As a result, French's ranch near Alma became a regular stopping place for the Wild Bunch, a place where using false names they could conveniently disappear for a few weeks or months, as necessity demanded.
WEST OF THE
TULAROSAS
THE DEAD MAN had gone out fighting. Scarcely more than a boy, and a dandy in dress, he had been man enough when the showdown came.
Propped against the fireplace stones, legs stretched before him, loose fingers still touching the butt of his .45 Colt, he had smoked it out to a bloody, battle-stained finish. Evidence of it lay all about him. Whoever killed him had spent time, effort, and blood to do it.
As they closed in for the payoff at least one man had died on the threshold.
The fight that ended here had begun elsewhere. From the looks of it this cabin had been long deserted, and the dead man's spurs were bloodstained. At least one of his wounds showed evidence of being much older than the others. A crude attempt had been made to stop the bleeding.
Baldy Jackson, one of the Tumbling K riders who found the body, dropped to his knees and picked up the dead man's Colt.
“Empty!” he said. “He fought 'em until his guns were empty, an' then they killed him.”
“Is he still warm?” McQueen asked. “I think I can smell powder smoke.”
“He ain't been an hour dead, I'd guess. Wonder what the fuss was about?”
“Worries me,” McQueen looked around, “considering our situation.” He glanced at Bud Fox and Kim Sartain, who appeared in the doorway. “What's out there?”
“At least one of their boys rode away still losing blood. By the look of things this lad didn't go out alone, he took somebody with him.” Sartain was rolling a smoke. “No feed in the shed, but that horse out there carries a mighty fine saddle.”
“Isn't this the place we're headed for?” Fox asked. “It looks like the place described.”
Sartain's head came up. “Somebody comin'!” he said. “Riders, an' quite a passel of them.”
Sartain flattened against the end of the fireplace and Fox knelt behind a windowsill. Ward McQueen planted his stalwart frame in the doorway, waiting. “This isn't so good. We're goin' to be found with a dead man, just killed.”
There were a half dozen riders in the approaching group, led by a stocky man on a gray horse and a tall, oldish man wearing a badge.
They drew up sharply on seeing the horses and McQueen. The short man stared at McQueen, visibly upset by his presence. “Who're you? And what are you doin' here?”
“I'll ask the same question,” McQueen spoke casually. “This is Firebox range, isn't it?”
“I know that.” The stocky man's tone was testy. “I ought to. I own the Firebox.”
“Do you now?” Ward McQueen's reply was gentle, inquiring. “Might be a question about that. Ever hear of Tom McCracken?”
“Of course! He used to own the Firebox.”
“That's right, and he sold it to Ruth Kermitt of the Tumbling K. I'm Ward McQueen, her foreman. I've come to take possession.”
His reply was totally unexpected, and the stocky man was obviously astonished. His surprise held him momentarily speechless, and then he burst out angrily.
“That's impossible! I'm holdin' notes against young Jimmy McCracken! He was the old man's heir, an' Jimmy signed the place over to me to pay up.”
“As of when?” Ward asked.
His thoughts were already leaping ahead, reading sign along the trail they must follow. Obviously something was very wrong, but he was sure that Ruth's deed, a copy of which he carried with him, would be dated earlier than whatever this man had. Moreover, he now had a hunch that the dead man lying behind him was that same Jimmy McCracken.
“That's neither here nor there! Get off my land or be drove off!”
“Take it easy, Webb!” The sheriff spoke for the first time. “This man may have a just claim. If Tom McCracken sold out before he died, your paper isn't worth two hoots.”
That this had occurred to Webb was obvious, and that he did not like it was apparent. Had the sheriff not been present, Ward was sure, there would have been a shooting. As yet, they did not know he was not alone, as none of the Tumbling K men had shown themselves.
“Sheriff,” McQueen said, “my outfit rode in here about fifteen minutes ago, and we found a dead man in this cabin. Looks like he lost a runnin' fight with several men, and when his ammunition gave out, they killed him.”
“Or you shot him,” Webb said.
Ward did not move from the door. He was a big man, brown from sun and wind, lean and muscular. He wore two guns.
“I shot nobody.” His tone was level, even. “Sheriff, I'm Ward McQueen. My boss bought this place from McCracken for cash money. The deed was delivered to her, and the whole transaction was recorded in the courts. All that remained was for us to take possession, which we have done.”
He paused. “The man who is dead inside is unknown to me, but I'm making a guess he's Jimmy McCracken. Whoever killed him wanted him dead mighty bad. There was quite a few of them, and Jimmy did some good shootin'. One thing you might look for is a couple of wounded men, or somebody else who turns up dead.”
The sheriff dismounted. “I'll look around, McQueen. My name's Foster, Bill Foster.” He waved a hand to the stocky cattleman. “This is Neal Webb, owner of the Runnin W.”
Ward McQueen stepped aside to admit the sheriff, and as he did so Kim Sartain showed up at the corner of the house, having stepped through a window to the outside. Kim Sartain was said to be as good with his guns as McQueen.
Foster squatted beside the body. “Yeah, this is young Jimmy, all right. Looks like he put up quite a scrap.”
“He was game,” McQueen said. He indicated the older wound. “He'd been shot somewhere and rode in here, ridin' for his life. Look at the spurs. He tried to get where there was help but didn't make it.”
Foster studied the several wounds and the empty cartridge cases. McQueen told him of the hard-ridden mustang, but the sheriff wanted to see for himself. Watching the old man, McQueen felt renewed confidence. The lawman was careful and shrewd, taking nothing for granted, accepting no man's unsupported word. That McQueen and his men were in a bad position was obvious.
Neal Webb was obviously a cattleman of some local importance. The Tumbling K riders were not only strangers but they had been found with the body.
Webb was alert and aware. He had swiftly catalogued the Tumbling K riders as a tough lot, if pushed. McQueen he did not know, but the K foreman wore his guns with the ease of long practice. Few men carried two guns, most of them from the Texas border country. Nobody he knew of used both at once; the second gun was insurance, but it spoke of a man prepared for trouble.
Webb scowled irritably. The setup had been so perfect! The old man dead, the gambling debts, and the bill of sale. All that remained was to . . . and then this outfit appeared with what was apparently a legitimate claim. Who would ever dream the old man would sell out? But how had the sale been arranged? There might still be a way, short of violence.
What would Silas Hutch say? And Ren Oliver? It angered Webb to realize he had failed, after all his promises. Yet who could have foreseen this? It had all appeared so simple, but who could have believed that youngster would put up a fight like he did? He had been a laughing, friendly youngster, showing no sense of responsibility, no steadiness of purpose. He had been inclined to sidestep trouble rather than face it, so the whole affair had looked simple enough.
One thing after another had gone wrong. First, the ambush failed. The kid got through it alive and then made a running fight of it. Why he headed for this place Webb could not guess, unless he had known the Tumbling K outfit was to be here.
Two of Webb's best men were dead and three wounded, and he would have to keep them out of sight until they were well again. Quickly, he decided the line cabin on Dry Legget would be the best hideout.
Foster came from the woods, his face serious.
“McQue
en, you'd better ride along to town with me. I found sign that six or seven men were in this fight, and several were killed or hurt. This requires investigation.”
“You mean I'm under arrest?”
“No such thing. Only you'll be asked questions. We'll check your deed an' prob'ly have to get your boss up here. We're goin' to get to the bottom of this.”
“One thing, Foster, before we go. I'd like you to check our guns. Nobody among us has fired a shot for days. I'd like you to know that.”
“You could have switched guns,” Webb suggested.
McQueen ignored him. “Kim, why don't you fork your bronc an' ride along with us? Baldy, you an' Bud stay here and let nobody come around unless its the sheriff or one of us. Got it?”
“You bet!” Jackson spat a stream of tobacco juice at an ant. “Nobody'll come around, believe me.”
Neal Webb kept his mouth shut but he watched irritably. McQueen was thinking of everything, but as Webb watched the body of young McCracken tied over the saddle he had an idea. Jimmy had been well liked around town, so if the story got around that McQueen was his killer, there might be no need for a trial or even a preliminary hearing. It was too bad Foster was so stiff necked.
Kim Sartain did not ride with the group. With his Winchester across his saddle bows he kept off to the flank or well back in the rear where the whole group could be watched. Sheriff Foster noted this, and his frosty old eyes glinted with amused appreciation.
“What's he doin' back there?” Webb demanded. “Make him ride up front, Sheriff!”
Foster smiled. “He can ride where he wants. He don't make me nervous, Webb. What's eatin' you?”
The town of Pelona for which they were riding faced the wide plains from the mouth of Cottonwood Canyon, and faced them without pretensions. The settlement, dwarfed by the bulk of the mountain behind it, was a supply point for cattlemen, a stage stop, and a source of attraction for cowhands to whom Santa Fe and El Paso were faraway dream cities.
In Pelona, with its four saloons, livery stable, and five stores, Si Hutch, who owned Hutch's Emporium, was king.
He was a little old man, grizzled, with a stubble of beard and a continually cranky mood. Beneath that superficial aspect he was utterly vicious, without an iota of mercy for anything human or animal.
Gifted in squeezing the last drop of money or labor from those who owed him, he thirsted for wealth with the same lust that others reserved for whiskey or women. Moreover, although few realized it, he was cruel as an Apache and completely depraved. One of the few who realized the depth of his depracity was his strong right hand, Ren Oliver.
Oliver was an educated man and for the first twenty-five years of his life had lived in the East. Twice, once in New York and again in Philadelphia, he had been guilty of killing. In neither case had it been proved, and in only one case had he been questioned. In both cases he had killed to cover his thieving, but finally he got in too deep and realizing his guilt could be proved, he skipped town.
In St. Louis he shot a man over a card game. Two months later he knifed a man in New Orleans, then drifted west, acquiring gun skills as he traveled. Since boyhood his career had been a combination of cruelty and dishonesty, but not until he met Si Hutch had he made it pay. Behind his cool, somewhat cynical expression few people saw the killer.
He was not liked in Pelona. Neither was he disliked. He had killed two men in gun battles since arriving in town, but both seemed to have been fair, standup matches. He was rarely seen with Si Hutch, for despite the small population they had been able to keep their cooperation a secret. Only Neal Webb, another string to Hutch's bow, understood the connection. One of the factors that aided Hutch in ruling the Pelona area was that his control was exercised without being obvious. Certain of his enemies had died by means unknown to either Ren Oliver or Neal Webb.
The instrument of these deaths was unknown, and for that reason Si Hutch was doubly feared.
When Sheriff Foster rode into town with Webb and McQueen, Si Hutch was among the first to know. His eyes tightened with vindictive fury. That damned Webb! Couldn't he do anything right? His own connection with the crimes well covered, he could afford to sit back and await developments.
Ward McQueen had been doing some serious thinking on the ride into town. The negotiations between Ruth Kermitt and old Tom McCracken had been completed almost four months ago. McCracken had stayed on at the Firebox even after the title was transferred and was to have managed it for another six months. His sudden death ended all that.
Webb had said he owned the ranch by virtue of young Jimmy signing it over to pay a gambling debt. This was impossible, for Jimmy had known of the sale and had been present during the negotiations. That, then, was an obvious falsehood. Neal Webb had made an effort to obtain control of the ranch, and Jimmy McCracken had been killed to prevent his doing anything about it.
The attempt to seize control of the ranch argued a sure and careful mind, and a ruthless one. Somehow he did not see Webb in that role, although Webb was undoubtedly a part of the operation. Still, what did he know? Pelona was a strange town and he was a stranger. Such towns were apt to be loyal to their own against any outsider. He must walk on cat feet, careful to see where he stepped. Whoever was in charge did not hesitate to kill, or hesitate to lose his own men in the process.
Sheriff Foster seemed like an honest man, but how independent was he? In such towns there were always factions who controlled, and elected officials were often only tools to be used.
Faced with trickery and double-dealing as well as such violence, what could he do? When Ruth arrived from the Tumbling K in Nevada there would be no doubt that she owned the Firebox and that Jimmy had known of it. That would place the killing of young Jimmy McCracken at Neal Webb's door.
Red Oliver was on the walk in front of the Bat Cave Saloon when they tied up before the sheriff's office. He had never seen either McQueen or Sartain before but knew them instantly for what they were, gunfighters, and probably good.
McQueen saw the tall man in the gray suit standing on the boardwalk. Something in the way he carried himself seemed to speak of what he was. As he watched, Oliver turned in at the Emporium. Ward finished tying his roan and went into the sheriff's office.
Nothing new developed from the talk in the office of the sheriff, nor in the hearing that followed. Young Jimmy McCracken had been slain by persons unknown after a considerable chase. The evidence seemed to establish that several men had been involved in the chase, some of whom had been killed or wounded by McCracken.
Ward McQueen gave his own evidence and listened is the others told what they knew or what tracks seemed to indicate. As he listened he heard whispering behind him, and he was well aware that talk was going around. After all, he and the Tumbling K riders were strangers. What talk he could overhear was suspicion of his whole outfit.
Neal Webb had a bunch of tough men around him and he was belligerent. When telling what he knew he did all he could to throw suspicion on the Tumbling K. However, from what he could gather, all of Webb's riders were present and accounted for. If Webb had been one of those involved in the killing of McCracken it must have been with other men than his own.
After the inquest McQueen found himself standing beside the sheriff. “What kind of a country is this, Sheriff? Do you have much trouble?”
“Less than you'd expect. Webb's outfit is the biggest, but his boys don't come in often. When they want to have a blowout they ride down to Alma. They do some drinkin' now an' again but they don't r'ar up lookin' for trouble.”
“Many small outfits?”
“Dozen or so. The Firebox will be the largest if you run cows on all of it.” Foster studied him. “Do you know the range limits of the Firebox?”
“We figure to run stock from the Apache to Rip-Roaring Mesa and Crosby Creek, south to Dillon Mountain and up to a line due east from there to the Apache.”
“That's a big piece of country but it is all Firebox range. There are a few nesters sq
uatted in Bear Canyon, and they look like a tough outfit, but they've given me no trouble.”
“Miss Kermitt holds deeds on twelve pieces of land,” Ward explained. “Those twelve pieces control most of the water on that range, and most of the easy passes. We want no trouble, but we'll run cattle on range we're entitled to.”
“That's fair enough. Watch your step around Bear Canyon. Those boys are a mean lot.”
Kim Sartain was somewhere around town but McQueen was not worried. The gunslinging segundo of the Tumbling K was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and in the meanwhile Ward had business of his own to take care of. He glanced up and down the street, studying the stores. Two of them appeared better stocked than the others. One was Hutch's Emporium, a large store apparently stocked to the doors with everything a rancher could want. The other stores were smaller but were freshly painted and looked neat.
McQueen walked along to the Emporium. A small man with a graying beard looked up at him as he came to the counter. It was an old-fashioned counter, curved inward on the front to accommodate women shoppers who wore hoopshirts.
“Howdy there! Stranger in town?”
“Tumbling K. We've taken over the Firebox, and we'll need supplies.”
Hutch nodded agreeably. “Glad to help! The Firebox, hey? Had a ruckus out there, I hear.”
“Nothin' much.” Ward walked along, studying the goods on the shelves and stacked on tables. He was also curious about the man behind the counter. He seemed genial enough, but his eyes were steel bright and glassy. He was quick-moving and obviously energetic.
“Troublin' place, the Firebox. Old McCracken seemed to make it pay but nobody else ever done it. You reckon you'll stay?”
Collection 1986 - Dutchman's Flat (v5.0) Page 13