Wolves of the Chaparral

by Paul Evan Lehman

  Resistance was out of the question. Steve Moley, after his humiliation at Barry’s hands, would give much to see him under six feet of sod; Palmateer had no liking for Weston; Sam Hodge was sheriff by virtue of Horace Moley’s money and influence. The cards were neatly stacked against him.

  Barry holstered his gun. “Let’s go over and see the judge. I’ll pay the fine and get it over with.”

  “It begins with a J, but it ain’t judge. It’s the inside of the jug you’re goin’ to see. Come along.”

  Hodge took his gun and ordered him to lead the way through the Palace. The crowd of drinkers and gamblers stared at him, their occupations for the moment forgotten, and six gaudily dressed and painted ladies whispered excitedly among themselves. Barry’s unwilling attention was attracted by one of them. She was small and dark and undeniably beautiful, of Mexican extraction. As his gaze met hers he saw the lovely eyes widen slightly, the red lips part as a little Spanish exclamation escaped them. She came forward quickly, stood before Barry, forcing him to halt.

  She addressed the sheriff. “W’ere ees eet you take heem?”

  “To the calaboose. Move aside, Lola.”

  “W’at you take heem for?”

  “Bustin’ up a poker game—disturbin’ the peace—attempted robbery.”

  “One man do all these! He mus’ be ver’ brave.”

  Steve Moley pushed forward and took her by an arm. “Come on, Lola; you’re holdin’ up the parade.”

  For an instant her eyes flamed as she looked up into his face. Steve was smiling, but Barry saw his strong fingers tighten about her arm, saw the girl wince slightly at the pain. Her lashes drooped and she permitted him to turn her aside.

  Barry resumed his walk to the door, passed through the entrance to the street. One of Ace’s gunmen fell in beside him, and with the sheriff following he strode down the plank sidewalk to the jail. Here he was thoroughly searched and locked in a cell.

  Half an hour later, Hodge and the gunman reappeared carrying between them the limp form of Clay Dawn. Barry watched by the light of the single lantern which hung in the corridor as they went through Dawn’s clothes, then dropped him in the adjoining cell and locked the door.

  The jolting he received partly revived young Dawn. As the two left the jail, Barry saw him sit straight up and look about him with wild, unseeing eyes.

  “Crooks!” he mumbled thickly. “Tha’s what you are—crooks! But you won’t get it. Need it for Clement. Need it—to get him—outa—jail.”

  His eyes clouded and the words became a mumble which Barry could not understand. Finally Clay sank back to the floor and in a few seconds was snoring.

  Barry seated himself on the edge of the bunk and ran his fingers through his hair. George Brent had told him that Clement had escaped; the wild words of this sodden youth would indicate that he had been apprehended. If Clement were brought back to Mescal they would hang him; the Moleys would see to that. Greatly disturbed, Barry tossed about until nearly dawn before falling asleep.

  He was awakened by the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor. A rough and surly individual had entered, bearing a pail of water and a bunch of keys. With one of the latter he unlocked the adjoining cell, and with the former thoroughly doused the still sleeping Clay Dawn, who awoke choking and swearing.

  “Clear out,” ordered the jailer. “Sleep it off somewhere else.”

  Clay sat stupidly gazing about him, then, upon being jerked to his feet, stumbled through the doorway and down the corridor to disappear from view. An hour later the jailer reentered the corridor and unlocked the door to Barry’s cell.

  “Front office,” he said. “Somebody to see you.”

  Barry entered the room to find Sam Hodge and Horace Moley awaiting him. His belt and six-gun lay on the officer’s desk. Hodge motioned towards it.

  “Put it on and git out. Mr. Maley says to let you go.”

  The lawyer spoke crisply. “He also says not to come back. Weston, you left here under a cloud. You’re no sooner back than you create a disturbance. We don’t want you in Mescal. Get on your horse and ride—and keep riding.”

  “Suppose I don’t want to leave?”

  Moley’s long face was very cold. “In that case you must suffer the consequences. You are a disagreeable person, Weston, with an unsavory past. I assure you we can make it very difficult for you.”

  Barry reached for his gun belt and buckled it about him ; then he drew the weapon and examined it critically. Replacing it, he eyed them grimly.

  “Mescal happens to be my home. If I ever leave it, it will be on a shutter.”

  “Even that,” said the lawyer softly, “is quite conceivable.”

  He grinned, and it suddenly struck Barry that the long eye teeth of the man resembled greatly the fangs of a predatory wolf.

  CHAPTER V

  QUESTIONS WITHOUT ANSWERS

  BARRY spent a fruitless hour in Mescal searching for Clay Dawn. He wanted to question that young man about his brother, Clement; the news that the elder Dawn had been captured worried him greatly. Among his boyhood friends he numbered Clement first; he was willing to go to almost any length to help him, especially so since he could not bring himself to believe that Clement would shoot a man without first giving him an opportunity to defend himself.

  Failing to locate Clay, Barry rode to the Flying W. He found the supplies he had ordered piled against the back door, from which place his step-father had been too lazy or too indifferent to remove them, and proceeded to carry them inside and stow them away. His mother had had no breakfast, so he fixed something for her, then cooked a meal for himself and ate it thoughtfully.

  It was clear that he was up against a neatly stacked deck. The powers that be had demonstrated right at the start their ability to finish anything he might start. His arrest and detention had been intended as a lesson; his release was for the purpose of ascertaining whether he would profit by it rather than an admission that the case against him was weak.

  Barry smiled grimly. He was no longer a green kid, he didn’t scare worth a darn, and he had learned a lot about men since last they had known him. As for the gunmen of Steve Moley and Ace Palmateer, a gentleman named Colt, plus considerable practice and a natural ability, had rendered Barry capable of standing up to any of them. The lesson must go unheeded; his mother needed him, and he had a hunch the Cinchbuckle needed him too. Most decidely he would remain and see things through.

  He set about washing the dishes and cleaning up, then helped his mother to the gallery and saw her installed in her rocking chair. His step-father was not about, and he did not bother at this time to look him up. The thought of Clement in trouble kept haunting him, and at last he made up his mind to visit the Cinchbuckle.

  Mounting, he rode over the flat basin rangeland, crossing the creek which bisected it. He was on Slash B territory now. Presently he forded the shallow stream which separated Moley’s spread from the Cinchbuckle and headed for the ranch house.

  It was mid-morning when he dismounted at the hitch rack. His halloo brought the cook, who informed him that Clay Dawn had not returned to the ranch and that Barbara was riding with the bank president, Alonzo J. Frothingham. He decided to wait.

  Within the hour they appeared, riding slowly side by side. Barry stood up, hat in hand, waiting for them. Frothingham helped her from her horse and walked with her to where Barry was standing, the victim of a sudden strange shyness.

  The slim, tomboyish Barbara he remembered had blossomed into a beautiful young woman. The brown hair was a shade or two darker, and he caught the reflection of dull bronze where the sunlight struck it. Her features were as he remembered them, only fuller, more softly rounded. The frank blue eyes regarded him in their old direct manner, but Barry thought he could detect a haunted, desperate light in their depths.

  “Good mornin’, Barbara,” he said quietly.

  Her voice was listless. “Hello, Barry. I heard you were back.”

  That was all there was to i
t. Just as though he had been gone a week instead of five years.

  “Mr. Frothingham, this is Mr. Weston.”

  Barry for the first time took account of her escort. He saw a slim, immaculate man of indeterminate age, with light hair and eyes and a close-cropped mustache. His attire was of the latest Eastern pattern, with whipcord riding breeches and boots of soft leather. He smiled engagingly and offered his hand.

  “Weston? Not the chap who spent the night in the calaboose?”

  “The same,” drawled Barry, his eyes narrowed slightly.

  Frothingham laughed. “Pardon me for mentioning the subject, but it was such a glaring frame-up that it amused me. They had to let you go, of course. Clay’s testimony would have knocked their case into a cocked hat. Your mother owns the Flying W, I believe; how is her health?”

  “Poor; but I believe she will get well with the right kind of care. I aim to see she gets it.”

  “Of course you do! Well, I’m glad to have made your acquaintance. I am the president of our local bank, and I’m intensely interested in the basin ranches. Their prosperity means my bread and butter, and I want to work hand in hand with their owners. You have a nice spread, Mr. Weston, if it is properly managed. Should you need financial aid for improvements or repairs, call on me, won’t you? After all, a bank makes money by lending on good security, and I’d ask none better than these basin spreads.”

  “Thank you, sir; I’ll remember that.”

  “Do. Now I must bid you good-morning. Miss Dawn will want to talk with you, and I must be at the bank by noon. Good-by.” He bowed to Barbara, flashed a smile that included both of them, and sprang lightly on his horse.

  “He sure is different from most bankers,” said Barry as Frothingham rode away. “I always thought you had to pry them loose from their money.”

  “Did you want to see me about anything special, Barry?”

  Weston regarded the girl quietly. There was no warmth in her face and the blue eyes were openly hostile. Her attitude puzzled him; surely she must have forgiven him for that quarrel with Steve in her presence five years before.

  “Yes, I did. Shall we sit down?”

  She led the way to the gallery and indicated a chair. For a short space they sat there stiffiy, for all the world like two strangers.

  “You’ve heard about Clay?” he asked abruptly.

  “Yes. Mr. Frothingham told me. Clay hasn’t come home yet; I imagine he is ashamed of himself. As for you—”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought that perhaps after five years you had changed. You haven’t. No sooner are you back than you go hunting for trouble.”

  Barry did not reply. Evidently the story that he had broken into the poker room to get at Steve Moley had reached and impressed her. A streak of stubborn pride possessed him. There would be no corroboration of his story that he had broken in to save Clay; young Dawn was unconscious at the time, and the others had lied and would stick to their lie.

  “I reckon I’d better get right to the point,” he said after a moment. “What’s this about Clement bein’ in jail?”

  It was a brutal question, and it stirred her to the depths. The color left her cheeks, and her eyes went wide.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Clay. But he was in a stupor, and I didn’t know whether he was speakin’ the truth or not.”

  “It’s true,” she said tensely. “Clem got into trouble about a year ago by shooting Cal Garth, one of Steve Maley’s men. It happened behind the Palace and Ace Palmateer and his two bouncers were first on the spot. They kept everybody away until Sheriff Hodge arrived. He swore at the inquest that Cal’s gun was fully loaded and in his holster.”

  “I reckon you know that’s a lie.”

  “Yes. Clem would never do a thing like that!”

  “I understood that he got away.”

  “He did, but—”

  She broke off, and Barry spoke quietly. “I reckon you also knew that, with all my faults, I’m a friend of Clement’s. Barbara, I want you to forget that you don’t like me; I want you to tell me everything so that I can help him.”

  For a moment she regarded him, and he thought the tears were very near. Suddenly she spoke. “Yes, I know that. I’m going to tell you all. Two months ago Horace Maley sent for me and told me Clement was being held in Idaho for—for another murder, but that the matter could be fixed with money. I gave him a thousand dollars and told him I’d raise more. I went to the bank and Mr. Frothingham lent me two thousand dollars on a note.

  “Last week Horace Maley said he must have five thousand more. I went to the bank again and mortgaged some more stock; then we rounded up what three-year-olds we had left, and Clay drove them north and sold them under the market for quick cash. We intended paying it on the notes, but you know what happened last night.”

  “Yes, I know. So you’ve paid Moley eight thousand dollars?”

  “Yes. But it meant Clement’s safety, and I’d sacrifice everything we own for that.”

  “Sure you would, Barbara, you don’t know just where in Idaho Clement is bein’ held?”

  “No. I know nothing except what Mr. Moley told me. He is handling everything.”

  “Do you have receipts for the money you paid him?”

  “Of course not. We can’t put anything in writing. Barry, please don’t interfere. He will handle it; he will get Clement free.”

  “There’s another thing I wanted to ask you about. You’ve been losin’ stock, haven’t you?”

  “We were short at the last roundup, and cattle have been going ever since. Not beef cattle, but breeders. Ike Wetmiller, our foreman, swears the rustling is being done by an outlaw named Tug Groody; but we’ve put night riders on the south and east lines for months at a time, and I would be willing to take my oath that no rustler has crossed our boundaries.”

  “I reckon you heard that I brought a dead man to town with me. He was shot on the trail by an outfit that must have been Tug Groody’s. His name was Tom Slater, and they said he hung around the Cinchbuckle. What do you know about him?”

  “He came here a year ago and told me he was broke. Wanted to use the south line cabin while he prospected. I let him have it. Since I heard of all that money he had I’ve been wondering if he wasn’t in league with the rustlers.”

  “Probably; although five thousand dollars is a big cut.”

  “Is there anything else you want to ask me?”

  “Just one thing more. Barbara, what is it that you hold against me? Why can’t we be friends like we used to be?”

  Her eyes flashed. “It’s because of Clement! He worshipped you; the two of you were together all the time. That quarrel you started with Steve here on this gallery he carried on after you left. It was a fight with Steve that led to the one with Garth. Now he’s in danger of his life, he has brought us worry and shame, all because of you!”

  They were on their feet now, facing each other. Barry’s jaws were set and he spoke almost harshly.

  “He has brought you no shame! Worry, of course; but not shame. Because Clement would never do a shameful thing. Somebody reloaded Garth’s gun and put it back into his holster. As for this story about his murderin’ somebody in Idaho, I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “No. Why should Horace Moley work to get him out of trouble? Clem hated Steve, licked the tar out of him, killed his pet gunman. If Moley knew where he is, he’d move heaven and earth to bring him back here and hang him. The old lobo is bleedin’ you—takin’ your hard-earned money and robbin’ your brother Clay in poker games so as to weaken the Cinchbuckle. I understand he wants the ranch; well, he couldn’t think of any better way of forcin’ you to sell than by takin’ your money away from you.”

  Her face was flaming with anger. “You’re talking about the man who is befriending us, who is going to save Clement for us! Remember where you are.”

  Barry controlled his anger with an effort. “I’m glad you reminded me.
You ordered me off the spread five years ago. I had thought—hoped—that you had forgiven me. I see you haven’t. But I want to say one thing before I go, and that is that I believe Clement is innocent and that I’m goin’ to do my best to prove him so. I know Clement, and I’d back any play of his to the limit. I don’t know Horace Maley, but I believe he’s a crook and a liar and a blackmailer, and I aim to try to prove that too. And when I do, maybe you’ll be ready to welcome me back to the Cinchbuckle again. Goodby.”

  He strode past her and down the steps. She followed him a short distance, her eyes wide and troubled. Almost, she called to him to come back. Then he was on his horse and riding swiftly away from the house, and she finally sighed and returned to her chair. But his words in defense of her brother stirred a little glow within her and made her ashamed of her own lack of faith in Clement.

  Barry rode swiftly until the sweep of the wind had cleared his head and cooled the resentment which had flamed within him. He began to realize that Barbara was not to be too severely criticized for her treatment of him. Steve Maley had declared that Barry had fired on him before he could pull his gun; the quarrel itself must have appeared to her as inspired by petty jealousy; she did not know the truth about the fight in the Palace the night before. And she was quite sincere in her belief that his friendship with Clement had led her brother astray.

  When he had branded Horace Moley as a blackmailer, he had spoken in anger; now, as he considered the matter, he began to wonder if he had not uttered the truth. The idea grew until at last he pulled his horse to a halt and sat staring across the rangeland. Barbara had paid the lawyer eight thousand dollars, and Clay had probably been robbed of another four thousand. Considering the depleted condition of the ranch, this loss should be a heavy one. And Moley did want the Cinchbuckle. If he wanted it badly enough Barry could easily conceive of his descending to any means to acquire it.

  Barry shifted in the saddle and glanced about him. He had forded the little stream and was now on Slash B range. He carried his reasoning a bit farther. If Moley wanted to weaken the Cinchbuckle, rustling of its breeding stock would help. Barbara had guarded the south and east boundaries of the spread, across which rustlers would naturally be expected to strike. The north boundary was the creek which bisected the basin, on the far side of which lay the MB of Matt Billings. The Slash B bounded the Cinchbuckle on the west—and the Slash B was owned by Steve Moley. Granted that the Moleys were actually robbing the Cinchbuckle, Barry’s conclusion was very obvious.