Collection 1986 - Dutchman's Flat (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “We'll stay.”

  McQueen ordered swiftly and surely, but not all they would need. There were other stores in town, and he preferred to test the water before he got in too deep. The Firebox would need to spend a lot of money locally and he wanted to scatter it around. Hutch made no comment until he ordered a quantity of .44-caliber ammunition.

  “That's a lot of shootin'. You expectin' a war?”

  “War? Nothing like that, but we're used to wars. Jimmy McCracken was killed for some reason by some right vicious folks. If they come back we wouldn't want them to feel unwelcome.”

  The door opened and Neal Webb walked in. He strode swiftly to the counter and was about to speak when he recognized McQueen. He gulped back his words, whatever they might have been.

  “Howdy. Reckon you got off pretty easy.”

  McQueen took his time about replying. “Webb, the Tumblin' K is in this country to stay. You might as well get used to us and accept the situation. Then we can have peace between us and get on with raising and marketing cattle. We want no trouble, but we're ready if it comes.

  “We did business with McCracken and I couldn't have found a finer man. His son seemed cut from the same pattern.

  “They didn't belong to my outfit, so I'm droppin' this right here. If it had been one of my men I'd backtrail the killers until I found where they came from. Then I'd hunt their boss and I'd stay with him until he was hanged, which is what he deserves.”

  Behind McQueen's back Hutch gestured, and the hot remarks Webb might have made were stifled. Puzzled, McQueen noticed the change and the sudden shift of Webb's eyes. Finishing his order he stepped into the street.

  As he left a gray-haired, impatient-seeming man brushed by him. “Neal,” he burst out, “where's that no-account Bemis? He was due over to my place with that horse he borried. I need that paint the worst way!”

  “Forget it,” Webb said. “I'll see he gets back to you.”

  “But I want to see Bemis! He owes me money!”

  Ward McQueen let the door close behind him and glanced across the street. A girl with red-gold hair was sweeping the boardwalk there. She made a pretty picture and he crossed the street.

  As he stepped up on the walk, she glanced up. Her expression changed as she saw him. Her glance was the swiftly measuring one of a pretty girl who sees a stranger, attractive and possibly unmarried. She smiled.

  “You must be one of that new outfit the town's talking about. The Tumbling K, isn't it?”

  “It is.” He shoved his hat back on his head. Kim should see this girl, he thought. She's lovely. “I'm the foreman.”

  She glanced across the street toward Hutch's store. “Started buying from Hutch? Like him?”

  “I don't know him. Do you run this store?”

  “I do, and I like it. What's more I almost make money with it. Of course Hutch gets most of the business. I've had no trouble with him, so far.”

  He glanced at her. Did that mean she expected trouble? Or that Hutch was inclined to cause trouble for competitors?

  “I'm new here so I thought I'd scatter my business until I find out where I get the best service.” He smiled. “I want to order a few things.”

  A big man was coming up the walk, a very big man, and Ward McQueen sensed trouble in the man's purposeful stride. He was taking in the whole walk, and he was bareheaded. His worn boots were run down at the heels and his faded shirt was open halfway down his chest for lack of buttons. His ponderous fists swung at the ends of powerfully muscled arms, and his eyes darkened savagely as he saw Ward McQueen.

  “Watch yourself!” the girl warned. “That's Flagg Warneke!”

  The big man towered above McQueen. When he came to a stop in front of Ward his chin was on a level with Ward's eyebrows and he seemed as wide as a barn door.

  “Are you McQueen? Well, I'm Flagg Warneke, from Bear Canyon! I hear you aim to run us nesters off your range! Is that right?”

  “I haven't made up my mind yet,” Ward replied. “When I do I'll come to see you.”

  “Oh! You haven't made up your mind yet? Well, see that you don't! And stay away from Bear Canyon! That place belongs to us, an' if you come huntin' trouble, you'll get it!”

  Coolly, Ward McQueen turned his back on the giant. “Why not show me what stock you have?” he suggested to the girl. “I—”

  A huge hand clamped on his shoulder and spun him around. “When I talk to you, face me!” Warneke roared.

  As the big hand spun him around Ward McQueen threw a roundhouse right to the chin that knocked the big man floundering against the post of the overhang. Instantly, Ward moved in, driving a wicked right to the body and then swinging both hands to the head.

  The man went to his knees and McQueen stepped back. Then, as if realizing for the first time that he had been struck, Warneke came off the walk with a lunge. He swung his right but Ward went inside, punching with both hands. The big man soaked up punishment like a sponge takes water, and he came back, punching with remarkable speed for such a big man.

  A blow caught McQueen on the jaw and he crashed against the side of the store, his head ringing. Warneke followed up on the punch, but he was too eager for the kill and missed.

  Ward stepped in, smashing his head against the big man's chin and then punching with both hands to the body. His head buzzed and his mouth had a taste of blood. The big man clubbed at his kidneys and tried to knee him, but Ward slid away and looped a punch that split Warneke's ear and showered Ward with blood.

  Warneke staggered but recovering came back, his eyes blazing with fury. When Warneke threw a punch Ward went under it and grabbed the big man by the knees, upending him. The big man hit the walk on his shoulder blades with a crash that raised dust, but he came up fast, landing a staggering right to Ward's head. Ward countered with a left and then crossed a right to the jaw. The big man went to his haunches.

  A crowd had gathered and the air was filled with shouted encouragement to one or the other. Ward's shirt was torn and when he stepped back to let Warneke get up again his breath was coming in great gasps. The sheer power and strength of the big man was amazing. He had never hit a man so hard and had him still coming.

  McQueen, no stranger to rough and tumble fighting, moved in, circling a little. Warneke, cautious now, was aware he was in a fight. Before, his battles had always ended quickly, this was different. McQueen stabbed a left to the mouth, feinted, and did it again. He feinted again, but this time he whipped a looping uppercut to the body that made Warneke's mouth fall open. The big man swung a ponderous blow that fell short and McQueen circled him warily. The speed was gone from the Bear Canyon man now, and McQueen only sought a quick way to end it.

  McQueen, oblivious of the crowd, moved in warily. Warneke, hurt though he was, was as dangerous as a cornered grizzly. McQueen's greatest advantage had been that Warneke had been used to quick victories and had not expected anything like what had happened. Also, McQueen had landed the first blow and followed it up before the bigger man could get set. He stalked him now, and then feinted suddenly and threw a high hard one to the chin. Warneke was coming in when the blow landed. For an instant he stiffened, and then fell forward to the walk and lay still.

  McQueen stepped back to the wall and let his eyes sweep the faces of the crowd. For the first time he saw Sartain standing in front of the store, his thumbs hooked in his belt, watching the people gathered about.

  Nearest the porch was a tall man in a gray suit, a man he had observed before when he first rode into town.

  “That was quite a scrap,” said the man in gray. “My congratulations. If there is ever anything I can do, just come to me. My name is Ren Oliver.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ward McQueen picked up his fallen hat and then tentatively he worked his fingers. Nothing was broken but his hands were stiff and sore from the pounding. He gave Sartain a half smile. “Looks like we've picked a tough job. That was a Bear Canyon nester!”

  “Yeah.” Kim gave him a wry l
ook. “Wonder who put him up to it?”

  “You think it was planned?”

  “Think about it. You've made no decision on Bear Canyon. You ain't even seen the place or its people, but he had the idea you were going to run them off. And how did he know where you were and who you were? I think somebody pointed you out.”

  “That's only if somebody has it in for him, or for us.”

  Sartain's smile was cynical. “You don't think they have? You should have seen how green Webb turned when you said you had title to the Firebox. If the sheriff hadn't been there he'd have tried to kill you.

  “And why was the sheriff there? That's another thing we'd better find out.”

  McQueen nodded. “You're right, Kim. While you're around, keep your eyes and ears open for a man named Bemis. You won't see him, I think, but find out what you can about him.”

  “Bemis? What do you know about him?”

  “Darned little.” McQueen touched his cheek with gentle fingers where a large red, raw spot had resulted from Warneke's fist. “Only he ain't around, and he should be.”

  Sartain walked off down the street and the crowd drifted slowly away, reluctant to leave the scene. McQueen hitched his guns into place and straightened his clothes. He glanced around and saw a sign, Clarity's Store.

  The girl had come back into her doorway, and he glanced at her. “Are you Clarity?”

  “I am. The first name is Sharon and I'm Irish. Did they call you McQueen?”

  “They did. And the first name is Ward.”

  He stepped into the store, anxious to get away from the curious eyes. The store was more sparsely stocked than Hutch's much larger store, but the stock gave evidence of careful selection and a discriminating taste. There were many things a western store did not normally stock.

  “I have a washbasin,” she suggested. “I think you'd better take a look at yourself in a mirror.”

  “I will,” he said, grinning a little, “but I'd rather not.” He glanced around again. “Do you stock shirts by any chance? Man-size shirts?”

  She looked at him critically. “I do, and I believe I have one that would fit you.”

  She indicated the door to the washbasin and then went among the stacks of goods on the shelves behind the counter.

  A glance in the mirror and he saw what she meant. His face was battered and bloody, his hair mussed. He could do little about the battered but the blood he could wash away, and he did so. The back door opened on a small area surrounded by a high fence. It was shaded by several old elms and a cottonwood or two, and in the less shaded part there were flowers. He washed his face, holding compresses on his swollen cheekbones and lip. Then he combed his hair.

  Sharon Clarity came with a shirt. It was a dark blue shirt with two pockets. He stripped off the rags of his other shirt and donned the new one and dusted off his hat.

  She gave him a quick look and a smile when he emerged, saying “It's an improvement, anyway.” She folded some other shirts and returned them to the shelves.

  He paid for the shirt she had provided, and she said, “You know what you've done, don't you? You've whipped the toughest man in Bear Canyon. Whipped him in a standup fight. Nobody has ever done that, and nobody has even come close. Nobody has even tried for a long time.”

  She paused, frowning a little. “It puzzles me a little. Warneke isn't usually quarrelsome. That's the first time I ever saw him start a fight.”

  “Somebody may have given him an idea. I hadn't had time to even think about Bear Canyon. I haven't even ridden over the ranch, and yet he had the idea we were about to run them off.”

  She looked at him appraisingly, at the wide shoulders, the narrow hips. There was power in every line of him, a power she had just seen unleashed with utter savagery. Having grown up with four brawling brothers she knew something about men. This one had fought coolly, skillfully. “You've started something you know. That Bear Canyon outfit is tough. Even Neal Webb's boys fight shy of them.”

  “Webb has a tough outfit?”

  “You've seen some of them. There are two or three known killers in the bunch. Why he keeps them, I couldn't say.”

  “Like Bemis, for example?”

  “You know Harve Bemis? He's one of them, but not the worst by a long shot. The worst ones are Overlin and Bine.”

  These were names he knew. Bine he had never seen, but he knew a good deal about him, as did any cattleman along the border country of Texas. An occasional outlaw and suspected rustler, he had run with the Youngers in Missouri before riding south to Texas.

  Overlin was a Montana gunhand known around Bannock and Alder Gulch, but he had ridden the cattle trails from Texas several times and was a skilled cowhand, as well. McQueen had seen him in Abilene and at Doan's Crossing. On that occasion he himself had killed an outlaw who was trying to cut the herd with which McQueen was riding. The fact that such men rode with Webb made the situation serious.

  He purchased several items and then hired a man with a wagon to freight the stuff to the Firebox. Kim Sartain was loitering in front of the saloon when McQueen came down to get his horse.

  “Bemis ain't around,” he confided, “an' it's got folks wonderin' because he usually plays poker at the Bat Cave Saloon. Nobody's seen him around for several days.” He paused, “I didn't ask. I just listened.”

  For three days the Firebox was unmolested, and in those three days much was accomplished. The shake roof needed fixing, and some fences had to be repaired. Baldy had that job and when he finished he stood back and looked it over with satisfaction. “Bud, that there's an elephant-proof fence.”

  “Elephant proof? You mean an elephant couldn't get past that fence? You're off your trail!”

  “Of course it's elephant proof. You don't see any elephant's in there, do you?”

  Bud Fox just looked at him and rode away.

  All hands were in the saddle from ten to twelve hours a day. The cattle were more numerous than expected, especially the younger stuff. Several times McQueen cut trails made by groups of riders, most of them several days old. Late on the afternoon of the third day he rode down the steep slope to the bottom of a small canyon near the eastern end of the Dillons and found blood on the grass.

  The stain was old and dark but unmistakably blood. He walked his horse around, looking for sign. He found a leaf with blood on it, then another. The blood had come from someone riding a horse, a horse that toed in slightly. Following the trail he came to where several other horsemen had joined the wounded man. One of the other horses was obviously a led horse.

  Men had been wounded in the fight with McCracken. Could these be the same? If so, where were they going? He rode on over the Dillons and off what was accepted as Firebox range. He had crossed a saddle to get into this narrow canyon, but further along it seemed to open into a wider one. He pushed on, his Winchester in his hands.

  The buckskin he rode was a mountain horse accustomed to rough travel. Moreover, it was fast and had stamina, the sort of horse a man needed when riding into trouble. The country into which he now ventured was unknown to him, wild and rough. The canyon down which he rode opened into a wider valley that tightened up into another deep, narrow canyon.

  Before him was a small stream. The riders had turned down canyon.

  It was dusk and shadows gathered in the canyons, only a faint red glow from the setting sun crested the rim of the canyon. Towering black walls lifted about him, and on the rocky edge across the way a dead, lightning-blasted pine pointed a warning finger from the cliff. The narrow valley was deep in the mystery of darkness, and the only sound other than from the stream was a faint rustling. Then wind sighed in the junipers and the buckskin stopped, head up, ears pricked.

  “Ssh!” he whispered, putting a warning hand on the buckskin's neck. “Take it easy, boy. Take it easy now.”

  The horse stepped forward, seeming almost to walk on tiptoe. This was the Box, one of the deepest canyons in the area. McCracken had spoken of it during their discussions that
led to his sale of the ranch.

  Suddenly he glimpsed a faint light on the rock wall. Speaking softly to the buckskin he slid from the saddle, leaving his rifle in the scabbard.

  Careful to allow no jingle of spurs he felt his way along the sandy bottom. Rounding a shoulder of rock he saw a small campfire and the moving shadow of a man in a wide hat. Crouching near a bush he saw that shadow replaced by another, a man with a bald head.

  In the silence of the canyon, where sounds were magnified, he heard a voice. “Feelin better, Bemis? We'll make it to Dry Leggett tomorrow.”

  The reply was huskier, the tone complaining. “What's the boss keepin' us so far away for? Why didn't he have us to the Runnin' W? This hole I got in me is no joke.”

  “You got to stay under cover. We're not even suspected, an' we won't be if we play it smart.”

  His eyes picked out three men lying near the fire, covered with blankets, one with a bandaged head. One of those who was on his feet was preparing a meal. From the distance he could just make out their faces, the shape of their shoulders, and of the two on their feet, the way they moved. Soon he might be fighting these men, and he wanted to know them on sight. The man in the wide hat turned suddenly toward him.

  Hansen Bine!

  Never before had he seen the man but the grapevine of the trails carried accurate descriptions of such men and of places as well. Gunfighters were much discussed, more than prizefighters or baseball players, even more than racehorses or buckers.

  Bine was known for his lean, wiry body, the white scar on his chin, and his unnaturally long, thin fingers.

  “What's the matter, Bine?” Bemis asked.

  “Somethin' around. I can feel it.”

  “Cat, maybe. Lots of big ones in these canyons. I saw one fightin' a bear, one time. A black bear. No lion in his right mind would tackle a grizzly.”

  Bine looked again into the night and then crossed to the fire and seated himself. “Who d'you reckon those riders were who went to the cabin after we left? I saw them headed right for it.”

  “The boss, maybe. He was supposed to show up with the sheriff.”