THE CHALLENGE WAS harsh and ringing. Now that the moment had come, something of the old suspense returned. They listened to the water babbling as it trickled over the old dam, and then they moved. At their first step, they heard Lock's voice.
“Don't you come in here, boys! I don't want to kill none of you, but you come an' I will! That was a fair shootin'! You've got no call to come after me!”
Hardin hesitated, chewing his mustache. “You shot him in the back!” he yelled.
“No such thing! He was a-facin' the bar when I come in. He seen I was heeled, an' he drawed as he turned. I beat him to it. My first shot took him in the side an' he was knocked back against the bar. My second hit him in the back an' the third missed as he was a-fallin'. You hombres didn't see that right.”
The sound of his voice trailed off, and the water chuckled over the stones and then sighed to a murmur among the trees. The logic of Lock's statement struck them all. It could have been that way.
A long moment passed, and then Hardin spoke up again.
“You come in and we'll give you a trial. Fair an' square!”
“How?” Lock's voice was a challenge. “You ain't got no witness. Neither have I. Ain't nobody to say what happened there but me, as Johnny ain't alive.”
“Johnny was a mighty good man, an' he was our friend!” Short shouted. “No murderin' squatter is goin' to move into this country an' start shootin' folks up!”
There was no reply to that, and they waited, hesitating a little. Neill leaned disconsolately against the tree where he stood. After all, Lock might be telling the truth. How did they know? There was no use hanging a man unless you were sure.
“Gab!” Short's comment was explosive. “Let's move in, Hardin! Let's get him! He's lyin'! Nobody could beat Johnny, we know that!”
“Webb was a good man in his own country!” Lock shouted in reply. The momentary silence that followed held them, and then, almost as a man they began moving in. Neill did not know exactly when or why he started. Inside he felt sick and empty. He was fed up on the whole business, and every instinct told him this man was no backshooter.
Carefully, they moved, for they knew this man was handy with a gun. Suddenly, Hardin's voice rang out.
“Hold it, men! Stay where you are until daybreak! Keep your eyes open an' your ears. If he gets out of here he'll be lucky, an' in the daylight we can get him, or fire the mill!”
Neill sank to a sitting position behind a log. Relief was a great warmth that swept over him. There wouldn't be any killing tonight. Not tonight, at least.
Yet as the hours passed, his ears grew more and more attuned to the darkness. A rabbit rustled, a pinecone dropped from a tree, the wind stirred high in the pine tops, and the few stars winked through, lonesomely peering down upon the silent men.
With daylight they moved in and they went through the doors and up to the windows of the old mill, and it was empty and still. They stared at each other, and Short swore viciously, the sound booming in the echoing, empty room.
“Let's go down to the Sorenson place,” Kimmel said. “He'll be there.”
And somehow they were all very sure he would be. They knew he would be because they knew him for their kind of man. He would retreat no further than his own ranch, his own hearth. There, if they were to have him and hang him, they would have to burn him out, and men would die in the process. Yet with these men there was no fear. They felt the drive of duty, the need for maintaining some law in this lonely desert and mountain land. There was only doubt which had grown until each man was shaken with it. Even short, whom the markers by the trail had angered, and Kesney, who was the best tracker among them, even better than Hardin, had been irritated by it, too.
The sun was up and warming them when they rode over the brow of the hill and looked down into the parched basin where the Sorenson place lay.
But it was no parched basin. Hardin drew up so suddenly his startled horse almost reared. It was no longer the Sorenson place.
The house had been patched and rebuilt. The roof had spots of new lumber upon it, and the old pole barn had been made watertight and strong. A new corral had been built, and to the right of the house was a fenched-in garden of vegetables, green and pretty after the desert of the day before.
Thoughtfully, and in a tight cavalcade, they rode down the hill. The stock they saw was fat and healthy, and the corral was filled with horses.
“Been a lot of work done here,” Kimmel said. And he knew how much work it took to make such a place attractive.
“Don't look like no killer's place!” Neill burst out. Then he flushed and drew back, embarrassed by his statement. He was the youngest of these men and the newest in the country.
No response was forthcoming. He had but stated what they all believed. There was something stable and lasting and something real and genuine, in this place.
“I been waitin' for you.”
THE REMARK FROM behind them stiffened every spine. Chat Lock was here, behind them. And he would have a gun on them, and if one of them moved, he could die.
“My wife's down there fixin' breakfast. I told her I had some friends comin' in. A posse huntin' a killer. I've told her nothin' about this trouble. You ride down there now, you keep your guns. You eat your breakfast and then if you feel bound and determined to get somebody for a fair shootin', I'll come out with any one of you or all of you, but I ain't goin' to hang.
“I ain't namin' no one man because I don't want to force no fight on anybody. You ride down there now.”
They rode, and in the dooryard, they dismounted. Neill turned then, and for the first time he saw Chat Lock.
He was a big man, compact and strong. His rusty brown hair topped a brown, sun-hardened face, but with the warmth in his eyes it was a friendly sort of face. Not at all what he expected.
Hardin looked at him. “You made some changes here.”
“I reckon.” Lock gestured toward the well. “Dug by hand. My wife worked the windlass.” He looked around at them, taking them in with one sweep of his eyes. “I've got the grandest woman in the world.”
Neill felt hot tears in his eyes suddenly and busied himself loosening his saddle girth to keep the others from seeing. That was the way he felt about Mary.
The door opened suddenly, and they turned. The sight of a woman in this desert country was enough to make any many turn. What they saw was not what they expected. She was young, perhaps in her middle twenties, and she was pretty, with brown wavy hair and gray eyes and a few freckles on her nose. “Won't you come in? Chat told me he had some friends coming for breakfast, and it isn't often we have anybody in.”
Heavy-footed and shamefaced they walked up on the porch. Kesney saw the care and neatness with which the hard hewn planks had been fitted. Here, too, was the same evidence of lasting, of permanence, of strength. This was the sort of man a country needed. He thought the thought before he fixed his attention on it, and then he flushed.
Inside, the room was as neat as the girl herself. How did she get the floors so clean? Before he thought, he phrased the question. She smiled.
“Oh, that was Chat's idea! He made a frame and fastened a piece of pumice stone to a stick. It cuts into all the cracks and keeps them very clean.”
The food smelled good, and when Hardin looked at his hands, Chat motioned to the door.
“There's water an' towels if you want to wash up.”
Neill rolled up his sleeves and dipped his hands in the basin. The water was soft, and that was rare in this country, and the soap felt good on his hands. When he had dried his hands, he walked in. Hardin and Kesney had already seated themselves, and Lock's wife was pouring coffee.
“Men,” Lock said, “this is Mary. You'll have to tell her your names. I reckon I missed them.”
Mary. Neill looked up. She was Mary, too. He looked down at his plate again and ate a few bites. When he looked up, she was smiling at him.
“My wife's name is Mary,” he said. “She's a fine girl!”
“She would be! But why don't you bring her over? I haven't talked with a woman in so long I wouldn't know how it seemed! Chat, why haven't you invited them over?”
Chat mumbled something, and Neill stared at his coffee. The men ate in uncomfortable silence. Hardin's eyes kept shifting around the room. That pumice stone. He'd have to fix up a deal like that for Jane. She was always fussing about the work of keeping a board floor clean. That washstand inside, too, with pipes made of hollow logs to carry the water out so she wouldn't have to be running back and forth. That was an idea, too.
They finished their meal reluctantly. One by one they trooped outside, avoiding each other's eyes. Chat Lock did not keep them waiting. He walked down among them.
“If there's to be shootin',” he said quietly, “let's get away from the house.”
Hardin looked up. “Lock, was that right, what you said in the mill? Was it a fair shootin'?”
Lock nodded. “It was. Johnny Webb prodded me. I didn't want trouble, nor did I want to hide behind the fact I wasn't packin' an iron. I walked over to the saloon not aimin' for trouble. I aimed to give him a chance if he wanted it. He drawed an' I beat him. It was a fair shootin'.”
“All right.” Hardin nodded. “That's good enough for me. I reckon you're a different sort of man than any of us figured.”
“Let's mount up,” Short said. “I got fence to build.”
Chat Lock put his hand on Hardin's saddle. “You folks come over sometime. She gets right lonesome. I don't mind it so much, but you know how womenfolks are.”
“Sure,” Hardin said, “sure thing.”
“An' you bring your Mary over.” He told Neill.
Neill nodded, his throat full. As they mounted the hill, he glanced back. Mary Lock was standing in the doorway, waving to them, and the sunlight was very bright in the clean-swept dooryard.
Author's Note
KEEP TRAVELIN', RIDER
ASIDE FROM THE necessity of hunting game to live, to use weapons well was a necessity. The men on the frontier were not Sunday shooters, but had to be prepared to use a gun to defend themselves at any moment.
George Rutledge Gibson in his journal covering the years 1847 and 1848 says: “It is estimated that in 1847 forty-seven Americans were killed, 330 wagons destroyed, and some 6,500 head of cattle taken by Indians along the Santa Fe Trail.”
James H. Cook in his Fifty Years on the Old Frontier says, “Everybody—except the clergy—either packed a gun or two or else kept them within mighty close reach. All disputes of any importance had to be settled by a gun or knifefight.”
Frederick Law Olmstead in his A Journey Through Texas (1850s) says, “There are probably in Texas as many revolvers as there are male adults . . . After a little practice we could very surely chop off a snake's head from the saddle at any reasonable distance.”
KEEP TRAVELIN',
RIDER
WHEN TACK GENTRY sighted the weather-beaten buildings of the G Bar, he touched spurs to the buckskin and the horse broke into a fast canter that carried the cowhand down the trail and around into the ranch yard. He swung down.
“Hey!” he yelled happily, grinning. “Is that all the welcome I get?”
The door pushed open and a man stepped out on the worn porch. The man had a stubble of beard and a drooping mustache. His blue eyes were small and narrow.
“Who are yuh?” he demanded. “And what do yuh want?”
“I'm Tack Gentry!” Tack said. “Where's Uncle John?”
“I don't know yuh,” the man said, “and I never heard of no Uncle John. I reckon yuh got onto the wrong spread, youngster.”
“Wrong spread?” Tack laughed. “Quit your funnin'! I helped build that house there, and built the corrals by my lonesome, while Uncle John was sick. Where is everybody?”
The man looked at him carefully and then lifted his eyes to a point beyond Tack. A voice spoke from behind the cowhand. “Reckon yuh been gone a while, ain't yuh?”
Gentry turned. The man behind him was short, stocky, and blond. He had a wide, flat face, a small broken nose, and cruel eyes.
“Gone? I reckon yes! I've been gone most of a year! Went north with a trail herd to Ellsworth, then took me a job as segundo on a herd movin' to Wyoming.”
TACK STARED AROUND, his eyes alert and curious. There was something wrong here, something very wrong. The neatness that had been typical of Uncle John Gentry was gone. The place looked run-down, the porch was untidy, the door hung loose on its hinges, even the horses in the corral were different.
“Where's Uncle John?” Tack demanded again. “Quit stallin'!”
The blond man smiled, his lips parting over broken teeth and a hard, cynical light coming into his eyes. “If yuh mean John Gentry, who used to live on this place, he's gone. He drawed on the wrong man and got himself killed.”
“What?” Tack's stomach felt like he had been kicked. He stood there, staring. “He drew on somebody? Uncle John?”
Tack shook his head. “That's impossible! John Gentry was a Quaker. He never lifted a hand in violence against anybody or anything in his life! He never even wore a gun, never owned one.”
“I only know what they tell me,” the blond man said, “but we got work to do, and I reckon yuh better slope out of here. And,” he added grimly, “if yuh're smart yuh'll keep right on goin', clean out of the country!”
“What do yuh mean?” Tack's thoughts were in a turmoil, trying to accustom himself to this change, wondering what could have happened, what was behind it.
“I mean yuh'll find things considerably changed around here. If yuh decide not to leave,” he added, “yuh might ride into Sunbonnet and look up Van Hardin or Dick Olney and tell him I said to give yuh all yuh had comin'. Tell 'em Soderman sent yuh.”
“Who's Van Hardin?” Tack asked. The name was unfamiliar.
“Yuh been away all right!” Soderman acknowledged. “Or yuh'd know who Van Hardin is. He runs this country. He's the ramrod, Hardin is. Olney's sheriff.”
Tack Gentry rode away from his home ranch with his thoughts in confusion. Uncle John! Killed in a gunfight! Why, that was out of reason! The old man wouldn't fight. He never had and never would. And this Dick Olney was sheriff! What had become of Pete Liscomb? No election was due for another year, and Pete had been a good sheriff.
There was one way to solve the problem and get the whole story, and that was to circle around and ride by the London ranch. Bill could give him the whole story, and besides, he wanted to see Betty. It had been a long time.
The six miles to the headquarters of the London ranch went by swiftly, yet as Tack rode, he scanned the grassy levels along the Maravillas. There were cattle enough, more than he had ever seen on the old G Bar, and all of them wearing the G Bar brand.
He reined in sharply. What the . . . ? Why, if Uncle John was dead, the ranch belonged to him! But if that was so, who was Soderman? And what were they doing on his ranch?
Three men were loafing on the wide veranda of the London ranch house when Tack rode up. All their faces were unfamiliar. He glanced warily from one to the other.
“Where's Bill London?” he asked.
“London?” The man in the wide brown hat shrugged. “Reckon he's to home, over in Sunbonnet Pass. He ain't never over here.”
“This is his ranch, isn't it?” Tack demanded.
All three men seemed to tense. “His ranch?” The man in the brown hat shook his head. “Reckon yuh're a stranger around here. This ranch belongs to Van Hardin. London ain't got a ranch. Nothin' but a few acres back against the creek over to Sunbonnet Pass. He and that girl of his live there. I reckon though,” he grinned suddenly, “she won't be there much longer. Hear tell she's goin' to work in the Longhorn Dance hall.”
“Betty London? In the Longhorn?” Tack exclaimed. “Don't make me laugh, partner! Betty's too nice a girl for that! She wouldn't . . .”
“They got it advertised,” the brown-hatted man said calmly.
An hour later a very thoughtful Ta
ck Gentry rode up the dusty street of Sunbonnet. In that hour of riding he had been doing a lot of thinking, and he was remembering what Soderman had said. He was to tell Hardin or Olney that Soderman had sent him to get all that was coming to him. Suddenly, that remark took on a new significance.
Tack swung down in front of the Longhorn. Emblazoned on the front of the saloon was a huge poster announcing that Betty London was the coming attraction, that she would sing and entertain at the Longhorn. Compressing his lips, Tack walked into the saloon.
Nothing was familiar except the bar and the tables. The man behind the bar was squat and fat, and his eyes peered at Tack from folds of flesh. “What's it for yuh?” he demanded.
“Rye,” Tack said. He let his eyes swing slowly around the room. Not a familiar face greeted him. Shorty Davis was gone. Nick Farmer was not around. These men were strangers, a tight-mouthed, hard-eyed crew.
Gentry glanced at the bartender. “Any ridin' jobs around here? Driftin' through, and thought I might like to tie in with one of the outfits around here.”
“Keep driftin',” the bartender said, not glancing at him. “Everybody's got a full crew.”
ONE DOOR SWUNG open and a tall, clean-cut man walked into the room, glancing around. He wore a neat gray suit and a dark hat. Tack saw the bartender's eyes harden and glanced thoughtfully at the newcomer. The man's face was very thin, and when he removed his hat his ash blond hair was neatly combed.
He glanced around, and his eyes lighted on Tack. “Stranger?” he asked pleasantly. “Then may I buy you a drink? I don't like to drink alone, but haven't sunk so low as to drink with these coyotes.”
Tack stiffened, expecting a reaction from some of the seated men, but there was none. Puzzled, he glanced at the blond man, and seeing the cynical good humor in the man's eyes, nodded.
“Sure, I'll drink with you.”
“My name,” the tall man added, “is Anson Childe, by profession, a lawyer, by dint of circumstances, a gambler, and by choice, a student.
Collection 1986 - Dutchman's Flat (v5.0) Page 3