The so-called “bounty hunters” were almost unknown, and the few who did attempt to pursue that somewhat precarious trade worked at it only occasionally. Rewards were actually rare, difficult to collect, and usually the people of any particular area were only too glad to have a bad man leave the country. They did not want him brought back and they certainly did not want to pay for a killing when, if the situation demanded, they could do it themselves. In the few cases I know of the “bounty hunter” was despised, and no more popular than a rattle snake.
A gun fighter was no more than a man who was good with a gun and had the misfortune to get into a gun battle and the good fortune to win it. After a few such difficulties he became known. There were many such men whose names never got into the movies.
One such man was Johnny Owen, a slender, handsome man usually well-dressed. A man who gambled but neither smoked nor drank (there were many such men, but he was reputed to have killed twenty men, chiefly in self-defense as an officer of the law).
HIS BROTHER’S DEBT
_______________
YOU’RE YELLOW, CASADY!” Ben Kerr shouted. “Yellow as saffron! You ain’t got the guts of a coyote! Draw, curse you. Fill your hand so I can kill you! You ain’t to live!” Kerr stepped forward, his big hands spread over his gun butts. “Go ahead, reach!”
Rock Casady, numb with fear, stepped slowly back, his face gray. To right and left were the amazed and incredulous faces of his friends, the men he had ridden with on the O Bar, staring unbelieving.
Sweat broke out on his face. He felt his stomach retch and twist within him. Turning suddenly, he plunged blindly through the door and fled.
Behind him, one by one, his shamefaced, unbelieving friends from the O Bar slowly sifted from the crowd. Heads hanging, they headed homeward. Rock Casady was yellow. The man they had worked with, sweated with, laughed with. The last man they would have suspected. Yellow.
Westward, with the wind in his face and tears burning his eyes, his horse’s hoofs beating out a mad tattoo upon the hard trail, fled Rock Casady, alone in the darkness.
Nor did he stop. Avoiding towns and holding to the hills, he rode steadily westward. There were days when he starved and days when he found game, a quail or two, killed with unerring shots from a six-gun that never seemed to miss. Once he shot a deer. He rode wide of towns and deliberately erased his trail, although he knew no one was following him or cared where he went.
Four months later, leaner, unshaven, and saddle weary, he rode into the yard of the Three Spoke Wheel. Foreman Tom Bell saw him coming and glanced around at his boss, big Frank Stockman.
“Look what’s comin’. Looks like he’s lived in the hills. On the dodge, maybe.”
“Huntin’ grub, most likely. He’s a strappin’ big man, though, an’ looks like a hand. Better ask him if he wants a job. With Pete Vorys around, we’ll have to be huntin’ strangers or we’ll be out of help!”
The mirror on the wall of the bunkhouse was neither cracked nor marred, but Rock Casady could almost wish that it was. Bathed and shaved, he looked into the tortured eyes of a dark, attractive young man with wavy hair and a strong jaw.
People had told him many times that he was a handsome man, but when he looked into his eyes he knew he looked into the eyes of a coward.
He had a yellow streak.
The first time—well, the first time but one—that he had faced a man with a gun he had backed down cold. He had run like a baby. He had shown the white feather.
Tall, strongly built, skillful with rope or horse, knowing with stock, he was a top hand in any outfit. An outright genius with guns, men had often said they would hate to face him in a shootout. He had worked hard and played rough, getting the most out of life until that day in the saloon in El Paso when Ben Kerr, gunman and cattle rustler, gambler and bully, had called him, and he had backed down.
_______
TOM BELL WAS a knowing and kindly man. Aware that something was riding Casady, he told him his job and left him alone. Stockman watched him top off a bad bronc on the first morning and glanced at Bell.
“If he does everything like he rides, we’ve got us a hand!”
And Casady did everything as well. A week after he had hired out he was doing so much work as any two men. And the jobs they avoided, the lonely jobs, he accepted eagerly.
“Notice something else?” Stockman asked the ranch owner one morning. “That new hand sure likes the jobs that keep him away from the ranch.”
Stockman nodded. “Away from people. It ain’t natural, Tom. He ain’t been to Three Lakes once since he’s been here.”
Sue Landon looked up at her uncle. “Maybe he’s broke!” she exclaimed. “No cowhand could have fun in town when he’s broke!”
Bell shook his head. “It ain’t that, Sue. He had money when he first come in here. I saw it. He had anyway two hundred dollars, and for a forty-a-month cowpoke, that’s a lot of money!”
“Notice something else?” Stockman asked. “He never packs a gun. Only man on the ranch who doesn’t. You’d better warn him about Pete Vorys.”
“I did.” Bell frowned. “I can’t figure this hombre, Boss. I did warn him, and that was the very day he began askin’ for all the bad jobs. Why, he’s the only man on the place who’ll fetch grub to Cat McLeod without bein’ bullied into it!”
“Over in that Rock Canyon country?” Stockman smiled. “That’s a rough ride for any man. I don’t blame the boys, but you’ve got to hand it to old Cat. He’s killed nine lions and forty-two coyotes in the past ninety days! If he keeps that up we won’t have so much stock lost!”
“Two bad he ain’t just as good on rustlers. Maybe,” Bell grinned, “we ought to turn him loose on Pete Vorys!”
Rock Casady kept his palouse gelding moving steadily. The two packhorses ambled placidly behind, seemingly content to be away from the ranch. The old restlessness was coming back to Casady, and he had been on the Three Spoke only a few weeks. He knew they liked him, knew that despite his taciturn manner and desire to be alone, the hands liked him as well as did Stockman or Bell.
He did his work and more, and he was a hand. He avoided poker games that might lead to trouble and stayed away from town. He was anxiously figuring some way to be absent from the ranch on the following Saturday, for he knew the whole crowd was going to a dance and shindig in Three Lakes.
While he talked little, he heard much. He was aware of impending trouble between the Three Spoke Wheel outfit and the gang of Pete Vorys. The latter, who seemed to ride the country as he pleased, owned a small ranch north of Three Lakes, near town. He had a dozen tough hands and usually spent money freely. All his hands had money, and while no one dared say it, all knew he was rustling.
Yet he was not the ringleader. Behind him there was someone else, someone who had only recently become involved, for recently there had been a change. Larger bunches of cattle were being stolen, and more care was taken to leave no trail. The carelessness of Vorys had given way to more shrewd operation, and Casady overheard enough talk to know that Stockman believed a new brain was directing operations.
He heard much of Pete Vorys. He was a big man, bigger than Rock. He was a killer with at least seven notches on his gun. He was pugnacious and quarrelsome, itching for a fight with gun or fists. He had, only a few weeks before, whipped Sandy Kane, a Three Spoke hand, within an inch of his life. He was bold, domineering, and tough.
The hands on the Three Spoke were good men. They were hard workers, willing to fight, but not one of them was good enough to tackle Vorys with either fists or gun.
Cat McLeod was scraping a hide when Rock rode into his camp in Blue Spring Valley. He got up, wiping his hands on his jeans and grinning.
“Howdy, son! You sure are a sight for sore eyes! It ain’t no use quibblin’, I sure get my grub on time when you’re on that ranch! Hope you stay!”
Rock swung down. He liked the valley and liked Cat.
“Maybe I’ll pull out, Cat.” He looked around.
“I might even come up here to stay. I like it.”
McLeod glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes. “Glad to have you, son. This sure ain’t no country for a young feller, though. It’s a huntin’ an’ fishin’ country, but no women here, an’ no likker. Nothin’ much to do, all said an’ done.”
_______
CASADY UNSADDLED IN silence. It was better, though, than a run-in with Vorys, he thought. At least, nobody here knew he was yellow. They liked him and he was one of them, but he was careful.
“Ain’t more trouble down below, is there? That Vorys cuttin’ up much?” The old man noted the gun Rock was wearing for the trip.
“Some. I hear the boys talkin’ about him.”
“Never seen him yourself?” Cat asked quizzically. “I been thinkin’ ever since you come up here, son. Might be a good thing for this country if you did have trouble with Vorys. You’re nigh as big as him, an’ you move like a catamount. An’ me, I know ’em! Never seen a man lighter on his feet than you.”
“Not me,” Rock spoke stiffly. “I’m a peace-lovin’ man, Cat. I want no trouble with anybody.”
McLeod studied the matter as he worked over his hide. For a long time now he had known something was bothering Rock Casady. Perhaps this last remark, that he wanted no trouble with anybody, was the answer?
Cat McLeod was a student of mankind as well as the animals upon whom he practiced his trade. In a lifetime of living along the frontier and in the world’s far places, he had learned a lot about men who liked to live alone and about men who sought the wilderness. If it was true that Rock wanted no trouble, it certainly was not from lack of ability to handle it.
There had been that time when Cat had fallen, stumbling to hands and knees. Right before him, not three feet from his face and much nearer his outstretched hands, lay one of the biggest rattlers Cat had ever seen. The snake’s head jerked back above its coil, and then, with a gun’s roar blasting in his ears, that head was gone and the snake was a writhing mass of coils, showing only a bloody stump where the head had been!
Cat had gotten to his feet gray faced and turned. Rock Casady was thumbing a shell into his gun. The young man grinned.
“That was a close one!” he had said cheerfully.
McLeod had dusted off his hands, staring at Casady. “I’ve heard of men drawin’ faster’n a snake could strike, but that’s the first time I ever seen it!”
Since then he had seen that .44 shoot the heads off quail and he had seen a quick hip shot with the rifle break a deer’s neck.
Now his mind reverted to their former topic. “If that Vorys is tied in with some smart hombre, there’ll be hell to pay! Pete was never no great shakes for brains, but he’s tough, tough as all get out! With somebody to think for him, he’ll make this country unfit to live in!”
Later that night, McLeod looked over his shoulder from the fire. “You know,” he said, “if I was wantin’ a spread of my own an’ didn’t care much for folks, like you, I’d go down into the Pleasant Valley Outlet, south of here. Lonely, but she’s sure grand country!”
Two days later Rock was mending a bridle when Sue Landon walked over to him. She wore jeans and a boy’s shirt, and her eyes were bright and lovely.
“Hi!” she said brightly. “You’re the new hand? You certainly keep out of the way. All this time on the ranch and I never met you before!”
He grinned shyly. “Just a quiet hombre, I reckon,” he said. “If I had it my way I’d be over there with Cat all the time.”
“Then you won’t like the job I have for you!” she said. “To ride into Three Lakes with me, riding herd on a couple of pack horses.”
“Three Lakes?” He looked up so sharply it startled her. “Into town? I never go into town, ma’am. I don’t like the place. Not any town.”
“Why, that’s silly! Anyway, there’s no one else, and Uncle Frank won’t let me go alone with Pete Vorys around.”
“He wouldn’t bother a girl, would he?”
“You sure don’t know Pete Vorys!” Sue returned grimly. “He does pretty much what he feels like, and everybody’s afraid to say anything about it. Although,” she added, “with this new partner he’s got he’s toned down some. But come on—you’ll go?”
Reluctantly, he got to his feet. She looked at him curiously, not a little piqued. Any other hand on the ranch would have jumped at the chance, and here she had deliberately made sure there were no others available before going to him. Her few distant glimpses of Rock Casady had excited her interest, and she wanted to know him better.
Yet as the trail fell behind them, she had to admit she was getting no place. For shyness there was some excuse, although usually even the most bashful hand lost it when alone with her. Rock Casady was almost sullen, and all she could get out of him were monosyllables.
_______
THE TRUTH WAS that the nearer they drew to Three Lakes the more worried Rock grew. It had been six months since he had been in a town, and while it was improbable he would see anyone he knew, there was always a chance. Cowhands were notoriously footlose and fancy free. Once the story of his backing out of a gunfight got around, he would be through in this country, and he was tired of running.
Yet Three Lakes looked quiet enough as they ambled placidly down the street and tied up in front of the general store. He glanced at Sue tentatively.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I’d sure appreciate it if you didn’t stay too long. Towns make me nervous.”
She looked at him, more than slightly irritated. Her trip with him, so carefully planned, had thus far come to nothing, although she had to admit he was the finest-looking man she had ever seen, and his smile was quick and attractive.
“I won’t be long. Why don’t you go have a drink? It might do you good!” She said the last sentence a little sharply, and he looked quickly at her, but she was already flouncing into the store, as well as any girl could flounce in jeans.
Slowly he built a cigarette, studying the Hackamore Saloon over the way. He had to admit he was tempted, and probably he was foolish to think that he would get into trouble or that anyone would know him. Nevertheless, he sat down suddenly on the edge of the boardwalk and lighted his smoke.
He was still sitting there when he heard the sound of booted heels on the boardwalk and then heard a raucous voice.
“Hey! Lookit here! One of them no ’count Three Spokers in town! I didn’t think any of them had the sand!”
In spite of himself, he looked up, knowing instantly that this man was Pete Vorys.
He was broad in the shoulder, with narrow hips. He had a swarthy face with dark, brilliant eyes. That he had been drinking was obvious, but he was far from drunk. With him were two tough-looking hands, both grinning cynically at him.
Vorys was spoiling for a fight. He had never been whipped and doubted there lived a man who could whip him in a tooth-and-nail knockdown and drag-out battle. This Three Spoker looked big enough to be fun.
“That’s a rawhide outfit, anyway,” Vorys sneered. “I’ve a mind to ride out there sometime, just for laughs. Wonder where they hooked this ranny?”
Despite himself, Rock was growing angry. He was not wearing a gun, and Vorys was. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it. Expecting trouble, a crowd was gathering. He felt his neck growing red.
“Hey, you!” Vorys booted him solidly in the spine, and the kick hurt. At the same time, he slapped Casady with his sombrero. Few things are more calculated to enrage a man.
Rock came to his feet with a lunge. As he turned, with his right palm he grabbed the ankle of Vorys’ boot, and with his left fist he smashed him in the stomach, jerking up on the leg. The move was so sudden, so totally unexpected, that there was no chance to spring back. Pete Vorys hit the boardwalk flat on his shoulder blades!
A whoop of delight went up from the crowd, and for an instant, Pete Vorys lay stunned. Then with an oath he came off the walk, lunging to his feet.
Rock sprang back, his hands wid
e. “I’m not packin’ a gun!” he yelled.
“I don’t need a gun!” Vorys yelled. It was the first time he had ever hit the ground in a fight and he was furious.
He stepped in, driving a left to the head. Rock was no boxer. Indeed, he had rarely fought except in fun. He took that blow now, a stunning wallop on the cheekbone. At the same moment, he let go with a wicked right swing. The punch caught Vorys on the chin and rocked him to his heels.
More astonished than hurt, he sprang in and threw two swings for Rock’s chin, and Casady took them both coming in. A tremendous light seemed to burst in his brain, but the next instant he had Pete Vorys in his hands. Grabbing him by the collar and the belt, he heaved him to arm’s length overhead and hurled him into the street. Still dazed from the punches he had taken, he sprang after the bigger man, and seizing him before he could strike more than an ineffectual punch, swung him to arm’s length overhead again, and slammed him into the dust!
Four times he grabbed the hapless bully and hurled him to the ground while the crowd whooped and cheered. The last time, his head clearing, he grabbed Vorys’ shirtfront with his left hand and swung three times into his face, smashing his nose and lips. Then he lifted the man and heaved him into the water tank with such force that water showered around him.
Beside himself, Rock wheeled on the two startled men who had walked with Vorys. Before either could make a move, he grabbed them by their belts. One swung on Rock’s face, but he merely ducked his head and heaved. The man’s feet flew up and he hit the ground on his back. Promptly, Rock stacked the other atop him.
The man started to get up, and Rock swung on his face, knocking him into a sitting position. Then grabbing him, he heaved him into the water tank with Vorys, who was scrambling to get out. Then he dropped the third man into the pool and putting a hand in Vorys’ face, shoved him back.
_______
FOR AN INSTANT, then, while the street rocked with cheers and yells of delight, he stood, panting and staring. Suddenly, he was horrified. In his rage he had not thought of what this would mean, but suddenly he knew that they would be hunting him now with guns. He must face a shootout or skip the country!
Collection 2005 - Riding For The Brand (v5.0) Page 7