was there any horse around but the three rawboned ponies in the corral.

  Bowdrie hesitated on the doorstep, then stepped to the side of the door. It was black and still inside.

  “Hey!” he yelled again.

  There was no response, and no sound. Chick eased his right-hand gun from its holster and edged toward the door. A hinge creaked out back, and Bowdrie leaped through the door in time to catch a glimpse of a dark shadow at the back door. Then a gun flashed, and he hit the floor, losing the heel from one of his boots.

  He did not fire. There was simply no target, and Chick Bowdrie was not one to blaze away on the sheer chance that he might hit something. He got to his feet and edged toward the back door. The ranch yard was shadowy and still, with neither sound nor movement. It was almost dark outside now, and looking for a man in that rough country in the dark would be suicide.