The boy said, “Si!” and swung his old rifle to cover Monteros.
Reardon and Newlin saddled fresh horses from the corrals, and they were mounting when Elena approached. Despite the darkness, Reardon could see the frightened look in her eyes. He said, “Hernandez gave you the paper?”
“Yes. But——”
“Don’t worry now. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Ed—”
Reardon turned his horse away without waiting to hear what the girl had to say. He couldn’t trust himself with her; given the chance, he’d play the fool and tell her that he was in love with her. He heard Newlin coming along behind him, and he lifted his horse to a hard lope. It was a dozen miles to La Costilla.
They caught the racket of gunfire as they neared the ridge, a burst of shots following by a lengthy silence and then another burst. It didn’t sound like a pitched battle between two sizable bunches of riders, and Reardon hoped that he was still in time to avoid a bloody fight. He and Newlin slowed for the slope, and their blowing mounts labored upward. Gaining the crest of La Costilla, Reardon and his companion saw shadowy figures patrolling the strip from which the squatter-gunmen had been cleared. They rode in bunches of fours or fives, and at intervals some of the vaqueros swung close to Venturilla Creek and fired across it. Descending the south slope, Reardon and Newlin found Hernandez watching his riders. He was no longer erect in the saddle. His head was bowed, his shoulders sagged.
“They are too many for us,” he said, as Reardon reined in beside him. Defeat was in his voice. “I just returned from prowling the DIX, like a coyote. Morrell has brought gunmen from San Alejandro. Matt Hagar has rounded up the DIX crew and the nester-ranchers. Then there are the squatters we drove out. They are gathering a big bunch of cattle to drive ahead of them, the same trick we worked on the squatters. All we can do is show those ladrones how vaqueros can die.”
Reardon heard shouts in the distance. Some of the Venturilla crowd were bringing the cattle up. The attack would come any minute. Reardon trusted Hernandez’s judgement. There would be no stopping the attack if the odds were as great as the old vaquero said. Reardon said, “There’s a chance, amigo. We’ll let them come on —and take as much of Monteros range as they want.”
“Ah?”
“I’ve got Arturo Monteros a prisoner,” Reardon explained. “He’s confessed that the DIX quit-claim is a forgery. Don Luis can get the courts to deal with squatters now that he’s got his land grant title back. Morrell is beaten and doesn’t know it yet.”
Hernandez was silent, uncertain.
Reardon went on, “Have the vaqueros put up a show of fighting. Tell them to do enough shooting to make these range-grabbers think they’re in a fight, but tell them not to risk their lives. While the shooting’s going on I’ll slip across to DIX and try to find Morrell. I figure he’ll stay out of bullet range. Maybe I can catch him alone.”
Hernandez brightened somewhat. “Si. It will be as you say.”
As he rode off, Reardon turned to Pat Newlin and said, “Keep your eye on him, Marshal.”
He turned east when Newlin started after Hernandez, took cover in some brush, and waited for the attack to be launched.
It was not long in coming. The Venturilla crowd wanted to attack while there was still darkness. A great herd of cattle was stampeded across the shallow stream. A large band of riders— about fifty, Reardon estimated—rode with the wildly running cattle.
Once the wild charge of cattle and riders was past his hiding-place, Reardon rode east. He forded the creek, rode warily across DIX range. His rifle was across his saddle and he peered about for any riders lurking in the darkness. He saw no one here, and for a time feared that Morrell might have ridden with his crowd or returned to San Alejandro Then he topped a rise and saw a light.
He rode toward the light at a walk. It grew brighter, larger, took the shape of a window. Shortly, Reardon made out a group of buildings and knew that he’d located DIX headquarters.
A saddled horse stood ground-hitched before the adobe building with the lighted window. Reardon was riding up from the side, making no attempt to approach silently, and, as he swung around to the front, his arrival brought a man to the door.
A tall and bulky man. The lamplight from within silhouetted John Morrell.
Morrell called out, “It must have been easy Matt, since you’re back to report so soon.” His voice was cheerful; he was pleased with his victory—which he didn’t seem to doubt. Then, as no answer came, he snapped, “Hagar! Talk up, man!”
“I’m not Matt Hagar, Morrell.”
“Wh—What?” Morrell peered into the darkness. “Who are you then?”
“My name’s Reardon, Morrell. Ed Reardon.”
Morrell gave a violent start “You mean—?”
Reardon reined in. “The man you mistook for Juan Forbes. The one you sent Matt Hagar after last night, the one you offered a bounty for.” He saw the man in the doorway grow rigid. Morrell’s face was obscure, but he could imagine the look of shock upon it “I’ve got the lost Monteros deed, Morrell. I’ve got evidence that the DIX quit-claim is a forgery. I’ve got Arturo Monteros a prisoner— and his confession. The vaqueros have drawn your gunfighters into a trap. There’s only one thing more I want, Morrell.”
A mumbled oath was all Morrell could utter.
“I didn’t come here to avenge Forbes’s murder,” Reardon went on. “But Jess Hagar paid for his part in that murder and now I want you to pay for your part in it. Damn you, killer; go for your gun!”
Morrell croaked, “I—I’m not armed!”
“There’s your horse,” Reardon said, almost shouting now. “There’s a rifle on its saddle. Get it! Go for it or I’ll kill you in cold-blood!”
Morrell took a stumbling step forward toward the horse.
Then there was a pounding of hoofs behind Reardon.
He shot a look over his shoulder. Three riders loomed through the darkness, traveling at a hard lope. A gun roared. Morrell’s gun. Morrell had been armed; he’d whipped a six-gun from beneath his coat as Reardon was distracted. The slug, meant for Reardon, caught his horse in the head. The animal shrieked wildly, and went down. Reardon flung himself clear, but hit the ground on his left side. For an instant the dying horse thrashed before him, and he had a blurred glimpse of Morrell, now hugging the ranchhouse wall, aiming a second shot.
Reardon rolled away, still clinging to his rifle, and Morrell’s slug kicked dirt into his face. He was flat on his stomach now, and he fired a quick shot at Morrell. Then, jumping up, he darted for one of the other buildings, the DIX bunkhouse, and gained the protective corner of it as Morrell’s third shot came. By then one of the riders—Matt Hagar, Reardon knew by the voice—yelled, “Keep him busy, Morrell! We’ll take him from behind!”
Reardon had a glimpse of the three as they swerved to circle the bunkhouse. The two men with Hagar were the hardcased Jake and the wild-looking Kid. The Kid’s left arm was in a sling, but he had his tied reins looped over the saddle horn and held a six-gun in his right hand. They vanished from Reardon’s view at once, beyond the bunkhouse. He knew that they had him trapped.
He’d blundered, but anger rather than despair gripped him. His anger, growing into an ugly rage, was directed at Morrell who now opened fire on him again, and he knew that he was going to get the man before he went down bullet-ridden. He fired three fast shots in Morrell’s direction, then flung aside the rifle and drew his six-gun. He leapt away from the bunk-house, into the open, ran at Morrell. He held his fire, and Morrell, his nerve breaking, darted around the side of the ranch-house.
Reardon’s gun roared, once and again, and a scream ripped from Morrell as he went sprawling to the ground. The man was dead when Reardon reached him. Hagar and the other two came racing from behind the bunkhouse. Reardon pressed against his wall, swung his gun up. They broke clear of the bunkhouse, hit the ranch yard, their guns blazing. Reardon tried to bead the burly Matt Hagar who was in the l
ead.
It was Jake who was knocked off his horse.
The next second the Kid was shot from his saddle.
Reardon realized then that other guns had opened up to down those two. Matt Hagar realized it, too, and swung his gun to meet the attack on the flank. Reardon’s gun roared again, and this time he hit Hagar. Other slugs, from guns still hidden from Reardon, tore into Matt Hagar as he reeled in the saddle. As Hagar’s body fell, Hernandez and Newlin rode closer and called to Reardon.
* * * *
They’d gunned down Jake and the Kid. They’d seen Matt Hagar and his two toughs turn back to the DIX, Hernandez explained, and they’d figured that Reardon might need some help. They believed that one or more of the three had seen a rider cross over to DIX and that the trio had returned because they guessed that Morrell was in danger. Hernandez asked if Reardon had settled with Morrell, and said, “It is good,” when Reardon nodded toward the body sprawled alongside the house.
His horse dead, Reardon caught up and mounted the horse Morrell would no longer need. He told Pat Newlin that he would return to San Alejandro with him and there take the next stage north. He gave Hernandez Juan Forbes’s watch, and said, “Give it to Elena. Juan wanted it returned to his family.”
It was daylight when Reardon and Newlin reached San Alejandro. The marshal immediately spread word that there was no longer a bounty on Ed Reardon’s hide, and gave the town the story of the fight at the DIX. There was, Reardon discovered, no stage out of San Alejandro until the next day. He again took a room at the Territorial House.
He slept most of the day, then, late in the afternoon, while he was dressing, there was a knock at the door. He took it for granted that it was Pat Newlin, and called, “Come in.”
It was Elena.
Reardon stared, could say nothing.
Elena too was so flustered she could not speak at first. Then she smiled and said, “Hernandez gave me a talking-to, Ed. A real spanking of a talking-to. He understands me better than I understand myself. And he’ll never forgive me if I don’t bring you back with me. Ed, come back—please.”
“You don’t need me now.”
“The squatters are still on the south range.”
“I doubt it. They’re probably coyoting it for a healthier climate.”
“Well, Monteros Rancho will always need a man like you,” Elena tried again. “Don Luis is in a coma. The end is very close for him. When he is gone, there’ll be no man to be head of Monteros Rancho.”
“It’s not Monteros Rancho that I care about.”
“I’m part of it, Ed. I go with it.”
Reardon shook his head. “When I took you in my arms....”
Elena flushed. “I was taken by surprise, Ed,” she said thickly. “I was a little frightened. You see, it was my first time. No man had ever kissed me before. And you weren’t very gentle about it.”
She came toward him, not frightened now but bold.
Epstein indicated the paper band at which Ballard had pointed. “It came off of a pack of bills. When he saw it, he thought I had swiped $200,000 from Garlock’s satchel.”
“You’d been a dead duck if you’d looked the direction he pointed!”
Epstein nodded. “I knew this was coming, so I dropped that on purpose. He knew if he shot me and I had all that money in my pockets, it is justifiable homicide. And shooting would keep me from telling about the extra laudanum he gave. Now search me! I got no money. Emily, you are a witness.”
Emily said, “If you two turn your backs until I can get out of what’s left of my dress—” And, wasting little time with safety pins, she said, “All right. Here’s the money.”
Hurley demanded, “Saul, you had it figured out?”
“Yes, and no. If you shot it out with Ballard, then Emily would be sorry for him maybe. And I knew he was not sore at me. He would get me the first chance, so I got him first.”
“I still don’t see the point!” Hurley grumbled.
“I can’t prove it, but this looks like bank loot, all new bills. For a year or two, there is only one bank robbery in the state, and that is at your bank in Silver Bend. Maybe the till was cleaned and the robbery a fake. I mean, something fixed up, which is why Ballard sells his shares—he and the Good and Faithful Servant from Kansas worked in cahoots. Would Ballard know all about this money if they weren’t in cahoots?”
“Numbers of the bonds maybe can be traced,” said Hurley. “Your guessing sounds pretty good.”
Epstein said, “This time, you do the grave digging. For a change, I am going to be a genleman and get waited on.”
Hurley let out a long sigh. “You’re a crazy coot, baiting that jigger to pull a gun on you. Sit down while I bend on the shovel.”
And then Epstein went to the fire where Emily sat. Her face was drawn, and her color had not yet returned. Epstein said, “Always, you knew Lucky for a nice fellow. I knew from the night when the Indians came for us. Leading them was a white man that Ballard had sent, to stop Ben. The man told me before he died. But what could I prove? How could I show it all up?
“Only this way. Now you see what it means, desert judgment?”
HOPALONG’S HOP, by Clarence E. Mulford
Having sent Jimmy to the Bar-20 with a message for Buck Peters, their foreman, Bill Cassidy set out for the Crazy M ranch, by the way of Clay Gulch. He was to report on the condition of some cattle that Buck had been offered cheap and he was anxious to get back to the ranch. It was in the early evening when he reached Clay Gulch and rode slowly down the dusty, shack-lined street in search of a hotel. The town and the street were hardly different from other towns and streets that he had seen all over the cow-country, but nevertheless he felt uneasy. The air seemed to be charged with danger, and it caused him to sit even more erect in the saddle and assume his habit of indifferent alertness. The first man he saw confirmed the feeling by staring at him insolently and sneering in a veiled way at the low-hung, tied-down holsters that graced Bill’s thighs. The guns proclaimed the gun-man as surely as it would have been proclaimed by a sign; and it appeared that gun-men were not at that time held in high esteem by the citizens of Clay Gulch. Bill was growing fretful and peevish when the man, with a knowing shake of his head, turned away and entered the harness shop. “Trouble’s brewin’ somewheres around,” muttered Bill, as he went on. He had singled out the first of two hotels when another citizen, turning the corner, stopped in his tracks and looked Bill over with a deliberate scrutiny that left but little to the imagination. He frowned and started away, but Bill spurred forward, determined to make him speak.
“Might I inquire if this is Clay Gulch?” he asked, in tones that made the other wince.
“You might,” was the reply. “It is,” added the citizen, “an’ th’ Crazy M lays fifteen mile west.” Having complied with the requirements of common politeness the citizen of Clay Gulch turned and walked into the nearest saloon. Bill squinted after him and shook his head in indecision.
“He wasn’t guessin’, neither. He shore knowed where I wants to go. I reckon Oleson must ’a’ said he was expectin’ me.” He would have been somewhat surprised had he known that Mr. Oleson, foreman of the Crazy M, had said nothing to anyone about the expected visitor, and that no one, not even on the ranch, knew of it. Mr. Oleson was blessed with taciturnity to a remarkable degree; and he had given up expecting to see anyone from Mr. Peters.
* * * *
As Bill dismounted in front of the “Victoria” he noticed that two men farther down the street had evidently changed their conversation and were examining him with frank interest and discussing him earnestly. As a matter of fact they had not changed the subject of their conversation, but had simply fitted him in the place of a certain unknown. Before he had arrived they discussed in the abstract; now they could talk in the concrete. One of them laughed and called softly over his shoulder, whereupon a third man appeared in the door, wiping his lips with the back of a hairy, grimy hand, and focused evil eyes upon the innoce
nt stranger. He grunted contemptuously and, turning on his heel, went back to his liquid pleasures. Bill covertly felt of his clothes and stole a glance at his horse, but could see nothing wrong. He hesitated: should he saunter over for information or wait until the matter was brought to his attention? A sound inside the hotel made him choose the latter course, for his stomach threatened to become estranged and it simply howled for food. Pushing open the door he dropped his saddle in a corner and leaned against the bar.
“Have one with me to get acquainted?” he invited. “Then I’ll eat, for I’m hungry. An’ I’ll use one of yore beds tonight, too.”
The man behind the bar nodded cheerfully and poured out his drink. As he raised the liquor he noticed Bill’s guns and carelessly let the glass return to the bar.
“Sorry, sir,” he said coldly. “I’m hall out of grub, the fire’s hout, hand the beds are taken. But mebby ’Awley, down the strite, can tyke care of you.”
Bill was looking at him with an expression that said much and he slowly extended his arm and pointed to the untasted liquor.
“Allus finish what you start, English,” he said slowly and clearly. “When a man goes to take a drink with me, and suddenly changes his mind, why I gets riled. I don’t know what ails this town, an’ I don’t care; I don’t give a cuss about yore grub an’ yore beds; but if you don’t drink that liquor you poured out to drink, why I’ll naturally shove it down yore British throat so cussed hard it’ll strain yore neck. Get to it!”
The proprietor glanced apprehensively from the glass to Bill, then onto the businesslike guns and back to the glass, and the liquor disappeared at a gulp. “W’y,” he explained, aggrieved. “There hain’t no call for to get riled hup like that, stringer. I bloody well forgot hit.”
“Then don’t you go an’ ‘bloody well’ forget this: Th’ next time I drops in here for grub an’ a bed, you have ’em both, an’ be plumb polite about it. Do you get me?” he demanded icily.
The proprietor stared at the angry puncher as he gathered up his saddle and rifle and started for the door. He turned to put away the bottle and the sound came near being unfortunate for him. Bill leaped sideways, turning while in the air and landed on his feet like a cat, his left hand gripping a heavy Colt that covered the short ribs of the frightened proprietor before that worthy could hardly realize the move.
The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories Page 28