The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories

by Various Writers

  “Who killed the boy, Rube?”

  Mamerock’s eyes flared; and as quickly lost the momentary anger. “God knows. But if I was ten years younger I’d rip Terese upside down and put the fear o’ death in some certain hearts. They know they got me hamstrung. Just waitin’ now to rip open my neck. With Sam gone they won’t have to wait long. Only, they better do it quick. I ain’t useless complete.”

  The wolves, Joe repeated to himself, were snapping at the old man’s heels. And, hearing a sudden hush cross the room, he turned toward the door. The wolves were growing braver. Praygood Nuggins stood on the threshold, and beside him was the henchman, Al. Nuggins carried himself as erect as a soldier, his stern eyes and thin compressed lips half hidden by the dripping hat and the flowing yellow mustache. He looked directly at Rube Mamerock and started toward the old man, Al trailing. Praygood Nuggins looked sidewise and jerked his hand. Al retreated, exactly as a dog might have been ordered home. In the adjoining room a man laughed boisterously, the sound jarring the almost complete silence here. Nuggins paused in front of Mamerock, dipping his head with exact courtesy. “I am obliged for yore kind invitation. It’s the first time yuh have honored me. I reckon folks soften some as they get old. I thank yuh kindly.”

  Mamerock was as gray as cold wood ashes. He matched Nuggins’s bow and Nuggins’s severe politeness. “An invite is the same as my word, sir. I will not deny it, nor never have. You are on Ox Bow premises for the first time. I bid you enjoy yoreself.”

  “I’m obliged,” drawled Nuggins. “I shore trust that though it’s the first time it won’t be the last.”

  Some of Mamerock’s dying vigor colored his eyes. “The evenin’ is apt to settle that, Mr. Nuggins.”

  Nuggins wheeled and made for the whisky kegs. Joe saw the man barely wet his lips on the dipper and retreat through the door again. Five swart Mexicans filed into a corner and fiddled with their guitars; the place hummed with a stirring, vivid music, a puncher came out of the dining room and shouted, “Come an’ get it!” The crowd shifted. Crowheart Ames entered the place and alone of the guests forbore checking his gun. Behind him ranged a compact group of punchers, seeming more or less attached to him. His pug face bowed low to the whisky kegs and he saluted Rube Mamerock jovially. The Ox Bow owner nodded and walked away from the fire, followed by others eager to precede him. Ray Chasteen was on the threshold.

  “Pretty,” breathed Indigo. “Sorrow becomes that gal. Pretty, by Jupiter!”

  Rube Mamerock’s awkward arms folded around her and Rube’s heavy voice soared above the music. “God bless you, daughter, for comin’ to an old man’s last fandango.” Ray Chasteen’s eyes flashed in the light and Rube, holding her arm with a fatherly gallantry, led her away from the men. The two of them disappeared in some other part of the house.

  “Daughter?” grunted Indigo, following Joe into the dining room. “This Dead Card John jasper said she didn’t know no dad.”

  “A figure of speech,” drawled Joe. “She ain’t his daughter, but he wishes she was. And mebbe she might have been a daughter by will, if she’d married this Sam Trago. Look around yoreself, Indigo. You’ll never see another gatherin’ where they’s so many broken hearts and so many slant-eyed gents with itchin’ fingers.”

  “Beans,” muttered Indigo, seizing a plate. Great haunches of beef, barbecued to a golden, steaming bronze lay on mammoth platters; tall crocks of beans, unearthed from a twenty-four-hour baking beneath a coal-heaped grave, studded the long tables. The Ox Bow doctor bustled in with smutted pots of coffee, a glum and unapproachable figure within all this joviality. The room filled, drawn by an incense that surpassed all the aromatic spices of the Indies. Cattleland loved this sort of provender. Indigo helped himself, not scorning to use force and deception in beating another man to the carving knife and the ladle; for Indigo was one whose thoughts were never scattered over a variety of subjects at the same time. When he fought he did so to the utter exclusion of everything else And when he went to the trenchers it was with the same single-minded intensity that characterized his trouble-checkered career.

  Not for Indigo was the subtle weaving of treachery and defiance within Rube Mamerock’s ranch-house. But Joe, eating thoughtfully, stood back against a wall and saw what most men missed. Joe was a natural born spectator of life; he loved to weigh and judge men from their speech and from the impress of emotion upon their faces. One by one he checked them over, his serene blue eyes roaming above the rim of his coffee cup. He saw the more substantial of them—the old-timers and the ranch owners—imperceptibly draw to themselves. And he knew they would support Rube Mamerock because they were his kind. They would back Rube by the weight of their numbers. Elsewhere, the same sort of division went on. Ranch hands of particular outfits stood side by side; groups of young bucks heady with drink; and two small bunches of men who held strictly aloof from each other and said very little. Rube’s own punchers slouched at odd angles of the place and upon these Joe fastened his penetrating philosopher’s eye. Loyalty to an outfit was a powerful thing; still, threat and bribery were almost as powerful. Joe looked into the depths of his cup and shook his head. Rube Mamerock’s kingdom was crumbling.

  * * * *

  Excitement laid its suppressing hand over the room. He saw it etched upon every face. He saw it in the unconscious snapping of jaw muscles, in swift and turning glances, and the short, cautious exchange of words here and there. Every one of them knew a showdown to be approaching. Even Rube Mamerock, who was out of sight in this rambling house, knew it. Joe laid down his cup and turned to Indigo who rested against the wall in the manner of a thoroughly gorged python. “Let’s amble, Indigo.”

  They passed into the main room. Only a few were here. But there was one newcomer. Dead Card John stood alone in a remote corner, dressed in the same faultless black and white. His severe ivory-colored face made a queer outline in the shadows. His eyes caught a beam of light and the flash of that impact was like the reflection of sun on ice. He saw the partners, giving no sign of recognition. Indigo bristled a bit, but Joe pushed him toward the whisky barrels. “Fortify yoreself, Indigo.”

  Indigo stared at his partner, astonished. “What’s comin’ off here?”

  “Warm up. It’s chilly outside and that’s where we’re goin’ for a spell.”

  Indigo hooked his chin over the keg’s rim, hypnotized by the amber depths. “A pretty sight,” he muttered. He took a cup and swashed it along the surface of the whisky much as a small boy would run his hand across a pool of water. He drank soundly and hitched up his pants, glaring at the distant Dead Card John with the pale light of hostility flickering in his green orbs. “Let nobody tromp on my instincks,” said he.

  They went past the checked guns, Joe scanning the rows of massed artillery with intent interest; they stepped into the night and rounded a corner of the house. The rain beat slantwise out of a dead black sky; the wind ripped across the open desert, shrilling at the touch of corral post and building eaves. They heard the river splashing against its sandy banks, they heard a high-pitched phrase beating across the blackness. A single lantern weaved out there on the bridge. The lights around the sheds were fewer and dimmer. Indigo and Joe crouched against the wall of the house.

  “Now yo’re up to some o’ that Eyetalian embroidery again,” complained Indigo, raising his voice.

  “Come on—we’re goin’ to see how that dry channel back of the house looks.”

  They stumbled across the uneven ground, avoiding the sheds. Within its shelter they saw four men crouched beneath a lantern and another figure standing just beyond its revealing rays. Fifty yards farther they came to the margin of the abandoned river channel. This night it sighed and rumbled to the overflow. The abraded banks were crumbling, the scouring side eddies rose above and poured across the level land on which the partners stood. Joe explored along the edge gingerly. “Nobody’s comin’ to the fandango from this way tonight, Indigo.”

  “Yeah. Well, when yo’re through with
all them natural observations le’s get to cover. I’m drippin’ like a faucet.”

  “We slide around toward the bridge next. Don’t shout so loud.”

  They circled back, traversing unfamiliar ground. Light poured out of the ranch-house windows and a commotion rose by the front door. The partners halted. Around the corner veered a lantern, held high over four men struggling with a fifth. The fifth was howling like a lone wolf in the hills; he bucked, broke loose and created havoc, the tenor of his speech scandalously profane. They caught him again and rushed him forward to what, in the advancing light, appeared to be a root house depressed almost level with the earth. One of the party drew open the slanting doors and the protesting individual was hurled through. The door closed, a last weird howl beating out of the depths.

  “First drunk,” said one of the party. “That cellar will be crawlin’ with ’em afore mornin’.” They disappeared around the house corner.

  The partners made a cautious detour of the lights and quartering against the wind. The temper of the storm rose steadily. A sage stalk struck Joe, a shrill yell slid by and they saw a second lantern waving crazily in the night, borne toward the bridge by a stumbling figure. Joe muttered “hurry up,” and aimed in that direction. They arrived near the bridge end as the guard of the structure drew landward to meet the man approaching. Neither of the partners heard anything of the moment’s parley but, watching the lanterns closely, Joe noticed the erstwhile guard retreating toward shelter while the new man walked out upon the weaving structure.

  “Hear that water grumblin’,” said Indigo. “This bridge won’t stick, Joe. The guy ought to get offen it.”

  “He will in a minute,” replied Joe. “But he’s got particular business right now. Watch.”

  The guard’s lantern dipped thrice as if in signal; then the light of it winked out.

  “Wind snuffed it for him,” said Indigo.

  “No, he’s hidin’ it inside his coat. We got to get closer to this shebang. Here’s the guard rail. Flat on yore stummick, Indigo. Hug the underside o’ these planks.”

  “Hell!” exploded Indigo. “I’m wet enough now.”

  Horses drummed along the bridge, a man ran behind. Joe looked around and up from his shelter to see a point of light seeping out from the guard’s coat. Those in the saddle were halted. Whether they were two or six Joe couldn’t tell, but he heard them talking.

  “Where’s the rest?” asked the guard. “Better get the whole bunch over now. If she keeps risin’ the bridge’ll wash down the crick.”

  “Nuggins give orders. Just us boys to hang around here, out of sight. The main bunch waits till he sends for ’em.”

  “They mebbe won’t be able to cross in another hour,” persisted the bridge tender.

  “You go argue with Nuggins if yuh want. I aim to keep my health, so I’m obeyin’ directions. How about us goin’ into the sheds?”

  “Nope. Yuh wouldn’t be welcome. Go to the barn.”

  The partners waited until the bridge end was deserted again before rising from their concealment. Indigo’s temper was ragged and his sense of pride had been assaulted by this burrowing into the mud. He said so in blunt, gloomy words. “And I’m too old a hand, Joe, to take chances with rheumatics any more. This is a hell of a place for you an’ me. Le’s ride.”

  “Let’s go back and get a drink.”

  “Well—that ain’t such a bad suggestion either.”

  They raised their shoulders against the stinging rain and retreated for the house. Ten yards from the door they were met by another squad of semi-sober men conveying a drunk to the root cellar. Praygood Nuggins stepped after them and turned into the darkness. Joe laid a detaining hand across Indigo’s arm. One flat and angry word cut over the noisy air. A cry of pain came hard after it and presently Nuggins reappeared on the threshold of the house and went inside. But somebody out in the darkness was cursing blackly. The partners entered and went quickly toward the whisky kegs.

  * * * *

  In the space of time the two had been wandering around the storm a change had come over the crowd. More exactly it was a tightening of the nervous excitement already existing. The room was warm, smoke lifted in clouds, thick enough to eddy and swirl behind the moving bodies. Drink touched them all and the fast, thrumming music of the Mexican guitars stirred the blood. Even the cool-tempered Joe felt himself swayed by it, felt a turn to recklessness. Eyes about him were hard and bright; men were watching each other with a telltale caution. Dead Card John stood in the same corner, still alone and still maintaining the marble severity of face. But his attention was fixed upon Praygood Nuggins across the room and Nuggins, erect and grim, returned the glance. This man’s features were half hidden by the low setting hat and the drooping yellow mustache. All that could be seen with any degree of clearness was the bold nose and the angular, slanting eyes. He appeared to be standing guard, such was the fixity of his muscles and the unvarying cast of his cheeks. And the henchman Al stood a few paces removed in a similar posture though he could not erase the slack and cynical grin from his face. Joe noted that other men, some of them Ox Bow hands, seemed too casual as they draped themselves on Nuggins’s side of the place.

  Though the talk rolled on and the music drummed along the rafters, all men were waiting. Waiting for that certain yet unguessable move that would set fire to this pile of tinder. Alone of the crowd, Rube Mamerock seemed unmoved. He had taken seat by the fireplace, hands folded over his paunch. And there was an air of weary, discouraged sadness about him that tugged at Joe’s heart. Mamerock’s race was run. He had made his mark, built up his empire. Now, with the shadow of death casting a long, long shadow before him he saw the forthcoming dissolution of all that he had labored to gain. With the passing of Sam Trago there had also passed his last hope of leaving the Ox Bow intact. His chin dropped to his chest and the silver hair gleamed in the light. He was beaten.

  Dead Card John moved away from his corner, approaching Rube Mamerock. And such was the growing tension that the talk stumbled and fell to a small murmuring. All the henchmen shifted and looked toward Praygood Nuggins; but the latter never stirred. His eyes were fixed upon Dead Card John with a sharpness that photographed every ripple of expression of the latter’s graven face. Dead Card John bent over Mamerock, lips barely moving. Mamerock shook his head, not looking up. But Dead Card John bent lower, speaking again, the ivory pallor giving way to a taint of red. Mamerock reared back and stared fully at Dead Card John for long moments. Complete silence came to that room, the guitars stopped and the singing of the fire through the oak wood made a queer melody against the rumble of the storm. Mamerock’s head fell and rose. He hoisted himself from the chair, pointing to an inner door, the meanwhile looking about him.

  “Play up,” said he to the musicians. “I don’t expect to hear much music by-and-by. Play up, boys.” And he waved his hand around the room. “Friends, if you’d please an old-timer, hit those kegs and look as if you were enjoyin’ yoreselves. Rube never spread a poor fandango yet and I don’t want it said the last one was dull.” He opened the designated door, let Dead Card John and himself into another room, and closed the portal behind.

  Still Praygood Nuggins kept his exact place, his flinty and angular cheeks turned to the recently closed door. For once the henchman Al’s face was bereft of its slack grin. The man shuffled nervously to the kegs and drank, setting up an example that struck the crowd appropriately. The tension snapped, talk soared to the dark beams, the whisky kegs were plumbed to the bottom. A brace of Ox Bow men rolled in a fresh vessel and cut away the top. One elderly rancher with a gloss-black beard and a steel eye raised the dipper to the room and spoke resoundingly. “God bless old Rube. God condemn the man who sets his loop for the Ox Bow!”

  The room filled with a roar. Yet Joe, measuring the warmth of that sentiment’s approval marked it down that it lasted only a moment and was followed by an immediate shifting and gathering of groups. The old-timers were with Rube, heart and soul.
But Joe plainly saw they feared Praygood Nuggins. The latter gave no notice to the toast, a thing ominous and unsettling to the onlookers. Individuals began idling toward the gun guardian. Al was at the front entrance, trying to catch Nuggins’s attention. He caught it finally and raised himself to his toes as if to gain some certain consent. Joe saw Nuggins’s head flick to one side in a quick negation. The silver-haired partner dwelt thoughtfully upon this for a bare instant and spoke into Indigo’s ear. “Inch toward the way out. Easy.”

  Unexpectedly, Crowheart Ames barred their path. His great chest expanded and he shoved his bulldog chin into Joe’s face, speaking with a subdued belligerence.

  “Where yuh goin’?”

  Joe was suddenly cold and unfriendly. “It won’t pay you to stand there long, Mister Ames.”

  “Keep yore fingers out of this pie,” warned the sheriff. Joe saw the man’s pupils dilate.

  “Get out of my way,” drawled Joe. “I’m playin’ a waitin’ game—like you. Only I don’t bluff. Step aside.”

  Ames moved back a pace and turned his shoulders. The partners cruised the width of the room, skirted the guns and stopped abreast Al. The Nuggins’s henchman flashed a suspicious glance from one to the other and put his back to the wall like a balky horse. Indigo’s pale orbs slowly turned to green and he looked at Al with a thoughtful mayhem printed upon his furrowed, waspish cheeks. Al started to say something and stopped, attention snapping into the room. Talk ceased, as if the bottom had dropped from the ranch-house and carried the crowd with it. Indigo muttered, “Look there,” and Joe turned upon his heels.

  Rube Mamerock had returned to the fireplace. Dead Card John stood to one side of him and the girl, hidden all the evening, rested on the other. Something had happened to Rube in the brief intermission, something had taken twenty years from his face. He confronted the crowd, shoulders squared, the haunted, discouraged look gone from his eyes. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a confidence or relief present that had not been there before. He swept the gathering, man and man, lingering a little on the soldierly figure of Praygood Nuggins. His head ducked, as if he had confirmed a belief. He raised his hand.