by Lauran Paine
Link Tolliver was waiting for him. Jack could see him standing in the clearing before the adobe hut as he jogged down the path toward the river. Jack’s eyes were slitted and wary without a nod or a word as he rode up. Link was armed this time; a battered old six-gun was strapped low on his thigh with a thong around the massive leg. A Winchester carbine was leaning lazily against his arm.
“Get your horse, Link!”
Link’s muddy eyes were hard and staring. “What fer, lawman?”
Jack didn’t relax; he sensed a stall. “Rope it, Link. You know damned well what for. Get your horse an’ damned fast!”
“Not by a damned sight! Ain’t no lawman goin’ to come a-ridin’ onto my propitty an’ commence orderin’ me around.”
Masters relaxed his arm, and his mouth was a bloodless line over wolfish teeth. “You’re comin’ to Mendocino with me on a horse or across one. Shootin’ Ned Prouty in the back is attempted murder hereabouts. You’re goin’ to answer for it. Now either get your horse or fill your hand.”
Tolliver’s lined, bewhiskered face split in a sardonic smile. “Look behind you, Sheriff. They’s three hombres that done slipped up on you, an’ a word from me’ll send you to hell in a hand basket.” The evil smile widened as Jack held Link Tolliver with his deadly stare. Suddenly Tolliver’s face lost the smile and his eyes bugged a little. He was staring into the maw of a cocked six-shooter in the sheriff’s hand. He hadn’t seen the hand dip toward the holster at all; he licked his lips with a furtive tongue.
“Drop that rifle, Link.” Hesitatingly the big man relaxed his hold and the .30-30 plopped into the dust. “Now, Link, tell your boys to come around in front of me or I’ll squeeze this trigger.” Link shifted his eyes from beyond the lawman’s horse, then swung his eyes back again. Masters’s fingers tightened on the trigger. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Link, whether I’m shot or not, I can’t miss you at this distance, an’ you know it…even dyin’ I can kill you. Now shuck your pistol an’ call ’em off.”
Tolliver’s beaten expression was redolent with hatred. He called to his kinsmen, explained the situation, and tossed his six-gun to the ground. The three Tollivers came around in front of Jack with enraged and baffled faces.
Without taking his eyes off Link, Masters said: “One of you go saddle Link’s horse an’ bring it around. The other two of you stay here.” The youngest of the three—the one called Ben—slouched off toward the old corral with a snarled oath. Masters wanted to make the others disarm, but hesitated to push his luck too far. The four of them waited in dry-eyed tension until Ben brought back Tolliver’s horse.
“Get aboard, Link.” The sheriff untied his lariat from the swells with his left hand and flipped the noose to Link. “Over your head, around the neck.” He smiled grimly at Link’s flushed, humiliated look. “Now come up close, so’s you’re between me an’ your kinsmen.”
Link was getting redder every second, but he complied.
Masters waved his cocked .45 at the men afoot. “Toss your guns as far out into the river as you can, boys. One false move an’ Link’s a goner.”
The men complied profanely and Jack Masters rode back toward Mendocino with Link behind him, protecting his back. The lariat rope around Link’s throat was his sturdy assurance of seeing another sunset.
Wes Flourney checked into the sheriff’s office when he came back to Mendocino and saw the lamplight coming out of the barred window. He looked owlishly at Link Tolliver in his cell, went back in to the front office, and sighed. “Phew! That hombre looks more like a bushwhacker than a bushwhacker does.” He rolled a cigarette with a weary gesture. “Say, d’ya ever try to keep an eye on two wildcats at the same time? ¡Hijo de puta! I have today. Even after old Ned asked ’em to stick around, they was like a pair of fledgling magpies, sore at the world, mad at me fer hangin’ around, an’ sore at the old man, too, fer not lettin’ ’em go over to Cobb’s Ferry.”
Masters laughed and got up, reaching for his hat where it dangled precariously from one tip of a four-point hatrack. “Well, it’s all over now, Wes. Link’ll stay here until Ned can get up and come in to prefer charges, then we’ll have a trial, an’ maybe Link’ll draw a few years.” He shrugged toward the door after blowing out the lamp. “Mendocino’ll be peaceable again now…for a while, anyway.”
Deputy Flourney shrugged out behind his employer and flicked the cigarette into a nearby rain barrel, full of greenish water. “It’ll be a relief, by damn, not to have that nursemaid role any longer. G’night, Jack.”
The sheriff was heading across the dusty road toward his rooms in the Mendocino Hotel above the Goldstrike Saloon when he answered with a friendly little nod: “Buenas noches.”
With the first cold bitterness of predawn Jack Masters sat upright. Wes Flourney, dressed but disheveled, was bending over him, shaking him frantically. “Wake up, Jack, dammit man, wake up.”
“All right, you idiot, don’t tear my arm off. Just what in hell’s wrong with you? Lose your way home an’ hang one on in the Goldstrike?”
“Jack”—Flourney’s voice was high-keyed with excitement—“the gather that was bein’ held below the Pothook, in that box cañon the cowmen use to hold their critters before they drive ’em to the railroad over at Rawlins, was rustled clean as a hound’s tooth last night.”
Masters blinked his eyes owlishly at Wes. “How’d ya find out?”
Wes snorted loudly. “Compadre, there’s just about every damned cowman this side o’ New Mexico downstairs in the Goldstrike right now, screamin’ their heads off. They want their cattle back, but more’n that they want someone’s blood.”
Masters swung out of his bed and dressed silently. The fall drive had been in the making for quite a few days now and finally each ranch had shoved its allocated critters into the gather preparatory to the communal drive to Rawlins. It was an annual affair, and Jack knew how the ranchers would feel. He also knew that there would be blood on the moon if their suspicions were ever fixed on specific individuals. He yawned prodigiously, yanked his Stetson low over his forehead, and cast a wistful glance at the rumpled, warm bed before following Wes downstairs.
Pandemonium was in full swing in the saloon. Most of the ranchers had come directly from their beds and showed it. They may have lacked some of the lesser necessities of sartorial equipment, but none of them had forgotten guns. Rifles were in evidence everywhere, across laps, leaning against chairs, under arms, and on the bar top, while the conventional six-gun was prominent on every leg. When Masters entered the room with his deputy, the furor swelled into a demanding, snarling tirade that roared and rumbled like a major waterfall of hoarse anger.
Jack shook his head slowly and held up his hand. “Dammit, one at a time, boys. Now, then, when do you figger it happened?”
Cal Prouty and his brother were sitting at a vacated poker table. He frowned darkly. “No tellin’, Jack…sometime last night is about all we know. The night hawk was knocked over the head. He’s over at Everhart’s place, still unconscious. The relief guards found him and set up the alarm. We tried trackin’ ’em, but, when they got to the river, we had to drop it. Too dark.” He got up suddenly and draped his stubby carbine over his arm. “It’s light enough now, though. Come on, we’ll show you where we last seen the sign.”
Chapter Three
The night was begrudgingly giving way before the advance of the new day. Stars were flickering out, one by one, and the cold air was bracing in a man’s lungs. There were at least a dozen in the bitter-faced clutch of cowmen that picked up the trail of the rustled cattle a mile this side of the Modoc. The trail was about eighty feet wide and easily discernible by the churned-up, blotched earth. Now and then the men found a horse hoof imprint. None of the hoof marks found, however, was made by a shod horse; apparently all of the rustlers rode barefoot horses. The trail went over the flat land in a straight line for the riverbank. Brush—waist high—was crushed to rubble in the dust. The men rode down a gentle slope and st
opped at the riverbank. Several of them looked at Masters. He stared at the cold, uninviting water and made a wry face.
“Let’s go to the ferry an’ cross over there. Won’t be wastin’ much time, an’ there’s likely to be a lot of ridin’ yet to come that none of us’ll want to do wringin’ wet.”
The ranchers were of a like mind and rode the spongy riverbank downstream until they came to the still buildings of Cobb’s Ferry. The noise of many horsemen was clear and sinister in the cold morning. Someone peeked out of the cabin, and Bud Prouty rode in close with his swarthy brother beside him.
“Come on out of there an’ get that ferry unhitched. We want to get across that river.”
There was no answer, and Masters, sensing the antagonism in the Prouty boys, kneed his horse up close to them. “Probably no one’s in there.”
The taller Prouty boy swore and dismounted. “Yes there is. We seen the door open a crack.” He was up to the door when he finished speaking. Jerking his .45, he lunged out and swung a violent kick at the door. It flew inward with a crash and a jagged, fierce tongue of flame spewed out of the interior. Prouty folded up in the middle like a jackknife, squeezing off one shot as he went down. A terrible scream of rage came from Bud Prouty as he flung off his horse and tore inside the adobe house, gun belching death with livid splotches of flame that didn’t quite drown out the animal cries that came in a virulent stream from his mouth.
Jack led the posse men who stormed up, red-eyed and lusting for blood. It was over as quickly as it had started. Bud Prouty came out of the house, ashenfaced and numb. He holstered his gun and knelt by his brother.
Jack Masters put a strong, gentle hand on his shoulder and the boy raised his eyes in disbelief. “Through the heart, Bud.”
Someone was cursing as he dragged a limp body out of the adobe. Jack arose and went over to look at it. He nodded to the crowd of grim men. “It’s one of the hardcase Tollivers that wasn’t goin’ to let me arrest Link yesterday.”
One old rancher, who seemed rather exultant, kicked the body with a pointed-toed boot. His spur tinkled a knell in the quiet. “Well, he’s one o’ the scum that won’t play hardcase no more. Four slugs in his mangy carcass. The last one right atween the eyes.” He spat contemptuously on the warped planks beside the body and turned away.
The ranchers loaded themselves and their horses on the larger of the two wormy-hulled ferryboats and pulled silently for the other side while Bud Prouty had two of the younger hands strike out in a sad little procession for the Pothook with the burden of the dead cowboy athwart his led saddle horse.
“Let’s go boys.” Masters unloaded his horse, swung aboard, and headed back along the far bank for the spot where the stolen beef had been made to swim across. Once on the wide, rambling trail again, the cowmen swung into a mile-eating lope. Jack sent three of the younger cowmen, including Bud Prouty, on ahead to search for the herd. The sun was warming up the chilly air and the pristine light bathed the cold land in a blanket of fresh clearness. The trail was wider for a while, where the rustlers had allowed the critters to spread out over the grassy plain. Jack rode along silently. He alternated between scanning the broad distances and studying the unshod hoof marks. One of the outriders he had sent ahead came back driving two footsore steers before him.
“Brung these back to show you. They’s eleven more in that skunk-brush thicket up yonder. Reckon they didn’t want to bother with a few weary ones.”
One rancher swore and pointed to the brand on the right rib of the critters. “Mine, by golly, Diamond E on ’em.” He looked them over speculatively, noticed the slight shrink, and shrugged. “All right, leave ’em here. We’ll pick ’em up on the way back.”
The cavalcade moved on again. They rode for another hour before the distant sound of gunfire came riding down the still air to them.
Jack Masters held up a gloved fist and they came to an abrupt stop. “Two quick shots. Fan out boys, they must be up ahead.”
The cowmen spurred into a run, brandishing their rifles in savage anticipation. Jack looked up and down the rough line of hard-riding cowmen that strung out over the plain and felt pride in their co-operation and courage. Suddenly, up ahead, he could see the milling herd of cattle, their red backs glistening under the sun, and then they were up to the herd. Bud Prouty rode a stiff-legged trot down to meet them. Jack set his horse as Bud came in close. “Ain’t nobody here, Jack.”
“The hell.” Jack’s eyes raked over the herd where it stood bunched up, heads down and weary. He scanned the surrounding plain in every direction and saw only a few straggling beeves but no riders. “D’ya see ’em, Bud?”
“Nary a sign. When we got up to the critters, they were standin’ here like you see ’em. Wore out from bein’ pushed half the night, but without no rustlers anywhere in sight.” He wagged his head in perplexity. “Can’t figger it at all.”
Masters started in the saddle and ripped out an oath. He swung, wide-eyed, to Wes Flourney who was watching him with a puzzled look on his face. “A trap, boys, pure an’ simple.”
One of the ranchers was sliding his carbine back into the saddle boot as he spoke. “What in hell d’ya mean, a trap?” He rammed the butt down hard and swung his hand over the herd. “We got the critters back, ain’t we?”
“Yeah,” another cowman growled. “Not only got ’em back, but they’re halfway to the shippin’ pens at Rawlins. We might just as well take them the rest o’ the way.”
Jack was staring broodingly back over the trail they had just traveled. “Those men had no intention of stealin’ your cattle. They just wanted to draw all of us away from Mendocino.”
“What the hell for?”
“So’s they could ride back an’ bust Link Tolliver out of jail, that’s what for.”
Wes Flourney swore bitterly. “What a bunch of fools we are.” His face mirrored complete disgust. “I’ll bet they left that one hombre at Cobb’s Ferry fer a spy, or somethin’. Maybe they even figgered he’d steer us after the herd, an’ see that we took the right trail. After that he was supposed to join ’em, I’ll bet.”
“Yeah? Then why in hell did he shoot young Prouty?”
Wes was warming to his theory. “That’s easy. When Prouty busted in on him, it scairt him. He figgered maybe somethin’ had gone wrong an’ we was a posse come after him. He fired because he was scairt and cornered, same as any rat would do.”
Jack turned to the cowmen, picked out four of them to form his posse, and left the others to continue the cattle drive to Rawlins. They separated then, each group going its own way. Jack jogged back toward the ferry with his face sober and grim. It rankled a little to be outwitted by the Tolliver clan, but he dared not rush back pell-mell. The horses were tired enough as it was, what with the hard riding they had received in their search for the lost herd.
Back at the ferry the posse men loaded their horses for the return trip, pulled for the opposite shore, unloaded, and swung aboard in wary silence. They jogged, hard-eyed, past the adobe house and gazed dispassionately on the stiffening body still sprawled on the gray planking of the porch. Single file they navigated the bluff trail and swung into a lope for the last mile of the return trip to town.
Mendocino was in an uproar as Jack, Wes, and Bud Prouty at the head of the cowman posse rode up through town toward the livery barn. Grant Yates, the fat, florid president of the Mendocino State Bank came running out into the road to flag them down. His hands were shaking when he put them on the neck of Jack’s sweaty horse.
“Good gawd, Sheriff! The bank, it’s been robbed! We’ve lost the savings of half the people in Mendocino County!”
The complete cunning of the Tollivers burst in upon the sheriff and he swung down in silence, pushed the banker away, and led his horse into the livery stable.
Jack Masters was white-faced. Calamity far, far worse than a rustled herd of cattle was overwhelming him. The liveryman saw it on his ashen face and in his glowing eyes when he came up. “Ed, me an’ t
he boys here need fresh horses. How about puffin’ our rigs on fresh stock while we’re findin’ out the worst?”
The liveryman nodded quickly. “Sure, Jack, sure. Have ’em ready fer you soon as you want ’em.” He wagged his head sympathetically. “Hell to pay, Jack. Mendocino’s about cleaned out.” He took Masters’s reins and pointed toward the bank, next door to the Goldstrike Saloon. “They kilt a man in there.” As Jack turned to his posse men, the liveryman yelled for his hostlers, and a furious bustling among the barn men and the drooping posse horses evidenced the liveryman’s speedy labors.
Jack turned to Flourney, and motioned for the others to quiet down. “Lope over to the jail, Wes, an’ see if Link’s still there. Meet me at the bank.” He was walking away as he spoke. Flourney nodded quickly and started for the jail. Cowmen and townsmen were scurrying in and out of stores and a bedlam of excited words was tossed against the warm air like sand in a windstorm. Jack shouldered past dozens of small groups of alarmed citizens and made his way to the bank. Banker Yates was mopping his face with a damp handkerchief.
“Jack! Come into my office.” Yates led the way in a bird-like, hopping walk. He dropped into a chair and waved a shaking hand toward another. Masters remained standing, waiting for the floodgates to open. They did, with a rush. “It wasn’t more than an hour or so after you boys left town. There were three of them. One…”
“Three of ’em?”
“Yes. Link Tolliver, the ferry keeper, and two others.”
“Oh. Go on.”
“They knew what they were doing. It didn’t take them ten minutes to force our two safes and loot the place. A cashier named Reedy drew on them and was shot down. He’s over behind the counter yet. It was terrible, Jack. They robbed Dennis’s general store and the Goldstrike Saloon, too. Mendocino’s ruined, I tell you. We’ll never…”