King Colt

by Short, Luke;

  “Ever hear of Pick Hendry?” Johnny asked quietly, watching Westfall with unblinking, savage eyes.

  Westfall shook his big head and glanced inquisitively at Hank. “Are you him?”

  “You liar,” Johnny said tightly, “you murderin’ sneakin’ liar!”

  Westfall’s grave eyes settled on Johnny again, and, seeing the agitation in his face, he wisely kept silent.

  Johnny walked over to face him, and as he walked, he whipped off his hat. Facing Westfall, he said in a voice thick with anger, “You never heard of him! You killed him!”

  “How do you figure that?” Westfall said calmly.

  Johnny’s lips were white. “Pick Hendry was murdered, his head half blown off with a shotgun. He’d been workin’ there in Bonanza canyon and he’d struck gold. He was on his way to register his claim when you come up on him. You killed him and took his location papers and filed them, and now you’re workin’ the claim!”

  “And how can you prove that?” Westfall asked, still curiously.

  “Your ore matches the ore Pick had assayed!” Johnny said thickly, and then he did not wait for more. He lashed out with his fist, catching Westfall flush in the face so that he staggered back and fell. Johnny walked over to him.

  “First, I’m goin’ to give you the beatin’ of your life, fella. Then, when I’m done, I’m goin’ to give you a gun. If you’ve nerve enough to try and use it, I’ll belly-shoot you! I’ll stand by five days and nights and watch you die, you back-shootin’ ranahan! Get up here and take it!”

  Westfall was mad now. It didn’t matter that he had been accused unfairly. This slim, furious cowpuncher before him had named him everything that he hated, and had knocked him down, to boot.

  With a growl of rage, Westfall got to his feet and faced Johnny.

  Johnny struck out again with the swiftness of a snake’s tongue, and again Westfall went down. Johnny leaped on top of him and they were a tangle of flailing arms and legs. It was a bitter fight, with no cursing, no sound except the grunting and the smack of fists on flesh. Johnny fought like a maniac. Astraddle Westfall, he slugged blow after blow into Westfall’s face, until that giant of man, goaded to desperation, heaved himself to his feet, shaking Johnny off. Erect, his face was already bloody, but there was a light of murder in his eyes.

  He tried to clinch with Johnny, and in lofty and angry contempt, Johnny let him. They wrestled around locked in iron embrace, but Johnny pumped a dozen blows into Westfall’s midriff before the bigger man was glad to break. But Johnny would not let him break; he followed him with implacable anger, his lean shoulder muscles corded with the overhand blows he was looping into Westfall’s face. And with the blind anger of a bull, Westfall was fighting back. When one of his ponderous blows landed, it would lift Johnny off his feet and set him back a yard, but each time Johnny would charge in anew, fighting with the deadly silence of a man gone mad.

  Round and round the fire they circled, and it was Westfall, in spite of superior weight, who was giving ground. With the dogged bewilderment of a cornered bear before hounds, he tried to protect himself, but he could not. His slowness left him prey to Johnny’s lightning blows, and when each one landed on his raw face, he staggered a little.

  In one last rally, he lowered his head, braced his feet in the gravel, and slugged wildly at the swarming figure before him. Johnny, blind with rage, drove blow after blow at those thick, protecting arms, and then in fury of frustration, he dived in and clinched with Westfall. The big man wrapped his arms around Johnny, trying to smother him, but Johnny, legs braced broadly, hunched his shoulders and heaved mightily. Westfall left the ground, and still heaving, Johnny toppled him over backward. Almost before Westfall sprawled on his back, Johnny was at him again, straddling him. And time after time, his fists raised as if he were pounding with a hammer, Johnny slugged down at that face. Abruptly, Westfall’s arms ceased to move and sank down by his side, but still Johnny kept hitting him, his blows hard and savage, merciless, countless.

  At last, struggling and cursing and crying, he had to be dragged off by Hugo and Turk, who had a hard time holding him until he came to his senses and calmed down.

  “I’m all right,” he panted finally. “Get him on his feet.”

  Johnny stood there, weaving on his feet, his shirt torn to ribbons, his face bloody, his body cut.

  But Westfall was completely out. Hank slapped him, punched him, rolled his head, but the man remained as limp as a rag.

  “Get him up!” Johnny commanded, his eyes blazing. “He’s going to get the rest of it!”

  Turk looked over at Hank. Neither of them liked this. It was as bloody and savage as two wolves fighting for the supremacy of the pack, and it sickened Hugo. But none of them objected, for they could understand Johnny’s part of it.

  Hank went over to the spring and filled his hat with water and brought it back and doused water in Westfall’s face. Still he did not move.

  After Hank had made ten trips with water, during which time Turk slapped Westfall’s face until his hands were sore, Westfall moaned. Turk stood up and backed off, and slowly Westfall rose to a sitting position. For a long minute, while the rest of them watched him, he stared at the fire with the glassy eyes of a man who is only partially conscious. When he shook his head as if trying to clear his brain, Johnny strode over to him and hoisted him to his unsteady feet. What clothes were remaining on Westfall were covered with blood. His face was distorted with welts and bruises, and his lips were shapeless ribbons of flesh.

  Sharply Johnny slapped him in the face until he flinched away and raised an arm, then Johnny let him go and backed off.

  Westfall looked up now, and his eyes were clear.

  “That’s enough,” he murmured wearily.

  Johnny said nothing. He walked over to his shell belt, took out both guns, came over to Westfall and thrust one of them at Westfall.

  “Enough!” he said savagely. “You haven’t even begun to get it.”

  Westfall looked stupidly at the gun. “What’s this for?”

  Turk cut in gently, “Ease up, kid. He can’t even count his toes now.” But Turk had his six-gun out, trained on Westfall.

  Johnny turned to Turk and said savagely, “Stay out of this!”

  Wheeling back to Westfall, he said, “Get across that fire. I’ll give any man a chance to defend himself, but when you turn around to face me, start shootin’, fella, because I am!”

  A gleam of intelligence returned to Westfall’s face. He studied the gun a long moment, as if assembling his thoughts. Then he dropped the gun and looked up at Johnny. “Go ahead and shoot,” he said wearily.

  “Pick up that gun!”

  “Huh-unh. Go ahead and cut down on me. I dunno what this is all about, but I reckon you got blood in your eye, mister.”

  “I’ll shoot,” Johnny said evenly. “But not before you pick up that gun! And if I have to tie it in your hand, I’ll do that! Pick it up!”

  Westfall heaved a deep sigh and looked steadily at Johnny with his one good eye. “That claim ain’t mine, son. I might as well tell you. I never found it. I was paid to mine it.”

  “Crawlin’!” Johnny sneered.

  Westfall shook his head. “You don’t need to believe that, but it’s so.”

  “Pick up that gun!” Johnny commanded.

  “Wait a minute,” Hugo cut in gently. “That could be, Johnny. It might have been sold to him by the man that really killed Pick.”

  “Who owns it, then?” Johnny cut in, his voice still scornful.

  “Major Fitz.”

  At any other name in the world, Johnny would have laughed and sneered. But now he suddenly lowered his gun. “Major Fitz?” he murmured. “He sold you the claim?”

  “No, I’m just minin’ it for him. He didn’t want his name known, threatened to cut me to doll rags if I ever mentioned it to anybody.”

  Johnny shot one brief glance at Turk and Hank, and then walked over to Westfall.

  “Go on.�
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  “That’s all there is to it,” Westfall said wearily. “Hoke Carmody come over and made me the proposition. I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. Carmody put money in the Warms bank for me, and I drew on it. I hired the men, bought the supplies, and started the work. Last night I brought the first report to Fitz and Carmody from the mill. Fitz accused me of holdin’ out the gold on him. Said to go back and if the next report didn’t show better, he’d turn them gunnies of his loose on me.” He looked at Johnny and said simply, “That’s all there is to it.”

  “You got the location papers, the original ones?”

  “The ones Fitz gave me? Sure.”

  Westfall’s hands were so cut and bloody that it took him some time to pull out the papers in his hip pocket. He stepped over to the fire so as to see better, and after he had fumbled through the mass of papers in his hand, he brought two out and handed them to Johnny. The others crowded around Johnny to read them. One was the original location paper, written in Pick’s own handwriting. The others were the plats of the other six claims, just as Fitz had copied them down from Barney’s description. These, of course, were in Fitz’s handwriting.

  When Johnny was finished, he folded them up and sank down by the fire, staring at it. He had forgotten all about Westfall. All he could think of was that Major Fitz, already proven a rustler and killer, the warm friend of Nora’s, his own one-time friend and benefactor, was the man who had killed Pick Hendry.

  “Tell me all of this again, from start to finish,” he told Westfall. The story was almost the same. Westfall repeated conversations, and Johnny prodded him with questions. Westfall told of the happenings of last night, of his meeting with Fitz, of his conviction that he was being watched by hands of the Bar 33.

  “Has Tip Rogers got his report yet?” Johnny asked.

  “He got it tonight.”

  Johnny gazed pensively at his bloody fists, the germ of an idea formulating in his mind. He was wondering about Tip Rogers. Tip had every reason to hate him, if he believed that Johnny robbed the bank; but on the other hand, if all this evidence against Fitz was presented, wouldn’t Tip be willing to help? Johnny remembered that grave, honest face. The thought that Tip had Nora now and would marry her was something that he put in the back of his mind. He was trying to be just. Would Tip help him, if all the facts were before him? Johnny thought so.

  “Roll me a cigarette, Turk, will you?” Johnny asked. “Roll Westfall one, too.”

  Turk did, and they lighted up. All of them were waiting to hear what Johnny would propose, and when he was finished with his smoke, he told them. It was a bold plan, and risky.

  “Hugo,” he said, when they were finished discussing it. “Do you think you could get Tip Rogers and bring him here by morning?”

  “I ought to be able to. He was at the hotel when I left. Likely he’ll stay there the night.”

  “Then try and get him,” Johnny murmured. “If he falls in with this, we’ll not only kill Fitz, but we’ll break him before we do, and that will hurt him worse than a slug in the back.” He turned to Westfall. “Are you with us, Westfall? It strikes me that’s the only way out for you.”

  “It is,” Westfall said grimly. “I am. My life ain’t worth nothin’ as long as that coyote is loose.”

  By the time Hugo was ready to leave, Johnny and Westfall were sleeping in their blankets, side by side. Hank sided Hugo as far as the town, which was so dark and deserted at this hour that Hank decided to risk going in. At the tie rail of the Cosmos, he waited while Hugo went inside and inquired of the clerk, whom he had to waken, the number of Tip’s room.

  In ten minutes, Hugo returned with Tip. The Cosmos was utterly dark, and the store lamps across the street were long since dimmed, so that Tip could not see Hank very well. Hugo introduced him as Bill Petty, and Tip nodded.

  “Why all the mystery, Hugo?” Tip asked, laughing a little. “Where are we going?”

  “How did your report from the mill turn out?” Hugo countered.

  Tip laughed ruefully. “Between you and me, it didn’t turn out. There was nothing there—not a thing.”

  “Think you’d like your old job back at the Esmerella?”

  “I would,” Tip said shortly, “but there’s not much chance.”

  “Maybe if you come along with me tonight, we’ll fix that.”

  “Open the Esmerella?”

  “I think so, and before very long.”

  Tip’s curiosity was whetted down. As they rode out of town, he asked more questions, but Hugo was uncommunicative.

  It was well after sunup when Hank guided them into the malpais field. Tip had spent the last hour since daylight trying to place Hank’s face, and for the life of him, he could not. But he had the uneasy feeling that he had met the man before, and in a place where he could not see his face very well. Hugo, however, was whistling, and Tip trusted him, so that his faint suspicion did not make him balky.

  Just at the mouth of the small canyon, Hank pulled his horse aside and motioned Hugo ahead. Hugo, in turn, motioned Tip ahead, and Tip went on.

  Rounding the turn, he came square into the camp—and saw Johnny Hendry grinning at him from his place by the campfire.

  Instinctively Tip’s hand traveled to his gun, very suddenly, but he remembered that Hank was behind him. He wheeled his horse to confront Hugo.

  “Since when did you turn crook, too, Hugo?”

  “Take it easy,” Hugo said, smiling faintly. “Don’t talk until you’ve heard what there is to say. You’re no prisoner, Tip, so cough the sand out of your craw.”

  Grimly Tip dismounted and walked over to Johnny. “This your plan, Johnny?”

  Johnny cheerfully admitted it was. He introduced Turk and Westfall, and Tip looked long at Westfall, trying to explain his presence here. Tip concluded in one short moment that there had been a fight here between Johnny and Westfall, but beyond that, he could not hazard a guess.

  “How’d your report turn out, Rogers?” Westfall asked him.

  “Sorry. How did yours?”

  “The same, and for a good reason. There’s no gold there,” Westfall said, and laughed. Tip couldn’t understand that, either. He took the breakfast offered him, and listened to the small talk between the others. Covertly, he eyed Johnny, and against his own wishes he had to concede that Johnny didn’t look like a bank robber and never would.

  When they were all smoking after the meal, Tip said to Hugo, “Well, Hugo, it’s up to you. Do you think this crowd will get the Esmerella going again? Is that what you meant?

  “It is,” Johnny cut in. “If we could nail the man who’s been behind all this rustling and robbery, who’s hired most of the hardcases in this town, don’t you think we’d have a fair chance of cleaning it up?”

  “With a good sheriff, maybe.”

  Johnny only grinned at that. His next question was asked in a calm voice, but it made Tip sit up in astonishment.

  “What would you say, Tip, if I told you that Major Fitz is the brains behind all this trouble? What would you say if I told you that he killed Pick Hendry, that he started this gold rush where there’s no gold, that he’s behind Leach Wigran and all the rest of it?”

  Before Tip could answer, Johnny started out on his story, and to begin it, he went back to the time Pick was killed. He told of the poll of the ranchers, which really first put him on the trail of Fitz. All the other things he and Hank and Turk and Hugo discovered came out, sometimes from Hank’s lips, other times from Johnny’s. Westfall told his part of it, too, and three good hours passed in the telling. At first Tip was skeptical, almost hostile, but he was answered reasonably. No one made any false claims, and everything they said Tip checked and found true. And slowly, as the talk passed around among these men, he saw what Johnny Hendry had done, and he felt a sympathy for him. Moreover, he saw that these men were telling the truth. And out of it, there came a picture of Major Fitz which was blacker than Tip had ever dreamed of. Part of the story—especially the burning of
the Running W and the Bar 33—Tip could not verify, because he had been in Bonanza canyon, but Hugo vouched for the truth of it all. He had heard it. Almost everybody in town had, but its importance was lost in the excitement of the rush.

  When that was out of the way and Tip was silent with all this knowledge, Johnny broached the subject of the scheme to trap Fitz.

  When he was finished, Tip said, “But why all the scheming? Go up and get him.”

  “I’m an outlaw,” Johnny said dryly. “A wanted man.”

  “Have Hugo tell the sheriff, Baily Blue.”

  “Hasn’t it struck you as pretty queer, Tip, how Blue won that election? Think back. Who’d be the worst hit if an honest lawman got in office?”

  “Fitz.”

  “Who did get in? Blue. Who was interested in puttin’ Blue in—a man who wouldn’t stir a finger to clean up the county? Fitz. Then, knowin’ what we know now about Fitz, it could be that Fitz crooked the election. He had the men and the money to do it, didn’t he?”

  “Then you think Blue is in with Fitz?” Tip asked.

  Johnny spread out his hands in a gesture of negation. “I’m not accusin’ any man till I have the facts, Tip. Maybe Fitz robbed the bank to get me, an honest lawman away, but I don’t know. But I don’t think Blue would arrest Fitz. I don’t think he’d get the evidence on him. And once he did, and Fitz was in jail, how long do you think Blue would keep him locked up? If it ever come to a peaceful trial, do you think there’d be a witness left to testify against Fitz? Do you, with all those gunnies he’s got and the money he’s got to buy more of them?”

  “Maybe not,” Tip said. “But how is your scheme any better? It’d just break Fitz, strap him.”

  “There you’ve said it!” Johnny said swiftly. “Take his money away from him so he can’t buy gunmen, can’t bribe people, can’t pay them killer’s wages, and then who’s goin’ to stick by him? Nobody. Rats leave a sinking ship, Tip, and Fitz will be sunk.”

  Johnny rested his case on this, and Tip smoked in silence a long time.

  “That’s all you want me to do, then? Just get a quarter of a bar of gold and give it to Westfall?”