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

by Louis L'Amour

  She paused, frowning a little. “It puzzles me a little. Warneke isn’t usually quarrelsome. That’s the first time I ever saw him start a fight.”

  “Somebody may have given him an idea. I hadn’t had time to even think about Bear Canyon. I haven’t even ridden over the ranch, and yet he had the idea we were about to run them off.”

  She looked at him appraisingly, having grown up with four brawling brothers she knew something about men. This one had fought coolly, skillfully. “You’ve started something you know. That Bear Canyon outfit is tough. Even Neal Webb’s boys fight shy of them.”

  “Webb has a tough outfit?”

  “You’ve seen some of them. There are two or three known killers in the bunch. Why he keeps them, I couldn’t say.”

  “Like Bemis, for example?”

  “You know Harve Bemis? He’s one of them, but not the worst by a long shot. The worst ones are Overlin and Bine.”

  These were names he knew. Bine he had never seen, but he knew a good deal about him, as did any cattleman along the border country of Texas. An occasional outlaw and suspected rustler, he had run with the Youngers in Missouri before riding south to Texas.

  Overlin was a Montana gunhand known around Bannock and Alder Gulch, but he had ridden the cattle trails from Texas several times and was a skilled cowhand, as well. McQueen had seen him in Abilene and at Doan’s Crossing. On that occasion he himself had killed an outlaw who was trying to cut the herd with which McQueen was riding. The fact that such men rode with Webb made the situation serious.

  He purchased several items and then hired a man with a wagon to freight the stuff to the Firebox. Kim Sartain was loitering in front of the saloon when McQueen came down to get his horse.

  “Bemis ain’t around,” he confided, “an’ it’s got folks wonderin’ because he usually plays poker at the Bat Cave Saloon. Nobody’s seen him around for several days.” He paused. “I didn’t ask. I just listened.”

  FOR THREE DAYS the Firebox was unmolested, and in those three days much was accomplished. The shake roof needed fixing, and some fences had to be repaired. Baldy had that job and when he finished he stood back and looked it over with satisfaction. “Bud, that there’s an elephant-proof fence.”

  “Elephant proof? You mean an elephant couldn’t get past that fence? You’re off your trail!”

  “Of course it’s elephant proof. You don’t see any elephants in there, do you?”

  Bud Fox just looked at him and rode away.

  All hands were in the saddle from ten to twelve hours a day. The cattle were more numerous than expected, especially the younger stuff. Several times McQueen cut trails made by groups of riders, most of them several days old. Late on the afternoon of the third day he rode down the steep slope to the bottom of a small canyon near the eastern end of the Dillons and found blood on the grass.

  The stain was old and dark but unmistakably blood. He walked his horse around, looking for sign. He found a leaf with blood on it, then another. The blood had come from someone riding a horse, a horse that toed in slightly. Following the trail he came to where several other horsemen had joined the wounded man. One of the other horses was obviously a led horse.

  Men had been wounded in the fight with McCracken. Could these be the same? If so, where were they going? He rode on over the Dillons and off what was accepted as Firebox range. He had crossed a saddle to get into this narrow canyon, but further along it seemed to open into a wider one. He pushed on, his Winchester in his hands.

  The buckskin he rode was a mountain horse accustomed to rough travel. Moreover, it was fast and had stamina, the sort of horse a man needed when riding into trouble. The country into which he now ventured was unknown to him, wild and rough. The canyon down which he rode opened into a wider valley that tightened up into another deep, narrow canyon.

  Before him was a small stream. The riders had turned down canyon.

  It was dusk and shadows gathered in the canyons, only a faint red glow from the setting sun crested the rim of the canyon. Towering black walls lifted about him, and on the rocky edge across the way a dead, lightning-blasted pine pointed a warning finger from the cliff. The narrow valley was deep, and the only sound other than from the stream was a faint rustling. Then wind sighed in the junipers and the buckskin stopped, head up, ears pricked.

  “Ssh!” he whispered, putting a warning hand on the buckskin’s neck. “Take it easy, boy. Take it easy now.”

  The horse stepped forward, seeming almost to walk on tiptoe. This was the Box, one of the deepest canyons in the area. McCracken had spoken of it during their discussions that led to his sale of the ranch.

  Suddenly he glimpsed a faint light on the rock wall. Speaking softly to the buckskin he slid from the saddle, leaving his rifle in the scabbard.

  Careful to allow no jingle of spurs he felt his way along the sandy bottom. Rounding a shoulder of rock he saw a small campfire and the moving shadow of a man in a wide hat. Crouching near a bush he saw that shadow replaced by another, a man with a bald head.

  In the silence of the canyon, where sounds were magnified, he heard a voice. “Feelin’ better, Bemis? We’ll make it to Dry Leggett tomorrow.”

  The reply was huskier, the tone complaining. “What’s the boss keepin’ us so far away for? Why didn’t he have us to the Runnin’ W? This hole I got in me is no joke.”

  “You got to stay under cover. We’re not even suspected, an’ we won’t be if we play it smart.”

  His eyes picked out three men lying near the fire, one with a bandaged head. One of those who was on his feet was preparing a meal. From the distance he could just make out their faces, the shape of their shoulders, and of the two on their feet, the way they moved. Soon he might be fighting these men, and he wanted to know them on sight. The man in the wide hat turned suddenly toward him.

  Hansen Bine!

  Never before had he seen the man but the grapevine of the trails carried accurate descriptions of such men and of places as well. Gunfighters were much discussed, more than prizefighters or baseball players, even more than racehorses or buckers.

  Bine was known for his lean, wiry body, the white scar on his chin, and his unnaturally long, thin fingers.

  “What’s the matter, Bine?” Bemis asked.

  “Somethin’ around. I can feel it.”

  “Cat, maybe. Lots of big ones in these canyons. I saw one fightin’ a bear, one time. A black bear. No lion in his right mind would tackle a grizzly.”

  Bine looked again into the night and then crossed to the fire and seated himself. “Who d’you reckon those riders were who went to the cabin after we left? I saw them headed right for it.”

  “The boss, maybe. He was supposed to show up with the sheriff.”

  There was silence except for the crackling of the fire, only barely discernible at the distance. The flames played shadow games on the rock wall. Then Bemis spoke, “I don’t like it, Hans. I don’t like it at all. I been shot before, but this one’s bad. I need some care. I need a doctor.”

  “Take it easy, Bemis. You’ll get there, all in good time.”

  “I don’t like it. Sure, he doesn’t want nobody to know, but I don’t want to die, either.”

  Talk died down as the men sat up to eat, and Ward drew carefully back and walked across the sand to his horse. He swung into the saddle and turned the animal, but as the buckskin lined out to go back along the canyon its hoof clicked on stone!

  He had believed himself far enough away not to be heard, but from behind him he heard a startled exclamation, and Ward put the horse into a lope in the darkness. From behind him there was a challenge and then a rifle shot, but he was not worried. The shot would have been fired on chance, as Ward knew he could not be seen and there was no straight shot possible in the canyon.

  He rode swiftly, so swiftly that he realized he had missed his turn and was following a route up a canyon strange to him. The bulk of the Dillons arose on his right instead of ahead or on his left as they shou
ld be. By the stars he could see that the canyon up which he now rode was running east and west and he was headed west. Behind him he heard sounds of pursuit but doubted they would follow far.

  The riding was dangerous, as the canyon was a litter of boulders and the trunks of dead trees. A branch canyon opened and he rode into it, his face into a light wind. He heard no further sounds of pursuit and was pleased, wanting no gun battle in these narrow, rock-filled canyons where a ricochet could so easily kill or wound a man. He saw the vague gleam of water and rode his horse into a small mountain stream. Following the stream for what he guessed was close to a mile, he found his way out of the stream to a rocky shelf. A long time later he came upon a trail and the shape of some mountains he recognized.

  As he rode he considered what he had heard. Harve Bemis, as he suspected, had been one of those who attacked Jimmy McCracken. More than likely Bine had been there as well. That, even without what else he knew of Neal Webb, placed the attack squarely on Webb’s shoulders.

  With Jimmy McCracken slain and a forged bill of sale, Webb would have been sure nothing could block his claim to the Firebox range.

  So what would he do now? Relinquish his attempt to seize the Firebox and let the killing go for nothing? All McQueen’s experience told him otherwise. Webb would seek some other way to advance his claim, and he would seek every opportunity to blacken the reputation of the Tumbling K riders.

  The men he had seen in the canyon were headed for Dry Leggett. Where was that? What was it? That he must find out, also he must have a talk with Sheriff Bill Foster.

  Ruth Kermitt would not like this. She did not like trouble, and yet those who worked for her always seemed to be fighting to protect her interests. Of late she had refused to admit there might be occasions when fighting could not be avoided. She had yet to learn that in order to have peace both sides must want it equally. One side cannot make peace; they can only surrender.

  He had been in love with Ruth since their first meeting, and they had talked of marriage. Several times they had been on the verge of it but something always intervened. Was it altogether accident? Or was one or both of them hesitating?

  He shook such thoughts from his head. This was no time for personal considerations. He was a ranch foreman with a job to do, a job that might prove both difficult and dangerous. He must put the Firebox on a paying basis.

  Their Nevada ranch was still the home ranch, but Ruth had bought land in other states, in Arizona and New Mexico as well as Utah, and she had traded profitably in cattle. One of the reasons for his hesitation, if he was hesitating, was because Ruth Kermitt was so wealthy. He himself had done much to create that wealth and to keep what she had gained. From the time when he had saved her herd in Nevada he had worked untiringly. He knew cattle, horses, and men. He also knew range conditions. The Tumbling K range fattened hundreds of white-faced cattle. The Firebox, further south and subject to different weather conditions, could provide a cushion against disaster on the northern range she had bought, on his advice, for a bargain price. Old Tom and young Jimmy had planned to return to a property they owned in Wyoming. As Tom had known Ruth’s father, he offered her a first chance.

  On Ward’s advice she had purchased land around water holes, ensuring her of water so they would control much more land than they owned.

  It was almost daybreak when McQueen rolled into his bunk in the Firebox bunkhouse. Sartain opened an eye and glanced at him curiously. Then he went back to sleep. Kim asked no questions and offered no comments but missed little.

  BALDY JACKSON was putting breakfast together when McQueen awakened. He sat up on his bunk and called out to Baldy in the next room. “Better get busy and muck this place out,” Ward suggested. “Ruth—Miss Kermitt—may be down before long.”

  “Ain’t I got enough to do? Cookin’ for you hungry coyotes, buildin’ fence, an’ mixin’ ’dobe? This place is good enough for a bunch of thistle-chinned cowhands.”

  “You heard me,” McQueen said cheerfully. “And while you’re at it, pick out a cabin site for the boss. One with a view. She will want a place of her own.”

  “Better set up an’ eat. You missed your supper.”

  “Where’s the boys? Aren’t they eating?”

  “They et an’ cleared out hours ago.” Baldy glanced at him. “What happened last night? Run into somethin’?”

  “Yes, I did.” He splashed water on his face and hands. “I came upon a camp of five men, three of them wounded. They were headed for a place called Dry Leggett.”

  “Canyon west of the Plaza.”

  “Plaza?”

  “Kind of settlement, mostly Mexicans. Good people. A few ’dobes, a couple of stores, and a saloon or two.”

  “How well do you know this country, Baldy?”

  Jackson gave him a wry look. “Pretty well. I punched cows for the S U south of here, and rode into the Plaza more times than I can recall. Been over around Socorro. Back in the old days I used to hole up back in the hills from time to time.”

  Baldy was a good cowhand and a good cook, but in his younger years he had ridden the outlaw trail until time brought wisdom. Too many of his old pals had wound up at the end of a rope.

  “Maybe you can tell me where I was last night. I think I was over around what they used to call the Box.” He described the country and Baldy listened, sipping coffee. “Uh-huh,” he said finally, “that canyon you hit after crossing the Dillons must have been Devil. You probably found them holed up in the Box or right below it. Leavin’, you must have missed Devil Canyon and wound up on the south fork of the ’Frisco. Then you come up the trail along the Centerfire and home.”

  Racing hoofs interrupted. McQueen put down his cup as Bud Fox came through the door.

  “Ward, that herd we gathered in Turkey Park is gone! Sartain trailed ’em toward Apache Mountain!”

  “Wait’ll I get my horse.” Baldy jerked off his apron.

  “You stay here!” McQueen told him. “Get down that Sharps an’ be ready. Somebody may have done this just to get us away from the cabin. Anyway, I’ve a good idea who is responsible.”

  Riding swiftly, Fox led him to the tracks. Kim Sartain had followed after the herd. The trail skirted a deep canyon, following an intermittent stream into the bed of the Apache, and then crossed the creek into the rough country beyond.

  Suddenly McQueen drew up, listening. Ahead of them they heard cattle lowing. Kim came down from the rocks.

  “Right up ahead. Four of the wildest, roughest-lookin’ hands I’ve seen in years.”

  “Let’s go,” McQueen said. Touching spurs to his horse as he plunged through the brush and hit the flat land at a dead run with the other two riders spreading wide behind him. The movements of the cattle killed the sound of their charge until they were almost up to the herd. Then one of the rustlers turned and slapped a hand for his six-shooter. McQueen’s gun leaped to his hand and he chopped it down, firing as it came level. The rush of his horse was too fast for accurate shooting and his bullet clipped the outlaw’s horse across the back of the neck. It dropped in its tracks, spilling its rider. Ward charged into him, knocking him sprawling, almost under the hoofs of the buckskin.

  Swinging wide McQueen saw that Sartain had downed his man, but the other two were converging on Bud Fox. Both swung away when they saw Kim and McQueen closing in. One of them swung a gun on Kim and Kim’s gun roared. The man toppled from the saddle and the last man quickly lifted his hands.

  He was a thin, hard-featured man with narrow, cruel eyes. His hair was uncut, his jaws unshaved. His clothing was ragged. There was nothing wrong with his gun, it was new and well kept.

  Now his face, despite its hardness, wore a look of shock. His eyes went from McQueen to Sartain to Fox. “You boys shoot mighty straight but you’ll wish you never seen the day!”

  Fox took his rope from the saddle tree. “He’s a rustler, Ward, caught in the act, an’ there’s plenty of good trees.”

  “Now, look!” The man protested, su
ddenly frightened.

  “What gave you the idea you could run off our stock?” Ward asked.

  “Nothin’. The stock was in good shape.” He looked suddenly at McQueen, who still wore the marks of battle. “You’re the gent who whipped Flagg! He’ll kill you for that, if not for this. You won’t live a week.”

  “Bud, tie this man to his saddle an’ tie him tight. We’ll take him into town for the law to handle. Then we’ll visit Bear Canyon.”

  “You’ll do what?” their prisoner sneered. “Why, you fool! Flagg will kill you! The whole bunch will!”

  “No,” Ward assured him, “they will not. If they’d left my stock alone they could have stayed. Now they will get out or be burned out. That’s the message I’m taking to them.”

  “Wait a minute.” The man’s eyes were restless. Suddenly his arrogance was gone and he was almost pleading. “Lay off Bear Canyon! This was none o’ their doin’, anyway.”

  “You’re talking,” Ward said, and waited.

  “Neal Webb put us up to it. Promised us fifteen bucks a head for every bit of your stock we throwed into the Sand Flats beyond Apache.”

  “Will you say that to a judge?”

  His face paled. “If you’ll protect me. That Webb outfit, they kill too easy to suit me.”

  WHEN THEY RODE down the street of Pelona to the sheriff’s office the town sprawled lazy in the sunshine. By the time they reached the sheriff’s office nearly fifty men had crowded around. Foster met them at the door, his shrewd old eyes going from McQueen to the rustler.

  “Well, Chalk Warneke,” he spat, “looks like you run into the wrong crowd.” His eyes shifted to McQueen. “What’s he done?”

  “Rustled a herd of Firebox stock. He related to Flagg?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Brother. Was it him alone?”

  “There were four of them. The other three were in no shape to bring back. They won’t be talkin’. This one will.”

  A man at the edge of the crowd turned swiftly and hurried away. McQueen’s eyes followed him. He went up the walk to the Emporium. A moment later Ren Oliver emerged and started toward them.