The Guns of Hanging Lake

by Short, Luke;

  He moved back to his swivel chair and sat down, and Dickey sank into the armchair. Both men took a pull at their glasses, and then Dickey set his on the floor beside him, took two cigars out of his pocket and offered one to Gore, who accepted it.

  After both men had their cigars drawing, Dickey said, “Tom, any of your crew missing?”

  “Two,” Gore said. “Know where they are?”

  “Dead and buried up at Hanging Lake.”

  “Never heard of it,” Gore said coldly.

  “What were they doing there?”

  Gore said calmly, “Hunting the man that killed Anthony Braden.”

  “On your orders?”

  “On my orders,” Gore said. “Who else’s?”

  “One of them shot me.”

  “Were you shooting at him?”

  “Yes. He was trying to kill Caskie.”

  “And who is Caskie?”

  “He’s the old boy you think killed Braden.”

  “I don’t think, I know.”

  Dickey took another drink from his glass and looked at his cigar, then turned his glance to Gore. “If he did, why?”

  “That was what I was trying to find out,” Gore said. “Kitch and Loosh were supposed to find him and bring him back here so I could talk to him.”

  “Then why did they try and kill him in his blankets at his first camp?”

  “Who says they did?”

  “Caskie said so. Sometime in the night his mules spooked and woke him. He thought it was something after some buck he had shot and hung back in the timber. He went out to see what it was. They opened up on his blankets.”

  “They likely thought he was running,” Gore said.

  “It ain’t likely at all,” Dickey said. “Caskie hit one of them from back in the timber. He saw the other two carry the hurt man back to their horses.”

  Gore frowned as if in puzzlement. “Three men? Who was the other?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Look, I sent two men, Kitch and Loosh. I sent them because they were both good trackers. You can ask my crew if anybody but Kitch and Loosh have been gone.”

  “There were five in the bunch that cornered us at Hanging Lake,” Dickey said.

  “Five? You said just now three.”

  “Three at Caskie’s first camp,” Dickey said. “Five later, after we found him. One of them was the oldest Bartholomew brother.”

  “Do I know a Bartholomew?”

  “Reverse B, over on the west slope of the Gabriels.”

  “Oh. What was he doing there? And how do you know he was there?”

  “We killed him along with Loosh and Kitch.”

  “But what was he doing there?” Gore asked again.

  Again Dickey said, “You don’t know?”

  “No, I don’t know,” Gore said flatly. “How many times have I got to tell you that I sent only Kitch and Loosh? How in hell could I send Bartholomew? I wouldn’t know him if I saw him. And I don’t even know where his spread is.”

  “Well, there were two more besides him. Who were they?”

  “I couldn’t even guess.”

  “Caskie was a stranger to Indian Bend. You’ve said why your two men were hunting him, but why were three others?”

  Gore was silent a moment, as if pondering the question. Then his own question was more of a suggestion than a query. “Kitch and Loosh maybe picked up some help?”

  “Where would they, and why? Did you promise Kitch and Loosh a bounty on Caskie?”

  Gore said disdainfully, “Hell, no! If they’d have brought this Caskie in, I’d have given them ten bucks apiece out of my own pocket, but I promised them nothing.”

  “Then why would they have Bartholomew and two others with ’em?”

  “You’ve already asked me that. And how can I answer when I don’t know?”

  Dickey sighed. Gore took a drink, and Dickey did too out of pure reflex. The rain drummed ceaselessly on the roof; it had been the constant background of their conversation.

  Dickey began anew then. He puffed on his cigar, and then said, “All right, you knew Traf and Sophie Barrick and me were hunting Caskie, didn’t you?”

  “Why, you told me that in the hotel saloon.”

  “I told you why too, didn’t I?”

  “You said this Caskie talked to that man who killed Braden.” He laughed then and uttered a derisive obscenity.

  “You don’t believe it?” Dickey asked.

  “Not a word of it. Braden was stabbed with a knife. Who’d use a knife in this country to kill a man unless it was a Mex? But this Caskie had a knife on him, so Len Stapp says. Anybody else would have shot Braden from the dark and run.”

  “It would’ve brought Stapp.”

  “And what could he have done?” Gore asked. “It was dark, and even a man afoot could’ve got away.”

  “Caskie said he saw a man talking to Braden.”

  “Did Stapp see the two together?”

  “He says no.”

  “Then what in hell are we talking about?” Gore asked almost angrily. “Stapp talked with Braden. Braden went out to the platform to wait for the train. Sophie Barrick saw Caskie in the caboose on the train. Stapp saw him on the platform. Did either of them see anybody else?”

  “No, but Caskie did.”

  “He says,” Gore said scornfully. He shook his head. “Just what is it you want out of me, Russ? I’ve told you I sent Kitch and Loosh to bring in this Caskie after you told me Schell had telegraphed you that he got off the train at Kean’s Ferry. I’m sorry they’re dead. I’m sorry they shot at you. If I’d been along, it never would have happened.”

  “Where were you when it did happen?” Dickey countered.

  “Why, in New Hope trying to raise money to pay the crew.”

  “From Braden’s bank?”

  “No use going there. I can’t write a check on Braden’s money. And I couldn’t raise money on my own because I’ve got nothing except a few cows to back up a loan with. Nobody’ll loan on cows. They loan on land, and I’ve got none.”

  “You mean you can’t pay the crew?” Dickey asked.

  “No, I can’t. I told ’em that this morning. I told ’em I don’t know when they’d get paid, or who’d pay them. I said if they wanted to take a chance and stay on without pay, they still had their jobs. But I couldn’t guarantee they’d collect.”

  “They didn’t all quit. A fellow took my horse.”

  “On his way to get his own, I reckon. I don’t blame ’em. Would you work without even a promise that you’d get paid? I can’t even promise that.”

  “What’s going to happen to this spread?”

  “If anybody knows, I wish they’d tell me,” Gore answered grimly. “The help at the big house has quit. It’s empty. Except for pocket money, Braden paid me in beef and threw in free grass. That was my idea. I’ll stick around and watch his beef and mine. I’ll hire a few hands on my own, and I sure won’t be payin’ ’em Braden’s wages. I’ll stay until it’s settled.”

  Dickey was silent, reviewing what Gore had told him. He was lying, of course. Gore had accepted responsibility for sending two riders to hunt down Caskie, whom he wrongly suspected of Braden’s murder. And he denied any knowledge of the two other men who had sided Bartholomew and the Bar B pair. Although he apparently believed Caskie was Braden’s killer, he could give no reason for the killing.

  Dickey didn’t doubt Gore’s visit to New Hope to raise money to pay his crew, and he didn’t doubt that the crew had quit. Both would be easy enough to check. Everything Gore said sounded plausible except for one thing. Gore had sent the two Bar B hands to hunt Caskie, not to bring him in but to kill him. There was no way to prove this, because both the Bar B hands were buried in a mine tunnel. There was no charge to hold Gore on. Dickey couldn’t hold a man responsible for the actions of the men who worked for him. And besides, they were dead. Still, Gore was lying.

  “Now it’s my turn,” Gore said. “What are you going to do wi
th this Caskie now you’ve got him?”

  Dickey remembered Traf’s parting injunction to him when they separated in Kean’s Ferry—the real reason for his visit to Gore. He said then, “Why, I forgot to tell you. He’s dead. One of those five got him. He’s buried along with your two boys and Bartholomew in the mine tunnel where we forted up.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Sorry? Why?” Dickey asked.

  “Why, hell, I’m glad he’s dead. I just wanted to know why he knifed Braden, and now I guess we’ll never know.”

  Dickey finished his drink and rose, saying, “I reckon we won’t.”

  Gore stood up, too, and said, “Why don’t you wait out the rain, Russ?”

  “This could last for a week. I better get on, Tom.”

  Gore helped him into his slicker and walked with him to the door.

  “Stay here. I’ll send somebody for your horse.”

  “Don’t bother. If I’m going to get wet anyway, it might as well be now. Thanks, Tom.”

  Dickey headed out into the steady rain in the direction of the barn. He was halfway there when he heard the sound of hammering coming from an open-faced shed behind the bunkhouse. Veering his direction, he went over to the shed and saw his horse inside along with another. The puncher who had taken his horse was hammering on a red glowing horseshoe, which he pitched into a tub of filthy water as Dickey stepped inside the shed.

  Dickey came to the point immediately. “Tom says the crew’s breaking up. That right?”

  The young man nodded. “I don’t mind workin’, but not for nothin’.”

  “Tom says he tried to raise money in New Hope, but couldn’t.”

  “That’s what he told us, and I got to believe him.” Then he added, “Know anybody looking for a top hand?”

  “Not this time of year. But good luck finding one.”

  His two questions were answered. Gore had let the crew go, and he had been in New Hope trying to raise money.

  17

  From Bar B Dickey went east to the river and swam his horse across it in early afternoon. He was headed for Traf Kinnard’s K Cross located in the country known locally as the Spur, because it was essentially a peninsula of the Gabriels where the Reach River had cut through and isolated it. A high foothills-type of country of open grassland stippled with piñon and cedar, its grass was almost as lush as that in the prairie country around Indian Bend, and it afforded shelter from the winter blizzards that the prairie didn’t.

  When Dickey came in mid-afternoon to the rough muddy wagon road joining New Hope and Indian Bend, he traveled it north for an hour before he left it for a wagon road barely discernible in the wet grass. The rain had let up a little, but it and the river crossing had drenched him thoroughly. Only the whiskey, which he sampled often, made his journey halfway tolerable.

  In late afternoon he came to the big open park across which lay K Cross and its buildings. As he came near, he saw smoke coming from the chimneys of the main house and the bunkhouse. Roundup over and the cattle shipped, there would be nothing urgent enough to send the crew out in this weather.

  Approaching the single-story log house, he admired the workmanship that had gone into the building. The logs had been squared and the corners mortised. He remembered the story that Boss Kinnard and his wife and boy lived in a tent for a summer, a winter, and another summer while Boss built the house to his painstaking satisfaction.

  Dickey headed for the open-faced wagon shed by the rough log barn, tied his horse in its shelter, and then passed the peeled-log bunkhouse, going toward the lighted window in the rear corner of the main house. A bottle of whiskey was safely in his slicker pocket.

  Before he could step around the tie-rail beside the house, the side door opened and Traf towered in its frame.

  “You’re too big for a drowned pup, Russ, but that’s what you look like,” Traf said, and stepped aside to let Dickey in.

  Dickey saw that big barrel stove in the corner and went to it immediately. His teeth were chattering as he shed his slicker and threw it on the pile of stacked wood, first taking out his bottle. When his back was to the warm stove, he said, “It ain’t quite snow, Traf, but close to it.”

  “I saw you coming,” Traf said. “There’s a kettle on the stove, and my whiskey if you want it.” He went over to the roll-top desk in the corner opposite the door and from its top he took a glass, afterwards moving over and handing it to Dickey. “Thaw out while I clean up this mess, Russ.”

  The leather sofa at the side wall had an Indian blanket thrown over its seat and on it rested half a dozen rifles, two pistols, and a shotgun, all gleaming with oil. Rag, oil, can, and ramrod were on the floor. While Traf returned the guns to the gun rack on the wall, Dickey poured himself a drink, lifted the kettle from the stove, and mixed himself a hot toddy.

  As he readied up, Traf said, “Caskie’s at Sophie’s, Russ. He hoofed it to the stage road, bought himself a new outfit in Kean’s Ferry, and took the train to Indian Bend. You’d have to see him to believe him.”

  “Why?”

  Traf described Caskie’s change in looks and told of his new role as Benjy Schell’s visiting uncle, and also of his change in name. Then he sat down on the couch and said, “Now, what about Gore?”

  The new toddy and the warmth of the stove were getting to Dickey. He stood teetering by the stove, frowning down at his drink.

  “You better get away from that stove, Russ, before you fall on your face,” Traf said.

  “Yeah,” Dickey said, and weaved his way over to the chair by the desk and slumped into it. It took him a few moments to collect his wits and then he recounted his morning’s conversation with Gore. He finished by saying, “He’s lying all the way, Traf.”

  “Did you tell him Caskie was killed in the fight?”

  “Flat out. I said he was buried with them others.” Dickey was having trouble focusing his eyes on Traf.

  “What did he say when you told him?”

  “He said he was sorry. When I said I didn’t believe he was, he said it was true. Caskie deserved killin’, he said, but now we’d never know why he killed Braden.”

  Drunk and weary as Dickey was, Traf believed him. It was the sort of thing Gore would say to persuade Dickey that Caskie was Braden’s killer.

  Now in his new disguise, Caskie would be free to help hunt down and identify the man who had knifed Braden. Gore would undoubtedly pass on the word to the killer that Caskie was dead and buried. The killer had nothing to fear now, for he would believe the only man who could identify him was dead. Traf said, “You really think Gore was at New Hope, and not at Hanging Lake?”

  “There’s no way to check,” Dickey said in a slurred voice. “But it figures. He was trying to raise money. He’s letting his crew go, because I checked with one of ’em. The big house is closed and empty.”

  “You say he said he might take on some hands later?”

  When Dickey nodded, Traf said, “That’ll take money. Where’ll he get it?”

  “I reckon he figures when the estate’s settled up they’ll give him money to hire a crew,” Dickey said. He spoke slowly and with effort, and now Traf stood up.

  “Come over here and lie down, Russ,” he said. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Dickey finished his toddy, got up, and crossed to the sofa as Traf went into the next room.

  This was a big room, originally the combined kitchen and living room. At the near end, facing the round table with chairs, were the black iron stove and the sink with its pump and covers. Beyond the table were a sofa and chairs facing a stone fireplace, now cold. Indian rugs were scattered on the floor of this area. A woman might have noticed that it was in need of sweeping and dusting. Traf used it only as a walkway to his bedroom beyond.

  Now, however, Traf began to pace the perimeter of the room, trying to assess Dickey’s account of his visit with Gore. Much of what Gore had told Dickey was unprovable, or would take much time to prove true or false. He dou
bted if Braden’s bank in New Hope would refuse to advance funds to pay the Bar B crew, considering that Bar B itself Could be collateral. Gore, as the trusted foreman of Braden, could undoubtedly get almost unlimited funds as the temporary caretaker of the property. So that could be written off as another of Gore’s lies that Dickey had had to accept, along with the lie that Gore wanted Caskie merely to question him. The fact remained that Gore wanted Caskie dead because Caskie could identify Braden’s killer. What it added up to, Traf thought, was that Gore was shielding the killer. Had he fired the crew because they knew the killer too?

  Traf doubted this. If one or all of the crew knew the killer, they couldn’t be fired. For the price of their silence would be all of Gore’s cattle.

  So Gore wanted the crew out of the way not because they knew Braden’s killer but for some other reason. But what was it? Gore could get some but not all of Braden’s money from the bank to keep the spread in operation. Gore must have had something bigger than that in mind or he wouldn’t have fired the old crew. What else was left?

  Abruptly Traf halted his pacing as the thought came to him. Why, the Bar B beef, of course. If Gore intended to help himself to Bar B cattle, the old crew would spread the word. A new crew of Gore’s choosing would be another matter. He could share the loot with them and they could sweep the Bar B range clean of cattle before the attorneys for the estate could ask for a tally and inventory. That had to be the answer.

  Traf turned and started to go back into the office, eager to tell Dickey and prove to him that he knew what had motivated Braden’s killing. And then he halted, caution warning him. He had never wholly trusted Dickey. The only reason Dickey had been brought along to Hanging Lake was because he had the power of arrest in case Caskie balked. His power of arrest could also be used when Caskie spotted Braden’s killer. What had motivated that killing was none of Dickey’s business until the killer was caught. If he told Dickey his hunch that Gore was ready to clean out the Bar B range, Dickey, on one of his drunks, might do or say something that would spoil everything. Dickey had fought loyally enough at Hanging Lake, but that was to save his own hide and his job. He couldn’t be trusted with information that wouldn’t touch on those two things.