There was silence except for the crackling of the fire, only barely discernible at the distance. The flames played shadow games on the rock wall. Then Bemis spoke, “I don't like it, Hans. I don't like it at all. I been shot before, but this one's bad. I need some care. I need a doctor.”
“Take it easy, Bemis. You'll get there, all in good time.”
“I don't like it. Sure, he doesn't want nobody to know, but I don't want to die, either.”
Talk died down as the men sat up to eat, and Ward drew carefully back and walked across the sand to his horse. He swung into the saddle and turned the animal, but as the buckskin lined out to go back along the canyon its hoof clicked on stone!
He had believed himself far enough away not to be heard, but from behind him he heard a startled exclamation, and Ward put the horse into a lope in the darkness. From behind him there was a challenge and then a rifle shot, but he was not worried. The shot would have been fired on chance, as Ward knew he could not be seen and there was no straight shot possible in the canyon.
He rode swiftly, so swiftly that he realized he had missed his turn and was following a route up a canyon strange to him. The bulk of the Dillons arose on his right instead of ahead or on his left as they should be. By the stars he could see that the canyon up which he now rode was running east and west and he was headed west. Behind him he heard sounds of pursuit but doubted they would follow far.
The riding was dangerous, as the canyon was a litter of boulders and the trunks of dead trees. A branch canyon opened and he rode into it, his face into a light wind. He heard no further sounds of pursuit and was pleased, wanting no gun battle in these narrow, rock-filled canyons where a ricochet could so easily kill or wound a man. He saw the vague gleam of water and rode his horse into a small mountain stream. Following the stream for what he guessed was close to a mile, he found his way out of the stream to a rocky shelf. A long time later he came upon a trail and the shape of some mountains he recognized.
As he rode he considered what he had heard. Harve Bemis, as he suspected, had been one of those who attacked Jimmy McCracken. More than likely Bine had been there as well. That, even without what else he knew of Neal Webb, placed the attack squarely on Webb's shoulders.
With Jimmy McCracken slain and a forged bill of sale, Webb would have been sure nothing could block his claim to the Firebox range.
So what would he do now? Relinquish his attempt to seize the Firebox and let the killing go for nothing? All McQueen's experience told him otherwise. Webb would seek some other way to advance his claim, and he would seek every opportunity to blacken the reputation of the Tumbling K riders.
The men he had seen in the canyon were headed for Dry Leggett. Where was that? What was it? That he must find out, also he must have a talk with Sheriff Bill Foster.
Ruth Kermitt would not like this. She did not like trouble, and yet those who worked for her always seemed to be fighting to protect her interests. Of late she had refused to admit there might be occasions when fighting could not be avoided. She had yet to learn that in order to have peace both sides must want it equally. One side cannot make peace; they can only surrender. Ward McQueen knew of a dozen cases where one side had agreed to lay down their arms if allowed to leave peacefully. In every case of which he knew, the ones who surrendered their arms were promptly massacred.
He had been in love with Ruth since their first meeting, and they had talked of marriage. Several times they had been on the verge of it but something always intervened. Was it altogether accident? Or was one or both of them hesitating? Marriage would be new for each, yet he had always been a freely roving man, going where he willed, living as he wished.
He shook such thoughts from his head. This was no time for personal considerations. He was a ranch foreman with a job to do, a job that might prove both difficult and dangerous. He must put the Firebox on a paying basis.
Their Nevada ranch was still the home ranch, but Ruth had bought land in other states, in Arizona and New Mexico as well as Utah, and she had traded profitably in cattle. One of the reasons for his hesitation, if he was hesitating, was because Ruth Kermitt was so wealthy. He himself had done much to create that wealth and to keep what she had gained. From the time when he had saved her herd in Nevada he had worked untiringly. He knew cattle, horses, and men. He also knew range conditions. The Tumbling K range fattened hundreds of white-faced cattle. The Firebox, further south and subject to different weather conditions, could provide a cushion against disaster on the northern range she had bought, on his advice, for a bargain price. Old Tom and young Jimmy had planned to return to a property they owned in Wyoming. As Tom had known Ruth's father, he offered her a first chance.
On Ward's advice she had purchased land around water holes, insuring her of water so they would control much more land than they owned.
It was almost daybreak when McQueen rolled into his bunk in the Firebox bunkhouse. Sartain opened an eye and glanced at him curiously. Then he went back to sleep. Kim asked no questions and offered no comments but missed little.
Baldy Jackson was putting breakfast together when McQueen awakened. He sat up on his bunk and called out to Baldy in the next room. “Better get busy and muck this place out,” Ward suggested. “Ruth—Miss Kermitt—may be down before long.”
“Ain't I got enough to do? Cookin' for you hungry coyotes, buildin' fence, an' mixin' 'dobe? This place is good enough for a bunch of thistle-chinned cowhands.”
“You heard me,” McQueen said cheerfully. “And while you're at it, pick out a cabin site for the boss. One with a view. She will want a place of her own.”
“Better set up an' eat. You missed your supper.”
“Where's the boys? Aren't they eating?”
“They et an' cleared out hours ago.” Baldy glanced at him. “What happened last night? Run into somethin'?”
“Yes, I did.” He splashed water on his face and hands. “I came upon a camp of five men, three of them wounded. They were headed for a place called Dry Leggett.”
“Canyon west of the Plaza.”
“Plaza?”
“Kind of settlement, mostly Mexicans. Good people. A few 'dobes, a couple of stores, and a saloon or two.”
“How well do you know this country, Baldy?”
Jackson gave him a wry look. “Pretty well. I punched cows for the S U south of here, and rode into the Plaza more times than I can recall. Been over around Socorro. Back in the old days I used to hole up back in the hills from time to time.”
Baldy was a good cowhand and a good cook, but in his younger years he had ridden the outlaw trail until time brought wisdom. Too many of his old pals had wound up at the end of a rope.
“Maybe you can tell me where I was last night. I think I was over around that they used to call the Box. He described the country and Baldy listened, sipping coffee. “Uh-huh,” he said finally, “that canyon you hit after crossing the Dillons must have been Devil. You probably found them holed up in the Box or right below it. Leavin', you must have missed Devil Canyon and wound up on the south fork of the 'Frisco. Then you come up the trail along the Centerfire and home.”
Racing hoofs interrupted. McQueen put down his cup as Bud Fox came through the door.
“Ward, that herd we gathered in Turkey Park is gone! Sartain trailed 'em toward Apache Mountain!”
“Wait'll I get my horse.” Baldy jerked off his apron.
“You stay here!” McQueen told him. “Get down that Sharps an' be ready. Somebody may have done this just to get us away from the cabin. Anyway, I've a good idea who is responsible.”
Riding swiftly, Fox led him to the tracks. Kim Sartain had followed after the herd. The trail skirted a deep canyon, following an intermittent stream into the bed of the Apache, and then crossed the creek into the rough country beyond.
Suddenly McQueen drew up, listening. Ahead of them they heard cattle lowing. Kim came down from the rocks.
“Right up ahead. Four of the wildest, roughest lookin'
hands I've seen in years.”
“Let's go,” McQueen said. Touching spurs to his horse as he plunged through the brush and hit the flat land at a dead run with the other two riders spreading wide behind him. The movements of the cattle killed the sound of their charge until they were almost up to the herd. Then one of the rustlers turned and slapped a hand for his six-shooter. McQueen's gun leaped to his hand and he chopped it down, firing as it came level. The rush of his horse was too fast for accurate shooting and his bullet clipped the outlaw's horse across the back of the neck. It dropped in its cracks, spilling its rider. Ward charged into him, knocking him sprawling, almost under the hoofs of the buckskin.
Swinging wide McQueen saw that Sartain had downed his man, but the other two were converging on Bud Fox. Both swung away when they saw Kim and McQueen closing in. One of them swung a gun on Kim and Kim's gun roared. The man toppled from the saddle and the last man quickly lifted his hands.
He was a thin, hard-featured man with narrow, cruel eyes. His hair was uncut, his jaws unshaved. His clothing was ragged. There was nothing wrong with his gun, it was new and well kept.
Now his face, despite its hardness, wore a look of shock. His eyes went from McQueen to Sartain to Fox. “You boys shoot mighty straight but you'll wish you never seen the day!”
Fox took his rope from the saddle tree. “He's a rustler, Ward, caught in the act, an' there's plenty of good trees.”
“Now, look!” The man protested, suddenly frightened.
“What gave you the idea you could run off our stock?” Ward asked.
“Nothin'. The stock was in good shape.” He looked suddenly at McQueen who still wore the marks of battle. “You're the gent who whipped Flagg! He'll kill you for that, if not for this. You won't live a week.”
“Bud, tie this man to his saddle an' tie him tight. We'll take him into town for the law to handle. Then we'll visit Bear Canyon.”
“You'll do what?” their prisoner sneered. “Why, you fool! Flagg will kill you! The whole bunch will!”
“No,” Ward assured him, “they will not. If they'd left my stock alone they could have stayed. Now they will get out or be burned out. That's the message I'm taking to them.”
“Wait a minute.” The man's eyes were restless. Suddenly his arrogance was gone and he was almost pleading. “Lay off Bear Canyon! This was none o' their doin', anyway.”
“You're talking,” Ward said, and waited.
“Neal Webb put us up to it. Promised us fifteen bucks a head for every bit of your stock we throwed into the Sand Flats beyond Apache.”
“Will you say that to a judge?”
His face paled. “If you'll protect me. That Webb outfit, they kill too easy to suit me.”
When they rode down the street of Pelona to the sheriff's office the town sprawled lazy in the sunshine. By the time they reached the sheriff's office nearly fifty men had crowded around. Foster met them at the door, his shrewd old eyes going from McQueen to the rustler.
“Well, Chalk,” he spat, “looks like you run into the wrong crowd.” His eyes shifted to McQueen. “What's he done?”
“Rustled a herd of Firebox stock.”
“Him alone?”
“There were four of them. The other three were in no shape to bring back. They won't be talkin'. This one will.”
A man at the edge of the crowd turned swiftly and hurried away. McQueen's eyes followed him. He went up the walk to the Emporium. A moment later Ren Oliver emerged and started toward them.
“Who were the others, Chalk? Were they from Bear Canyon?”
“Only me,” Chalk's eyes were haunted. “Let's get inside!”
“Hang him!” Somebody yelled. “Hang the rustler!”
The voice was loud. Another took it up, then still another. McQueen turned to see who was shouting. Somebody else shouted, “Why waste time? Shoot him!”
The shot came simultaneously with the words, and Ward McQueen saw the prisoner fall, a hole between his eyes.
“Who did that?” Ward's contempt and anger were obvious. “Anybody who would shoot an unarmed man with his hands tied is too low-down to live.”
The crowd stirred but nobody even looked around. Those who might know were too frightened to speak. On the edge of the crowd Ren Oliver stood with several others who had drawn together. “I didn't see anybody fire, McQueen, but wasn't the man a rustler? Hasn't the state been saved a trial?”
“He was also a witness who was ready to testify that Neal Webb put him up to the rustlin' and was payin' for the cattle!”
Startled, people in the crowd began to back away, and from the fringes of the crowd they began to disappear into stores or up and down the street. There seemed to be no Webb riders present, but Kim Sartain, sitting his horse back from the crowd, a hand on his gun butt, was watching. He had come up too late to see the shooting.
“Webb won't like that, McQueen,” Ren Oliver said. “I speak only from friendship.”
“Webb knows where to find me. And tell him this time it won't be a kid he's killing!”
Sheriff Foster chewed on the stub of his cigar. His blue eyes had been watchful. “That's some charge you've made, McQueen. Can you back it up?”
Ward indicated the dead man. “There's my witness. He told me Webb put him up to it, and that Bear Canyon wasn't involved. As for the rest of it—”
He repeated the story of the tracks he had followed, of the men holed up in the Box.
“You think they went on to Dry Leggett?” Foster asked.
“That was what I heard them say, but they might have changed their minds. Bemis was among the wounded and he was worried. He had a bad wound and wanted care.” Then he added, “Bine did most of the talking.”
Ward McQueen tied his horse in front of Sharon Clarity's store, where there was shade. With Sartain at his side he crossed to the Bat Cave.
The saloon was a long, rather narrow room with a potbellied stove at either end and a bar that extended two-thirds the room's length. There were a roulette table and several card tables.
A hard-eyed, baldheaded bartender leaned thick forearms on the bar, and three men loafed there, each with a drink. At the tables several men played cards. They glanced up as the Tumbling K men entered, then resumed their game.
McQueen ordered two beers and glanced at Ren Oliver, who sat in one of the card games. Had Oliver been only a bystander? Or had he fired the shot that killed Chalk?
Oliver glanced up and smiled. “Care to join our game?”
McQueen shook his head. He would have enjoyed playing cards with Oliver, for there are few better ways to study a man than to play cards with him. Yet he was in no mood for cards, and he hadn't the time. He had started something with his comments about Webb. Now he had to prove his case.
He finished his beer and then, followed by Sartain, he returned to the street. Ren Oliver watched them go, then cashed in and left the game. When he entered the Emporium, Hutch glared at him.
“Get rid of him!” Hutch said. “Get rid of him now!”
Oliver nodded. “Got any ideas?”
Hutch's eyes were mean. “You'd botch the job. Leave it to me!”
“You?” Oliver was incredulous.
Hutch looked at him over his steel-rimmed glasses. Ren Oliver, who had known many hard men, remembered only one such pair of eyes. They were the eyes of a big swamp rattler he had killed as a boy. He remembered how those eyes had stared into his. He felt a chill.
“To me,” Hutch repeated.
It was dark when Ward McQueen, trailed by Kim and Bud Fox, reached the scattered, makeshift cabins in Bear Canyon. It was a small settlement, and he had heard much about it in the short time he had been around. The few women were hard-eyed slatterns as tough as their men. Rumor had it they lived by rustling and horse thieving or worse.
“Bud,” McQueen said, “stay with the horses. When we leave we may have to leave fast. Be ready, and when you hear me yell, come a-runnin'!”
Followed by Kim he walked t
oward the long bunkhouse that housed most of the men. Peering through a window he saw but two men, one playing solitaire, the other mending a belt. The room was lighted by lanterns. Nearby was another house, and peering in they saw a short bar and a half dozen men sitting around. One of them was Flagg Warneke.
Ward McQueen stepped to the door and opened it. He stepped in, Kim following, moving quickly left against the log wall.
Flagg saw them first. He was tipped back in his chair and he let the legs down carefully, poised for trouble.
“What d' you want?” he demanded. “What're you doin' here?”
All eyes were on them. Two men, four guns, against six men and eight guns. There were others around town.
“This mornin' Chalk and some other riders ran off some of our cows. We had trouble and three men got killed. I told Chalk if he told me who was involved I'd not ride down here. He didn't much want me to come to Bear Canyon, and to tell you the truth, I hadn't been plannin' on coming down here.”
“Chalk started to talk, and somebody killed him.”
“Killed him? Killed Chalk? Who did it?”
“You make your own guess. Who was afraid of what he might say? Who stood to lose if he did talk?”
They absorbed this in silence and then a fat-faced man at the end of the table. “Those fellers with Chalk? You say you killed them?”
“They chose to fight.”
“How many did you lose?”
“We lost nobody. There were three of us, four of them. They just didn't make out so good.”
“What're you here for?” Flagg demanded.
“Two things. To see if you have any idea about who killed Chalk and to give you some advice. Stay away from Firebox cattle!”
Silence hung heavy in the room. Flagg's face was still swollen from the beating he had taken and the cuts had only begun to heal. His eyes were hard as he stared at McQueen.
“We'll figure out our own answers to the first question. As to the second, we've no use for Firebox cows. As for you and that feller with you—get out!”
McQueen made no move, “Remember, friend, Bear Canyon is on Firebox range. What you may not know is that Firebox owns that land, every inch of it. You stay if Firebox lets you, and right now the Firebox is me! Behave yourselves and you'll not be bothered, but next time there will be no warning. We'll come with guns and fire!”
Collection 1986 - Dutchman's Flat (v5.0) Page 15