King Colt

by Short, Luke;

  Dawn broke cold and clear, and in another hour they reached timber line. Already behind them, the thunderheads were gathering for a new downpour. When they got to the green belt of trees, they conferred and decided to rest the cattle and let them graze on the hardy upland bunchgrass if they could. Pursuit was hardly probable, since a fresh storm would be almost certain to blot out the tracks.

  A half day of sleep and dry clothes lifted their spirits. At noon, after a quick lunch, they got the cattle moving again. Turk, with the experience of many such drives behind him, took them down the slope through the thick timber until, when dark fell, they were in the foothills.

  Warms, Turk said, was off several miles to the right. They were heading for the railway station and stock pens that Turk had used in his rustling days. A crooked agent, no brand inspector, and a split of the rustled beef would allow them to dispose of it without so much as a trace to indicate where it had gone.

  Close to midnight, they saw the lights of the way station. Turk had ridden ahead, to confer with the agent. When Johnny and Hank arrived with the beef, the pens were open, ready to receive it.

  “There’ll be a train out of Warms tomorrow morning,” Turk informed them. “It’ll pick the stuff up.” He grinned up at Johnny. “I signed Leach Wigran’s name on the waybill. That all right?”

  Johnny nodded. Next morning, in the mining town of Warms, Johnny opened an account at the Warms bank in the name of Leach Wigran. He arranged for the deposit of the money from the sale of the cattle shipment. If Fitz got curious and searched for his herd, Leach Wigran’s name would be dark with guilt.

  A few moments later he joined Hank and Turk on the main four corners. They looked at each other and smiled. They each needed a shave, clean clothes, and rest. Johnny, in spite of his bone-weariness, felt something driving in him that would not let him rest. His eyes were hard and mocking, as he said to Turk, “You work for what you get in this rustling business, Turk. I didn’t know that.”

  “Where now?” Hank asked.

  “Cosmos. This has only begun.”

  In place of Barney, who had been segundo under Carmody, Fitz had appointed a silent, surly puncher named Art Bodan, who was years younger than he looked. Fitz didn’t know much about him except that Carmody said he was to be trusted.

  So that morning, when Bodan had finished his story in Fitz’s office, the major regarded him with some curiosity and a little suspicion.

  “You say you found the horse down on the flat, grazing. How do you know he was the one whose track you saw?”

  “I know,” Bodan said stubbornly. “Rain or no rain. That’s the same horse. He’s not only crippled in the same foot, but the other tracks tally.” He paused, his dark, smooth-shaven face sullen. “You can’t track an animal for ten miles without you learn somethin’ about his tracks, Major.”

  Fitz said nothing for the moment, his face scowling and unpleasant to look at.

  “Running W. It couldn’t be a changed brand, could it?”

  “Come out and look for yourself.”

  “I’ll do that,” Fitz said, and rose.

  Outside, he paused at the corral while Bodan cut out the lame gelding and led him over to Fitz, turning him so that Fitz could investigate the brand.

  “That’s real, all right,” Fitz said. He straightened up. “You’re not to say anything about this, of course.”

  “Three of the men know it a’ready.”

  “Saddle up my bay,” Fitz said, and turned to the house.

  An hour later, he rode into the main street of Cosmos and dismounted at Baily Blue’s office. He did not need to cover up his visits now, since it was known that, as a victim of rustlers, he had legitimate business with the sheriff. Blue was not in, but Fitz sat down and smoked his pipe, staring thoughtfully out the window.

  When Baily finally did come in, “Is Leach in town?” Fitz asked. When Baily nodded Fitz said, “Bring him here.”

  Blue’s eyebrows lifted. “That ain’t very cautious, Fitz.”

  “Bring him here. And do it in a hurry.”

  Blue vanished; ten minutes later he was back with the hulking Wigran in tow. Leach Wigran seldom talked to the major, never recognized him in public, and that Blue should call him to an open conference with Fitz was a surprise to him. His face, almost hidden by that thick shovel beard, showed a surprise which he could not entirely disguise.

  “Sit down,” Fitz said abruptly, when the door was shut.

  Leach sat down facing him, holding his hat in his hand. Blue leaned on the desk, watching.

  “This morning Bodan, my segundo, came in with the news that I’ve been rustled of a hundred and fifty head of cattle. He cut for sign and found where they’d been driven up the Calicoes. The rain had washed away the sign there, but he saw enough to know that whoever stole those cattle had a lame horse. That horse was finally turned loose, up by a spring in the Calicoes, and it drifted down to my range.” He leaned forward and regarded Leach with careful eyes. “We found the horse. It was branded Running W, Leach.”

  Leach stopped fiddling with his hat, his great hands still. “Running W?” he echoed. “There’s some mistake. We’re missin’ no horses.”

  “I saw it, and it’s branded Running W,” Fitz said sharply.

  “Then somebody stole it.”

  “Where’ve you been these last four nights?” Fitz asked him coldly.

  “Why—a couple of ’em I reckon I was here in Cosmos.”

  “Your men were—where?”

  Slowly, Leach heaved himself to his feet and regarded Fitz with hot eyes. “So you think I took ’em, Fitz?”

  “I didn’t say so. I want to know who did.”

  “I dunno. But I know I didn’t and none of my men did. I can account for the whole crew.”

  Fitz said nothing, and Leach, after holding his gaze for several seconds, turned to Baily Blue, as if for help. Blue, however, kept his face carefully blank.

  And then Leach started to get red. “Fitz,” he said hotly, “I’ve danced to your tune for two years now. I’ve had many a chance to hang the deadwood on you, but I’ve not been a hog. I’ve kept in line and taken your orders, and I aim to from now on.”

  “Then where’d the horse come from?” Fitz said gently. “He was being ridden by the men who took that beef.”

  “I tell you he could have been stole!”

  “By whom, then?” Fitz drawled. Now his voice got ugly. “When I hired you, Leach, you promised me that you’d keep these small rustlers in order, and have them let me alone. Apparently”—and here his voice was dry, thrusting—“you’re losing your ability to keep on top in this county, Leach. Maybe somebody has an idea that you’ve got a little soft, a little easy. What do you think?”

  “I’d like to see ’em claim it!” Leach said uglily.

  “What do you call this, then? They stole a herd of my cattle and put the blame on you. Either that, or your men think you’re soft, too. Do they?”

  Leach took a shuffling step toward Fitz, his face dark with anger. “They do what I tell ’em!” he said thickly. “They aren’t crossin’ me. They know it’d be worth their life if they did.”

  “Then who is? These smalltime rustlers you thought you could kick around?”

  “I still can!”

  Fitz rose now. He came scarcely to Leach’s shoulder, but there was a look of hard and implacable command in his eyes and on his face that told Blue that Fitz was the stronger man, always had been, always would be.

  “Leach,” Fitz said mildly, “I can’t use a second-rater. I’ve made money for you, and I’ll make more. But not if you can’t keep your men in line. If you’re through, get out while you still have a chance. If you aren’t licked, then straighten this out. Get back my cattle for me and see that the man responsible is punished.” He paused. “And Leach, if you’re considering stepping into my shoes, don’t. I’ve taken care of a dozen like you in my day, and it wasn’t any trouble—only a little messy.”

  He stepp
ed past Leach and out the door, closing it gently behind him. For a long minute, Leach stood in the middle of the floor, clenching and unclenching his fists, his face hard and savage and entirely readable.

  Blue shifted his weight on the desk and cleared his throat.

  “Don’t get any ideas, Leach,” he said softly.

  Leach looked at him now, and there was bewilderment in his eyes. “But I ain’t. I know when I’m well off. But I don’t have any idea who took them cattle, not a one.”

  “Find out.”

  “I aim to.”

  Blue smiled faintly. “But don’t ever get any ideas about Fitz, Leach. He goes with good people here. His credit is good, he’s polite, the decent women like him, and he acts considerable like a dude sometimes. But don’t let that fool you.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Out there at the Bar 33, he hasn’t got what you’d rightly call a crew of punchers. Once, just for fun, I added up how much reward money I’d collect if I’d take that Bar 33 crew, nail ’em up in a boxcar, and ship ’em back to where they were wanted. The reward money came to over a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Leach was listening, his eyes veiled.

  “Fitz sends for them. He gives them protection, work, and good wages, until things have cooled off for them. Nobody knows their right names except him—and sometimes me. They ain’t common gun fighters, Leach—they’re killers. Tested, wanted, gun-slick, hair-trigger killers. So don’t get any ideas. And if I was you, I’d see that them cattle was back at the Bar 33 in pretty short order.”

  “I will.”

  When Leach stepped out onto the street, he was considerably chastened—and he was angry, too. He knew that what Baily Blue told him about Fitz was true. Without ever raising his voice, Fitz could put more genuine fear into Leach than an army of ordinary men with guns.

  Leach went into the bar at Prince’s Keno Parlor and downed a stiff drink. Then he walked to the gambling-tables, where four of his men were playing an idle hand of poker.

  “Come along,” he told them.

  One puncher, young, tall, with several days’ growth of reddish stubble on his face, threw down his cards and looked up at Leach. “More work?”

  Leach nodded grimly. “Plenty, Mick.”

  Chapter Sixteen: RUSTLERS’ WAR

  Once on the road to the Running W, Leach motioned Mickey Hogan to drop behind the others. Mickey was Leach’s foreman, his top hand and gun fighter. It was Mickey who enabled Leach to keep peace among his twenty hands—saddle bums and saloon riffraff.

  “How much time did Fitz give us?” Mickey asked when Leach had finished.

  “He never said.”

  “I’ll need a couple of days, anyway. You got any ideas?”

  “Well, there’s them Winkler brothers up in that old Ophir mine. They’re a tough crew and they don’t like us much.”

  Mickey shook his head. “Maybe not, but they’re plumb scared of us. They’re out.”

  Leach named a list of men known as rustlers, but at each name, Mickey shook his head. Nevertheless, when they reached the Running W, Mickey took only the time to change horses before he rode off with five of his men. For Leach, the rest of that day and the next was intolerable. The longer Mickey stayed away, the more certain Leach grew that he was having no luck in tracking down the rustlers.

  And that was true in the beginning. Mickey’s first visit was to the Winkler boys up in the old abandoned Ophir mine. They were insolent, but they offered an alibi which Mickey had to accept; three of them were down sick. With their blankets pulled around them, rifles slacked in their arms, they stood in the doorway and faced Mickey and his five riders.

  “All right,” Mickey said. “I reckon you’re tellin’ the truth. But if I thought you wasn’t—”

  “You’d blow our heads off,” Winkler said. “Well, ride on, Hogan. You’ve come to the wrong place. When we steal anything you want, we’ll admit it and be ready to scrap for it. You can tell that to your boss.”

  “I believe you,” Mickey said mildly, and wheeled his horse out.

  So Mickey made the rounds. On the afternoon of the second day he and his riders pulled up at Cass Briggs’s place in the bottomlands of a creek over on the west edge of the county.

  Cass was drunk and belligerent. “Steal Fitz’s stuff?” he said thickly. “Why, why shouldn’t a man? His beef will walk just as good as another man’s, won’t it?”

  Mickey regarded him thoughtfully. “Take a pasear around the corrals, boys,” he said to his men

  Cass straightened up. “Wait a minute,” he said loudly. “You’ll find tracks over there, but no beef. I had five head here until last night.”

  “Whose beef?”

  “Kennicott’s,” Cass answered sullenly.

  Mickey said, “Look around, boys.”

  While they were gone, Mickey watched Cass, whose increasingly furtive air he could not quite understand. Mickey, in the course of his business, was pretty well acquainted with these shifty, closemouthed men who practiced on a small scale what Leach Wigran did on a large one. He knew their hide-outs, their markets, their methods, their needs, and their characters. It was another world remote from the brisk and businesslike air of Cosmos, but one in which Mickey was thoroughly versed.

  The Running W riders returned. “There’s been cattle out there all right.”

  “How many?”

  “I dunno.”

  Mickey returned his attention to Cass. “I haven’t seen you in town much lately, Cass.”

  “I been here.”

  “You couldn’t have been somewhere else—say over on Bar 33 range—with George Winkler, could you?”

  “I tell you, I been here,” Cass said irritably.

  “Or over the Calicoes in Warms,” Mickey went on idly. “Maybe these bad rains up in the Calicoes is what stove up those Winkler boys.” Mickey was talking idly, hit or miss, giving little attention to what he said. But he saw now that something he had said had touched Cass. Cass tried to look him in the eye, but failed.

  “I was here,” Cass said sullenly.

  “But with the Winkler boys, though.”

  Cass spat. “All right, what if they was over?”

  “So they were?”

  Cass straightened up defiantly. “Anything wrong with asking your friends over to have a few drinks?” When Mickey said nothing, he added, “They got drunk and slept outside. I couldn’t help that, could I?”

  Mickey didn’t answer immediately. Presently, he said, “That’s funny, Cass, that you five should have been together just for a parley.” He paused. “So you did drive the beef over to Warms?”

  “We did not!” Cass said hotly. “I sold ’em my share for the price of a couple of bottles.”

  Mickey said quickly, “Your share of what beef?”

  “Kennicott’s.”

  “I thought you said you only got five head.”

  “That was my share, I said. We worked it together.”

  “I hadn’t heard anything about it in town,” Mickey said gently. “Usually Kennicott squawks the loudest.”

  “He don’t know it,” Cass mumbled.

  Mickey let his hand fall to his gun. “Cass,” he said gently, “you’re lyin’. What did you do with that Bar 33 beef? Drive it over to Warms?”

  “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” Cass said earnestly. “Don’t get so quick, Mickey. Come in and have a drink. I tell you it wasn’t no Bar 33 beef. I dunno whose it was. I was drunk, and so was they. We just took it from over west of town and drove it down here in the breaks, and then we come home and we was drunk for a couple of days. I sold ’em my share.”

  Mickey drew his gun, raised it. “Cass, you and the Winklers took that Bar 33 beef. None of you’ve been around Cosmos for a week now. The Winkler boys are stove up from that mountain rain. Nobody’s missin’ beef except Fitz. Are you goin’ to tell me you stole it?”

  “I didn’t!” Cass cried.

  Mickey smiled and leveled his gun. Cass made a lunge
to get inside the house, but Mickey’s gun roared before Cass could make a move.

  Slowly, Cass started to claw at his chest and then he sat down abruptly, and his head sagged down on his chest.

  Mickey regarded him coldly. “I never thought he’d have the nerve,” he said mildly. He shrugged. “Well, the beef’s gone. Let’s go back to the Winklers’.”

  It was midnight before Mickey rode into the Running W. He and his riders had a little trouble with the Winklers, had had to burn them out, which took a little time. However, Mickey had a feeling of a job well done as he lifted his saddle on the corral poles and walked toward the house.

  The front room of the Running W was bare and cluttered with gear and filthy with dust and papers. At Mickey’s entrance, Leach jumped to his feet, his hand traveling toward his gun. By the light of the single lamp Leach looked deathly pale.

  Mickey, puzzled, closed the door behind him. “What’s the matter, Leach? You’re spooky.”

  Leach regarded him with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. “An hour after you left, one of the boys rode in with word that the herd of beef we was holdin’ for Fitz is stole, too.”

  Mickey said softly, “Stole?”

  “Drove over the Calicoes. I been out trackin’ it. But it was took to Warms, sure as hell.”

  “How long had it been gone?”

  “A couple of days.”

  Mickey sank into a chair, and he and Leach looked at each other. “Then I must’ve made a mistake,” Mickey said quietly, and he told Leach about Cass and the Winklers. Leach didn’t even show interest. He sat there, his head sunk on his chest, staring at the table. Presently, he said, “Mickey, I can make this good with Fitz. I mean I got the money to do it, but”—and he raised harried eyes to regard Mickey—“what am I goin’ to tell him? That they’ve got us on the run?”

  “Who?”

  “I wish I knew,” Leach said savagely. “Fitz ain’t pleasant to face. This time he’s going to be wild.”

  Mickey thought a long moment. “Tell him you found Cass and the Winkler boys with the beef high up in the Calicoes. You took care of them, all right, and then you got to thinkin’ and you decided to drive the stuff over to Warms—all of it, so long as you was close as you was. Then give him the money. What can he say?”