“What about the trouble? Has it been shooting trouble?”
“It has, but it started before we got here.” He told her about the killing of McCracken, then his own brush with rustlers, and the fight with Flagg Warneke and the killing of Warneke’s brother before he could talk. And then the killing of Neal Webb.
“Then he wasn’t the one?”
“Ruth, I believe Webb had played out his usefulness to whoever is behind this, who deliberately had Webb killed, with the hope of implicating me. He’d have done it, too, but for Warneke.”
“He must be a strange man.”
“He’s a big man. You’ll see him. He’s also a violent man, but at heart he’s a decent fellow. Some men get off on the wrong foot simply because there doesn’t seem any other way to go.
“Without him, I think that Bear Canyon outfit will drift out and move away. I doubt if they will try to rebuild what was destroyed.”
“Ward, we’ve been over this before. I hate all this violence! The fighting, the killing! It’s awful! My own brother was killed. But you know all that. It was you who pulled us out of that.”
“I don’t like it, either, but it is growing less, Ruth, less with each year. The old days are almost gone. What we have here is somebody who is utterly ruthless, someone who has no respect for human life at all. You’re inclined to find good in everybody, but in some people there just isn’t any.
“Whoever is behind this, and I’ve a hunch who it is, is someone who is prepared to kill and kill until he has all he wants. He’s undoubtedly been successful in the past, which makes it worse.
“No honest man would have such men as Hansen Bine and Overlin around. They did not ride for Webb—we know that now. They ride for whomever it was Webb was fronting for.
“I’ve got to ride down to Dry Leggett and roust out those wounded men, but you must be careful, Ruth—this man will stop at nothing.”
“But I’m a woman!”
“I don’t believe that would matter with this man. He’s not like a western man.”
“Be careful, Ward! I just couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”
As they talked, they had wandered out under the trees, and when they returned to the house only Baldy was awake.
“Wonder folks wouldn’t eat their supper ’stead of standin’ around in the dark! A body would think you two wasn’t more’n sixteen!”
“Shut up, you old squaw man,” Ward said cheerfully, “an’ set up the grub! I’m hungry enough to eat even your food.”
“Why, Ward!” Ruth protested. “How can you talk like that? You know there isn’t a better cook west of the Brazos!”
Baldy perked up. “See? See there? The boss knows a good cook when she sees one! Why you an’ these cowhands around here never knowed what good grub was until I came along! You et sowbelly an’ half-baked beans so long you wouldn’t recognize real vittles when you see ’em!”
A yell interrupted Ward’s reply. “Oh, Ward? Ward McQueen!” Baldy Jackson turned impatiently and opened the door. “What the—!”
A bullet struck him as a gun bellowed in the night, and Baldy spun half around, dropping the coffeepot. Three more shots, fast as a man could lever a rifle, punctured the stillness. The light went out as Ward extinguished it with a quick puff and dropped to the floor, pulling Ruth down with him.
As suddenly as it had begun it ended. In the stillness that followed they heard a hoarse gasping from Baldy. Outside, all was dark and silent except for the pounding of hoofs receding in the distance.
As he turned to relight the lamp, there was another shot, this from down the trail where the rider had gone. Glancing out, Ward saw a flare of fire against the woods.
“Take care of Baldy!” he said, and went out fast.
He grabbed a horse from the corral, slipped on a halter, and went down the trail riding bareback. As he drew near the fire he heard pounding hoofs behind him and slowed up, lifting a hand.
Suddenly he saw a huge man standing in the center of the trail, both hands uplifted so there would be no mistakes.
“McQueen! It’s me! I got him!” the man shouted. It was Flagg Warneke.
McQueen swung down, as did Kim Sartain, who had ridden up behind him. A huge pile of grass, dry as tinder, lay in the center of the road, going up in flames. Nearby lay a rider. He was breathing, but there was blood on his shirtfront and blood on the ground.
Warneke said, “I was ridin’ to begin work tomorrow and I heard this hombre yell, heard the shot, so I throwed off my bronc, grabbed an armful of this hay McCracken had cut, and throwed it into the road. As this gent came ridin’ I dropped a match into the hay. He tried to shoot me, but this here ol’ Spencer is quick. He took a .56 right in the chest.”
It was the sallow-faced rider Ward had seen before, one of those who had ridden in the posse. “Want to talk?” he asked.
“Go to the devil! Wouldn’t if I could!”
“What’s that mean? Why couldn’t you talk?”
The man raised himself to one elbow, coughing. “Paid me from a holler tree,” he said. “I seen nobody. Webb, he told me where I’d get paid an’ how I’d—how I’d get word.”
The man coughed again and blood trickled over his unshaved chin.
“Maybe it was a woman,” he spoke clearly, suddenly. Then his supporting arm seemed to go slack and he fell back, his head striking the ground with a thump. The man was dead.
“A woman?” Ward muttered. “Impossible!”
Warneke shook his head. “Maybe—I ain’t so sure. Could be anybody.”
When the sun was high over the meadows, Ward McQueen was riding beside Ruth Kermitt near a cienaga, following a creek toward Spur Lake. They had left the ranch after daybreak and had skirted some of the finest grazing land in that part of the country. Some areas that to the uninitiated might have seemed too dry she knew would support and fatten cattle. Much seemingly dry brush was good fodder.
“By the way,” Ruth inquired, “have you ever heard of a young man, a very handsome young man named Strahan?
“When I was in Holbrook there was a Pinkerton man there who was inquiring about this man. He is badly wanted, quite a large reward offered. He held up a Santa Fe train, killing a messenger and a passenger. That was about four months ago. Before that he had been seen around this part of the country, as well as in Santa Fe. Apparently he wrecked another train, killing and injuring passengers. Each time he got away he seemed headed for this part of the country.”
“Never heard of him,” Ward admitted, “but we’re newcomers.”
“The Pinkerton man said he was a dead shot with either rifle or pistol, and dangerous. They trailed him to Alma once, and lost him again on the Gila, southeast of here.”
They rode on, Ward pointing out landmarks that bordered the ranch. “The Firebox has the best range around,” he explained. “The Spur Lake country, all the valley of Centerfire, and over east past the Dry Lakes to Apache Creek.
“There’s timber, with plenty of shade for the hot months, and most of our range has natural boundaries that prevent stock from straying.”
“What about this trouble you’re having, Ward? Will it be over soon or hanging over our heads for months?”
“It won’t hang on. We’re going to have a showdown. I’m taking some of the boys, and we’re going to round up some of the troublemakers. I’m just sorry that Baldy is laid up. He knows this country better than any of us.”
“You’ll have trouble leaving him behind, Ward. That was only a flesh wound, even though he lost blood. It was more shock than anything else.”
They turned their horses homeward. Ward looked at the wide, beautiful country beyond Centerfire as they topped the ridge. “All this is yours, Ruth. You’re no wife for a cowhand now.”
“Now don’t start that! We’ve been over it before! Who made it all possible for me? If you had not come along when you did I’d have nothing! Just nothing at all! And if my brother had not been killed he could not have handled
this! Not as you have! He was a fine boy, and no girl ever had a better brother, but he wasn’t the cattleman you are.
“And it isn’t only that, Ward. You’ve worked long and you’ve built my ranch into something worthwhile. At least twice you’ve protected me when I was about to do something foolish. By rights half of it should belong to you, anyway!”
“Maybe what I should do is leave and start a brand of my own. Then I could come back with something behind me.”
“How long would that take, Ward?” She put her hand over his on the pommel. “Please, darling, don’t even think about it! The thought of you leaving makes me turn cold all over! I have depended on you, Ward, and you’ve never failed me.”
They rode on in silence. A wild turkey flew up and then vanished in the brush. Ahead of them two deer, feeding early, jumped off into the tall grass and disappeared along the stream.
“Don’t you understand? I’m trying to see this your way. You’ve told me what has to be done and I’m leaving it up to you. I’m not going to interfere. I’m a woman, Ward, and I can’t bear to think of you being hurt. Or any of the other boys, for that matter. I’m even more afraid of how all this killing will affect you. I couldn’t stand it if you became hard and callous!”
“I know what you mean but there’s no need to worry about that now. Once, long ago, maybe. Every time I ride into trouble I hate it, but a man must live and there are those who will ride roughshod over everybody, given a chance. Unfortunately force is the only way some people understand.”
When they dismounted at the cabin, she said, “You’re riding out tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Then good luck!” She turned quickly and went into the house.
Ward stared after her, feeling suddenly alone and lost. Yet he knew there was no need for it. This was his woman, and they both understood that. She had come with a considerable investment, but with too little practical knowledge of range or cattle. With his hands, his savvy, and his gun he had built most of what she now possessed.
Under his guidance she had bought cattle in Texas, fattened them on the trail north, sold enough in Kansas to pay back her investment, and driven the remainder further west. Now she controlled extensive range in several states. Alone she never could have done it.
Kim came down from the bunkhouse. “Tomorrow, Ward?”
“Bring plenty of ammunition, both rifle and pistol. I’ll want you, Bud Fox, Shorty Jones, and—”
“Baldy? Boss, if you don’t take him it’ll kill him. Or you’ll have to hog-tie him to his bunk, and I’m damned if I’d help you! That ol’ catamount’s a-rarin’ to go, an’ he’s already scared you’re plannin’ to leave him behind.”
“Think he can stand the ride?”
Kim snorted. “Why, that ol’ devil will be sittin’ a-saddle when you an’ me are pushin’ up daisies! He’s tougher ’n rawhide an’ whalebone.”
DAYLIGHT CAME AGAIN as the sun chinned itself on the Continental Divide, peering over the heights of the Tularosas and across the Frisco River. In the bottom of the Box, still deep in shadow, rode a small cavalcade of horsemen. In the lead, his battered old hat tugged down to cover his bald spot from the sun, rode Baldy Jackson.
Behind him, with no talking, rode McQueen, Sartain, Fox, and Jones. They rode with awareness, knowing trouble might explode at any moment. Each man knew what he faced on this day, and once begun there’d be no stopping. It was war now, a war without flags or drums, a grim war to the death.
For some reason Ward found his thoughts returning time and again to Ruth’s account of the Pinkerton who was trailing the handsome killer named Strahan. It was a name he could not remember having heard.
He questioned Baldy. “Strahan? Never heard of a youngster by that name, but there was some folks lived hereabouts some years back named that. A bloody mean outfit, too! Four brothers of them! One was a shorty, a slim, little man but mean as pizen. The others were big men. The oldest one got hisself shot by one o’ them Lincoln County gun-fighters. Jesse Evans it was, or some friend of his.
“Two of the others, or maybe it was only one of them, got themselves hung by a posse somewhere in Colorado. If this here Strahan is one o’ them, watch yourselves because he’d be a bad one.”
Their route kept the ridge of the Friscos on their left, and when they stopped at Baldy’s uplifted hand they were on the edge of a pine-covered basin in the hills.
Ward turned in his saddle and said, “This here’s Heifer Basin. It’s two miles straight ahead to Dry Leggett. I figure we should take a rest, check our guns, and get set for trouble. If Hansen Bine is down there, this will be war!”
Dismounting, they led their horses into the trees. Baldy located a spring he knew and they sat down beside it. McQueen checked his guns and then slid them back into their holsters. He rarely had to think of reloading, for it was something he did automatically whenever he used a gun.
“Mighty nice up here,” Kim commented. “I always did like high country.”
“That’s what I like about cowboyin’,” Shorty Jones commented. “It’s the country you do it in.”
“You ever rode in west Texas when the dust was blowin’?” Bud wanted to know.
“I have, an’ I liked it. I’ve rid nearly every kind of country you can call to mind.”
“Ssh!” Ward McQueen came to his feet in one easy movement. “On your toes! Here they come!”
Into the other end of the basin rode a small group of riders. There were six men, and the last one McQueen recognized as Hansen Bine himself.
Kim Sartain moved off to the right. Baldy rolled over behind a tree trunk and slid his Spencer forward. Jones and Fox scattered in the trees to the left of the spring.
McQueen stepped out into the open. “Bine! We’re takin’ you in! Drop your gun belts!”
Hansen Bine spurred his horse to the front and dropped from the saddle when no more than fifty paces away. “McQueen, is it? If you’re takin’ me you got to do it the hard way!”
He went for his gun.
McQueen had expected it, and the flat, hard bark of his pistol was a full beat before Bine’s. The bullet struck Bine as his gun was coming up, and he twisted sharply with the impact. Ward walked closer, his gun poised. Around him and behind him he heard the roar of guns, and as Bine fought to bring his gun level McQueen shot again.
Bine fell, dug his fingers into the turf, heaved himself trying to rise, and then fell and lay quiet.
Ward looked around to find only empty saddles and one man standing, his left hand high, his right in a sling.
“Your name?”
“Bemis.” The man’s face was pale with shock, but he was not afraid. “I did no shooting. Never was no good with my left hand.”
“All right, Bemis. You’ve been trailing with a pack of coyotes, but if you talk you can beat a rope. Who pays you?”
“Bine paid me. Where he got it, I don’t know.” His eyes sought McQueen’s. “You won’t believe me but I been wantin’ out of this ever since the McCracken shootin’. That was a game kid.”
“You helped kill him,” McQueen replied coldly. “Who else was in it? Who ran that show?”
“Somebody I’d not seen around before. Young, slight build, but a ring-tailed terror with a gun. He came in with Overlin. Sort of blondish. I never did see him close up. None of us did, ’cept Overlin.” Bemis paused again. “Said his name was Strahan.”
That name again! The Pinkerton man had been right. Such a man was in this country, hiding out or whatever. Could it be he who was behind this? That did not seem logical. Strahan by all accounts was a holdup man, gunfighter, whatever, not a cattleman or a cautious planner.
“You goin’ to hang me?” Bemis demanded. “If you are, get on with it. I don’t like waitin’ around.”
McQueen turned his eyes on Bemis, and the young cowhand stared back, boldly. He was a tough young man, but old in the hard ways of western life.
“You’ll hang, all right. If not now, eventual
ly. That’s the road you’ve taken. But as far as I’m concerned that’s up to the law. Get on your horse.”
The others were mounted, and Bine was lying across a saddle. Kim looked apologetic. “He’s the only one, boss. The rest of them lit out like who flung the chunk. I think we winged a couple here or there, but they left like their tails was a-fire.”
Kim Sartain looked at Bemis. “Dead or gone, all but this one. Maybe on the way in—you know, boss, it’s easier to pack a dead man than a live one.”
Bemis looked from Sartain to McQueen and back. “Now, see here!” he said nervously. “I said I didn’t know who did the payin’, but I ain’t blind. Bine an’ Overlin, they used to see somebody, or meet somebody, in the Emporium. There or the Bat Cave. They used to go to both places.”
“So do half the men in the county,” McQueen said. “I’ve been in both places, myself.” He paused. “How about Strahan?”
“Never seen him before—or since.”
“Put him on a horse and tie him,” McQueen said. “We’ll give him to Foster.”
WARD LED THE WAY toward Pelona. There trouble awaited, he knew, and secretly he hoped Foster would be out of town. He wanted no trouble with the old lawman. Foster was a good man in his own way, trying to steer a difficult course in a county where too many men were ready to shoot. Foster was a typical western sheriff, more successful in rounding up rustlers, horse thieves, and casual outlaws than in dealing with an enemy cunning as a prairie wolf and heartless as a lynx.
They rode swiftly down the S U Canyon to the Tularosa, and then across Polk Mesa to Squirrel Springs Canyon. It was hard riding, and the day was drawing to a close when they reached the plains and cut across toward Pelona. They had ridden far and fast, and both men and horses were done in when they walked their horses up the dusty street to the jail.
Foster came to the door to greet them, glancing from McQueen to Bemis.
“What’s the matter with him?”
“He rode with the crowd that killed Jimmy McCracken. Jimmy gave him the bad arm. I’ve brought him in for trial.”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 7 Page 51