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

by Louis L'Amour

  Some of those who came to see drifted up between the buildings into the street. Among these was Bud Fox, with his narrow-brimmed gray hat and his long, lean body, looking like an overgrown schoolboy. The pistol on his belt was man-sized, however, and so was the Winchester he carried.

  Kim Sartain, young, handsome, and full of deviltry, they recognized at once. They had seen his sort before. There was something about him that always drew a smile, not of amusement but of liking. They knew the guns on his belt were not there for show, but the west had many a young man like him, good cowhands, great riders, always filled with humor. They knew his type. The guns added another dimension, but they understood those, too.

  The pattern was quickly made plain. The preliminary hearing was already set and the court was waiting. McQueen glanced at the sheriff. “Looks like a railroading, Foster. Are you in this?”

  “No, but I've nothing against the law movin' fast. It usually does around here.”

  “When who is to get the brunt of it? Who's the boss around town, Foster? Especially when they move so fast I have no time to find witnesses.”

  “You know as much as I do!” Foster was testy. “Move ahead!”

  “If I'd been around as long as you have, I'd know plenty!”

  The judge was a sour-faced old man whom McQueen had seen about town. Legal procedures on the frontier were inclined to be haphazard, although often they moved not only swiftly but efficiently as well. The old Spanish courts had often functioned very well indeed, but the Anglos were inclined to follow their own procedures. McQueen was surprised to find that the prosecuting attorney, or the man acting as much, was Ren Oliver, said to have practiced law back in Missouri.

  Sartain sat down beside McQueen. “They've got you cornered, Ward. Want me to take us out of here?”

  “It's a kangaroo court, but let's see what happens. I don't want to appeal to Judge Colt unless we have to.”

  The first witness was a cowhand Ward had seen riding with Webb's men. He swore he had dropped behind Webb to shoot a wild turkey. He lost the turkey in the brush and was riding to catch up when he heard a shot and saw McQueen duck into the brush. He declared McQueen had fired from behind Webb.

  McQueen asked, “You sure it was me?”

  “I was sworn in, wasn't I?”

  “What time was it?”

  “About five o'clock of the evenin'.”

  “Webb comes from over east of town when he comes to Pelona, doesn't he? From the Runnin' W? And you say you saw me between you an' Webb?”

  “I sure did!” The cowboy was emphatic, but he glanced at Oliver, uncertainly.

  “Then,” McQueen was smiling, “you were lookin' right into the settin' sun when you saw somebody take a shot at Webb? And you were able to recognize me?” As the crowd in the courtroom stirred, McQueen turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I doubt if this man could recognize his own sister under those circumstances. I think he should be given a chance to do it this evenin'. It's nice an' clear like it was the other night and the sun will be settin' before long. I think his evidence should be accepted if he can distinguish four out of five men he knows under the conditions he's talkin' about.”

  The judge hesitated and Oliver objected.

  “Seems fair enough!” A voice spoke from the crowd, and there was a murmured assent.

  The judge rapped for silence. “Motion denied! Proceed!”

  Behind him McQueen was aware of changing sentiment. Western courtrooms, with some exceptions, were notoriously lax in their procedure, and there were those who had an interest in keeping them so. Crowds, however, were partisan and resentful of authority. The frontier bred freedom, but with it a strong sense of fair play and an impatience with formalities. Most western men wanted to get the matter settled and get back to their work. Most of the men and women present had ridden over that road at that time of the evening, and they saw immediately the point of his argument.

  There was a stir behind them, and turning they saw Flagg Werneke shoving his way through the crowd and then down the aisle.

  “Judge, I'm a witness! I want to be sworn in!”

  The judge's eyes flickered to Oliver, who nodded quickly. Warneke still bore the marks of McQueen's fists, and his evidence could only be damning.

  Warneke was sworn in and took the stand. Kim muttered irritably but Ward waited, watching the big man.

  “You have evidence to offer?” the judge asked.

  “You bet I have!” Warneke stated violently. “I don't know who killed Neal Webb but I know Ward McQueen didn't do it!”

  Ren Oliver's face tightened with anger. He glanced swiftly toward a far corner of the room, a glance that held appeal and something more. McQueen caught the glance and sat a little straighter. The room behind him was seething, and the judge was rapping for order.

  “What do you mean by that statement?” Oliver demanded. He advanced threateningly toward Warneke. “Be careful what you say and remember, you are under oath!”

  “I remember. McQueen whipped me that evenin', like you all know. He whipped me good but he whipped me fair. Nobody else ever done it or could do it. I was mad as a steer with a busted horn. I figured, all right, he whipped me with his hands but I'd be durned if he could do it with a six-shooter, so I follered him, watchin' my chance. I was goin' to face him, right there in the trail, an' kill him.

  “'Bout the head of Squirrel Springs Canyon I was closin' in on him when a turkey flew up. That there McQueen, he slaps leather and downs that turkey with one shot! You heah me? One shot on the wing, an' he drawed so fast I never seen his hand move!”

  Flagg Warneke wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “My ma, she never raised any foolish children! Anybody who could draw that fast and shoot that straight was too good for anybody around here, and I wanted no part of him!

  “Important thing is, McQueen was never out of my sight from the time he left town headin' west an' away from where Webb was killed until he reached Squirrel Springs Canyon, and that's a rough fifteen miles, the way he rode! It was right at dusk when he shot that turkey, so he never even seen Webb let alone killed him.”

  Ren Oliver swore under his breath. The crowd was shifting, many were getting up to leave. He glanced again toward the corner of the room and waited while the judge pounded for order.

  Oliver attached Warneke's testimony but could not shake the man. Finally, angered, he demanded, “Did McQueen pay you to tell this story?”

  Warneke's face turned ugly. “Pay me? Nobody lives who could pay me for my oath! I've rustled a few head of stock, and so has every man of you in this courtroom if the truth be known! I'd shoot a man if he crossed me, but by the Eternal my oath ain't for sale to no man!

  “I got no use for McQueen! He burned us out over in Bear Canyon, he shot friends of mine, but he shot 'em face to face when they were shootin' at him! The man I'd like to find is the one who killed Chalk! Shot him off his horse to keep him from tellin' that Webb put them up to rustlin' Firebox stock!”

  Ward McQueen got to his feet. “Judge, I'd like this case to be dismissed. You've no case against me.”

  The judge looked at Ren Oliver, who shrugged and turned away.

  “Dismissed!”

  The judge arose from his bench and stepped down off the platform. Ward McQueen turned swiftly and looked toward the corner of the room where Oliver's eyes had been constantly turning. The chair was empty!

  People were crowding toward the door. McQueen's eyes searched their faces. Only one turned to look back. It was Silas Hutch.

  McQueen pushed his way through the crowd to Flagg Warneke. The big man saw him coming and faced him, eyes hard.

  “Warneke,” McQueen said, “I'd be proud to shake the hand of an honest man!”

  The giant's brow puckered and he hesitated, his eyes searching McQueen's features for some hint of a smirk or a smile. There was none. Slowly the big man put his hand out and they shook.

  “What are your plans? I could use a hand on the Fir
ebox.”

  “I'm a rustler, McQueen. You've heard me admit it. You'd still hire me?”

  “You had every reason to lie a few minutes ago, and I think a man who values his word that much would ride for the brand if he took a job. You just tell me you'll play it straight and rustle no more cattle while you're workin' for me and you've got a job.”

  “You've hired a man, McQueen. And you have my word.”

  As the big man walked away Sartain asked, “You think he'll stand hitched?”

  “He will. Warneke has one thing on which he prides himself. One thing out of his whole shabby, busted up life that means anything, and that's his word. He'll stick, and we can trust him.”

  Tough as Ward McQueen felt himself to be, when he code back to the ranch, he was sagging in the saddle. For days he had little sleep and had been eating only occasionally. Now, suddenly, it was hitting him. He was tired, and he was half asleep in the saddle when they rode into the ward at the Tumbling K's Firebox.

  Lights in the cabin were ablaze and a buckboard stood near the barn. Stepping down from the saddle he handed the reins to Kim. No words were necessary.

  He stepped up on he low porch and opened the door.

  Ruth Kermitt stood with her back to the fireplace, where a small fire blazed. Even at this time of the year, at that altitude a fire was needed.

  She was tall, with a beautifully slim but rounded body that clothes could only accentuate. Her eyes were large and dark, her hair almost black. She was completely lovely.

  “Ward!” She came to him quickly. “You're back!”

  “And you're here!” He was pleased but worried also. “You drove all the way from the ranch?”

  “McGowan drove. Shorty rode along, too. He said it was to protect me, but I think he had an idea you were in trouble. Naturally, if that were the case Shorty would have to be here.”

  “Ruth,” he told her, “I'm glad to have you here. Glad for me, but I don't think you should have come. There is trouble, and I'm not sure what we've gotten into.”

  He explained, adding, “You know as well as I do that where there's good grass there will always be somebody who wants it, and what some of them haven't grasped is that we are not moving in on range. We own the water holes and the sources of water.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “All that can wait.” He drew her to him. His lips stopped hers and he felt her body strain toward him and her lips melt softly against his. He held her there, his lips finding their way to her cheek, her ears, and her throat. After a few minutes she drew back, breathless.

  “Ward! Wait!”

  He stepped back and she looked up at him. “Ward? Tell me. Has there been trouble? Baldy said you were in court, that you might have to go on trial.”

  “That part is settled, but there's more to come, I'm afraid.”

  “Who is it, Ward? What's been happening?”

  “That's just the trouble.” He was worried. “Ruth, I don't know who it is, and there may be a joker in the deck that I'm not even aware of.”

  She went to the stove for the coffeepot. “Sit down and tell me about it.”

  “The ranch is a good one. Excellent grass, good water supply, and if we don't try to graze too heavy we should have good grass for years. McCracken handled it well and he developed some springs, put in a few spreader dams to keep the runoff on the land, but he wanted to sell and I am beginning to understand why.”

  “What about the trouble? Has it been shooting trouble?”

  “It has, but it started before we got here.” He told her about the killing of McCracken, then his own brush with rustlers, and the fight with Flagg Warneke and the killing of Warneke's brother before he could talk. And then the killing of Neal Webb.

  “Then he wasn't the one?”

  “Ruth, I believe Webb had played out his usefulness to whoever is behind this, who deliberately had Webb killed, with the hope of implicating me. He'd have done it, too, but for Warneke.”

  “He must be a strange man.”

  “He's a big man. You'll see him. He's also a violent man, but at heart he's a decent fellow. His word is his pride. I think he's going to shape up into quite a man. Some men get off on the wrong foot simply because there doesn't seem any other way to go.

  “Without him, I think that Bear Canyon outfit will drift out and move away. I doubt if they will try to rebuild what was destroyed.”

  “Ward, we've been over this before. I hate all this violence! The fighting, the killing! It's awful! My own brother was killed. But you know all that. It was you who pulled us out of that.”

  “I don't like it, either, but it is growing less, Ruth, less with each year. The old days are almost gone. What we have here is somebody who is utterly ruthless, someone who has no respect for human life at all. You're inclined to find good in everybody, but in some people there just isn't any.

  “Whoever is behind this, and I've a hunch who it is, as someone who is prepared to kill and kill until he has all he wants. He's undoubtedly been successful in the past, which makes it worse.

  “No honest man would have such men as Hansen Bine and Overlin around. They did not ride for Webb—we know that now. They ride for whomever it was Webb was fronting for.

  “I've got to ride down to Dry Leggett and roust out those wounded men, but you must be careful Ruth—this man will stop at nothing.”

  “But I'm a woman!”

  “I don't believe that would matter with this man. He's not like a western man.”

  “Be careful, Ward! I just couldn't stand it if anything happened to you.”

  “You could. You've got the heart as well as the stamina. You've come a long way, Ruth, but you're pioneer stock. There's a rough time in any country, any new, raw country like this, before it can settle down.”

  As they talked, they wandered out under the trees, and when they returned to the house only Baldy was awake.

  “Wonder folks wouldn't eat their supper 'stead of standin' around in the dark! A body would think you two wasn't more'n sixteen!”

  “Shut up, you old squaw man,” Ward said cheerfully, “an' set up the grub! I'm hungry enough to eat even your food.”

  “Why, Ward!” Ruth protested. “How can you talk like that? You know there isn't a better cook west of the Brazos!”

  Baldy perked up. “See? See there? The boss knows a good cook when she sees one! Why you an' these cowhands around here never knowed what good grub was until I came along! You et sowbelly an' half-baked beans so long you wouldn't recognize real vittles when you see 'em!”

  A yell interrupted Ward's reply. “Oh, Ward? Ward McQueen!”

  Baldy Jackson turned impatiently and opened the door.

  “What the—!”

  A bullet struck him as a gun bellowed in the night, and Baldy spun half around, dropping the coffeepot. Three more shots, fast as a man could lever a rifle, punctured the stillness. The light went out as Ward extinguished it with a quick puff and dropped to the floor, pulling Ruth down with him.

  As suddenly as it had begun it ended. In the stillness that followed they heard a hoarse gasping from Baldy. Outside, all was dark and silent except for the pounding of hoofs receding in the distance.

  As he turned to relight the lamp, there was another shot, this from down the trail where the rider had gone. Glancing out, Ward saw a flare of fire against the woods.

  “Take care of Baldy!” he said, and went out fast.

  He grabbed a horse from the corral, slipped on a halter, and went down the trail riding bareback. As he drew near the fire he heard pounding hoofs behind him and slowed up, lifting a hand.

  Suddenly he saw a huge man standing in the center of the trail, both hands uplifted so there would be no mistakes.

  “McQueen! “It's me! I got him!” the man shouted. It was Flagg Warneke.

  McQueen swung down, as did Kim Sartain, who had ridden up behind him. A huge pile of grass, dry as tinder, lay in the center of the road, going up in flames. Nearby lay a rider. He wa
s breathing, but there was blood on his shirtfront and blood on the ground.

  Warneke said, “I was ridin' to begin work tomorrow and I heard this hombre yell, heard the shot, so I throwed off my bronc, grabbed an armful of this hay McCracken had cut, and throwed it into the road. As this gent came ridin' I dropped a match into the hay. He tried to shoot me, but this here ol' Spencer is quick. He took a .56 right in the chest.”

  It was the sallow-faced rider Ward had seen before, one of those who had ridden in the posse. “Want to talk?” he asked.

  “Go to the devil! Wouldn't if I could!”

  “What's that mean? Why couldn't you talk?”

  The man raised himself to one elbow, coughing. “Paid me from a holler tree,” he said. “I seen nobody. Webb, he told me where I'd get paid an' how I'd—how I'd get word.”

  The man coughed again and blood trickled over his unshaved chin.

  “Maybe it was a woman,” he spoke clearly, suddenly. Then his supporting arm seemed to go slack and he fell back, his head striking the ground with a thump. The man was dead.

  “A woman?” Ward muttered. “Impossible!”

  Warneke shook his head. “Maybe—I ain't so sure. Could be anybody.”

  When the sun was high over the meadows, Ward McQueen was riding beside Ruth Kermitt near a ciénaga, following a creek toward Spur Lake. They had left the ranch after daybreak and had skirted some of the finest grazing land in that part of the country. Some areas that to the uninitiated might have seemed too dry she knew would support and fatten cattle. Much seemingly dry brush was good fodder.

  “By the way,” Ruth inquired, “have you ever heard of a young man, a very handsome young man named Strahan? He spells it with an aitch but they call it ‘Strann.'

  “When I was in Holbrook there was a Pinkerton man there who was inquiring about this man. He is badly wanted, quite a large reward offered. He held up a Santa Fe train, killing a messenger and a passenger. That was about four months ago. Before that he had been seen around this part of the country, as well as in Santa Fe. Apparently he wrecked another train, killing and injuring passengers. Each time he got away he seemed headed for this part of the country.”