“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Rose Martin intervened. “You’re always in such a fret. The girl’s here, an’ we can use her to help. As long as we have her, the old man will listen, and while he’s hurt, she’ll do as she’s told.”
Martin muttered under his breath. “If we’d started by killing Sandifer like I wanted, all would be well,” he said irritably. “What he said about the Katrishen trouble startin’ with our comin’ got the old man to thinkin. Then I figure Bowen was sorry he fired his foreman.”
“No matter!” Rose Martin was brusque. “We’ve got this place, and we can handle the Katrishens ourselves. There’s plenty of time now Sandifer’s gone.”
Steps sounded. “Lee, the old man’s comin’ out of it. He wants his daughter.”
“Tell him to go climb a tree!” Martin replied stiffly. “You watch him!”
“Where’s Art?” Klee protested. “I don’t like it, Lee! He’s been gone too long. Somethin’s up!”
“Aw, forget it! Quit cryin’! You do more yelpin’ than a mangy coyote!”
Sandifer stood very still, thinking. There was no sound of Elaine, so she must be a prisoner in her room. Turning, he tiptoed across the room toward the far side. A door there, beyond the old piano, opened into Elaine’s room. Carefully, he tried the knob. It held.
_______
AT THAT VERY instant a door opened abruptly, and he saw light under the door before him. He heard a startled gasp from Elaine and Lee Martin’s voice, taunting, familiar.
“What’s the matter? Scared?” Martin laughed. “I just came in to see if you was all right. If you’d kept that pretty mouth of yours shut, your dad would still be all right! You tellin’ him Sandifer was correct about the Katrishens an’ that he shouldn’t of fired him!”
“He shouldn’t have,” the girl said quietly. “If he was here now, he’d kill you. Get out of my room.”
“Maybe I ain’t ready to go?” he taunted. “An’ from now on I’m goin’ to come an’ go as I like.”
His steps advanced into the room, and Jim tightened his grip on the knob. He remembered that lock, and it was not set very securely. Suddenly, an idea came to him. Turning, he picked up an old glass lamp, large and ornate. Balancing it momentarily in his hand, he drew it back and hurled it with a long overhand swing through the window!
Glass crashed on the veranda, and there lamp hit, went down a step, and stayed there. Inside the girls’ room, there was a startled exclamation, and he heard running footsteps from both the girl’s room and the old man’s. Somebody yelled, “What’s that? What happened?” And he hurled his shoulder against the door.
As he had expected, the flimsy lock carried away and he was catapulted through the door into Elaine’s bedroom. Catching himself, he wheeled like a cat and sprang for the door that opened into the living room beyond. He reached it just as Mont jerked the curtain back, but not wanting to endanger the girl, he swung hard with his fist instead of drawing his gun.
The blow came out of a clear sky to smash Mont on the jaw, and he staggered back into the room. Jim Sandifer sprang through, legs spread, hands wide.
“You, Martin!” he said sharply. “Draw!”
Lee Martin was a killer, but no gunman. White to the lips, his eyes deadly, he sprang behind his mother and grabbed for the shotgun.
“Shoot, Jim!” Elaine cried. “Shoot!”
He could not. Rose Martin stood between him and his target, and Martin had the shotgun now and was swinging it. Jim lunged, shoving the table over, and the lamp shattered in a crash. He fired and then fired again. Flame stabbed the darkness at him, and he fell back against the wall, switching his gun. Fire laced the darkness into a stabbing crimson crossfire, and the room thundered with sound and then died to stillness that was the stillness of death itself.
No sound remained, only the acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with the smell of coal oil and the faint, sickishsweet smell of blood. His guns ready, Jim crouched in the darkness, alert for movement. Somebody groaned and then sighed deeply, and a spur grated on the floor. From the next room, Gray Bowen called weakly. “Daughter? Daughter, what’s happened? What’s wrong?”
There was no movement yet, but the darkness grew more familiar. Jim’s eyes became more accustomed to it. He could see no one standing. Yet it was Elaine who broke the stillness.
“Jim? Jim, are you all right? Oh, Jim—are you safe?”
Maybe they were waiting for this.
“I’m all right,” he said.
“Light your lamp, will you?” Deliberately, he moved, and there was no sound within the room—only outside, a running of feet on the hard-packed earth. Then a door slammed open, and Sparkman stood there, gun in hand.
“It’s all right, I think,” Sandifer said. “We shot it out.”
Elaine entered the room with a light and caught herself with a gasp at the sight before her. Jim reached for the lamp.
“Go to your father,” he said swiftly. “We’ll take care of this.”
_______
SPARKMAN LOOKED AROUND, followed into the room by Grimes. “Good grief!” he gasped. “They are all dead! All of them!”
“The woman, too?” Sandifer’s face paled. “I hope I didn’t—”
“You didn’t,” Grimes said. “She was shot in the back by her own son. Shootin’ in the dark, blind an’ gun crazy.”
“Maybe it’s better,” Sparkman said. “She was an old hellion.”
Klee Mont had caught his right at the end of his eyebrow, and a second shot along the ribs. Sandifer walked away from him and stood over Lee Martin. His face twisted in a sneer, the dead man lay sprawled on the floor, literally shot to doll rags.
“You didn’t miss many,” Sparkman said grimly.
“I didn’t figure to,” Jim said. “I’ll see the old man and then give you a hand.”
“Forget it.” Grimes looked up, his eyes faintly humorous. “You stay in there. An’ don’t spend all your time with the old man. We need a new setup on this here spread, an’ with a new son-in-law who’s a first-rate cattleman, Gray could set back an’ relax!”
Sandifer stopped with his hand on the curtain. “Maybe you got something there,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe you have!”
“You can take my word for it,” Elaine said, stepping into the door beside Jim. “He has! He surely has!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
__________
LIT A SHUCK FOR TEXAS
IN THE OLD days, when a man was going through the brush to another campfire or another cabin he lit a handful of cornshucks to light his way. So he “lit a shuck,” which became the phrase used to say somebody was going or had gone.
And many times when a man went west they just wrote after his name “GTT,” which meant “gone to Texas,” which was as good as saying he’d gone completely out of the known world, that he had vanished into limbo, and many did disappear in just that way.
A lot of men were picking up and leaving. In fact, the expression “gone west” was one way of saying a man was dead, although a lot of those who went west did not die, and a lot of them did not go home, either. They just kept on lighting a shuck for somewhere else. The West was a wandering man’s country. There was always something to be seen just around the bend or over the hill, and all a man had to do to get there was get onto the middle of a horse and keep looking between its ears.
LIT A SHUCK FOR TEXAS
_______________
THE SANDY KID slid the roan down the steep bank into the draw and fast walked it over to where Jasper Wald sat his big iron-gray stallion. The Kid, who was nineteen and new to this range, pulled up a short distance from his boss. That gray stallion was mighty near as mean as Wald himself.
“Howdy, Boss! Look what I found back over in that rough country east of here.”
Wald scowled at the rock the rider held out. “I ain’t payin’ yuh to hunt rocks,” he declared. “You get back there in the breaks roundin’ up strays like I’m payin’ yuh for.”
&nbs
p; “I figgered yuh’d be interested. I reckon this here’s gold.”
“Gold?” Wald’s laugh was sardonic, and he threw a contemptuous glance at the cowhand. “In this country? Yuh’re a fool!”
The Sandy Kid shoved the rock back in his chaps pocket and swung his horse back toward the brush, considerably deflated. Maybe it was silly to think of finding gold here, but that rock sure enough looked it, and it was heavy. He reckoned he’d heard somewhere that gold was a mighty heavy metal.
When he was almost at the edge of the badlands, he saw a steer heading toward the thick brush, so he gave the roan a taste of the diggers and spiked his horse’s tail after the steer. That old ladino could run like a deer, and it headed out for those high rocks like a tramp after a chuck wagon, but when it neared the rocks, the mossyhorn ducked and, head down, cut off at right angles, racing for the willows.
Beyond the willows was a thicket of brush, rock, and cactus that made riding precarious and roping almost suicidal, and once that steer got into the tangle beyond he was gone.
The Kid shook out a loop and hightailed it after the steer, but it was a shade far for good roping when he made his cast. Even at that, he’d have made it, but just as his rope snagged the steer, the roan’s hoof went into a gopher hole, and the Sandy Kid sailed right off over the roan’s ears.
_______
AS HE HIT the ground all in a lump, he caught a glimpse of the ladino. Wheeling around, head down with about four or five feet of horn, it started for him.
With a yelp, the Kid grabbed for his gun, but it was gone, so he made a frantic leap for a cleft in the ground. Even as he rolled into it, he felt the hot breath of the steer, or thought he did.
The steer went over the cleft, scuffling dust down on the cowboy. When the Kid looked around, he saw he was lying in a crack that was about three feet wide and at least thirty feet deep. He had landed on a ledge that all but closed off the crack for several feet.
Warily he eased his head over the edge and then jerked back with a gasp, for the steer was standing, red-eyed and mean, not over ten feet away and staring right at him.
Digging out the makings, the Kid rolled a cigarette. After all, why get cut up about it? The steer would go away after a while, and then it would be safe to come out. In the meantime it was mighty cool here and pleasant enough, what with the sound of falling water and all.
The thought of water reminded the Kid that he was thirsty. He studied the situation and decided that with care he could climb to the bottom without any danger. Once down where the water was, he could get a drink. He was not worried, for when he had looked about he had seen his horse, bridle reins trailing, standing not far away. The roan would stand forever that way.
His six-gun, which had been thrown from his holster when he fell, also lay up there on the grass. It was not over twenty feet from the rim of the crevice, and once it was in his hand, it would be a simple thing to knock off that steer. Getting the pistol was quite another thing. With that steer on the prod, it would be suicide to try.
When he reached the bottom of the crevice he peered around in the vague light. At noon, or close to that, it would be bright down here, but at any other time it would be thick with shadows. Kneeling by the thin trickle of water, the Kid drank his fill. Lifting his face from the water, he looked downstream and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw a grinning skull.
The Sandy Kid was no pilgrim. He had fought Apaches and Comanches, and twice he had been over the trail to Dodge. But seeing a skull grinning at him from a distance of only a few feet did nothing to make him feel comfortable and at ease.
“By grab, looks like I ain’t the first to tumble into this place,” he said. “That hombre must have broken a leg and starved to death.”
Yet when he walked over and examined the skeleton, he could see he was wrong. The man had been shot through the head.
Gingerly; the Kid moved the skull. There was a hole on the other side, too, and a bullet flattened against the rock.
He was astonished.
“Well, now! Somebody shot this hombre while he laid here,” the Kid decided.
Squatting on his haunches, the Sandy Kid puffed his cigarette and studied the situation. Long experience in reading sign had made it easy for his eyes to see what should be seen. A few things he noticed now. This man, already wounded, had fallen or been pushed into the crack, and then a man with a gun had leaned over the edge above and shot him through the head!
There was a notch in his belt that must have been cut by a bullet, and one knee had been broken by a bullet, for the slug was still there, embedded in the joint.
The Kid was guessing about the notch, but from the look of things and the way the man was doubled up, it looked like he had been hurt pretty bad aside from the knee.
The shirt was gone except for a few shreds, and among the rocky debris there were a few buttons, an old pocketknife, and some coins. The boots, dried and stiff, were not a horseman’s boots, but the high-topped, flat-heeled type that miners wear. A rusted six-shooter lay a bit further downstream, and the Kid retrieved it. After a few minutes he determined that the gun was still fully loaded.
“Prob’ly never got a shot at the skunk,” the Sandy Kid said thoughtfully. “Well, now! Ain’t this a purty mess?”
When he studied the skeleton further, he noticed something under the ribs that he had passed over, thinking it a rock. Now he saw it was a small leather sack which the dead man had evidently carried inside his shirt. The leather was dry and stiff, and it ripped when he tried to open it. Within were several fragments of the same ore the Kid had himself found!
Tucking the samples and the remnants of the sack under a rocky ledge, the Kid stuck the rusty six-shooter in his belt and climbed back to the ledge, where a cautious look showed that the ladino was gone.
The roan pricked up its ears and whinnied, not at all astonished that this peculiar master of his should come crawling out of the ground. The Kid had lost his rope, which was probably still trailing from the steer’s horns, but he was not thinking of that. He was thinking of the murdered man.
_______
WHEN HE AWAKENED the next morning he rolled over on his side and stared around the bunkhouse. Everyone was still asleep, and then he realized that it was Sunday.
Wald was nowhere around when the Kid headed for the cookshack. Smoke was rising slowly, for Cholly Cooper, the best cook on that range, was conscientious. When you wanted breakfast you got it, early or late. The Sandy Kid was glad that Wald was not around, for he had no love for his morose, quick-to-anger boss.
It was not a pleasant outfit to ride for, Cooper being the only friendly one in the bunch. Jasper Wald never spoke, except to give an order or to criticize in a dry, sarcastic voice. He was about forty, tough and hard-bitten. Rumor had it that he had killed more than one man. His two permanent hands were Jack Swarr, a burly Kansas man, always unshaven, and Dutch Schweitzer, a lean German who drank heavily.
“Hi, Sandy.” Cholly waved a fork at him. “Set yoreself down and I’ll get some coffee. Up early, ain’t you?”
“Uh-huh.” The Kid pulled the thick cup toward him. “Sort of reckoned I’d ride up to the Forks. Few things I need. Shirts and stuff.”
Cholly dished out a couple of thick slabs of beef and four eggs. “Better eat,” he said. “I wouldn’t want yuh pourin’ them shirts onto an empty stomach.”
While Cholly refilled the Kid’s cup, he said in a low voice, “What did you all do to the boss? He was shore riled up when he came in and saw yuh hadn’t showed up with the rest of the hands.”
“Reckon he was just sore. I tied in with an old mossyhorn up in the breaks and lost my rope. Durned steer had one horn, looked long enough for two steers, and a stub on the other end.”
Cooper chuckled. “You ain’t the first who lost a rope on Ol’ Stob! You were lucky not to get killed.”
“Rough country, over thataway,” the Sandy Kid suggested. “Ever been over there?”
“No fur
ther’n the creek, and I don’t aim to. Only one man ever knowed that country, unless it was the Apaches, and that was Jim Kurland. He always claimed there was gold over there, but most folks just laughed at him.”
“Rancher?”
“No, sort of a prospector. He mined some, I guess, afore he came here. Dead now, I reckon. He headed off into that country about a year ago and nobody ever saw hide nor hair of him again. His wife, she died about three, four months ago, and his daughter works down to Wright’s Store. She handles the post office in there, mostly.”
Jim Kurland. It was a name to remember. The Sandy Kid knew he was walking on dangerous ground. The killer of Kurland, if it was his skeleton the Kid had found, was probably still around, and any mention of Kurland’s name might lead to trouble. It would be wise to proceed with caution.
The Sandy Kid was no hero. He had never toted a badge, and like most cowhands of his day, he looked upon the law as a nuisance originated mainly to keep riders from having a good time. He went his own way, and if someone made trouble for him, he figured to handle it himself. He would be ashamed to ask for help and figured all sheriffs were the same.
He was interested in gold. If there was a mine as rich as that ore seemed to indicate, he wanted it. Why, with a little gold a man could buy a spread of his own and stock it with those new whiteface cattle that carried so much more beef than a longhorn. A man could do right well with a little money to go on….
When he rode into the Forks he headed right for the store. He was not planning on doing any drinking this day. It was Sunday, but Sim Wright kept his store open seven days a week the year ’round. The Sandy Kid, who was a lean six feet and with a shock of sandy hair and mild gray eyes, swung down from the roan and crossed the boardwalk to the store.
At first he thought it was empty. Then he saw the girl who stood behind the counter, her eyes on him.
He jerked his hat from his head and went toward her. “Ma’am,” he said, “I better get me a couple of shirts. Yuh got anything with checks in it?”
Collection 2005 - Riding For The Brand (v5.0) Page 13