by Lou Cameron
She indicated a reel of manila twist a more attractive shade of blonde than her hair and said he could have all he wanted at a nickel a foot with a brass honda and required baling wire thrown in. He grimaced and said, “I might or might not want to rope a cow. I sure don’t want to blind another man’s beef. How would I make out if I was to fashion my own safer honda with the hide lacing I’m sure you must carry as well?”
She didn’t come down a penny. But he figured it had to be her damned old daddy beating him out of nearly three dollars on a fifty-foot grass rope when she mentioned that same church social, making change.
He smiled at her gallantly, for a man she’d just taken such cruel advantage of, and allowed he might or might not be in town for such a tempting event. For she wasn’t bad-looking, either, and even if that Miwok waitress still liked him, a man could never have too many of Cupid’s arrows set aside for his old bow in a strange town with Lord only knew how many nights there ahead of him. He’d deliberately given himself a good lead on the Tarington outfit, so they could be along any time betwixt right now and the end of the damned week.
He toted his purchases back to the hotel with him. Once there, he lashed the new bedroll to his saddle in the tack room and balanced the gladstone latigoed to the left rear skirt with the deer carbine, letting it dangle from its carrying ring from the right skirt. The older hostler, chewing a straw in the doorway, opined, “You look to be headed out into open country a fair piece. Not that it’s any of my beeswax, of course.”
Stringer said he had nothing to hide and filled the older man in on his own identity and plans as he leaned against an empty saddle rack and got to work on the business end of his new throw rope with his pocket knife and the leather thongs he’d bought along with the raw manila. The breed grimaced and said, “You must enjoy the taste of alkali if you’re headed out into the Great Basin in August. Don’t you aim to soak and stretch that rawhide afore you bind it about that honda, newspaper boy?”
Stringer smiled thinly and replied, “I was braiding my own reatas before I learned to spell C-A-T and, unlike you savage redmen, I found out leather acts more predictable if it’s tanned and oiled before you make anything out of it. I could tell you tales of tough rawhide turning mighty tender after a few throws in rain-soaked chaparral. But you surely get some rain up here amid all these whispering pines, right?”
The hostler chuckled sheepishly and allowed, “Ten feet of snow, some Christmas Eves. But we hardly ever rope reindeer. You won’t get that throw rope all that wet this side of Halloween up here, and you just now said you aimed to push on over into the Nevada Desert. But like I said, it’s none of my beeswax if you figure you need waterproof gear where cow turds cure dry enough to throw on the fire in no more’n a day. You say this cattle outfit of your’n figures on driving all the way out to the Stillwater Range?”
Stringer cut the loose end of his double knot neatly with his knife as he replied, “It’s hardly my outfit and I agree that’s a hell of a way to treat cow-one in August, even if we were talking about driving them that far on this side of the High Sierra. That’s how come I’m up here covering the story.”
“They don’t figure to make it,” the local stock handler opined flatly. To which Stringer replied with a shrug, “No skin off your nose and I’ll wind up with a better story that way than if they make it. What can you say about a market drive that gets the fool beef to market? Nobody cares whether the cows enjoy themselves on their way to slaughter. Nobody but young George Bernard Shaw and his fellow vegetarians, that is. You can sell a story about cows getting hit by cow thieves or Comanche. You can sell a story about a herd stampeding off a cliff or over Little Joe the Wrangler if you want to make up a song about it as well. But there’s just no news in the damn-fool cows showing up at the appointed time and place, no matter how dry and dusty they might describe on paper.”
He began to fasten the looped throw rope to the wells of his centerfire saddle as the breed shifted that straw and declared, “You sound as if you’re hoping something awful will happen to that herd.” But Stringer shook his head and said, “I was raised to wish all men of good will well. If Chuck Tarington has honest reasons for acting so loco en la cabeza, and manages to get away with it, so be it. I’m paid to cover the news, not to cause it.”
The breed nodded but soberly observed, “You don’t think the deal they really have in mind is as simple as they say.”
It had been more a statement than a question. Stringer still replied, “They say the Lord protects drunks and damned fools. I haven’t met up with Chuck Tarington, yet, so I just can’t say whether he’s one or the other. I do know he’s going to need a heap of help from the Lord if he really means to make good on his stated intentions.”
It would have been dumb to elaborate further since he’d just met the old hostler and at least some of the Tarington outfit figured to board their own mounts here if they overnighted their herd within miles. That reminded him of Willow Watt and her outfit, so he asked if any of the other ponies in the stalls next door belonged to her or her riders. The older man shook his head and said, “Not now. That young widow gal did have a pretty palomino and Vadelia saddle with us, just this morning. Her segundo come by around noon to fetch her mount along with his own and four others. I think he said something about riding on down to Auburn for a spree, now that they’ve made their own drive in from Lookout Crags and been paid off.”
Stringer frowned thoughtfully, decided it was Willow’s business if she wanted to ride off without even a handshake for the fool who’d just bought her lunch, and headed out into the afternoon sunlight to see whether he’d be going to that church social after all. The pretty young widow wouldn’t have left town, rudely or not, without being paid for her own stock. She’d said she’d driven the same into Dutch Flat with the understanding someone here was aiming to pay on delivery. So she’d finally gotten that money order at the Western Union or else the Tarington outfit had shown up at last with the bigger herd.
That couldn’t be it, he saw, as he caught sight of the pens over by the track to find they still held cows, however content, now, in about the same numbers. That left the Western Union. It was a mite farther, but not too far to worry a healthy young gent in well-busted-in boots. So that was where he was going and that’s where he might have wound up if he hadn’t spied Willow coming across the dusty street in his direction, looking sort of vexed until she spotted him, waved, and took two more steps in his direction before she suddenly stared saucer-eyed at something behind him and screamed, “Stuart! Look out!”
So Stringer crabbed sideways and spun about in a gun-fighting crouch, gun in hand, as another gun roared and hot lead whipped through the space his spine had just been strolling through.
Stringer fired back at the obvious source of his dry-mouthed and cold sweating chagrin, a mysterious stranger in dusty black cow duds who’d stood taller by a watering trough before Stringer put two rounds in his black shirt to jackknife and sit him backwards in the plank basin of warm, scummy horse water with a mighty piss-colored splash.
As the stranger fought to come up from such an awkward position, Stringer saw he still seemed full of fight, wherever his damned gun might have wound up. So he shot the soggy rascal some more as he moved in with an eye peeled for anyone else as mean on that side of the street. The mean bastard he’d now hit three times muttered, “Aw, you didn’t have to do that,” and flopped sideways to soak his head and upper body below the surface of the long narrow watering trough. As Stringer reached in with his left hand to grab a fist full of wet hair and haul the silly bastard’s head up for air he heard Willow, behind him, yell, “No, don’t! The one in the army hat didn’t start it!”
So Stringer held the would-be backshooter’s wet head up long enough to see nothing but death staring back from the oyster gray eyes before he let go and turned, his own gun muzzle down polite as hell, to see the helpful brunette and a tall skinny drink of water with a brass star pinned to his shirt b
earing down on him in step.
Stringer nodded soberly and said, “She’s right and I’m sure glad I got a witness, Marshal. Is it all right with you if I reload before I put this gun away? I don’t know who, why, or how many just came after me and I only have two in the wheel, now.”
The town law nodded curtly but growled, “I sure wish someone would help me get all this clear in my head.” So Stringer let Willow do the talking as he ejected the spent brass and reloaded all six chambers, seeing his back seemed in at least as much danger as his big toe right now.
He found Willow’s explanation almost as interesting, since he’d only gotten to see the last of it. She said she’d just spied this innocent young man she knew when the total stranger now reposing in the water trough had simply stepped clear of the shade on that side of the street and drawn his gun with obvious deadly intent. By this time, other townsmen and at least two barefoot boys had come over to stick their noses into whatever had just been going on. The town law, who answered to Jethro when addressed by anyone from his own town, asked one of his pals to haul the jasper in the trough up for inspection, adding for Stringer’s benefit, “He was mighty slow or this stranger’s mighty sudden, if he lost a shoot-out with the drop on his intended victim!”
As the one townsman sat the wet corpse back up, Willow told them all, “Mister MacKail was fast indeed. But that awful thing got off two shots first.”
Someone muttered, “He must have missed, then.” One of the young boys chimed in, “I seen that dead man afore! He got off the westbound train when it stopped to jerk water at noon!”
The kid with him blurted, “That’s right! I seen him do the same thing. He looked meaner when he was more alive and dry, though.”
An older man snorted and said, “There ain’t no noonday train through here. You fool kids must mean the 1:45.” Which inspired the town law to snort back, “Let’s not split hairs, boys. It’s going on quarter past two now. So it’s safe to assume the soggy villain came up the line recently. Can anyone else here tell me who he might or might not have been?”
As one of the locals propping the cadaver up began to go through the wet duds for ID, the town law seemed to be expecting an answer from Stringer, who shrugged and said, “I never saw the ugly mutt before, Marshal. But since he arrived when he did and pegged that lead my way when he did, it’s likely safe to assume I was the one he came up here to kill.”
The town law started to ask what made Stringer so sure. But he’d apparently been given that badge for knowing his ass from his elbow after all because he nodded thoughtfully and growled, “Right. If he’d been no more than a homicidal lunatic he’d have shot someone else by the time he throwed down on you. But how come you seem to be so popular, MacKail?”
Stringer said it was a long story. So the town law said he was listening. Then another townsman, bless him, suggested they all head over to the hotel tap room, where this here little lady witness could be served as well. So Jethro nodded, posted one man and the two kids to guard the wet corpse for now, and they all strode over to the Yuba Hotel to sort the whole mess out.
CHAPTER NINE
That wasn’t as easy as it sounded. By late afternoon they’d only established that the dead man seemed unknown by anyone in town but might have answered in life to the handle of Wesley Bradford unless he’d stolen the membership cards in his water-soaked wallet. Old Jethro opined and Stringer agreed such a joinsome hombre had likely signed up for membership in The Grange, The Elks, and The Native Sons of California just so he’d have all that ID on hand for less grim occasions. Hardly any such adventurous youths expected to be identified by a deputy coroner in a little old mountain town. Jethro said he’d put out an all-points by wire in case the late Wesley Bradford had been wanted anywhere else and, having heard Stringer’s whole story, allowed he felt no call to arrest anyone as long as they agreed not to leave town without permit from the county coroner and sheriff’s department. When Stringer demurred, insisting he was on a news assignment and might have to ride on, once the Tarington outfit showed, old Jethro favored him with a stern look and said, “You can give your parole as a decent gent, or I can fix you up with a swell bunk in the town lockup until the county tells me whether they mean to hail you afore more formal procedings or not.”
Stringer protested, “Hold on, now, Marshal. You know full well it was self-defense and I can prove it.”
Jethro nodded soberly but said, “If I thought you gunned that gent we got on ice maliciously I’d have you disarmed and under lock and key this very minute. At the same time, leave us not forget this is not Dodge City back in the wilder times of the last century. You can’t expect to just reload and ride on after discharging firearms at human beings inside the limits of this township. The least they’re going to want down in the county seat is a brace of sworn and signed depositions from you and Miss Willow, here.”
The young widow blanched and said, “Oh, no, I can’t stay here in Dutch Flat much longer, Marshal.”
Jethro said, “Why not?”
She lowered her lashes, red faced, and murmured, “To begin with I can’t afford to, before I’ve been paid off by Great Basin Beef Incorporated.” So Stringer almost gave her show away, whatever the show might be, before he decided it was her own business if she wanted to plead poverty. He made an elaborate gesture of consulting his pocket watch as he told everyone, “Good Lord, it’s almost time to eat again and I might be able to find something out by wiring my paper before the morgue clerk knocks off for the day.”
Jethro had to have that explained to him. So Stringer only fibbed a mite as he explained how newspapers kept morgues of old news items, cross-indexed for names and dates, in case anyone named Bradford had shot at anyone else in recent or not so recent memory. Jethro said he savvied and sort of cottoned to the notion, as long as they now had an understanding. Stringer nodded, said he knew better than to skip out on the law in the same state he drew his paycheck and took hold of Willow’s arm, saying, “Let’s go, Miss Willow. I’m sure you’ll want to see if they’ve wired you that money order yet.”
She didn’t argue. He’d been braced for something stupid coming out of her. When they were back outside alone, and nothing had, he told her, “Nice going. Jethro seems like a nice enough old cuss, but there’s no sense confusing him further. Take a tip from one who’s been around and try not to fib to the law when you don’t have to, in the future. They tend to be suspicious even when you’re innocent and they have so many ways of checking out most anything you tell „em.”
She asked demurely what on earth they could be talking about and he answered with a sigh, “Come on, honey, don’t try to soft-soap a poor soul on the same side. I agree being stuck here at least overnight is a pain. But Lord knows what they’ll charge either of us with if you run for home now, with home so close. How far might Lookout Crags be, anyway?”
She frowned down at their side by side shadows striding ahead of them in the late afternoon sunlight as she replied, “I could make it home overnight if I still had a horse, or a home, for that matter. I fear I borrowed heavily, banking on that money being here for me when I showed up with those damned cows and…”
“Hold on,” he cut in. “Are you saying you were telling Jethro the truth when you said you hadn’t been paid yet? I just heard at the hotel stable that your hands had been paid off and were headed for Auburn with…With what, if your segundo was fibbing?”
She almost sobbed, “My prize pony and silver-mounted saddle, of course. They gave me until this evening to come up with their day wages or a firm time and place they’d see the same. I was hoping they’d wait until this evening, or at least until I heard one way or the other from that cattle company. Western Union tells me their office in Sacramento reports they haven’t even been able to deliver the last couple of wires I’ve sent. Now, nobody seems to be in at the address I was given.”
He soothed, “Well, it has been getting later in the day all this time. You still have more than fifty h
ead of stock over by the tracks, and in a pinch you might be able to sell them here in Dutch Flat.”
But she almost wailed, “To whom? We’re smack in the middle of cattle country and I just paid top dollar in Placer County for half those fool steers!”
He rolled his eyes heavenward and muttered, “Oboy, I get the picture!” But she still said, “I borrowed on my homestead and water rights to put the damned herd together for Great Basin Beef!” Which inspired him to mutter, “I just told you I got the picture. Stick with me and I may be able to make it just a mite less grim. The first thing I have to do is find out what we have in our morgue on that backshooter you saved me from. We’ve got plenty of time, and with any luck, my feature editor will have left for supper by now. So we’ll see what the morgue has on Great Basin Beef whilst we’re at it. If that don’t work, I may be able to get you a price on your fifty-odd head from some quartermaster corps cusses I’m not supposed to associate with. Can’t wire Fort Mason before morning, of course.”