The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 7

by Louis L'Amour

  “Was Gallatin killed?” Davis inquired gently. Ward found himself liking the man. Obviously, Sheriff Jeff Davis was no fool, and he was a man who knew his own mind.

  “Yes, there was a gunfight. I accused Lopez of handling cattle at night. Gallatin interfered, and when I called him on it, he went for a gun. I tried to stop him, but couldn’t, so I drew.”

  “I seen it, Jeff,” Jensen said flatly. “Gally asked for it. He was rustlin’ cows.”

  “What about that thousand head?” Davis asked. “Found hide or hair of them?”

  “I reckon we did,” Ward said, and his eyes swung to Buff Colker. “I think we’ve found ’em all!”

  By the light that leaped suddenly in Colker’s eyes, McQueen knew he had guessed right. Buff Colker was the brains of the rustling on the Slash Seven.

  “They were sleeperin’ ’em, Sheriff. Driving unbranded stock around the pens at night an’ mixing them in with the mixed brands we were going to release. Lopez was in on it, an’ so was Gallatin. I think that Gerber smelled a rat, an’ when the killer trailed him an’ saw what he was doin’, he killed him.”

  “Sheriff.” Ruth Kermitt spoke gently. “Have you had trouble with rustlers around here before?”

  “Sure. Matter of fact, that was the reason Gerber was sellin’ his stock. Too much rustlin’.”

  “And Gerber’s brand is a Slash Seven,” Ruth continued. “Can you think of a brand that a Slash Seven could be made into, Sheriff?”

  “Ma’am, we’ve been over that here for months,” Davis said. “There ain’t a brand in this part of the country like that. Not one it could be done with, not anywhere easy.”

  “There’s one brand,” she insisted gently. “I refer to the brand that Buff Colker has registered.”

  Ward happened to have his eyes on Colker, and he saw the man start as if struck with a whip. His head jerked around, and hatred blazed in his eyes, hatred and fear. But then the fear was gone.

  “Colker ain’t got no brand!” Davis said, frowning. “Nor no cattle I know of.”

  “He has, though, Sheriff.” Ruth glanced at Ward, then away. “I checked with Austin. He has a Box Triangle registered there. Any child could make a Slash Seven into a Box Triangle.

  “Mr. Colker spent the whole evening telling me how he didn’t have to be a cowhand, that he had a ranch of his own, well stocked with cattle, and that he intended to branch out. When Ward told me of the cattle we were missing, I became curious, and I checked with Austin as to Buff Colker’s brand.”

  “Are you accusin’ me of being a rustler?” Colker turned on her, his dark eyes ugly. Then he looked back at the sheriff. “You can see for yourself, Sheriff. This is a cheap plot. They are conniving to hang this on me. McQueen is a known gunman, so is Sartain, and they both work for Miss Kermitt.”

  Davis chewed his mustache. “Do you have a brand?”

  Colker’s eyes shifted. “Yes,” he said finally.

  “Is it a Box Triangle?”

  “Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean that I’m a rustler.”

  Davis dropped to his haunches and with a stick drew a Slash Seven in the sand, and then opposite it, a Box Triangle.

  He glanced up at Colker. “You’ve got to admit it’s awful easily done.” He straightened to his feet. “Now, folks, I ain’t much on a man havin’ an alibi. Them as needs ’em can get ’em, an’ them as don’t need ’em never has ’em.

  “If McQueen has found the Tumblin’ K cows, like he says, I don’t see no reason for any shootin’ on his part. Far’s I know, the two of them are friends. There has been some rustlin’ here, I can see that. I reckon afore we can do much else we’ll have to send a deputy to your ranch an’ have a few head of your cows killed so we can check the brands. If we can find any Slash Sevens made over, I reckon we’ll have Gerber’s rustler, an’ maybe a powerful suspect for his murder. Until then we’ll hold you.”

  “That don’t figure, Jeff,” Yost protested. “Just because this girl figured it that way is no sign that Gerber did.”

  “He knew.” Ruth spoke positively. “I was very careless last night. I was drawing Slash Sevens into Box Triangles at the table, and forgot and left my paper there. When I returned for it, the cook told me that Dick Gerber had picked it up, swore, and went out.”

  Buff Colker was sweating now, and his face was pale. “That doesn’t prove a thing!” he declared. “I demand to be allowed to leave. All you have is a lot of suspicion. I can find fifty brands in Texas that could be made from Slash Sevens.”

  Ernie Yost had fallen back close to Colker, and Villani had moved toward his horse. A slight movement by Black drew Ward’s attention, and he saw that the big gunman was sidling toward his horse and his rifle. And then he saw something else.

  Bud Fox had his rope on a steer and he was half leading, half dragging him toward the house. Behind him, Perkins was using his rope as a whip to urge the stubborn steer along.

  Ward McQueen shifted his position so he could keep Yost and Colker completely covered if necessary. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Kim Sartain and Baldy Jackson were both alert to the shifting of forces. Only the sheriff and Jensen seemed unaware of what was happening.

  “Ruth, you’d better get inside,” Ward said quietly. “There’s going to be trouble.” He spoke softly, but he noticed the sheriff’s sudden movement and knew he had heard.

  Ward shifted his eyes from Buff toward the steer, and for a moment he stared at the weird brand without comprehension, and then it hit him.

  “Davis!” he said sharply. “There’s your proof of murder!” Burned with a running iron on the steer’s hide was the date, and under it:

  SHOT BY BUF CLKR RUSTLER, DYIN /

  7 TO BX TRI

  HOT AS HELL

  D. GRBR.

  “There it is! Burned with a runnin’ iron as the old man lay dyin’ in the brush! Then he cut loose the steer—had him thrown and ready to check his brand when Buff came up on him!”

  Buff Colker stepped back quickly and clawed for his gun, but Ward was faster. Even as Colker’s gun started to lift, Ward’s first bullet ripped the thumb from his hand and knocked him off balance.

  Colker stared at the stub where his thumb had been, now gushing with blood, and with a cry like an animal, rushed for his horse. Ward had swung his gun toward Yost even as a bullet knocked him into the side of the house. He fired, holding his gun low. Sartain had opened up on Black, and the wiry young gunfighter was walking in on him, firing with every step. Villani was out of it. Baldy had fired his rifle right across the saddle bows, and Villani toppled over, clawed at the side of the water trough, and got himself half erect, getting his gun out even as he cursed. Baldy fired again, and the gun slid from Villani’s fingers.

  Yost screamed as Ward’s bullet hit him, and then suddenly, his eyes wild, he ran straight for McQueen, his gun blazing. Ward stepped back and tripped on the stoop. Catching himself on one hand, he looked up into the wild, fear-crazed eyes of Yost as the man threw down on him with a six-shooter at point-blank range! McQueen shot fast, three times, as swiftly as he could thumb the gun.

  Ernie Yost went up on his toes, his face twisting in a frightful grimace; then he pitched over on his face, his gun blasting the hard-packed earth within inches of Ward’s hand.

  McQueen kicked the dying man off his legs and got to his feet, feeding shells into his gun, but the battle was over. In a few seconds four men had died.

  Sheriff Davis had fired but one shot, killing Buff Colker as he scrambled to get away.

  Ward McQueen holstered his gun and grabbed for support at the well coping. He knew he had been shot; his side felt strangely numb and his mind seemed sluggish, but his eyes were alive and knowing.

  Jensen was down, but struggling to get up, with a red stain on his pant leg. Sheriff Davis, in the most exposed position of all, was unharmed.

  Ruth rushed to Ward’s side. “Darling! You’re hurt!”

  He put his hand on her shoulder and tried to
grin. “Not much,” he said. “How’s Kim?”

  “Never touched me!” Sartain said. “They plowed a furrow over Baldy’s ear. Cut off a piece of the last fringe of hair he’s got left!”

  Neither Fox nor Perkins had managed to get off a shot. Both men came crowding up now, and they helped Ward inside. On examination they found he had only a flesh wound in the side, and while there had been some loss of blood, he was not badly hurt.

  Ward looked at Ruth. “I reckon when I get on my feet, we’d better haul out of here. This place looks like trouble.”

  She laughed, then blushed. “I’m in a hurry to get back, too, Ward. Or shall we wait?”

  “No,” he smiled, “I’ve heard that Cheyenne is a good town for weddings!”

  West of the Tularosas

  The dead man had gone out fighting. Scarcely more than a boy, and a dandy in dress, he had been man enough when the showdown came. Propped against the fireplace stones, legs stretched before him, loose fingers still touching the butt of his .45 Colt, he had smoked it out to a bloody, battle-stained finish. Evidence of it lay all about him. Whoever killed him had spent time, effort, and blood to do it.

  As they closed in for the payoff at least one man had died on the threshold.

  The fight that ended here had begun elsewhere. From the looks of it this cabin had been long deserted, and the dead man’s spurs were bloodstained. At least one of his wounds showed evidence of being much older than the others. A crude attempt had been made to stop the bleeding.

  Baldy Jackson, one of the Tumbling K riders who found the body, dropped to his knees and picked up the dead man’s Colt.

  “Empty!” he said. “He fought ’em until his guns were empty, an’ then they killed him.”

  “Is he still warm?” McQueen asked. “I think I can smell powder smoke.”

  “He ain’t been an hour dead, I’d guess. Wonder what the fuss was about?”

  “Worries me,” McQueen looked around, “considering our situation.” He glanced at Bud Fox and Kim Sartain, who appeared in the doorway. “What’s out there?”

  “At least one of their boys rode away still losing blood. By the look of things this lad didn’t go out alone, he took somebody with him.” Sartain was rolling a smoke. “No feed in the shed, but that horse out there carries a mighty fine saddle.”

  “Isn’t this the place we’re headed for?” Fox asked. “It looks like the place described.”

  Sartain’s head came up. “Somebody comin’!” he said. “Riders, an’ quite a passel of them.”

  Sartain flattened against the end of the fireplace and Fox knelt behind a windowsill. Ward McQueen planted his stalwart frame in the doorway, waiting. “This isn’t so good. We’re goin’ to be found with a dead man, just killed.”

  There were a half dozen riders in the approaching group, led by a stocky man on a gray horse and a tall, oldish fellow wearing a badge.

  They drew up sharply on seeing the horses and McQueen. The short man stared at McQueen, visibly upset by his presence. “Who’re you? And what are you doin’ here?”

  “I’ll ask the same question,” McQueen spoke casually. “This is Firebox range, isn’t it?”

  “I know that.” The stocky man’s tone was testy. “I ought to. I own the Firebox.”

  “Do you now?” Ward McQueen’s reply was gentle, inquiring. “Might be a question about that. Ever hear of Tom McCracken?”

  “Of course! He used to own the Firebox.”

  “That’s right, and he sold it to Ruth Kermitt of the Tumbling K. I’m Ward McQueen, her foreman. I’ve come to take possession.”

  His reply was totally unexpected, and the stocky man was obviously astonished. His surprise held him momentarily speechless, and then he burst out angrily.

  “That’s impossible! I’m holdin’ notes against young Jimmy Mc-Cracken! He was the old man’s heir, an’ Jimmy signed the place over to me to pay up.”

  “As of when?” Ward asked.

  His thoughts were already leaping ahead, reading sign along the trail they must follow. Obviously something was very wrong, but he was sure that Ruth’s deed, a copy of which he carried with him, would be dated earlier than whatever this man had. Moreover, he now had a hunch that the dead man lying behind him was that same Jimmy McCracken.

  “That’s neither here nor there! Get off my land or be drove off!”

  “Take it easy, Webb!” The sheriff spoke for the first time. “This man may have a just claim. If Tom McCracken sold out before he died, your paper isn’t worth two hoots.”

  That this had occurred to Webb was obvious, and that he did not like it was apparent. Had the sheriff not been present, Ward was sure, there would have been a shooting. As yet, they did not know he was not alone, as none of the Tumbling K men had shown themselves.

  “Sheriff,” McQueen said, “my outfit rode in here about fifteen minutes ago, and we found a dead man in this cabin. Looks like he lost a runnin’ fight with several men, and when his ammunition gave out, they killed him.”

  “Or you shot him,” Webb said.

  Ward did not move from the door. He was a big man, brown from sun and wind, lean and muscular. He wore two guns.

  “I shot nobody.” His tone was level, even. “Sheriff, I’m Ward McQueen. My boss bought this place from McCracken for cash money. The deed was delivered to her, and the whole transaction was recorded in the courts. All that remained was for us to take possession, which we have done.”

  He paused. “The man who is dead inside is unknown to me, but I’m making a guess he’s Jimmy McCracken. Whoever killed him wanted him dead mighty bad. There was quite a few of them, and Jimmy did some good shootin’. One thing you might look for is a couple of wounded men, or somebody else who turns up dead.”

  The sheriff dismounted. “I’ll look around, McQueen. My name’s Foster, Bill Foster.” He waved a hand to the stocky cattleman. “This is Neal Webb, owner of the Runnin’ W.”

  Ward McQueen stepped aside to admit the sheriff, and as he did so Kim Sartain showed up at the corner of the house, having stepped through a window to the outside. Kim Sartain was said to be as good with his guns as McQueen.

  Foster squatted beside the body. “Yeah, this is young Jimmy, all right. Looks like he put up quite a scrap.”

  “He was game,” McQueen said. He indicated the older wound. “He’d been shot somewhere and rode in here, ridin’ for his life. Look at the spurs. He tried to get where there was help but didn’t make it.”

  Foster studied the several wounds and the empty cartridge cases. McQueen told him of the hard-ridden mustang, but the sheriff wanted to see for himself. Watching the old man, McQueen felt renewed confidence. The lawman was careful and shrewd, taking nothing for granted, accepting no man’s unsupported word. That McQueen and his men were in a bad position was obvious.

  Neal Webb was obviously a cattleman of some local importance. The Tumbling K riders were not only strangers but they had been found with the body.

  Webb was alert and aware. He had swiftly catalogued the Tumbling K riders as a tough lot, if pushed. McQueen he did not know, but the K foreman wore his guns with the ease of long practice. Few men carried two guns, most of them from the Texas border country. Nobody he knew of used both at once; the second gun was insurance, but it spoke of a man prepared for trouble.

  Webb scowled irritably. The setup had been so perfect! The old man dead, the gambling debts, and the bill of sale. All that remained was to … and then this outfit appeared with what was apparently a legitimate claim. Who would ever dream the old man would sell out? But how had the sale been arranged? There might still be a way, short of violence.

  What would Silas Hutch say? And Ren Oliver? It angered Webb to realize he had failed, after all his promises. Yet who could have foreseen this? It had all appeared so simple, but who could have believed that youngster would put up a fight like he did? He had been a laughing, friendly young man, showing no sense of responsibility, no steadiness of purpose. He had been inc
lined to sidestep trouble rather than face it, so the whole affair had looked simple enough.

  One thing after another had gone wrong. First, the ambush failed. The kid got through it alive and then made a running fight of it. Why he headed for this place Webb could not guess, unless he had known the Tumbling K outfit was to be here.

  Two of Webb’s best men were dead and three wounded, and he would have to keep them out of sight until they were well again. Quickly, he decided the line cabin on Dry Legget would be the best hideout.

  Foster came from the woods, his face serious.

  “McQueen, you’d better ride along to town with me. I found sign that six or seven men were in this fight, and several were killed or hurt. This requires investigation.”

  “You mean I’m under arrest?”

  “No such thing. Only you’ll be asked questions. We’ll check your deed an’ prob’ly have to get your boss up here. We’re goin’ to get to the bottom of this.”

  “One thing, Foster, before we go. I’d like you to check our guns. Nobody among us has fired a shot for days. I’d like you to know that.”

  “You could have switched guns,” Webb suggested.

  McQueen ignored him. “Kim, why don’t you fork your bronc an’ ride along with us? Baldy, you an’ Bud stay here and let nobody come around unless it’s the sheriff or one of us. Got it?”

  “You bet!” Jackson spat a stream of tobacco juice at an ant. “No-body’ll come around, believe me.”

  Neal Webb kept his mouth shut but he watched irritably. McQueen was thinking of everything, but as Webb watched the body of young McCracken tied over the saddle he had an idea. Jimmy had been well liked around town, so if the story got around that McQueen was his killer, there might be no need for a trial or even a preliminary hearing. It was too bad Foster was so stiff-necked.

  Kim Sartain did not ride with the group. With his Winchester across his saddle bows he kept off to the flank or well back in the rear where the whole group could be watched. Sheriff Foster noted this, and his frosty old eyes glinted with amused appreciation.