The Sky-Liners (1967) s-13

by Louis L'Amour

  Nowhere was there any sign of the Fetchen crowd, nor of Judith.

  "You don't suppose they pulled out?" Galloway asked.

  " 'Tisn't likely."

  Several people glanced over at us, for there were no secrets in Dodge, and by now everybody in town would know who we were and why we were in town; and they would also know the Fetchen crowd.

  It was likely that Earp had figured out the shooting by this time, but as had been said, Tory was armed and it was a fair shooting, except that he laid for me like that. He'd tried to ambush me, and he got what was coming to him. Dodge understood things like that.

  We ate but our minds were not on our food, hungry as we were, for every moment we were expecting the Fetchens to show up. They did not come, though. The rain eased off, although the clouds remained heavy and it was easy enough to see that the storm was not over. Water dripped from the eaves and from the signboards extending across the boardwalk in some places.

  We watched through the windows, and presently a man came in, pausing at the outside door to beat the rain from his hat and to shake it off his raincoat. He came on in, and I heard him, without looking at us, tell Ben Springer, "They had their buryin'. There were nineteen men out there. Looked to be a tough lot."

  "Nineteen?" Galloway whispered. "They've found some friends, seems like."

  We saw them coming then, a tight riding bunch of men in black slickers and mostly black hats coming down the street through the mud. They drew up across the street and got down from their horses and went to stand under the overhang of the building across the street.

  Two turned and drifted down the street to the right, and two more to the left, the rest of them stayed there. It looked as if they were waiting for us.

  "Right flatterin', I call it," Galloway said, picking up his coffee cup. "They got themselves an army yonder."

  "Be enough to go around," I commented. Then after a minute I said, "I wonder what happened to Judith?"

  "You go see. I'll set right here and see if they want to come a-hunting. If they don't, we'll go out to 'em after a bit."

  Pushing back my chair, I got up and went into the hotel and up the stairs. When I got to her door, I rapped ... and rapped again.

  There was no answer.

  I tried rapping again, somewhat louder, and when no answer came I just reached down and opened the door.

  The room was empty. The bed was still unmade after she'd slept in it, but she was gone, and her clothes were gone.

  When I came back down the stairs I came down moving mighty easy. Nothing like walking wary when a body is facing up to trouble, and I could fairly smell trouble all around.

  Nobody was in the lobby, so I walked over to where I could see through the arch into the dining room.

  Galloway was sitting right where I'd left him, only there were two Fetchens across the table from him and another at the street door, and all of them had guns.

  The tables were nigh to empty. Chalk Beeson was sitting across the room at a table with Bob Wright; and Doc Halliday, up early for him, was alone at another table, drinking his breakfast, but keeping an eye on what was happening around.

  Black Fetchen was there, along with Burr and a strange rider I didn't know, a man with a shock of hair the color of dead prairie grass, and a scar on his jaw. His heels were run down, but the way he wore his gun sized him up to be a slick one with a shootin' iron, or one who fancied himself so. A lot of the boys who could really handle guns wore them every which way, not slung down low like some of the would-be fast ones.

  "It was your doing," Black was saying, "you and that brother of yours. You got that preacher out of town. Well, it ain't going to do you no good. Judith is ridin' west with us, and we'll find us a preacher."

  "I'd not like to see harm come to that girl," Galloway commented calmly. "If harm comes to her I'll see this country runs mighty short on Fetchens."

  "You won't have the chance. You ain't going to leave this room. Not alive, you ain't."

  About that time I heard a board creak. It was almost behind me, and it was faint, but I heard it. Making no move, I let my eyes slant back. Well, the way the morning sunlight fell through the window showed a faint shadow, and I could just see the toe of a boot - a left boot.

  Just as I sighted it, the toe bent just a mite like a man taking a step or swinging a gun to hit a man on the head. So I stepped quickly off to the right and back-handed my left fist, swinging hard.

  When he cut down with that six-gun barrel he swung down and left, but too slow. My left fist smashed him right in the solar plexus, right under the third button of his shirt, and the wind went out of him as if he'd been steer-kicked. His gun barrel came down, his blow wasted, and by that time my right was moving. It swung hard, catching him full in his unprotected face, smashing his nose like a man stepping on a gourd.

  The blood gushed out of his nose and he staggered back, and I walked in on him.

  Now, there's a thing about fighting when the chips are down. You get a man going, you don't let up on him. He's apt to come back and beat your ears down. So I reached out, caught him by one ear and swung another right, scattering a few of his teeth. He turned sidewise, and I drove my fist down on his kidney like a hammer, and he hit the floor.

  Now, that all amounted to no more than four or five seconds. A body doesn't waste time between punches, and I wasn't in anything less than a hurry.

  Nor was I making much noise. It was all short and sharp and over in an instant, and then I was facing back toward that room.

  Galloway was sitting easy. Nobody ever did fluster that boy. He was a soft-talking man, but he was tough, and so rough he wore out his clothes from the inside first. There were Fetchens ready to fire, but Galloway wasn't worried so's a body could see, and I was half a mind to leave it all to him. It would serve them right.

  One time when he was short of thirteen we were up in the hills. We'd been hunting squirrels and the like, but really looking for a good razor-back hog, Ma being fresh out of side-meat. Well, Galloway seen a big old boar back under the brush, just a-staring at him out of those mean little eyes, and Galloway up and let blast at him. That bullet glanced off the side of the boar's shoulder and the hog took off into the brush. We trailed him for nigh onto two miles before he dropped, and when we came upon him there was a big old cougar standing over him.

  Now, that cougar was hungry and he'd found meat, and he wasn't figuring on giving up to no mountain boy. Galloway, he'd shot that wild boar and we needed the side-meat, and he wasn't about to give it up to that big cat. So there they stood, a-staring one at the other.

  Galloway was carrying one load in that old smoothbore he had, and he knew if he didn't get the cat with one shot he would be in more trouble than he'd ever seen. A wounded cougar is something nobody wants any truck with, but if that cougar'd known who he was facing he'd have taken out running over the hills.

  Galloway up and let blast with his gun just as that cougar leaped at him. The bullet caught the cat in the chest but he was far-off from dead. He knocked Galloway a-rolling and I scrambled for a club, but Galloway was up as quick as the cougar, and he swung the smooth-bore and caught that cat coming in, with a blow on the side of the head. Then before the stunned cougar could more than get his feet under him, Galloway outs with his Arkansas toothpick and then he and that cat were going around and around.

  Blood and fur and buckskin were flying every which way, and then Galloway was up and bleeding but that cat just lay there. He looked at Galloway and then just gave up the ghost right there before us.

  Galloway had his ribs raked and he carries the cougar scars to this day. But we skinned out the cougar and toted the hide and the side-meat home. We made shift to patch Galloway up, and only did that after he lay half naked in a cold mountain stream for a few minutes.

  What I mean is, Galloway was nobody to tackle head-on without you figured to lose some hide.

  Galloway, he just sat there a-looking at them, that long, tall mountain boy wit
h the wide shoulders and the big hands. We two are so much alike we might be twins, although we aren't, and he's away the best-looking of the two. Only I can almost tell what he's thinking any given time. And right then I wouldn't have wanted to be in the shoes of any Fetchen.

  "I'm going to leave this room, Fetchen," he said, "and when I please to. If I have to walk over Fetchens I can do it. I figure you boys are better in a gang or in a dark barn, anyway."

  Black came to his feet as if he'd been stabbed with a hat pin. "It was you, was it?"

  "Don't push your luck." Galloway spoke easy enough. "The only reason you're alive now is because I don't figure it polite to mess up a nice floor like this. Now, if I was you boys I'd back up and get out of here while the getting is good. And mind what I said, if one hair of that girl's head is so much as worried, I'll see the lot of you hang."

  Well, they couldn't figure him. Not one of them could believe he would talk like that without plenty of guns to back him. He was alone, it seemed like, and he was telling them where to get off, and instead of riding right over him, they were worried. They figured he had some sort of an ace-in-the-hole.

  Burr glanced around and he saw me standing back from the door, but on their flank and within easy gun-range - point-blank range, that is. I was no more than twenty or twenty-five feet away, and there was nothing between us. Not one of them was facing me. For all they knew, there might be others, for they'd seen us around with some of the Half-Box H outfit.

  Black got up, moving easy-like, and I'll give it to him, the man was graceful as a cat. He was a big man, too, bigger than either Galloway or me, and it was said back in the hills that in a street fight he was a man-killer.

  "We can wait," he said. "We've got all the time in the world. And the first preacher we come upon west of here, Judith and me will get married."

  They went out in a bunch, the way they came in, and then I strolled over from the door. Galloway glanced up. "You have any trouble?"

  "Not to speak of," I said.

  We walked out on the street, quiet at this hour.

  Somewhere a chicken had laid an egg and was telling the town about it. A lazy-looking dog trotted across the street, and somewhere a pump was working, squeaking and complaining - then I heard water gush into a pail.

  A few horses stood along the street, and a freight wagon was being loaded. Right then I was thinking of none of these things, but of Judith. It seemed there was no way I could interfere without bringing on a shooting. She'd consented to marry James Black Fetchen, and we'd had no word from her folks against it. The law couldn't intervene, nor could we, but I dearly wished to and so did Galloway.

  We knew there'd be more said about Tory Fetchen. That was no closed book. The Fetchens were too canny to get embroiled in a gun battle with the law when the law is such folks as Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and their like. West of us the plains were wide, and what happened out yonder was nobody's business but theirs and ours. We all knew that west of here there'd be a hard reckoning some day.

  We saw them coming, riding slow up the street in that tight bunch they held to, Judith out in front, riding head up and eyes straight ahead, riding right out of town and out of our lives, and they never turned a head to look at us, just rode on by like a pay car passing a tramp. They simply paid us no mind, not even Judith.

  She might at least have waved good-bye.

  When they disappeared we turned around and walked back inside. "Let's have some coffee," Galloway said gloomily. "We got to contemplate."

  We'd no more than sat down before Evan Hawkes came in. As soon as he spotted us he walked over.

  "Have you boys made any plans? If not, I can use you."

  He pulled a chair around and straddled it. "If we are correct in assuming that the Fetchen crowd stampeded and stole my cattle, it seems to me they win be joining the herd somewhere west of here. No cattle have been sold that we know of, beyond a possibility of some slaughtered beef at Fort Dodge. We now have about three hundred head rounded up that I was planning on pushing to Wyoming, but I mean to have my herd back."

  "How?"

  "Why not the same way they got it?"

  Well, why not? Fetchen had stolen his herd, so why not steal it back? There was sense to that, for nobody wants to have nigh onto fifty thousand dollars' worth of cattle taken from under his nose.

  "We're riding west," I told him. "We figured to sort of perambulate around and see they treat that girl all right."

  "Good! Then you boys are on the payroll as of now - thirty a month and food."

  He sat there while we finished our coffee. "You boys know the Fetchens better than I do. Tell me, do they know anything about the cattle business? I mean western cattle business?"

  "Can't see how they could. They're hill folk, like we were until we came west the first time. Howsoever, they might have some boys along who do know something ... if they dare show their faces."

  "What's that mean?"

  "I figure they've tied in with some rustlers."

  "That's possible, of course. Well, what do you say?"

  Me, I looked at Galloway, but he left such things to me most of the time. "We're riding west, and we'd find the company agreeable," I said. "You've hired yourselves some hands."

  We moved out at daybreak, Evan Hawkes riding point, and ten good men, including us. He had Harry Briggs and Ladder Walker along, and some of the others. A few, who were married men or were homesick for Texas, he paid off there. In our outfit there were, among others, two who looked like sure-fire gunmen, Larnie Cagle was nineteen and walked as if he was two-thirds cougar. The other was an older, quieter man named Kyle Shore.

  Wanting to have our own outfit, Galloway and me bought a couple of pack horses from Bob Wright, who had taken them on a deal. Both were mustangs, used to making do off prairie grass, but broken to saddle and pack. Evan Hawkes was his own foreman, and I'll say this for him: he laid in a stock of grub the like of which I never did see on a cow outfit.

  He had a good, salty remuda, mostly Texas horses, small but game, and able to live off the range the way a good stock horse should in that country.

  The outfit was all ready to move when we reached the soddy where his boys had been holed up, so we never stopped moving.

  Hawkes dropped back to me. "Flagan, I hear you're pretty good on the trail. Do you think you could pick up that outfit?"

  "I can try."

  There were still clouds and the weather was threatening. A little gusty wind kept picking up, and the prairie was wet without being soggy. Galloway stayed with the herd and I cut out, riding off to the south to swing a big circle and see what I could pick up.

  Within the next hour I had their sign, and by the time a second hour had gone by I had pegged most of their horses. I knew which one Judith rode and the tracks of all her other horses, and I also knew which one was Black Fetchen's. It had taken me no time at all to identify them.

  This was wide-open country, and a body had to hang back a mite. Of course, they were well ahead of me, so it was not a worrisome thing right away, but it was something to keep in mind. Of course, a man riding western country just naturally looks at it all. I mean he studies his back trail and off to the horizon on every side. Years later he would be able to describe every mile of it. As if it had been yesterday.

  First place, it just naturally had to be that way. There were no signposts, no buildings, no corrals, or anything but creeks, occasional buttes, sometimes a bluff or a bank, and a scatter of trees and brush. As there wasn't much to see, you came to remember what there was. And I was studying their sign because I might have to trail the whole outfit by one or two tracks.

  There was one gent in that outfit who kept pulling off to one side. He'd stop now and again to study his back trail, plainly seen by the marks of his horse's hoofs in the sod. It came to me that maybe it was that new rider with the scar on his jaw. Sure enough, I came upon a place where he'd swung down to tighten his cinch. His tracks were there on the ground, run-down heels
and all. Something about it smelled of trouble, and I had me an idea this one was pure poison.

  And so it turned out ... but that was another day, and farther along the trail.

  Chapter 6

  The land lay wide before us. We moved westward with only the wind beside us, and we rode easy in the saddle with eyes reaching out over the country, reading every movement and every change of shadow.

  Now and again Galloway rode out and took the trail and I stayed with the herd, taking my turn at bringing up the drag and eating my share of dust. It was a job nobody liked, and I didn't want those boys to think I was forever dodging it, riding off on the trail of the Fetchens.

  Of a noon, Galloway rode in. He squatted on his heels with those boys and me, eating a mite, drinking coffee, then wiping his hands on a handful of pulled brown grass. "Flagan," he said, "I've lost the trail."

  They all looked up at him, Larnie Cagle longest of all.

  "Dropped right off the world," Galloway said, "all of a sudden, they did."

  "I'll ride out with you."

  "Want some help?" Larnie Cagle asked. "I can read sign."

  Galloway never so much as turned his head. "Flagan will look. Nobody can track better than him. He can trail a trout up a stream through muddy water."

  "I got to see it," Cagle said, and for a minute there things were kind of quiet.

  "Some day you might," I said.

  We rode out from the herd and picked up the trail of that morning. It was plain enough, for an outfit of nineteen men and pack horses leaves a scar on the prairie that will last for a few days - sometimes for weeks.

  Of a sudden they had circled and built a fire for nooning, but when they rode away from that fire there wasn't nineteen of them any longer. The most tracks we could make out were of six horses. We had trouble with the six and it wasn't more than a mile or two further on until there were only three horses ridden side by side. And then there were only two ... and then they were gone.