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

by Louis L'Amour

  “Who led ’em?” Foster demanded of Bemis.

  Bemis hesitated, obviously worried. He glanced around to see who might overhear. “Strahan,” he said then. “Bine was in it, too.”

  Foster’s features seemed to age as they watched. For the first time he looked his years.

  “Bring him in,” Foster said. “Then I’ll go after Bine.”

  “No need to.” McQueen jerked his head. “His body’s right back there. Look,” he added, “we’ve started a clean up. We’ll finish it.”

  “You’re forgettin’ something, McQueen! I’m the law. It’s my job.”

  “Hold your horses, Sheriff. You are the law, but Bine is dead. The boys who were with him are on the run, except for Bemis, and we’re turnin’ him over to you. Anybody else who will come willin’ we’ll bring to you.”

  “You ain’t the law,” Foster replied.

  “Then make us the law. Deputize us. You can’t do it alone, so let us help.”

  “Makes me look like a quitter.”

  “Nothing of the kind. Every lawman I know uses deputies, time to time, and I’m askin’ for the job.”

  “All right,” Foster replied reluctantly. “You brought Bemis in when you could have hung him. I guess you aim to do right.”

  Outside the sheriff’s office, Baldy waited for McQueen. “You name it,” he said, as McQueen emerged. “What’s next?”

  “Fox, you, an’ Shorty get down to the Emporium. If Hutch comes out, one of you follow him. Let anybody go in who wants to, but watch him!”

  He turned to Jackson. “Baldy, you get across the street. Just loaf around, but watch that other store.”

  “Watch that female? What d’you take me for? You tryin’ to sidetrack me out of this scrap?”

  “Get goin’ an’ do what you’re told. Kim, you come with me. We’re goin’ to the Bat Cave.”

  Foster stared after them and then walked back into his office. Bemis stood inside the bars of his cell door. “I’m gettin’ old, Bemis,” Foster said. “Lettin’ another man do my job.”

  He sat down in his swivel chair. He was scared—he admitted it to himself. Scared not of guns or violence but of what he might find. Slowly the fog had been clearing, and the things he had been avoiding could no longer be avoided. It was better to let McQueen handle it, much better.

  “Leave it to McQueen.” Bemis clutched the bars. “Believe me, Sheriff, I never thought I’d be glad to be in jail, but I am. Before this day is over men will die.

  “Foster, you should have seen McQueen when he killed Bine! I never would have believed anybody could beat Bine so bad! Bine slapped leather and died, just like that!”

  “But there’s Overlin,” Foster said.

  “Yeah, that will be somethin’ to see. McQueen an’ Overlin.” Suddenly Bemis exclaimed, “Foster! I forgot to tell them about Ren Oliver!”

  “Oliver? Don’t tell me he’s involved?”

  “Involved? He might be the ringleader! The boss man! And he packs a sneak gun! A stingy gun! Whilst you’re expecting him to move for the gun you can see, he kills you with the other one.”

  Foster was on his feet. “Thanks, Bemis. We’ll remember that when you’re up for trial.”

  As Foster went out of the door, Bemis said, “Maybe, but maybe it’s too late!”

  THE BAT CAVE was alive and sinning. It was packed at this hour, and all the tables were busy. Behind one of them, seated where he could face the door, was Ren Oliver. His hair was neatly waved back from his brow, his handsome face composed as he dealt the tricky pasteboards with easy, casual skill. Only his eyes seemed alive, missing nothing. In the stable back of the house where he lived was a saddled horse. It was just a little bit of insurance.

  At the bar, drinking heavily, was Overlin. Like a huge grizzly he hulked against the bar. The more he drank, the colder and deadlier he became. Someday that might change, and he was aware of it. He thought he would know when that time came, but for the present he was a man to be left strictly alone when drinking. He had been known to go berserk. Left alone, he usually drank the evening away, speaking to no one, bothering no one until finally he went home to sleep it off.

  Around him men might push and shove for places at the bar, but they avoided Overlin.

  The smoke-laden atmosphere was thick, redolent of cheap perfume, alcohol, and sweaty, unwashed bodies. The night was chill, so the two stoves glowed red. Two bartenders, working swiftly, tried to keep up with the demands of the customers.

  Tonight was different, and the bartenders had been the first to sense it. Overlin only occasionally came in, and they were always uncomfortable until he left. It was like serving an old grizzly with a sore tooth. But Overlin was only part of the trouble. The air was tense. They could feel trouble.

  The burning of Bear Canyon, the slaying of Chalk Warneke, and the gun battle in Heifer Basin were being talked about, but only in low tones. From time to time, in spite of themselves, their eyes went to Overlin. They were not speculating if he would meet McQueen, but when.

  Overlin called for another drink, and the big gunfighter ripped the bottle from the bartender’s hand and put it down beside him. The bartender retreated hastily, while somebody started a tear-jerking ballad at the old piano.

  The door opened and Ward McQueen stepped in, followed by Kim Sartain.

  Kim, lithe as a young panther, moved swiftly to one side, his eyes sweeping the room, picking up Ren Oliver at once, and then Overlin.

  Ward McQueen did not stop walking until he was at the bar six feet from Overlin. As the big gunman reached again for the bottle, McQueen knocked it from under his hand.

  At the crash of the breaking bottle the room became soundless. Not even the entry of Sheriff Foster was noted, except by Sartain.

  “Overlin, I’m acting as deputy sheriff. I want you out of town by noon tomorrow. Ride, keep riding, and don’t come back.”

  “So you’re McQueen? And you got Bine? Well, that must have surprised Hans. He always thought he was good. Even thought he was better’n me, but he wasn’t. He never saw the day.”

  McQueen waited. He had not expected the man to leave. This would be a killing for one or the other, but he had to give the man a chance to make it official. Proving that he had had a hand in the murder of Jimmy McCracken would have been difficult at best.

  Overlin was different from Bine. It would take a lot of lead to sink that big body.

  “Where’s Strahan?” McQueen demanded.

  Ren Oliver started and then glanced hastily toward the door. His eyes met those of Kim Sartain, and he knew that to attempt to leave would mean a shootout, and he was not ready for that.

  “Strahan, is it? Even if you get by me you’ll never get past him. No need to tell you where he is. He’ll find you when you least expect it.”

  Deliberately, Overlin turned his eyes away from McQueen, reaching for his glass with his left hand. “Whiskey! Gimme some whiskey!”

  “Where is he, Overlin? Where’s Strahan?”

  The men were ready, McQueen knew. Inside of him, Overlin was poised for the kill. McQueen wanted to startle him, to throw him off balance, to wreck his poise. He took a half step closer. “Tell me, you drunken lobo! Tell me!”

  As he spoke he struck swiftly with his left hand and slapped Overlin across his mouth!

  It was a powerful slap and it shocked Overlin. Not since he was a child had anybody dared to strike him, and it shook him as nothing else could have. He uttered a cry of choking rage and went for his gun.

  Men dove for cover, falling over splintering chairs, fighting to get out of range or out the door.

  McQueen had already stepped back quickly, drawn his gun, and then stepped off to the left as he fired, forcing Overlin to turn toward him. McQueen’s first bullet struck an instant before Overlin could fire, and the impact knocked Overlin against the bar, his shot going off into the floor as McQueen fired again.

  Overlin faced around, his shirt bloody, one eye gone, and his gun blazed aga
in. McQueen felt himself stagger, shaken as if by a blow, yet without any realization of where the blow had come from.

  He fired again, and not aware of how many shots he had fired, he drew his left-hand gun and pulled a border shift, tossing the guns from hand to hand to have a fully loaded gun in his right.

  Across the room behind him, another brief drama played itself out. Ren Oliver had been watching and thought he saw his chance. Under cover of the action, all attention centered on McQueen and Overlin, he would kill McQueen. His sleeve gun dropped into his hand and cut down on McQueen, but the instant the flash of blue steel appeared in his hand two guns centered on him and fired: Sartain was at the front door and Sheriff Foster on his left rear. Struck by a triangle of lead, Oliver lunged to his feet, one hand going to his stomach. In amazement, he stared at his bloody hand and his shattered body. Then he screamed.

  In that scream was all the coward’s fear of the death he had brought to so many others. In shocked amazement he stared from Foster to Sartain, both holding guns ready for another shot if need be. Then his legs wilted and he fell, one hand clutching at the falling deck of cards, his blood staining them. He fell, and the table tipped, cascading chips and cards over him and into the sawdust around him.

  At the bar, Overlin stood, indomitable spirit still blazing from his remaining eye. “You—! You—!”

  As he started to fall, his big hand caught at the bar’s rounded edge and he stared at McQueen, trying to speak. Then the fingers gave way and he fell, striking the brass rail and rolling away.

  Ward McQueen turned as if from a bad dream, seeing Kim at the door and Sheriff Foster, gun in hand, inside the rear door.

  Running feet pounded the boardwalk, and the door slammed open. Guns lifted, expectantly.

  It was Baldy Jackson, his face white, torn with emotion. “Ward! Heaven help me! I’ve killed a woman! I’ve killed Sharon Clarity!”

  The scattered spectators were suddenly a mob. “What?” They started for him.

  “Hold it!” McQueen’s gun came up. “Hear him out!”

  Ward McQueen was thumbing shells into his gun. “All right, Baldy. Show us.”

  “Before my Maker, Ward, I figured her for somebody sneakin’ to get a shot at me! I seen the gun, plain as day, an’ I fired!”

  Muttering and angry, the crowd followed. Baldy led the way to an alley behind the store, where they stopped. There lay a still figure in a riding habit. For an instant Ward looked down at that still, strangely attractive face. Then he bent swiftly, and as several cried out in protest he seized Sharon Clarity’s red gold hair and jerked!

  It came free in his hand, and the head flopped back on the earth, the close-cropped head of a man!

  Ward stooped, gripped the neckline, and ripped it away. With the padding removed, all could see the chest of a man, lean, muscular and hairy.

  “Not Sharon Clarity,” he said, “but Strahan.”

  Kim Sartain wheeled and walked swiftly away, McQueen following. As they reached the Emporium, Bud Fox appeared.

  “Nobody left here but that girl. She was in there a long time. The old man started out but we warned him back. He’s inside.”

  Ward McQueen led the way, with Sheriff Foster behind him, then Sartain, Jackson, Fox, and Jones.

  Silas Hutch sat at his battered rolltop desk. His lean jaws seemed leaner than ever. He peered at them from eyes that were mean and cruel. “Well? What’s this mean? Bargin’ in like this?”

  “You’re under arrest, Hutch, for ordering the killing of Jimmy Mc-Cracken and Neal Webb.”

  Hutch chuckled. “Me? Under arrest? You got a lot to learn, boy. The law here answers to me. I say who is to be arrested and who is prosecuted.

  “You got no proof of anything! You got no evidence! You’re talkin’ up the wind, sonny!”

  Baldy Jackson pushed forward. “Ward, this here’s the one I told you about! This is the first time I’ve had a good look at him! He’s Shorty Strahan, the mean one! He’s an uncle, maybe, of that one out there who made such a fine-lookin’ woman!”

  “Hutch, you had your killings done for you. All but one. You killed Chalk Warneke.”

  He turned to Foster. “Figure it out for yourself, Sheriff. Remember the position Chalk was in, remember the crowd, and Warneke on a horse. There’s only one place that shot could come from—that window! And only one man who could have fired it, him!”

  Silas Hutch shrank back in his chair. When Foster reached for him, he cringed. “Don’t let them hang me!” he pleaded.

  “You take it from here, Foster,” McQueen said. “We can measure the angle of that bullet and you’ve got Bemis. He can testify as to the connection between Neal Webb and Hutch as well as that with Chalk. He knows all about it.”

  Ward McQueen turned toward the door. He was tired, very tired, and all he wanted was rest. Besides, his hip bone was bothering him. He had been aware of it for some time, but only now was it really hurting. He looked down, remembering something hitting him during the battle with Overlin.

  His gun belt was somewhat torn and two cartridges dented. A bullet had evidently struck and glanced off, ruining two perfectly good cartridges and giving him a bad bruise on the hip bone.

  “Kim,” he said, “let’s get back to the ranch.”

  Bad Place to Die

  After the rifle shots there was no further sound, and Kim Sartain waited, listening. Beside him Bud Fox held his Winchester ready, eyes roving. “Up ahead,” Kim said finally, “let’s go.” They rode on then, walking their horses and ready for trouble, two tough, hard-bitten young riders, top hands both of them, and top hands at trouble, too.

  Their view of the trail was cut off by a jutting elbow of rock, but when they rounded it they saw the standing, riderless horse and the uncomfortably sprawled figure in the trail. Around and about them the desert air was still and warm, the sky a brassy blue, the skyline lost in a haze of distance along the mountain ridges beyond the wide valley.

  When they reached the body, Kim swung down although already he knew it was useless. A man does not remain alive with half his skull blown off and bullets in his body. The young man who lay there unhappily at trail’s end was not more than twenty, but he looked rugged and capable. His gun was in his holster, which was tied in place.

  “He wasn’t expecting trouble,” Bud Fox said needlessly, “an’ he never knew what hit him.”

  “Dry-gulched.” Kim was narrow of hip and wide of shoulder. There were places east and south of here where they said he was as fast as Wes Hardin or Billy the Kid. He let his dark, cold eyes rove the flat country around them. “Beats me where they could have been hidin’.”

  He knelt over the man and searched his pockets. In a wallet there was a letter and a name card. It said he was JOHNNY FARROW, IN CASE OF ACCIDENT NOTIFY HAZEL MORSE, SAND SPRINGS STAGE STATION. Kim showed this to Bud and they exchanged an expressionless look.

  “We’ll load him up,” Kim said, “an’ then I’ll look around.”

  When the dead man was draped across his own saddle, Kim mounted and, leaving Bud with the body, rode a slow circle around the area. It was lazy warm in the sunshine and Bud sat quietly, his lean, raw-boned body relaxed in the saddle.

  Kim stopped finally, then disappeared completely as if swallowed by the desert. “Deep wash,” Bud Fox said aloud. He got out the makings and rolled a smoke. He looked again at the body. Johnny Farrow had been shot at least six times. “They wanted him dead. Mighty bad, they wanted it.”

  Kim emerged from the desert and rode slowly back. When he drew up he mopped the sweat from his face. “They laid for him there. Had him dead to rights. About twenty-five yards from their target and they used rifles. When they left, they rode off down the wash.”

  “How many?” Bud started his horse walking, the led horse following. Kim Sartain’s horse moved automatically to join them.

  “Three.” Kim scanned the desert. “Nearest place for a drink is Sand Springs. They might have gone there.”

 
They rode on, silence building between them. Overhead a lone buzzard circled, faint against the sky. Sweat trickled down Kim’s face and he mopped it away. He was twenty-two and had been packing a six-gun for seven years. He had started working roundups when he was twelve.

  Neither spoke for several miles, their thoughts busy with this new aspect of their business, for this dead young man was the man they had come far to see. The old days of the Pony Express were gone, but lately it had been revived in this area for the speeding up of mail and messages. Young Johnny Farrow had been one of the dozen or so riders.

  Both Sartain and Fox were riders for the Tumbling K, owned by Ruth Kermitt and ramrodded by Ward McQueen. One week ago they had been borrowed from the ranch by an old friend and were drifting into this country to investigate three mysterious robberies of gold shipments. Those shipments had been highly secret, but somehow that secret had become known to the outlaws. The messages informing the receiving parties of the date of the shipment had been sent in pouches carried by Johnny Farrow. Five shipments had been sent, two had arrived safely. Those two had not been mentioned in messages carried by Farrow.

  The mystery lay in the fact that the pouches were sealed and locked tightly with only one other key available, and that at the receiving end. Johnny Farrow’s ride was twenty-five miles, which took him an even four hours. This route had been paced beforehand by several riders, and day in and day out, four hours was fast time for it. There were three changes of horses, and no one of them took the allowed two minutes. So how could anyone have had access to those messages? Yet the two messages carried by other riders had gone through safely. And the secret gold shipments had gone through because of that fact.

  “Too deep for me,” Fox said suddenly. “Maybe we should stick to chasin’ rustlers or cows. I can’t read the brand on this one.”

  “We’ll trail along,” Kim said, “an’ we got one lead. One o’ the hombres in this trick is nervous-like, with his fingers. He breaks twigs.” Sartain displayed several inch-long fragments of dead greasewood. Then he put them in an envelope and wrote across it, FOUND WHERE KILLERS WAITED FOR JOHNNY FARROW, and then put it in his vest pocket.