He chuckled. “Why, I reckon that’s a good deal,” he said whimsically. “The cheapest durned horse I ever got!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
* * *
TOUGH MEN
Nobody will ever know how many people went west and just disappeared. Some were killed in Indian attacks; others died of thirst or were killed in stampedes or other accidents. The day-to-day work was rough and hard, and often a man was working alone. If hurt, he had to treat his injuries himself and survive if he could. Many a lonely grave beside the trail carries a marker from which the weather has long wiped out the name.
Relatives and friends in the east waited anxiously for letters that never came. Often, a woman thought herself deserted when it was only the west itself. That wild country had a way of absorbing people and leaving nothing to mark their passing. There were so many ways a man could die.
Sometimes, like Jim Drew in this story, they were simply too tough to kill.
In my novel Conagher somebody asks a stage driver if Conagher is a gunfighter, and his reply is, “No, but he’s the kind the gunfighters leave alone, if they’re smart.”
There were many such men. They were not peace officers, they were not outlaws or gamblers, and they were not liable to be noticed by newspapers or historians. They were simply tough, game men who went about the business of existing. One such was Kirk Jordan, who ran gunfighter Billy Brooks out of Dodge; another was Colonel Frank North, of the Pawnee Battalion, known as perhaps the finest pistol shot of them all, but he never got into fights. I knew an old Indian in Arizona who was said to be past ninety (I never knew his actual age, but his face looked old enough to have worn out two bodies) who could shoot the heads off Mexican quail. On several occasions when he needed quail for eating I have seen him kill two and three at a time.
He was not known as a gunfighter (although reputed to have killed several men) and would have disdained such a reputation.
PARDNER FROM THE RIO
* * *
TANDY THAYER RODE up the river trail in the late afternoon, a tall young man with sand-colored hair, astride a gray horse. He drew rein before he reached the water hole, and looked carefully around as though searching for something missing from the terrain.
Tandy Thayer was slightly stooped as a man often becomes after long hours and years in the saddle, and his eyes had that steady, slow look of a man who knows his own mind and his own strength.
Turning in the saddle he studied the bare, burned red rock with a little frown gathering between his eyes. Here was where old man Drew’s ranch should be, right on this spot. There was the water hole, and to the right, and not far distant, was the roar of the river. High upon the mountain to his left was that jagged streak of white rock pointing like an arrow to this place.
All the signs were right. The painstaking description had accounted for every foot of the trail until now. It had even accounted for every natural landmark here. Only there was no barn, no corral, no ranch house, and no Jim Drew. Nor was there any evidence that any of those things had existed upon this spot.
Tandy swung down from the saddle and trailed the bridle reins. The gray started purposefully but not too anxiously toward the water hole and sank his muzzle into the limpid pool. Thayer was thirsty himself, but his mind was occupied now with a puzzle. He shoved his hat back from his homely, weather-worn face with a quick, characteristic gesture and began to look around.
He heard the horse approaching before it arrived, so he faced about, turning himself squarely toward the trail up which he had just ridden. Another rider. From where?
* * *
THE MAN WAS burly, a big man astride a powerful sorrel with a blazed face and three white stockings. His face was flat and swarthy, his eyes blue steel. He rode lopsided in the saddle with a careless cockiness that showed itself as well in the slant of his narrow-brimmed, flatcrowned hat.
“Howdy,” he said, and inspected Tandy with a wary, casual interest. “Ridin’ through?”
“I reckon. Huntin’ an hombre name of Jim Drew. Know him?”
“Guess not. Was he comin’ through here?”
“He lived here. Right on this spot if I figure right.”
“Here?” The rider’s voice was incredulous, but then he chuckled with a dry sound and his eyes glinted with what might have been malice. “Nobody ever lived here. You can see for yourself. Anyways, this here is Block T range, and they are mighty touchy folks. Me, I’d not ride it myself, only they know me.” He dug into his shirt pocket for the makings. “How’d you happen to pick this spot?”
“Drew gave me directions, and mighty near drew me a map. He mentioned the river, the water hole, that streak on the mountain, and a few other things.”
“Yeah?” The rider touched his tongue to the edge of the paper. “Must have slipped up somewheres along the trail. Nobody ever lived here in my time, and I’ve been around here more’n ten years. Closest house is the Block T, and that’s six miles north of here. I live back down the country, myself.” He struck a match and lighted his cigarette. “I’ll be riding on. Gettin’ hungry.”
“You ride for the Block T?”
“No, I’m Kleinback. I own the K Bar. If you’re over thataway drop by and set a while. I’m headed to see Bill Hofer, the hombre who ramrods the Block T.”
Tandy Thayer was a stubborn man, and it had been a long ride from Texas. Moreover, he had known Jim Drew long enough to know that Drew would never give wrong directions or invite him on a wild goose chase.
“That trail was plain as if he’d blazed it,” he muttered. “I’ll just have a look around.”
He had his look around, for his pains, and over his fire as dusk gathered, he considered the problem. His eyes had already told him there was nothing to see. The cabin, corrals, and stable so painstakingly described were nowhere to be seen, nor was there any stock.
Hesitant as he was to pull out without finding Drew, he felt that his best bet would be to try to land a job as a rider for the Block T. He couldn’t live on desert grass.
Thayer organized the shadow of a meal from what he carried in his saddlebags, then lighted a cigarette and leaned back against a boulder to study things out. Jim Drew was weatherbeaten and cantankerous, but he was also sure moving and painstaking. Despite Kleinback’s statement, Tandy was sure Drew must be around somewhere.
Picking up another piece of mesquite, he tossed it on the fire. In the morning he would take a last look around. If this was the place Drew had meant, there would be some sign, surely.
Tandy had put out his hand for a stick and started to toss it, when he caught the motion in midair. Along the underside of that stick, his fingers had found a row of notches. Holding the mesquite close to the fire, he studied it.
Two notches, and then a space followed by another notch. As he stared at those notches, with the cuts still unweathered, his mind skipped back to a camp alongside the Rio Grande below San Marcial where he once had sat across a campfire and watched Jim Drew cutting just such notches as he talked. It had been a habit of the old rancher’s, just as some men whittle and others doodle with pen or pencil.
So, then. He was not wrong, and Jim Drew had been here. But if he had been here, where was he now? And where were the ranch buildings? Why had Kleinback not known about him? Or had he known?
Tandy got swiftly to his feet, recalling something he had observed as he had ridden up, but which had made no impression at the time. It was the position of three clumps of mesquite. He strode to the nearest one and, grasping a branch, gave it a jerk. It came loose so suddenly he all but fell.
Bending over, he felt with his hand for the place from which the roots had come. There was loose dirt, but when he brushed it aside, his fingers found the round outline of a posthole!
* * *
GRIMLY HE GOT to his feet and replaced the mesquite, tamping the dirt around it. There was something wrong here, mighty wrong. He picked up a few loose sticks and walked slowly back to the fire.
He was
feeding the sticks into the blaze when he heard another horse.
“Busy little place,” he mentally commented, straightening up.
He stepped back from the fire, then heard a hoof strike stone, and saddle leather creak as of someone dismounting.
“Come on up to the fire,” he said. “We’re all friends here.”
A spur jingled, feet crunched on gravel, and then he was looking across the fire into the eyes of a girl, a tall girl with a slim, willowy body.
She wore blue jeans and a man’s battered hat. Her shirt, with a buckskin vest worn over it, was gray. She wore a gun, Tandy observed.
“By jimminy!” he exclaimed. “A woman! Sure never figured to see a woman in these hills, ma’am. Will you join me in some coffee?”
Her eyes showed no friendliness. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want here?”
“Me?” Tandy shrugged. “Just a driftin’ cowhand, ma’am. This water hole figgered to be a good camp for the night.”
“Here?” Her voice was dry, skeptical. “When it is only six miles to the Block T?”
“Well, now. I’d started my camp before I knowed that, ma’am. Hombre name of Kleinback told me about the Block T.”
Tandy was watching her when he said the name, Kleinback, and he saw her face stiffen a little.
“Oh?” she said. “So you’ve seen Roy? Are you working for him?”
“Huntin’ work, ma’am. I’m a top hand. You know the Block T? Mebbe they could use me?”
“I’m Clarabel Jornal,” she told him. “My uncle ramrods the Block T. He won’t need you.”
“Mebbe I’d better talk to him,” Tandy said, smiling.
Her eyes blazed, and she took a step nearer the fire.
“Listen, rider!” she said sharply. “You’d best keep right on drifting! There’s nothing in this country for anybody as nosy as you! Get going! If you don’t, I’ll send Pipal down to see you in the morning!”
“Who’s he? The local watchdog? Sorry, ma’am, but I don’t scare easy, so maybe you’d better send him. I ain’t a right tough hombre, but I get along. As for being nosy, if you think I’m nosy you must be right sort of nosy yourself, comin’ down here advising me to move on. I like it here, ma’am. In fact”—he paused to give emphasis to his words—“I may set up a ranch right here.”
“Here?” Consternation struggled with anger in her voice. “Why here, of all places? Anyway, this is Block T range.”
“Not filed on by Block T. Just claimed.” Thayer grinned. “Ma’am, you might’s well have some coffee.”
“No!” she flared. “You be out of here by daylight or I’ll send Pipal after you! He’s killed four men!”
Tandy Thayer smiled, but his lips were thin and his eyes cold.
“Has he now? Suppose you just keep him at home in the mornin’, ma’am. I’ll come right up to the Block T, and if he’s in a sweat to make it five, he can have his chance!”
When the girl swung into the saddle, her face angry, Thayer leaned back against the boulder once more. She was from the Block T, and the Block T claimed this range. Perhaps they had objected to Jim Drew’s ranching here. And Pipal, whoever he was, might have done the objecting with lead.…
By daylight the setup looked no different than it had the previous night except that now Tandy Thayer studied the terrain with a new eye. Some changes, indicated by the mesquite bush planted in the posthole, had been made. With that in mind, he found the location of more postholes, found where the house had been and the barn.
Whoever had removed the traces of Drew and his ranch, had removed them with extraordinary care. Evidently they had expected someone to come looking and had believed they could fool whoever it would be. Only they had not known of the painstaking care with which old Jim gave directions, nor his habit of doodling with a knife.
Saddling up, Tandy Thayer headed up the trail between the river and the mountains for the Block T.
The place was nothing to look at: a long L-shaped adobe house shaded by giant cottonwoods, three pole corrals, a combination stable and blacksmith shop, the corner of the shop shielded from the sun by still another huge cottonwood, and a long bunkhouse.
Two horses were standing near the corral when Tandy rode into the ranch yard, and a short, square man with a dark face and a thin mustache came to the bunkhouse door and shaded his eyes to look at him.
* * *
AT ALMOST THE same moment, a tall man in a faded checked shirt and vest came from the house. Thayer reined in before him.
“Howdy!” he said. “You Bill Hofer?”
“That’s right.” The man had keen, slightly worried blue eyes with a guarded look in their depths. He wore a six-gun tied too high to be of much use.
“Hunting a riding job,” Tandy said. “Top hand, horse wrangler.”
Hofer hesitated. “I can use you, all right,” he said then. “We’re shorthanded here. Throw your gear in the bunkhouse and get some grub.”
The man with the thin mustache was nowhere in sight when Tandy shoved through the bunkhouse door and dropped his saddlebags on the first empty bunk he saw. He glanced around, and a frown gathered between his eyes. The bunkhouse had been built to accommodate at least twenty men, but only five bunks gave signs of occupancy.
As he was looking around, a red-headed hand came in, glancing at him.
“New, eh?” the redhead said. “Better throw your duffle back on your horse and ramble, pardner. This ain’t a healthy place, noway.”
Tandy turned, and his eyes swept the redhead. “That warning friendly, or not? Too many folks seem aimin’ for me to move on.”
Red shrugged. “Plumb friendly.” He waved a hand at the empty bunks. “That look good? You ain’t no pilgrim. What about a spread that ordinarily uses twenty hands, and could use thirty, but only has four workin’ hands and a cook? Does that look good?”
“What’s the trouble?” asked Tandy.
“Maybe one thing, and maybe another. The trouble is, the boss hires ’em and Pipal fires ’em.”
“Who’s Pipal?”
A foot grated in the doorway and Red turned, his face turning a shade lighter under the freckles. The man with the thin mustache above cruel lips, and black eyes that bored into Thayer, stood there. He wore two guns, tied low, and was plainly a half-breed.
Warning signals sounded in Tandy’s brain. Four men killed. Had one of them been Jim Drew? The thought stirred something deep within him, something primeval and ugly, something he had forgotten was there. He met the black eyes with his own steady, unblinking gaze.
“I am Pipal,” the swarthy man said, his voice flat and level. “We do not need another hand. You will mount and ride.”
Thayer smiled suddenly. This was trouble, and he wasn’t backing away from it. He was no gunslinger, but he had put in more than a few years fighting Comanches and rustlers.
“The boss hired me,” he said coldly. “The boss can fire me.”
“I said—go!” Pipal cracked the word like a man cracks a bullwhip, and as he spoke, he stepped nearer, his hand dropping to his gun.
Tandy’s left fist was at his belt where the thumb had been hooked a moment before. He drove it into the pit of Pipal’s stomach with a snapping jolt, shooting it right from where it was. Pipal’s wind left him with a grunt, and he doubled up in agony. Thayer promptly jerked his knee up into Pipal’s face, knocking the man’s head back. With Pipal’s chin wide open and blood streaming from a smashed nose, Tandy set himself and swung left and right from his hip. Pipal went down in a heap.
Coolly, Tandy stepped over to him, jerked his guns from their holsters and shucked the shells into the palm of his hand. He dropped them into his pocket.
Pipal lay on the floor, blood dripping from his nose and his breath coming in wracking gasps.
“You better hightail,” Red suggested. “He’s a ringtailed terror with them guns.”
Thayer grinned at Red and drew a smiling response. “I like it here,” he said. “I’m stayin
’!”
Pipal started to get up, and Thayer looked around at him.
“You get out!” he said harshly. “I don’t know who you’re runnin’ errands for, but I mean to find out.”
The half-breed glared at him, hatred a burning light in their black depths.
“I kill you!” he said.
Tandy seized the man by the collar and, jerking him erect, hit him two fast punches in the wind, then slapped him across the face. With a shove, he drove the gunman through the door, where he tripped and sprawled on his face.
“Look!” Tandy yelled.
He whipped a playing card from his pocket and spun it high into the air. In almost the same motion, he drew and fired. The card fluttered to the earth, and he calmly walked over to it and picked it up, thrusting it before Pipal’s eyes and the startled eyes of Red and Hofer, who had come from the house. It was an ace of spades—with the ace shot neatly from the center!
* * *
PIPAL GULPED AND slowly climbed to his feet. His nose still bled, and he backed away, wiping it with the back of his hand, an awed expression on his face. Calmly Tandy thrust the playing card into his shirt pocket and fed another shell into his six-gun.
“I don’t like trouble,” he remarked, “but I can handle it.…”
Three days passed quietly. There was plenty to do on the Block T, and Tandy Thayer had little time for looking around on his own, but he was learning things. The Block T was overrun with unbranded stock, and no effort was being made to brand any of it. Much of this stock was ranging far to the south around the Opal Mountains, where there was rich grass in the draws and plenty of water for that type of range.
Red Ringo was a mine of information. Red had been a rider for the Block T when he was sixteen, and had ridden for it four years. He then had drifted to Wyoming, Kansas, and Indian Territory, but finally headed back home. Three months before he had hired on at the Block T again, finding it vastly changed.
Collection 1988 - Lonigan (v5.0) Page 14