Murder Range

by Alan David

  ‘Who are you?’ Lobo asked.

  ‘I’m asking you the same question, mister,’ came the swift reply. ‘You’re a stranger around here, and I’m Stadden’s neighbour. I came in when I heard shooting some time back. Stadden and his son are both dead, murdered, and — oh, there you are Stella. What’s been going on around here?’

  The girl came riding up and dismounted. She glanced at the prone, silent figure of her father lying dead in the yard. Lobo felt a thin wedge of emotion split through the hardness around his heart. He noted the many bullet holes and scars on the front wall of the cabin that denoted the bitter fight which had taken place. He saw another still figure sprawled in the dust.

  ‘It was some of Ridge’s men, Mister McCord.’ Stella Stadden looked round helplessly. ‘Well you can see what they did, I reckon. My father was always saying that Ridge would do just this when he’d won his big war, but no one would listen. Now it’s happened. My kin are dead, and there’s no one to help me square matters.’

  ‘You’re forgetting me,’ Lobo said quietly. He spoke from his heart, knowing that men who acted so usually did the wrong thing.

  ‘Who are you, mister?’ asked McCord, studying Lobo with discerning eyes.

  ‘He’s my cousin, Ben Johnson, from Idaho,’ Stella Stadden said quickly. ‘Meet Will McCord, Ben.’

  ‘Howdy,’ Lobo said.

  McCord’s eyes took in every detail of Lobo’s appearance. He nodded, lowering his rifle.

  ‘Good thing for Stella you turned up, Ben. What are your plans now?’

  ‘We haven’t had much time to think about that,’ Lobo replied. ‘At first I figured on fighting. But on second thoughts that seemed like a straight trail to suicide. I reckon me and Stella had better ride back to Idaho.’

  ‘Well the first thing is to bury the dead,’ said McCord. ‘If you’ll tell me where you want the graves I’ll start digging.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Lobo. ‘How about under that big tree, Stella?’

  ‘No. My father always said he wanted to be buried in the corral, with nothing to mark the spot. He said he wanted the hooves of the animals to pound the earth into his face.’

  ‘Okay, so we’ll bury him in the corral. What about your brother?’

  ‘Put him with Pa,’ the girl said tonelessly.

  Lobo nodded. He eased his Colt in its holster as he turned away to where McCord now stood holding two sod-busters. Lobo turned his head and called to the girl as she entered the cabin.

  ‘Rustle up some grub, will you? We’ll be ready for it by the time we’ve finished out here. And keep a rifle handy in case we have visitors.’

  By the time they had finished burying the two Staddens it was mid-afternoon. Lobo washed himself at the horse trough. McCord, after doing likewise, rolled himself a smoke and offered Lobo the makings. When they were both smoking and relaxed McCord made conversation.

  ‘What about the two dead gunnies, Ben?’

  ‘We’re going on into Pommel, McCord. I figure we’ll tote them in as evidence.’

  ‘Your lives wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel if any of Ridge’s men caught you packing two of their number. Why don’t you and Stella stop by my place and stay awhile? Until things blow over, that is. Then you can decide what to do next.’

  ‘That’s mighty kind of you, McCord. But that would be putting your life in danger. You’ll likely know this Ridge hombre better than me. You’ll know which way he’s most like to jump. What kind of a man is he?’

  ‘He’s a bad one. He makes big tracks round here, and I don’t mean by the number of riders on his payroll. Ridge is the size of two ordinary men, and weighs as much as a fat steer. He ain’t got no wife. She died a few years back giving birth to Ginny Ridge. Ginny would be about seventeen now. She’s the only crittur Ridge cares about. He would do anything for her. But he ain’t a nice man nohow. He’s so heavy he can’t sit a horse. He rides around in a special buggy with a little roof on it. He’s mean right through, though you wouldn’t think so to look at him. By appearance he looks like Santa Claus on vacation, minus the white whiskers, of course. I think he’s a bit touched by the heat, or something. He’s been fighting the whole world for as long as I’ve been here. And what’s more, he wins most of the time.’

  ‘He’s a real bad man, eh?’

  ‘There’s something wrong with him, that’s for sure. There’s something strange about Reuben Ridge. You can sense it. Folks say that the trouble with him is he was first to settle on the range here. He grabbed so much grass you can’t ride round his fences inside of ten days. Now he’s afraid of farmers and nesters moving in on him. He fought a big war not long ago, and won it. He burnt out Art Fuller and killed him, and Art had a big ranch north of Ridge, had been there fifteen years.’

  ‘Why did he pick on the Staddens?’

  ‘No reason at all, except that Stadden’s land joins Ridge’s. I figure I’ll be next, being a neighbour like Stadden was.’

  ‘Why don’t you up stakes and pull out?’

  ‘A man don’t like running from his home.’ McCord exhaled a long stream of blue smoke and threw away his stub.

  ‘It’d be better than dying in it. You could always start again somewhere else.’

  ‘Some men just can’t make a fresh start in life.’ McCord shook his head sadly. ‘I’m one of that kind.’

  ‘Well I hope I ain’t,’ said Lobo. ‘I’ve pulled up my roots. I’m drifting, looking for some nice place to settle. I want to make another start.’

  ‘Good luck to you, Ben. It takes a lot of sand to try that. Me, I’d rather stick and fight it out. Who knows, someone might just manage to put a bullet through Ridge. That would solve all our problems.’

  ‘I might do just that,’ Lobo said. ‘Ridge didn’t have no cause to kill Stella’s folks.’

  ‘You wouldn’t live long enough to get in range of Ridge’s carcase. He has riders prowling his range, and they shoot trespassers on sight.’

  ‘I’m no slouch with a gun,’ Lobo volunteered. ‘I’ve done some law work in the past. I figure I’m pretty good when it comes to fighting.’

  ‘I’ll allow that,’ said McCord. ‘But what can a man do about a bullet in the back, or odds of twenty to one? I’d think again, Ben, if I was in your boots.’

  ‘I’ll consider it,’ Lobo said. He buckled on his gun-belt. ‘There’s Stella waving. Grub must be ready. Let’s go and eat.’

  After they’d eaten Lobo pushed aside his plate.

  ‘I haven’t tasted such good cooking for as long as I can remember,’ he said.

  ‘You sure are a top hand in the kitchen, Stella,’ McCord agreed. ‘Now I’d better be riding if I want to reach home before dark. You know, it ain’t safe to be out of doors when the light has gone.’

  ‘It ain’t safe to be in or out, day or night,’ said Lobo. ‘Now I’ve been thinking while we ate. I reckon I ought to ride alone to town. I can do what is needed there, and having you along would cramp my style, Stella. I suggest you take up McCord on the offer he made and go stay at his place until I come back. I reckon as how I can put an end to your troubles before anything else happens.’

  ‘How can you hope to do that alone?’ Stella asked. ‘Art Fuller had twenty-five riders on his payroll. But Ridge beat them.’

  ‘I ain’t Art Fuller, remember. My name’s Johnson. You’d better do like I say, Stella. I’ll be back in a week at most. I’ll soon clear up your trouble.’

  ‘All right, Ben. You’ll do what should be done. I wouldn’t be any use to you, anyway.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he growled. ‘One bullet in the right place will end it all. Now, if you’ll give me some directions, and a couple of horses for Ridge’s gunnies, I’ll shift into Pommel and get started. Then perhaps you’ll tell me how to get to your place, McCord, and I’ll come on out there afterwards.’

  ‘I’ll tell you all right,’ the rancher said. ‘But if you’re going to try what I think you are, we’ll never see you alive again.’
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  Lobo laughed.

  ‘Come on McCord, let’s go saddle up. Stella, you’d better pack anything you might need.’

  Twenty minutes later McCord and Stella Stadden rode out leaving Lobo roping the two dead gunnies into their saddles. When he had finished, Lobo went to the well and got himself a drink. It was late afternoon now, but he did not hurry. It would suit him to reach Pommel after darkness had fallen. There was an expression of anticipation on Lobo’s face, and a tight lipped smile.

  He moved to his horse and stepped up into the saddle. It was then a string of shots and their fading echoes throbbed through the pulsating stillness of the vast open range.

  Lobo’s mount pranced at the disturbance and he brought the animal under instant control with his knees and hands, turning the beast to look in the direction McCord and Stella had taken. He could see a group of riders in the middle distance, and his heart sank. There were half a dozen men out there, and the shooting indicated that they must be Ridge men.

  Lobo opened his saddle bag and took out a pair of long range glasses. The lens brought the group almost to his nose, and Lobo’s lips hardened into a snarl when he saw Stella struggling in the grasp of a bearded range rider. An empty saddle in the group caught his eye, and shifting his gaze, Lobo saw McCord stretched on the ground.

  Even as he watched, the rider holding Stella sat her back in her saddle and took her reins. He swung away and set off at a canter, leading the girl out of the group. The other five riders turned towards Lobo and came riding boldly forward.

  Lobo dismounted, easing his rifle from the saddle holster as he stepped down. He tethered his mount to a post, loosened his sixgun in its holster, then ran forward to the cover of the well. He threw himself down and checked his 30-30. The snarl was still on his face while he waited for the riders to draw into range.

  The five came on boldly. Either they hadn’t spotted Lobo or they were contemptuous of his ability to fight five of them. They moved together in a tight bunch and came forward at a canter.

  Lobo eased back his stetson and cuffed sweat from his forehead. He waited until the group was within one hundred yards before lifting his rifle to his shoulder. Then he waited. The riders were eighty yards away. Lobo grinned wolfishly. They were out in the open, with no cover. His eyes narrowed to slits, and a thrill filtered through him.

  He closed his left eye and aimed at the foremost rider. The flat crack of the shot had barely begun to echo when the rider slid from his saddle. The remaining four pulled up, and in the seconds that they sat frozen in shock and surprise Lobo downed two more. He shifted his aim smoothly as the last two men pulled on their reins to get away. His killing rifle spat again and another saddle was swept clear. Then he paused. The fifth rider turned his mount and went galloping away, bent over his mount’s head.

  Lobo sneered. He raised his rifle and fired. The galloping horse gave a great bound into the air as lead bored through its chest. It cartwheeled and crashed heavily, raising dust upon impact. The rider was thrown clear. Lobo watched. The man fell limply, lay still for a moment, then struggled to his feet. He staggered a few uncertain steps, then sprawled upon his face.

  Lobo stood up. He squinted his eyes and studied the scene of slaughter. The mounts of Ridge’s men had run off a hundred yards, and now stood grazing. Lobo went to his horse, sprang into the saddle, and rode out to the small killing ground. He reloaded his rifle as he went and returned it to its scabbard. He drew his Colt and rode warily.

  The four riders were dead, killed outright by his fast but sure shooting. Lobo grinned. A man shouldn’t underestimate another, he thought, as he went on. But how could these carrion have known they were riding down Lobo Johnson? His grin widened. There was only one Lobo Johnson.

  He turned away and headed for the fifth rider, who had now raised himself to a sitting position and was staring at Lobo as the tall rider bore down upon him. The man held a Colt in his hand, but he was dazed, and kept shaking his head. He tried to lift his Colt as Lobo reached him, but his gun arm was broken and he couldn’t raise the weapon. He was too bemused to transfer the gun to his other hand.

  Lobo dismounted and went forward. The man offered no resistance, and Lobo took the Colt from his useless hand. The man’s horse lay gasping and squealing where it had fallen. Lobo’s bullet had torn out its chest. The tall gunslinger shook his head sadly and put a bullet through the animal’s head. He watched it kicking convulsively, then turned back to his prisoner.

  ‘Get up,’ he ordered.

  The man shrugged. He pointed to his left leg. The limb was twisted. Lobo grinned heartlessly. He swung back into his saddle and set off at a gallop moving in the direction Stella’s captor had taken. Reaching McCord he reined in but did not dismount. It was obvious that the rancher was dead. There was a great stain of blood on McCord’s chest.

  Lobo went on again, looking ahead. To his surprise Stella Stadden was riding towards him. He galloped up to her and they reined in a few yards apart.

  ‘How did you manage to get away from that gun-slick?’ he asked.

  ‘I shot him in the back. He was leading my horse.’ She showed him a small gun which she carried in a pocket of her levis. ‘Where are the other five?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear the shooting?’ He grinned.

  ‘You haven’t killed them all?’ She spoke in shocked tones.

  ‘No. One of them has a broken arm and a broken leg. But the other four are dead. They came hunting trouble, and they sure enough found it. That’s the way of this world. Look for trouble and you’ll always find it.’

  ‘Four dead,’ she said quietly. ‘That makes five men you’ve killed today.’

  ‘They weren’t men, they were wolves,’ he said bitterly. His eyes slitted and mean. ‘They drew wages for their guns. They ain’t worth pity. I ain’t got no sympathy for their kind. And why shouldn’t I kill them? They would have killed me. They shot McCord in cold blood, didn’t they?’

  ‘Is he dead?’ she faltered.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Poor Mister McCord. Perhaps they wouldn’t have killed him if he hadn’t fired on them first.’

  ‘Did your father open up on them first?’

  ‘No. They fired as they came up.’

  ‘Well it proves that I did right,’ said Lobo. ‘Shoot first and ask questions afterwards is good insurance.’

  ‘They’ll kill you,’ she told him. ‘One man can’t fight a band of hired killers. I don’t want your death on my conscience. It was I who asked you to fight against them.’

  ‘I’m coming into this fight on my own accord,’ he told her. ‘They shot at me, remember? There’s more than one way to fight. It doesn’t pay to ride in with blazing guns every time. Come on, let’s get back to your place and prepare to ride into town. We’re going to shock some of the folks there when we show up.’

  Chapter Three

  POMMEL WAS A fair sized town. Along Main Street the wooden buildings, except for the saloons, had all been replaced by more stable constructions of brickwork. Lobo looked about with interest as Stella led the way to the jail. He smiled a little when he saw the townsfolk following his cavalcade along the street, for he was leading six horses, each with a corpse roped across the saddle. By the time they stopped outside the law office a crowd of some thirty or forty citizens was gathered, with more people coming in from all directions.

  Lobo noted several horses bearing the Big R brand standing at various hitch rails along Main Street. He felt edgy now he was on the threshold of action, and ignored the questions of the thronging townsfolk. He dismounted and tethered his horse, securing the lead rope of the six animals he had brought to his saddle horn. He waited for Stella to dismount, and they crossed the sidewalk together and entered the sheriff’s office.

  Lobo shut the door against the excited crowd and stood with his back to it. He looked around as Stella went forward to a pasty-faced oldster sitting in a wheel chair behind a paper strewn desk. A shiny law badge was pinned on the old ma
n’s vest. Lobo smiled wryly when he noticed a sixgun in a holster fixed to the side of the wheelchair and a shotgun lying across the crippled sheriff’s lap.

  There were two other men in the office, Lobo noted; deputies he judged, if the stars they were wearing meant anything. One was tall and thin, and very young. A raw kid, Lobo estimated. The other was a beefy man of middle age, Lobo summed him up as a rough handful. Both deputies were wearing two guns in thonged down holsters.

  ‘What’s the commotion outside, Olly?’ the sheriff asked, and the kid deputy crossed to a window and peered outside.

  ‘Fer goshakes, sheriff, there’s six dead men roped to their hosses.’ The youngster’s voice shrilled with nervous shock. ‘Six of them!’

  ‘Go check ‘em, Barr,’ the sheriff ordered, and his tired eyes flickered over Lobo as the big deputy moved to the door. ‘Did you bring ‘em in, mister?’

  ‘I did.’ Lobo moved aside easily and opened the door. Barr eased his guns in their holsters and stepped out on to the sidewalk, giving Lobo a keen glance in passing. Lobo shut the door, damming the noise of many questioning voices. ‘I’m Ben Johnson,’ he volunteered. ‘Cousin of Stella here. I’ve just got in, from Idaho, and it seems I was a mite too late. I found my uncle and my cousin dead, and a killer shooting at Stella here.’

  Lobo gave an account of what had happened at the Stadden place. Barr came back in and stood listening. When he had finished Lobo licked his dry lips. A silence ensued.

  ‘There’ll surely be hell over this,’ Sheriff Gruber said softly. ‘This may be the incident that will bring it all out into the open. Barr, you’d better take those six carcases to the mortician. Get back here as soon as you can. Olly, go down to the livery and get a buckboard. Pick up Doc Haynes and take him out to the Stadden place and pick up that injured gunman.’