Jensen was waiting for him. “Find anything?”
“Tracks. That’s all. Probably whoever shot him did it from there, but that doesn’t tell us anything.”
Jensen scratched his unshaven jaw. “It does tell you a little, Mr. McQueen. It tells you the chances are that whoever killed him was following him. Nobody gets in this here brush by accident, an’ nobody’s goin’ to convince me that two men are in the brush by accident an’ one seen the other down here, then killed him.”
“It could be that way, though.” Ward pushed his hat back, then removed it and mopped the sweat band. “The thing is, the killer had a reason, an’ that’s where we’ve got to think this out. The killer must have seen Gerber down here with that critter thrown, an’ he didn’t want him to do what he was doin’.”
“Well, anybody could say he was rustlin’,” Jensen suggested. “I’ll never believe it of the old man, but it sure does look funny, him down here with a runnin’ iron an’ a critter throwed in this heat.”
“Or maybe there was something else. Maybe he was inspectin’ a brand somebody didn’t want him to look at too close. Could that be it?”
Jensen agreed dubiously. “Could be. But what brand?”
Baldy Jackson came up leading a horse. “Got the buckboard. There’s a passel of folks at the ranch. Sheriff, too.”
“The sheriff? Already?” Ward shrugged. “The law always gets there fast when you don’t want him. All right, we’ll have a talk.”
Ward McQueen rode back to the ranch followed by Baldy with the buckboard, and Gerber’s horse and the horse that packed him out of the brush trailing behind. Jensen brought up the rear, his face doubtful.
Buff Colker was there, and not far from him was Ruth Kermitt. Ward glanced quickly at her, but her eyes were averted and he could not catch her glance.
Other men walked up from the corrals and he saw Ernie Yost, Villani, and Black. Taylor was nowhere in evidence. Apparently, he, like Lopez, had decided he had enough.
Kim Sartain loafed nearby, leaning against an old Conestoga wagon. He nodded toward the tall man with the drooping mustache.
“Sheriff Jeff Davis, this is Ward McQueen.”
“Howdy.” Ward swung around. “What’s the trouble, Sheriff?”
“I hear there’s been some shootin’ around here. Who killed Dick Gerber?”
“That’s something I’d like to know,” McQueen told him. “We heard the shots, or some of the boys did, and later went to look around. We found Gerber, already dead.”
Davis stocked his pipe. “You had trouble with him in town?”
“Nothing serious. We were friends, only somebody told him I said he lied about the number of cattle we had here and he went off half-cocked. I bought four thousand head, but when we finished our gather the tally showed only a few over three thousand.”
“Then what happened?” Davis eyed him thoughtfully. Ward met his eyes and shrugged.
“We had our words in town, then sat down together and straightened things out. I didn’t see Dick again until we found him in the brush, dead.”
“He had a brandin’ iron alongside of him, an’ a fire goin’. He’d branded something.” Baldy made his offering and then shut up.
Davis glanced at him, one bleak, all-seeing glance. “The killer could have planted that. You could have planted it, McQueen.”
“I could have, but I didn’t. Dick Gerber never misbranded a cow in his entire life, and I’d bet on it. He drove a hard bargain often enough, but he was honest as they come.”
“You ask us to believe,” Colker interrupted, “that you parted from Gerber last night on a friendly basis when you had a thousand head missing from the tally? That sounds pretty broad-minded to me.”
For a moment Ward looked around at him. “What’s his part in this, Sheriff? As you can tell by the expression I pounded into his face, I don’t like him!”
“I’m a witness.” Colker smiled grimly. “I’ll have my say, too.”
“Want me to start him travelin’, boss?” Sartain asked. “I’d like that.”
“I’m in charge here.” Davis looked around at Kim. “I’ll start who movin’ when I want.”
Kim Sartain straightened away from the wheel. “Ward McQueen is my boss, and I’ll take his orders.”
“Are you takin’ that, Davis?” Yost thrust forward. “There have been two killin’s committed on this place today. Gallatin was shot down by McQueen, and then Gerber was bumped off. That Sartain is a killer; McQueen as much as admitted it the other day.”
“Was Gallatin killed?” Davis inquired gently. Ward found himself liking the man. Obviously, Sheriff Jeff Davis was no fool, and he was a man who knew his own mind.
“Yes, there was a gunfight. I accused Lopez of handling cattle at night. Gallatin interfered, and when I called him on it, he went for a gun. I tried to stop him, but couldn’t, so I drew.”
“I seen it, Jeff,” Jensen said flatly. “Gally asked for it. He was rustlin’ cows.”
“What about that thousand head?” Davis asked. “Found hide or hair of them?”
“I reckon we did,” Ward said, and his eyes swung to Buff Colker. “I think we’ve found ’em all!”
By the light that leaped suddenly in Colker’s eyes, McQueen knew he had guessed right. Buff Colker was the brains of the rustling on the Slash 7.
“They were sleeperin’ ’em, Sheriff. Driving unbranded stock around the pens at night an’ mixing them in with the mixed brands we were going to release. Lopez was in on it, an’ so was Gallatin. I think that Gerber smelled a rat, an’ when the killer trailed him an’ saw what he was doin’, he killed him.”
“Sheriff.” Ruth Kermitt spoke gently. “Have you had trouble with rustlers around here before?”
“Sure. Matter of fact, that was the reason Gerber was sellin’ his stock. Too much rustlin’.”
“And Gerber’s brand is a Slash Seven,” Ruth continued. “Can you think of a brand that a Slash Seven could be made into, Sheriff?”
“Ma’am, we’ve been over that here for months,” Davis said. “There ain’t a brand in this part of the country like that. Not one it could be done with, not anywhere easy.”
“There’s one brand,” she insisted gently. “I refer to the brand that Buff Colker has registered.”
Ward happened to have his eyes on Colker, and he saw the man start as if struck with a whip. His head jerked around, and hatred blazed in his eyes, hatred and fear. But then the fear was gone.
“Colker ain’t got no brand!” Davis said, frowning. “Nor no cattle I know of.”
“He has, though, Sheriff.” Ruth glanced at Ward, then away. “I checked with Austin. He has a Box Triangle registered there. Any child could make a Slash Seven into a Box Triangle.
“Mr. Colker spent the whole evening telling me how he didn’t have to be a cowhand, that he had a ranch of his own, well stocked with cattle, and that he intended to branch out. When Ward told me of the cattle we were missing, I became curious, and I checked with Austin as to Buff Colker’s brand.”
“Are you accusin’ me of being a rustler?” Colker turned on her, his dark eyes ugly. Then he looked back at the sheriff. “You can see for yourself, Sheriff. This is a cheap plot. They are conniving to hang this on me. McQueen is a known gunman, so is Sartain, and they both work for Miss Kermitt.”
Davis chewed his mustache. “Do you have a brand?”
Colker’s eyes shifted. “Yes,” he said finally.
“Is it a Box Triangle?”
“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean that I’m a rustler.”
Davis dropped to his haunches and with a stick, drew a Slash 7 in the sand, and then opposite it, a Box Triangle.
He glanced up at Colker. “You’ve got to admit it’s awful easily done.” He straightened to his feet. “Now, folks, I ain’t much on a man havin’ an alibi. Them as needs ’em can get ’em, an’ them as don’t need ’em never has ’em.
“If McQueen has found the Tumblin’ K
cows, like he says, I don’t see no reason for any shootin’ on his part. Far’s I know, the two of them are friends. There has been some rustlin’ here, I can see that. I reckon afore we can do much else we’ll have to send a deputy to your ranch an’ have a few head of your cows killed so we can check the brands. If we can find any Slash Sevens made over, I reckon we’ll have Gerber’s rustler, an’ maybe a powerful suspect for his murder. Until then we’ll hold you.”
“That don’t figure, Jeff,” Yost protested. “Just because this girl figured it that way is no sign that Gerber did.”
“He knew.” Ruth spoke positively. “I was very careless last night. I was drawing Slash Sevens into Box Triangles at the table, and forgot and left my paper there. When I returned for it, the cook told me that Dick Gerber had picked it up, swore, and went out.”
Buff Colker was sweating now, and his face was pale. “That doesn’t prove a thing!” he declared. “I demand to be allowed to leave. All you have is a lot of suspicion. I can find fifty brands in Texas that could be made from Slash Sevens.”
Ernie Yost had fallen back close to Colker, and Villani had moved toward his horse. A slight movement by Black drew Ward’s attention, and he saw that the big gunman was sidling toward his horse and his rifle. And then he saw something else.
Bud Fox had his rope on a steer and he was half leading, half dragging him toward the house. Behind him, Perkins was using his rope as a whip to urge the stubborn steer along.
Ward McQueen shifted his position so he could keep Yost and Colker completely covered if necessary. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Kim Sartain and Baldy Jackson were both alert to the shifting of forces. Only the sheriff and Jensen seemed unaware of what was happening.
“Ruth, you’d better get inside,” Ward said quietly. “There’s going to be trouble.” He spoke softly, but he noticed the sheriff’s sudden movement and knew he had heard.
Ward shifted his eyes from Buff toward the steer, and for a moment he stared at the weird brand without comprehension, and then it hit him.
“Davis!” he said sharply. “There’s your proof of murder!”
Burned with a running iron on the steer’s hide was the date, and under it:
shot by buf clkr rustler, dyin
/7 to bx tri
hot as hell
d. grbr.
“There it is! Burned with a runnin’ iron as the old man lay dyin’ in the brush! Then he cut loose the steer—had him thrown and ready to check his brand when Buff came up on him!”
Buff Colker stepped back quickly and clawed for his gun, but Ward was faster. Even as Colker’s gun started to lift, Ward’s first bullet ripped the thumb from his hand and knocked him off balance.
Colker stared at the stub where his thumb had been, now gushing with blood, and with a cry like an animal, rushed for his horse. Ward had swung his gun toward Yost even as a bullet knocked him into the side of the house. He fired, holding his gun low. Sartain had opened up on Black, and the wiry young gunfighter was walking in on him, firing with every step. Villani was out of it. Baldy had fired his rifle right across the saddle bows, and Villani toppled over, clawed at the side of the water trough, and got himself half erect, getting his gun out even as he cursed. Baldy fired again, and the gun slid from Villani’s fingers.
Yost screamed as Ward’s bullet hit him, and then suddenly, his eyes wild, he ran straight for McQueen, his gun blazing. Ward stepped back and tripped on the stoop. Catching himself on one hand, he looked up into the wild, fear-crazed eyes of Yost as the man threw down on him with a six-shooter at point-blank range! McQueen shot fast, three times, as swiftly as he could thumb the gun.
Ernie Yost went up on his toes, his face twisting in a frightful grimace; then he pitched over on his face, his gun blasting the hard-packed earth within inches of Ward’s hand.
McQueen kicked the dying man off his legs and got to his feet, feeding shells into his gun, but the battle was over. In a few seconds four men had died.
Sheriff Davis had fired but one shot, killing Buff Colker as he scrambled to get away.
Ward McQueen holstered his gun and grabbed for support at the well coping. He knew he had been shot; his side felt strangely numb and his mind seemed sluggish, but his eyes were alive and knowing.
Jensen was down, but struggling to get up, with a red stain on his pant leg. Sheriff Davis, in the most exposed position of all, was unharmed.
Ruth rushed to Ward’s side. “Darling! You’re hurt!”
He put his hand on her shoulder and tried to grin. “Not much,” he said. “How’s Kim?”
“Never touched me!” Sartain said. “They plowed a furrow over Baldy’s ear. Cut off a piece of the last fringe of hair he’s got left!”
Neither Fox nor Perkins had managed to get off a shot. Both men came crowding up now, and they helped Ward inside. On examination they found he had only a flesh wound in the side, and while there had been some loss of blood, he was not badly hurt.
Ward looked at Ruth. “I reckon when I get on my feet, we’d better haul out of here. This place looks like trouble.”
She laughed, then blushed. “I’m in a hurry to get back, too, Ward. Or shall we wait?”
“No,” he smiled, “I’ve heard that Cheyenne is a good town for weddings!”
SIDESHOW CHAMPION
* * *
WHEN MARK LANNING looked at me and asked if I would take the Ludlow fight, I knew what he was thinking, and just what he had in mind. He also knew that there was only one answer I could give.
“Sure, I’ll take it,” I said. “I’ll fight Van Ludlow any place, for money, marbles, or chalk.”
But it was going to be for money. Lanning knew that, for that’s what the game is about. Also, it had to be money because I was right behind the eight ball for lack of it.
Telling the truth: if I hadn’t needed the cash as bad as I did, I would never have taken the fight. Not me, Danny McClure.
I’d been ducking Ludlow for two years. Not because I didn’t want a shot at the title, but because of Lanning and some of the crowd behind him.
Mark Lanning had moved in on the fight game in Zenith by way of the slot machine racket. He was a short, fat man who wore a gold-plated coin on his watch chain. That coin fascinated me. It was so much like the guy himself, all front and polish, and underneath about as cheap as they come.
However, Mark Lanning was the promoter in Zenith. And Duck Miller, who was manager for Van Ludlow, was merely an errand boy for Mark. About the only thing Lanning didn’t control in the fight game by that time was me. I was the uncrowned middleweight champ and everybody said I was the best boy in the division. Without taking any bows, I can say yes to that one.
The champ, Gordie Carrasco, was strictly from cheese. He won the title on a foul, skipped a couple of tough ones, and beat three boys on decisions. Not that he couldn’t go. Nobody ever gets within shouting distance of any kind of title unless he’s good. But Gordie wasn’t as good as Ludlow by a long ways. He wasn’t as good as Tommy Spalla, either. And he wasn’t as good as me.
Ludlow was a different kinda deal. I give the guy that. He had everything and maybe a little more. Now no real boxer ever believes anybody is really better than he is. Naturally, I considered myself to be the better fighter. But he was good, just plenty good, and anybody who beat him would have to go the distance and give it all he had. Van Ludlow was fast. He was smart, and he could punch. Added to it, he was one of the dirtiest fighters in the business.
That wasn’t so bad. A lot of good fighters have been rough. It isn’t always malicious. It’s just they want to win. It’s just the high degree of competitive instinct, and because among top grade fighting men the fight’s the thing, and a rule here or there doesn’t matter so much. Jack Dempsey never failed to use every advantage in the book, so did Harry Greb, and for my money they were two of the best who ever lived.
If it had just been Ludlow, I’d have fought him long ago. It was Lanning I was ducking. Odd as it
may seem, I’m an honest guy. Now I’ve carried a losing fighter or two when it really didn’t matter much, but I never gypped a better, and my fights weren’t for sale. Nor did I ever buy any myself. I won them in the ring and liked it that way.
The crowd around Lanning was getting a stranglehold on the fight game. I didn’t like to see that bunch of crooks, gunmen, and chiselers edging in everywhere. I had ducked the fights with Ludlow because I knew that when I went in there with him, I was the last chance honest fighting had in Zenith or anywhere nearby. I was going to be fighting every dirty trick Lanning and his crowd could figure out. The referee and the judges would be against me. The timekeeper would be for Ludlow. If there was any way Lanning could get me into the ring without a chance, he’d try it.
Yet, I was taking the fight.
The reason was simple enough. My ranch, the only thing in the world I cared about, was mortgaged to the hilt. I’d blown my savings on that ranch, then put a mortgage on it to stock it and build a house and some barns. If it hadn’t been for Korea, it would have been paid off. But I was in the army, and Mark Lanning located that note and bought it.
The mortgage was due, and I didn’t have even part of a payment. Without that ranch, I was through. My days in the ring weren’t numbered, but from where I stood I could see the numbers. I’d been fighting fourteen years, and Lanning had the game sewed up around there, so nobody fought unless they would do business. I cared more about that ranch than I did the title, so I could take a pass on Gordie Carrasco. But Van Ludlow couldn’t. Lanning had him aimed at Gordie but he wouldn’t look so good wearing the belt if the man all the sportswriters called “the uncrowned champ” wasn’t taken down, too. Lanning now had it all lined up. I had to fight or give up on my future.
And then, there was Marge Hamlin.
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