“Never heard of him,” Ward admitted, “but we're newcomers.”
“The Pinkerton man said he was a dead shot with either rifle or pistol, and dangerous. They trailed him to Alma once, and lost him again on the Gila, southeast of here.”
They rode on, Ward pointing out landmarks that bordered the ranch. “The Firebox has the best range around,” he explained. “The Spur Lake country, all the valley of Centerfire, and over east past the Dry Lakes to Apache Creek.
“There's timber, with plenty of shade for the hot months, and most of our range has natural boundaries that prevent stock from straying.”
“What about this trouble you're having, Ward? Will it be over soon or hanging over our heads for months?”
“It won't hang on. We're going to have a showdown. I'm taking some of the boys, and we're going to round up some of the troublemakers. I'm just sorry that Baldy is laid up. He knows this country better than any of us.”
“You'll have trouble leaving him behind, Ward. That was only a flesh wound, even though he lost blood. It was more shock than anything else.”
They turned their horses homeward. Ward looked at the wide, beautiful country beyond Centerfire as they topped the ridge. “All this is yours, Ruth. You're no wife for a cowhand now.”
“Now don't start that! We've been over it before! Who made it all possible for me? If you had not come along when you did I'd have nothing! Just nothing at all! And if my brother had not been killed he could not have handled this! Not as you have! He was a fine boy, and no girl ever had a better brother, but he wasn't the cattleman you are.
“And it isn't only that, Ward. You've worked long and you've built my ranch into something worthwhile. At least twice you've protected me when I was about to do something foolish. By rights half of it should belong to you, anyway!”
“Maybe what I should do is leave and start a brand of my own. Then I could come back with something behind me.”
“How long would that take, Ward?” She put her hand over his on the pommel. “Please, darling, don't even think about it! The thought of you leaving makes me turn cold all over! I have depended on you, Ward, and you've never failed me.”
They rode on in silence. A wild turkey flew up and then vanished in the brush. Ahead of them two deer, feeding early, jumped off into the tall grass and disappeared along the stream.
“Don't you understand? I'm trying to see this your way. You've told me what has to be done and I'm leaving it up to you. I'm not going to interfere. I'm a woman, Ward, and I can't bear to think of you being hurt. Or any of the other boys, for that matter. I'm even more afraid of how all this killing will affect you. I couldn't stand it if you became hard and callous!”
“I know what you mean but there's no need to worry about that now. Once, long ago, maybe. Every time I ride into trouble I hate it, but a man must live and there are those who will ride roughshod over everybody, given a chance. Unfortunately force is the only way some people understand.”
When they dismounted at the cabin, she said, “Then you're riding out tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Then good luck!” She turned quickly and went into the house.
Ward stared after her, feeling suddenly alone and lost. Yet he knew there was no need for it. This was his woman, and they both understood that. She had come with a considerable investment, but with too little practical knowledge of range or cattle. With his hands, his savvy, and his gun he had built most of what she now possessed.
Under his guidance she had bought cattle in Texas, fattened them on the trail north, sold enough in Kansas to pay back her investment, and driven the remainder further west. Now she controlled extensive range in several states. Alone she never could have done it, nor could have Kim, one of the best men with a gun whoever walked. have had the judgment to handle a ranch, and he would have been the first to sidestep the responsibility.
Kim came down now. “Tomorrow, Ward?”
“Bring plenty of ammunition, both rifle and pistol. I'll want you, Bud Fox, Shorty Jones, and—”
“Baldy? Boss, if you don't take him it'll kill him. Or you'll have to hog-tie him to his bunk, and I'm damned if I'd help you! That ol' catamount's a-rarin' to go, an' he's already scared you're plannin' to leave him behind.”
“Think he can stand the ride?”
Kim snorted. “Why, that ol' devil will be sittin' a-saddle when you an' me are pushin' up daisies! He's tougher 'n rawhide an' whalebone.”
Daylight came again as the sun chinned itself on the Continental Divide, peering over the heights of the Tularosas and across the Frisco River. In the bottom of the Box, still deep in shadow, rode a small cavalcade of horsemen. In the lead, his battered old hat tugged down to cover his bald spot from the sun, rode Baldy Jackson.
Behind him, with no talking, rode McQueen, Sartain, Fox, and Jones. They rode with awareness, knowing trouble might explode at any moment. Each man knew what he faced on this day, and once begun there'd be no stopping. It was war now, a war without flags or drums, a grim war to the death.
For some reason Ward found his thoughts returning time and again to Ruth's account of the Pinkerton who was trailing the handsome killer named Strahan. It was a name he could not remember having heard.
He questioned Baldy. “Strahan? Never heard of a youngster by that name, but there was some folks lived hereabouts some years back named that. A bloody mean outfit, too! Four brothers of them! One was a shorty, a slim, little man but mean as pizen. The others were big men. The oldest one got hisself shot by one o' them Lincoln County gunfighters. Jesse Evans it was, or some friend of his.
“Two of the others, or maybe it was only one of them, got themselves hung by a posse somewhere in Colorado. If this here Strahan is one o' them, watch yourselves because he'd be a bad one.”
Their route kept the ridge of the Friscos on their left, and when they stopped at Baldy's uplifted hand they were on the edge of a pine-covered basin in the hills.
Ward turned in his saddle and said, “This here's Heifer Basin. It's two miles straight ahead to Dry Leggett. I figure we should take a rest, check our guns, and get set for trouble. If Hansen Bine is down there, this will be war!”
Dismounting, they led their horses into the trees. Baldy located a spring he knew and they sat down beside it. McQueen checked his guns and then slid them back into their holsters. He rarely had to think of reloading, for it was something he did automatically whenever he used a gun.
“Mighty nice up here,” Kim commented. “I always did like high country.”
“That's what I like about cowboyin',” Shorty Jones commented. “It's the country you do it in.”
“You ever rode in west Texas when the dust was blowin'?” Bud wanted to know.
“I have, an' I liked it. I've rid nearly every kind of country you can call to mind.”
“Ssh!” Ward McQueen came to his feet in one easy movement. “On your toes! Here they come!”
Into the other end of the basin rode a small group of riders. There were six men, and the last one McQueen recognized as Hansen Bine himself.
Kim Sartain moved off to the right. Baldy rolled over behind a tree trunk and slid his Spencer forward. Jones and Fox scattered in the trees to the left of the spring.
McQueen stepped out into the open. “Bine! We're takin' you in! Drop your gun belts!”
Hansen Bine spurred his horse to the front and dropped from the saddle when no more than fifty paces away. “McQueen, is it? If you're takin' me you got to do it the hard way!”
He went for his gun.
McQueen had expected it, and the flat, hard bark of his pistol was a full beat before Bine's. The bullet struck Bine as his gun was coming up, and he twisted sharply with the impact. Ward walked closer, his gun poised. Around him and behind him he heard the roar of guns, and as Bine fought to bring his gun level McQueen shot again.
Bine fell, dug his fingers into the turf, heaved himself trying to rise, and then fell and lay quiet.
<
br /> Ward looked around to find only empty saddles and one man standing, his left hand high, his right in a sling.
“Your name?”
“Bemis.” The man's face was pale with shock, but he was not afraid. “I did no shooting. Never was no good with my left hand.”
“All right, Bemis. You've been trailing with a pack of coyotes, but if you talk you can beat a rope. Who pays you?”
“Bine paid me. Where he got it, I don't know.” His eyes sought McQueen's. “You won't believe me but I been wantin' out of this ever since the McCracken shootin'. That was a game kid.”
“You helped kill him.” McQueen replied coldly. “Who else was in it? Who ran that show?”
“Somebody I'd not seen around before. Young, slight build, but a ring-tailed terror with a gun. He came in with Overlin. Sort of blondish. I never did see him close up. None of us did, 'cept Overlin.” Bemis paused again. “Said his name was Strahan.”
That name again! The Pinkerton man had been right. Such a man was in this country, hiding out or whatever. Could it be he who was behind this? That did not seem logical. Strahan by all accounts was a holdup man, gunfighter, whatever, not a cattleman or a cautious planner.
“You goin' to hang me?” Bemis demanded. “If you are, get on with it. I don't like waitin' around.”
McQueen turned his eyes on Bemis, and the young cowhand stared back, boldly. He was a tough young man, but old in the hard ways of western life.
“You'll hang, all right. If not now, eventually. That's the road you've taken. But as far as I'm concerned that's up to the law. Get on your horse.”
The others were mounted, and Bine was lying across a saddle. Kim looked apologetic. “He's the only one, boss. The rest of them lit out like who flung the chunk. I think we winged a couple here or there, but they left like their tails was a-fire.”
Kim Sartain looked at Bemis. “Dead or gone, all but this one. Maybe on the way in—you know, boss, it's easier to pack a dead man than a live one.”
Bemis looked from Sartain to McQueen and back. “Now, see here!” he said nervously. “I said I didn't know who did the payin', but I ain't blind. Bine an' Overlin, they used to see somebody, or meet somebody, in the Emporium. There or the Bat Cave. They used to go to both places.”
“So do half the men in the county,” McQueen said. “I've been in both places, myself.” He paused. “How about Strahan?”
“Never seen him before—or since.”
“Put him on a horse and tie him,” McQueen said. “We'll give him to Foster.”
Ward led the way toward Pelona. There trouble awaited, he knew, and secretly he hoped Foster would be out of town. He wanted no trouble with the old lawman. Foster was a good man in his own way, trying to steer a difficult course in a county where too many men were ready to shoot. Foster was a typical western sheriff, more successful in rounding up rustlers, horse thieves, and casual outlaws than in dealing with an enemy cunning as a prairie wolf and heartless as a lynx.
They rode swiftly down the S U Canyon to the Tularosa, and then across Polk Mesa to Squirrel Springs Canyon. It was hard riding, and the day was drawing to a close when they reached the plains and cut across toward Pelona. They had ridden far and fast, and both men and horses were done in when they walked their horses up the dusty street to the jail.
Foster came to the door to greet them, glancing from McQueen to Bemis.
“What's the matter with him?”
“He rode with the crowd that killed Jimmy McCracken. Jimmy gave him the bad arm. I've brought him in for trial.”
“Who led 'em?” Foster demanded of Bemis.
Bemis hesitated, obviously worried. He glanced around to see who might overhear. “Strahan,” he said then. “Bine was in it, too.”
Foster's features seemed to age as they watched. For the first time he looked his years.
“Bring him in,” Foster said. “Then I'll go after Bine.”
“No need to. McQueen jerked his head. “His body's right back there. Look,” he added, “we've started a clean up. We'll finish it.”
“You're forgettin' something, McQueen! I'm the law. It's my job.”
“Hold your horses, Sheriff. You are the law, but Bine is dead. The boys who were with him are on the run, except for Bemis, and we're turnin' him over to you. Anybody else who will come willin' we'll bring to you.”
“You ain't the law,” Foster replied.
“Then make us the law. Deputize us. You can't do it alone, so let us help.”
“Makes me look like a quitter.”
“Nothing of the kind. Every law man I know uses deputies, time to time, and I'm askin' for the job.”
“All right,” Foster replied reluctantly. “You brought Bemis in when you could have hung him. I guess you aim to do right.”
Outside the sheriff's office, Baldy waited for McQueen. “You name it,” he said, as McQueen emerged. “What's next?”
“Fox, you, an' Shorty get down to the Emporium. If Hutch comes out, one of you follow him. Let anybody go in who wants to, but watch him!”
He turned to Jackson. “Baldy, you get across the street. Just loaf around, but watch that other store.”
“Watch that female? What d'you take me for? You tryin' to sidetrack me out of this scrap?”
“Get goin' an' do what you're told. Kim, you come with me. We're goin' to the Bat Cave.”
Foster stared after them and then walked back into his office. Bemis stood inside the bars of his cell door. “I'm gettin' old, Bemis,” Foster said. “Lettin' another man do my job.”
He sat down in his swivel chair. He was scared—he admitted it to himself. Scared not of guns or violence but of what he might find. Slowly the fog had been clearing, and the things he had been avoiding could no longer be avoided. It was better to let McQueen handle it, much better.
“Leave it to McQueen,” Bemis was saying. “McQueen was right, and he's square.” He clutched the bars. “Believe me, Sheriff, I never thought I'd be glad to be in jail, but I am. Before this day is over men will die.
“Foster, you should have seen McQueen when he killed Bine! I never would have believed anybody could beat Bine so bad! Bine slapped leather and died, just like that!”
“But there's Overlin,” Foster said.
“Yeah, that will be somethin' to see. McQueen an' Overlin.” Suddenly Bemis exclaimed, “Foster! I forgot to tell them about Ren Oliver!”
“Oliver? Don't tell me he's involved?”
“Involved? He might be the ring leader! the boss man! And he packs a sneak gun! A stingy gun! Whilst you're expecting him to move for the gun you can see, he kills you with the other one.”
Foster was on his feet. “Thanks, Bemis. We'll remember that when you're up for trial.”
As Foster went out of the door, Bemis said, “Maybe, but maybe it's too late!”
The Bat Cave was alive and sinning. It was packed at this hour, and all the tables were busy. Behind one of them, seated where he could face the door, was Ren Oliver. His hair was neatly waved back from his brow, his handsome face composed as he dealt the tricky pasteboards with easy, casual skill. Only his eyes seemed alive, missing nothing. In the stable back of the house where he lived was a saddled horse. It was just a little bit of insurance.
At the bar, drinking heavily, was Overlin. Like a huge grizzly he hulked against the bar. The more he drank, the colder and deadlier he became. Someday that might change, and he was aware of it. He thought he would know when that time came, but for the present he was a man to be left strictly alone when drinking. He had been known to go berserk. Left alone, he usually drank the evening away, speaking to no one, bothering no one until finally he went home to sleep it off.
Around him men might push and shove for places at the bar, but they avoided Overlin.
The smoke-laden atmosphere was thick, redolent of cheap perfume, alcohol, and sweaty, unwashed bodies. The night was chill, so the two stoves glowed cherry red. Two bartenders, working swiftly, tried to
keep up with the demands of the customers.
Tonight was different, and the bartenders had been the first to sense it. Overlin only occasionally came in, and they were always uncomfortable until he left. It was like serving an old grizzly with a sore tooth. But Overlin was only part of the trouble. The air was tense. They could feel trouble.
The burning of Bear Canyon, the slaying of Chalk Warneke, and the gun battle in Heifer Basin were being talked about, but only in low tones. From time to time, in spite of themselves, their eyes went to Overlin. They were not speculating if he would meet McQueen, but when.
Overlin called for another drink, and the big gunfighter ripped the bottle from the bartender's hand and put it down beside him. The bartender retreated hastily, while somebody started a tear-jerking ballad at the old piano.
The door opened and Ward McQueen stepped in, followed by Kim Sartain.
Kim, lithe as a young panther, moved swiftly to one side, his eyes sweeping the room, picking up Ren Oliver at once, and then Overlin.
Ward McQueen did not stop walking until he was at the bar six feet from Overlin. As the big gunman reached again for the bottle, McQueen knocked it from under his hand.
At the crash of the breaking bottle the room became soundless. Not even the entry of Sheriff Foster was noted, except by Sartain.
“Overlin, I'm acting as deputy sheriff. I want you out of town by noon tomorrow. Ride, keep riding, and don't come back.”
“So you're McQueen? And you got Bine? Well, that must have surprised Hans. He always thought he was good. Even thought he was better'n me, but he wasn't. He never saw the day.”
McQueen waited. He had not expected the man to leave. This would be a killing for one or the other, but he had to give the man a chance to make it official. Proving that he had had a hand in the murder of Jimmy McCracken would have been difficult at best.
Overline was different from Bine. It would take a lot of lead to sink that big body.
“Where's Strahan?” McQueen demanded.
Ren Oliver started and then glanced hastily toward the door. His eyes met those of Kim Sartain, and he knew that to attempt to leave would mean a shootout, and he was not ready for that.
Collection 1986 - Dutchman's Flat (v5.0) Page 18