L'Amour, Louis - SSC 30

by The Collected Short Stories Vol 1

  Clouds were bunching up over the Highbinders to the north. He dug his slicker out of his saddlebags and rode on with it lying conveniently across the saddle in front of him.

  It was already pouring rain when Finn Mahone rode into Laird. On a hunch, he had returned to Crystal Valley and thrown a hackamore on the old steel-dust gelding and brought it with him down into town. If push came to shove in the trouble with Texas Dowd the steel-dust might, just might, get him a fair hearing. In the past his pride had kept him from asking for understanding from the man who once had been his friend. But the situation was now different. He had just saved Dowd’s life, and they were both older and wiser. Heavy clouds loomed over the town and rain was falling in sheets. Not knowing what sort of reception he could expect, he avoided the livery stable and rode down a back street until he came to Doc Finerty’s. He led the stallion and gelding inside the doctor’s barn, rubbed them dry, and got feed from the bin.

  Splashing through the gathering pools of rain, he-went to the back door of Lettie’s place. Turning the knob, it gave under his hand and he stepped within, loosening the buttons on his slicker to have his guns available. He was standing there, dripping water in the light that reflected from over the stairway, when Lettie came into the hall.

  “Finn!” she exclaimed. “Oh, it’s good to see you.”

  She was a small woman, beautifully shaped, and Finn was always surprised to find her in such a business. She wore beautiful but conservative clothing, and always looked smart and attractive. He knew enough of her story to admire her for her determination and her fine independence of spirit. Nor could he blame her for choosing this business, for when left a widow there had been only the choice between running a gambling house or slowly falling into a pauper’s life. She had not hesitated to make her decision, heedless of her reputation.

  One of those unaccountable movements that swept the tide of drifting mankind into some of the farthest and most unusual backwaters had brought her to Laird.

  “It’s good to see you again, too, Lettie.” He nodded toward the parlor. “Who’s in?”

  “Nobody, right now. I guess the rain’s keeping them home. Finn, what’s been happening? I hear Sonntag is gunning for you.”

  Mahone shrugged. “I haven’t seen him. He in town?”

  “No, but Ringer Cobb is. Be careful.”

  “Sure. Is Otis around?”

  “No, he isn’t. He’s wanting to see you, though. He’s been acting very strange. Stopped drinking all of a sudden, and seems to have something on his mind. You’d better see him.”

  “I will. Right now I want to look up Judge Collins.” Lightning flashed almost without cessation, and the rain had risen to a thundering roar. “Hombre tried to kill Tex today,” he told her. “Slim, wiry, dark fellow.”

  “Mexie Roberts. He comes and goes, Finn, always by himself.”

  “Know why he would want to kill Dowd?”

  “For money. Roberts never killed anybody unless he got paid. If he tried to kill Texas, somebody was paying him.”

  Mahone looked down at her. “Who d’you think, Let-tie?”

  She hesitated, then she looked up quickly. He could see doubt and worry in her eyes. “I don’t know, Finn. I would be wrong if I said Sonntag or Salter … it feels like someone is playing with everyone like they were puppets!”

  “I agree, but that doesn’t help me know who it is. Well, I’m going over to see Collins. Armstrong, too.”

  “Be careful of Cobb!” she warned.

  He went out the front door, gathering his slicker about him but not fastening the buttons. At this time of night, Judge Collins might be in the Longhorn, as there was no light at Doc’s. Or the judge might be at Ma Boyle’s for coffee. At the thought of coffee, Finn suddenly realized he was hungry.

  He slopped down the street in the pelting rain, and went on past the lights of the Longhorn. There was loud talk from within, and he hesitated while rain ran down his slicker and dribbled off on the walk. Otis might be in there. Collins, too. On the other hand, Ringer Cobb was almost sure to be. For an instant longer he hesitated, half in mind to go in and end it right then. But when he saw Ringer, if it ended in a fight he might have to get out of town, and he had things he needed to do. He* went on down the street.

  There was a light burning at The Branding Iron. He hesitated, then pushed open the door and walked in. When he had the door closed, he looked around. “Hey, Dean?”

  There was no answer. “Dean!” he called again, louder. When there was still no answer, he walked around the high counter toward the trays of type and the desk.

  Dean Anderson was lying facedown on the floor, his head bloody. Quickly, Finn bent over him. He was alive. Hurrying to the back door he filled a wash pan from the water bucket, grabbed up the towel that Dean kept hanging there, and hurried back.

  Lifting him, he cradled Dean’s head on his arm while he put the cold towel on his head. Gently, he sponged away the blood. It was a cut, a very nasty cut.

  There was another, higher and in his hair. He sponged that off, too, and then Armstrong began to stir and mutter. “Hold still!” Finn commanded.

  When Armstrong’s eyes opened, they stared about in confusion. At this moment, without his dignity, he looked strangely young. Then he looked up and saw Mahone.

  “Finn!” he said. “Man, I’m glad to see you!”

  “What happened?” Mahone demanded.

  “Cobb pistol-whipped me. Came in here about six, just after the rain started. Started in half joking about what I’d said in the paper, then he hit me over the eye with a pistol barrel.”

  “You mean that item about Sonntag?”

  Dean shook his head, then gasped and caught it with both hands. “No, the piece I had in today. I put out an extra edition.” He looked up. “It’s on the table there.”

  APPOINTMENT OF SONNTAG A MISTAKE The appointment of Byrn Sonntag, notorious gunman, to investigate the cattle rustling was a mistake. If the election was to be held again tomorrow, the result would be against him. Since arriving in the Laird Valley country, Sonntag has killed at least three men, and his associates at Rawhide can scarcely be classed as good citizens. There are those on the range who declare it is more than a coincidence that certain brands belonging to Rawhide ranchers are very easily developed from brands already on this range. If Byrn Sonntag is to investigate rustling, it might be a good idea to begin in his own home town.

  Finn Mahone looked up, grinning. “Dean,” he said, “it took guts to write that, but if I were you, I’d start packing a gun. Your paper gets around. Whoever is behind all this doesn’t have a chance of making it work if the news gets outside of Laird Valley.”

  “That’s what I thought, and that’s what I wrote!” Dean said firmly. He crawled to his feet and clutched the desk for support. “What good is a newspaper unless it tells the truth and fights for the rights of the people?”

  Mahone shrugged. “A lot of them should ask that question of themselves,” he said dryly. “I’d better get Doc for you,” he said. “You’ll need some stitches in that head!”

  “He’s at Ma Boyle’s,” Dean said. “Or was starting for there just before Cobb showed up.”

  “What are you going to do now?” Mahone asked, curiously.

  “Do?” Dean demanded. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do! I’m going to print what just happened, call it the cowardly attack it was, and tell who did it and why!”

  “Then you’d better pack a gun,” Finn advised. “This business is turning bad and I don’t like it. I’ve already killed one man today.”

  “You have?” Armstrong stared at him. “Who?”

  “Fellow named Roberts. He tried to drygulch Texas Dowd.”

  Finn pulled his slicker around him and walked outside. Rain was still pouring down, and the street was dark and empty. The blare of music came from the Long-* horn, and he heard shouts there, and once a yell. It sounded like Ringer Cobb.

  He pushed open the door and stepped into Mo
ther Boyle’s in a gust of wind and water. When he had the door closed, he turned his back to it and stood there, looking at the room, a big, somber figure with his rain-soaked hat, his dark slicker, and his green eyes taking the room in with one measuring glance.

  Ma Boyle was standing beside Doc Finerty with a pot of coffee, and Judge Collins had turned as he entered. Nick James was there, the first time Mahone had seen him since the day of the fight. James looked up, quickly and with interest. He had one of those young-old faces, merry and friendly at times, then grave and serious. He was scarcely more than a boy, but had been doing a man’s work since he was eleven.

  “Doc,” Finn said, “better go have a look at Armstrong. Cobb pistol-whipped him.”

  “I was afraid of that!” Doc said. He got up and reached for his slicker. “Keep some coffee on, Ma!”

  Finn sat down at the end of the table, between James and Collins. Collins was concerned. “When Sonntag came in, I knew trouble was coming!”

  Finn had hung his slicker and hat near the stove. He dished up some food and poured the coffee. Briefly, and quickly, he outlined the trouble at the Lazy K, and the outcome.

  “Roberts is a paid killer.” Judge Collins was puzzled. “Doesn’t seem like Sonntag would hire any killing done.”

  “He wouldn’t,” Mahone said, speaking past half a slice of bread and butter. “Not him.”

  Nick James stirred his coffee and looked from one to the other. “You ever think maybe something else was behind this?”

  Judge Collins turned his head and looked at Nick. This man was shrewd, the Judge knew. James had ridden for him, and for Mclnnis. He was one of the best hands in the valley. “What are you thinking, Nick?”

  The young puncher shrugged, and gulped a swallow of coffee. “Ain’t made up my mind. Some things sure look funny, though.”

  Finn Mahone put his coffee down carefully. Suddenly he was remembering the tall, powerfully built man who was standing behind Remy that day he fought Leibman. “Any rustlin’ out your way?” he asked, casually.

  Nick nodded. “A little, here and there. Never when anybody’s around.” He stirred his coffee again. “I think I’ll quit,” he said suddenly.

  “You can always have a job with me,” Collins said. “You were the best hand I had, Nick.”

  “Or with me,” Mahone suggested, looking up.

  Their eyes met across the table. “Didn’t know you hired any hands,” Nick said. “Heard you played it alone.”

  “I have, but I’ve got some work ahead and could use help. I’d want a hand that would sling a gun if he had to … but not unless he had to.”

  “I’ll get my stuff tomorrow,” James agreed. His face tightened. “An’ collect my time.” Then he glanced at Mahone again. “How do I get there? They tell me a man can’t go through the Notch unless he knows the, way.”

  “That’s right, and don’t try it alone. You get your gear, an’ if I don’t see you, go up and camp in the Notch. There’s good water, and plenty of grass. I’ll be along.”

  The door slammed open then, and wind and rain swept into the room. The newcomer struggled to get the door closed, then turned. It was Ringer Cobb.

  Finn knew at once the man had been drinking and was in a killing mood. He was not the type who staggered and floundered when drunk. Liquor brought out all the innate cruelty in the man, and if anything, steadied him and made him colder.

  His eyes fastened on Mahone’s and a light danced in them, an ugly, dangerous light. “You’re Finn Mahone,” he said, standing just inside the door, his slicker hanging around him, his hands dangling.

  Nick James pushed back gently, out of the way. Finn lifted the coffeepot and calmly filled his cup. “That’s right,” Mahone replied. “An’ you’re Ringer Cobb. You’re the man who walked into the newspaper office and slapped a defenseless man with a Colt. Makes you a pretty bad boy, doesn’t it?” Cobb glared at Mahone, his teeth half bared. “What’s the matter?” Mahone said. “Don’t you like the sound of the truth?”

  “You should be ashamed!” Ma Boyle glared at Cobb.

  “I’ve heard about you.” Cobb took a step nearer and tried to change the subject back to the one he had in mind. “Heard you’re pretty fast with a gun. That right?”

  “I do all right.” Finn lifted the cup and sipped a little coffee. “Better sit down and have a cup of coffee. Do you good.”

  “Huh?” Ringer was puzzled. Then his eyes sharpened. “Scared, huh? Think yuh can talk me out of it.”

  “No,” Mahone replied, and his voice hardened, “I’m just trying to talk you out of Boot Hill, because if you reach for that gun … I’ll kill you!”

  Ringer Cobb took a long breath through his nose, and his fingers widened. Finn sat perfectly still, just looking at him, and Cobb’s eyes wavered. He looked at Finn, and started to speak, but Mahone seemed to have lost interest, and he remarked to Collins, “Hand me that cup, Judge, and I’ll pour this man some coffee.” He looked over at Cobb. “If you’re not going to shoot me you might as well have some coffee.”

  He took the cup and filled it. “Better have some of that cake Ma bakes, too, Ringer. She’s plenty good.”

  Ringer Cobb swayed a little, staring around uncertainly. Then he slumped on the bench, and he was trembling with tension. He took the cup, and started to lift it, but some of the coffee slopped over.

  Mahone turned back to Nick. “My place is some of the best range in the world,” he said, “most of it sub irrigated by water off the Highbinders. Not much erosion in there, an’ I don’t run enough cattle to keep it fed down. I don’t aim to get rich, just to make enough to get along pretty well.”

  “Sounds all right,” Nick said.

  None of them seemed to notice Cobb. Several times he started to say something, but Finn Mahone continued to talk, calmly, easily.

  Suddenly, Ringer got up, jerking to his feet so hard he tipped over his almost empty cup. Then he wheeled and rammed through the door and was gone. Finn reached across the table and straightened the fallen cup.

  Judge Collins looked at Nick James, and James mopped the sweat from his brow. “You backed him down!” Nick said. “Just out nerved him!”

  “Better than a shootin’, don’t you think?”

  “Awful close to a shooting, Finn,” the judge said. “Awful close.”

  Finn filled a cup, took the cake, and, holding both under his slicker, went out the door and headed for the print shop.

  Nick James looked at Collins. “Judge,” he said, “how could anybody ever figger him for a rustler?” Then his eyes widened a little. “Suppose he an’ Sonntag … ?”

  “Don’t get anxious, son,” the judge said. “I’m sure Finn’s good, but you don’t want to be out of a job, right?. If those two fight, very likely both of them will die!”

  Dan Taggart was a slow-thinking man. He sat in the bunkhouse on the Spur and smoked his pipe. The other hands had turned in, but Dan sat there, all through the pounding rain. On his return he had gone in to see Abe, but Mclnnis was still unconscious, although better. Mrs. Mclnnis had her sister with her now. Her sister was Mrs. Harran, wife of the storekeeper.

  Unable to ask the advice of his boss, the foreman had gone back to the bunkhouse and stayed there except for a few minutes to eat. He was vastly disturbed, afraid he had done wrong, and wanting desperately to repair the damage he had done.

  That the fault was not his alone he did not see. Brewster had voted as he had, and so had Logan. When Logan’s name came into his mind he remembered Nick’s peculiar attitude. What was it Nick said? That they had lost some cows after he had been ordered out of Sage Canyon? That didn’t make sense. Would Logan have his own cows rustled? Taggart stirred uneasily, afraid he was out of his depth, but worried and uncertain of what to do.

  He glanced around at the sleeping hands, but there was none of them he could turn to, nor who would have been able to give the advice he wanted. Taggart felt the need of advice from a superior, of leadership. His job as forem
an was still too new. Only one thing he knew: The voting-in of Sonntag as range detective had been a bad thing. It had put the rustlers in the saddle.

  He got up and pulled off his shirt, his pipe still in his mouth. Then he stood for a moment, scratching his stomach. He would ride over to Kastelle’s in the morning. Abe Mclnnis set powerful store by Texas Dowd’s opinion, and that of Remy Kastelle.

  Pierce Logan was sitting at his desk in a bright, rain-washed world when the door opened and Byrn Sonntag walked in.

  He had seen the man fifty times, talked with him nearly as many, and yet the man always did something to him, something he didn’t like. There was something in Sonntag’s very physical presence, his enormous vitality, the brash, raw health of him, and his deep, somewhat overpowering voice that made Logan feel less than he liked to feel.

  Sonntag was in rare form this morning. He stamped into the office and threw his big body into a chair. He tossed his hat to the wide, low windowsill, and stared across at Logan.

  He was a big man, weighing all of two hundred and forty pounds, with a leonine head covered with thick, dull red hair. His sleeves were rolled up, and red hair curled on his brawny and powerful forearms.

  “Heard the news?” he demanded. His voice was harsh and rang with authority.

  Logan looked at him carefully. “What news?”

  “Roberts is dead. Somebody killed him when he tried to git Dowd. It wasn’t Dowd. Range folks figger it was Finn Mahone. Dowd ain’t talkin’. Mahone must’ve spotted Roberts an’ trailed him down. Anyway, he ‘got two slugs through the heart.”

  Logan scowled. He had been depending on Roberts to do another job for him, too. A job on a man much closer, and eventually more dangerous than Texas Dowd.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, Cobb went over to that paper an’ pistol-whipped Armstrong last night. That was my order. Then , he went into the eatin’ house, an’ Mahone was there.”