The Guns of Hanging Lake
Page 17
As if they had already planned what to do, they took off the binding rope and awkwardly slid the rigid body over the horse rump and set it on its side on the platform. Now, while Benjy maneuvered the body, Traf untied and freed the tarpaulin.
“Let’s set him up and you hold him, Benjy,” Traf said quietly.
They lifted the body to a sitting position, and Traf vaulted off the platform and turned to regard the grotesque figure. The rigid arms were raised overhead. The blood had been washed from his black hair and face. The swarthy face, though still dark and swollen, was oddly tranquil and young-looking; the glazed open eyes were unmistakably green.
“Put your hat on him, Benjy. That’s the way Caskie saw him.”
Benjy did so and Traf nodded. “I’ll get Caskie.”
He rounded the corner of the hotel, hit the boardwalk and entered the lobby. He was passing the lobby door of the saloon when he heard someone call “Traf!”
Traf halted and turned just as Russ Dickey walked through the door toward him. Dickey had lost weight; his belly was gone and his vest seemed outsize. His eyes, however, were bright with liquor.
“I got some things to settle with you,” Dickey said ominously.
“Later. Come along.” Traf turned, passed the desk, and entered the corridor. He could hear Dickey following him. At room eight he knocked on the door and heard Caskie’s high voice call, “Open it.”
Traf opened the door and saw Sophie, a book in her lap, sitting by the window. Caskie, hand bandaged, was half lying on the bed, a pillow propping him up into a sitting position against the headboard.
They both rose, but it was Sophie who ran to Traf and into his open arms. Hugging him, she said in a breaking voice, “Oh, Traf! It’s been so damn, damn long!”
Traf stroked her back and gave her an affection pat on her rump. “Later, Sophie.” His arm on her shoulder, he looked at Caskie. “Old-timer, want to take a walk with me?”
“Where to?”
“Outside. It’ll only take a minute.”
“To do what?”
“See a man.”
Sophie asked, “You found him? Oh, Traf, you’ve got him! How? Where? Let’s see him!”
“I asked Caskie, not you, Sophie.”
“But—why not me?”
“He’s plenty dead,” Traf said gently.
Dickey, whom nobody had really noticed, said from behind Traf, “Where is he?”
“I’ll show you.”
Traf gave Sophie a parting hug, and then led the way through the lobby to the street, Caskie and Dickey trailing him. When he rounded the corner and saw Benjy still propping up the dead man in his grotesquely frozen attitude, he watched Caskie, who was now beside him. When Caskie saw the man his step barely faltered, and together he and Traf walked over and confronted the figure.
Caskie stopped, looked carefully, and said, “That’s the man.”
“You’re sure?” Traf asked, unable to keep the quiet exultation out of his voice.
“Dead sure,” Caskie said. Then he looked at Traf and smiled faintly. “That’s a bad joke, but I am sure.”
Traf looked at Dickey, who was staring at the figure in fascinated horror.
“Why are his hands up?” Dickey asked.
“We had to tie him belly down across the horse.”
Dickey came closer now, studying the face of the corpse. Then he looked at Traf. “Hell, I know him. It’s Jim Fears. He was on the Bar B crew. He quit before you come back, Traf.”
“Put him on his side, Benjy, and cover him up.” To Dickey Traf said, “He’s all yours, Russ.”
“All right,” Dickey said quietly. “You kill him?”
“One of his own men did.”
As Benjy covered the body, Traf told briefly the circumstances of Fears’ death. When he had finished, Dickey said, “We’ll head out for there tomorrow.”
“No. If we found the valley, you can too.” Traf added dryly, “Ask Tom Gore. He knows the way.”
“Gore’s dead, murdered. You know anything about that?”
“Nothing; except that it saves you hanging him.”
“I’ve been talking with Caskie,” Dickey said. “He says you think what’s behind all this is a rustling scheme. That right?” At Traf’s nod, he went on, “In that there valley you see any beef that looked like their brands was altered?”
“Didn’t look. But my guess is there’s a thousand of ’em.”
“I’m goin’ to deputize you, and you’re goin’ to take me there.”
“You’re not goin’ to deputize me, and I’m not goin’ to take you there,” Traf said flatly.
“That beef’s got to be recovered and brought back.”
“I hope you beat the next snow, Russ, because you won’t cross the Gabriels after that. Why do you have to cross ’em, anyway?”
“Why? Braden’s New York lawyer is on his way out here.”
“Why don’t you do it the easy way, Russ? Tell the lawyer to hire a crew and winter the beef over there. Fears’ crew is likely scattered already. The place is empty. Take it over.”
Traf couldn’t help but add, “Vance won’t believe what a smart deputy he’s got when you tell him your idea. You not only found the killer and solved Braden’s murder, but you come up with a scheme to winter the stolen cattle. When the word gets out that this was your idea, Vance might be workin’ for you after the next election.”
Benjy looked down from the platform at Dickey and said, “You got a real head on your shoulders, Russ.”
Dickey looked up at Benjy, then his glance shuttled to Traf. He smiled faintly and said, “I do think of the darnedest things, don’t I!”
Traf and Caskie returned to Caskie’s room, where Sophie was pacing the floor waiting for them. When Caskie come in, Sophie halted and said, “Was he the man you saw on the platform, Uncle Asa?”
Caskie said in his high-pitched voice, “The very same.” He looked at them both. “You got what you wanted. Now I can go.”
Traf came up to Sophie and put his arm around her waist. “Not quite yet, old-timer, I want you for best man at my wedding.”
Sophie looked up swiftly and studied Traf’s beard-stubbled face, then looked at Caskie. “Yes. We both want you.”
Caskie’s mustache lifted in a smile as he nodded.
About the Author
Luke Short is the pen name of Frederick Dilley Glidden (1908–1975), the bestselling, award-winning author of over fifty classic western novels and hundreds of short stories. Renowned for their action-packed story lines, multidimensional characters, and vibrant dialogue, Glidden’s novels sold over thirty million copies. Ten of his novels, including Blood on the Moon, Coroner Creek, and Ramrod, were adapted for the screen. Glidden was the winner of a special Western Heritage Trustees Award and the Levi Strauss Golden Saddleman Award from the Western Writers of America.
Born in Kewanee, Illinois, Glidden graduated in 1930 from the University of Missouri where he studied journalism. After working for several newspapers, he became a trapper in Canada and, later, an archaeologist’s assistant in New Mexico. His first story, “Six-Gun Lawyer,” was published in Cowboy Stories magazine in 1935 under the name F. D. Glidden. At the suggestion of his publisher, he used the pseudonym Luke Short, not realizing it was the name of a real gunman and gambler who was a friend of Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. In addition to his prolific writing career, Glidden worked for the Office of Strategic Services during World War II. He moved to Aspen, Colorado, in 1946, and became an active member of the Aspen Town Council, where he initiated the zoning laws that helped preserve the town.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used f
ictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1968 by Frederick D. Glidden
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4084-6
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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