West of the Tularosa

by Louis L'Amour

  Would Hutch manage it? He had never yet, so far as Oliver knew, encountered such a man as McQueen. Not that Oliver had any great opinion of McQueen. He was typically a cowman, honest, tough, and hard-working. That he was good with a gun was obvious, and that segundo of his, Kim Sartain, was probably almost as good.

  Did McQueen have brains? How would he fare against Hutch, particularly when, as Oliver believed, McQueen did not know who his enemy was.

  Hutch had planted the Webb killing squarely on McQueen. The timing had been good and there would be witnesses, Oliver was sure. Trust the old man for that.

  He watched Sheriff Foster leave town with his posse, and knew that several of the men in that posse were owned by Hutch. If the slightest excuse was offered, they were to shoot to kill. He knew their instructions as if he had heard them himself.

  The door opened and a squat, powerful man entered, his hair shaggy and untrimmed. His square, granite-like face was clean-shaved. He had gimlet eyes that flickered with a steely glint. He wore two guns, one in a holster, the other thrust into his waistband. This was Overlin, the Montana gunman.

  “Where’s Foster goin’?”

  “After McQueen, for the Webb killing.”

  “Webb? Is he dead?”

  Oliver nodded. “Out on the trail.” Overlin could have done it. So could Hansen Bine, but, so far as anyone knew, Bine was with the wounded men at Dry Leggett. “There’s a witness to swear he did it.”

  “He might have,” Overlin commented, “only I don’t believe it. I’ve heard of McQueen. Made quite a reputation along the cattle trails and in the mining camps. He’s no bargain.”

  “He’s only one man. Maybe he’ll be your dish one day.”

  “Or yours,” Overlin agreed. “Only I’d like him, myself.”

  Ren Oliver remembered McQueen and said: “You can have him.” He could not understand such men as Overlin. The man was good with a gun, but why would he go out of his way to match skills with a man he believed might be just as good? Overlin had to be the best. He had to know he was best.

  Oliver believed he was faster with a gun than either Bine or Overlin but he was a sure-thing man. He had pride in his skill but preferred to take no chances. He would enjoy killing Ward McQueen if he could do so at no risk to himself.

  A horse loped into the street, the rider waving at someone out of sight. It was Sharon Clarity. Now where had she been at this hour of the night?

  “See you around,” he said to Overlin, and went into the night.

  He dug a cigar from his pocket and lighted it. Sharon Clarity’s horse had been hard-ridden.

  VI

  Ward McQueen was working beside Baldy Jackson, building a pole corral, when the sheriff and the posse rode into the ranch yard. McQueen continued to place a pole in position and lash it there with rawhide. Then he glanced around at the posse.

  “Howdy, Foster. Looks like you’re here on business.”

  “I’ve come for you, McQueen. There’s witnesses says you shot Neal Webb, shot him in the back.”

  McQueen kept his hands in sight, moving carefully not to give any false impressions. His eyes caught the slight lift to the muzzle of a Winchester and he eyed the man behind it, staring at him until the man’s eyes shifted and he swallowed.

  “All you had to do was send for me, Sheriff. I’d have come right in. No need for all this crowd.” He paused. “And you know, Sheriff, I’d never shoot any man in the back. What would be the point? Webb was never supposed to be good with a gun, and, if I wanted him killed that bad, all I’d have to do would be to pick a fight with him in town. Webb’s temper had a short fuse, and killing him would have been no trick.”

  “That may be so, but you’ve got to come in with me and answer charges. There will have to be a trial.”

  “We’ll see. Maybe I can prove I was elsewhere.”

  “By one of your own men?” The man who spoke had a sallow face and buckteeth. “We’d not be likely to believe them.”

  “By others, then? Kim Sartain was with me, however, and, if you believe he’s a liar, why don’t you tell him so?”

  “We want no trouble, McQueen. Saddle a horse and come along.” Foster’s eyes went to the cabin. Was there somebody inside the window?

  “I’ll come on one condition. That I keep my guns. If I can’t keep ’em, you’ll have to take me and you’ll have some empty saddles on your way back to town.”

  Foster was angry. “Don’t give me any trouble, McQueen! I said, saddle your horse!”

  “Sheriff, I’ve no quarrel with you. You’re just doing your duty and I want to cooperate, but you’ve some men riding with you who would like to make a target of my back. Let me keep my guns and I’ll go quiet. In case you’d like to know there are two men behind you with Winchesters. They will be riding along behind us.”

  Sheriff Foster studied McQueen. Inwardly he was pleased. This McQueen was a hardcase but a good man. Shoot a man in the back? It was preposterous. Especially Neal Webb.

  “All right,” he said, “saddle up.”

  “My horse is ready, Foster. A little bird told me you were coming, and my horse has been ready.”

  It was a black he was riding this day, a good mountain horse with bottom and speed. As he mounted and settled into the saddle, he glanced at the man who had lifted his rifle.

  “Just so everybody will understand. Two of my boys are going to follow us into town. Either one of them could empty a Winchester into the palm of your hand at three hundred yards.”

  He sat solidly and well in the saddle, his black Frisco jeans tight over his thighs, his broad chest and shoulders filling the dark gray shirt. His gun belts were studded with silver, the walnut grips worn from use. “All right, Sheriff, let’s go to town.”

  He rode alongside of Foster, but his thoughts were riding ahead, trying to foresee what would happen in town, and asking himself the question again: why kill Neal Webb? Who wanted him dead?

  He had believed Webb the ringleader, the cause of his troubles. Most ranchers wanted more range, most of them wanted water, so the attempt to seize the Firebox came as no surprise. In fact, he would have been surprised had it not been claimed. Good grass was precious, and, whenever anybody moved or died, there was always someone ready to move in. The difference here was that McCracken had been a shrewd man and he had purchased the land around the various water holes, as well as the trails into and out of the range he used. The claim on Firebox range by McCracken was well established.

  Webb, he was beginning to suspect, had been a mere pawn in the game, and had been disposed of when his usefulness ceased to be. But Webb’s dying had implicated Ward McQueen and apparently somebody had decided to have him killed, either in capturing him or in the ride to town. A posse member could shoot him, claiming McQueen had made a move to escape.

  Behind this there had to be a shrewd and careful brain. If there were witnesses to something that had not happened, his supposed murder of Neal Webb, then somebody had provided them.

  Who? Why?

  The Firebox was valuable range. The only other large ranch was Webb’s Running W, and who was Webb’s heir? Or did he himself own that ranch?

  The Bear Cañon crowd? It wasn’t their sort of thing. They might drygulch him, steal his horses or cattle, or even burn him out, but the Webb killing was more involved. Anyway, Webb had left the Bear Cañon crowd alone.

  Would Sharon Clarity know? She was a handsome, self-reliant girl, yet something about her disturbed him. Why had she ridden out to warn him the sheriff was coming? Had she believed he would run?

  Liking for him? Dislike of somebody else? Women’s thinking was not part of his expertise. He had trouble reading their brands. Did she know who plotted against him? Did she herself hope to seize the Firebox when the shooting was over?

  Who now owned the Running W? This he must discover. If that unknown owner also owned the Firebox, he would control all the range around Pelona and the town as well. It made a neat, compact package and a base
from which one might move in any direction.

  Ruth Kermitt owned the Firebox now, and Ruth had no heirs. Ward McQueen was suddenly glad his boss was not among those present.

  Pelona’s main street was crowded with rigs and saddle horses when they rode in. Word had spread swiftly, and the people of the range country—the few scattered small ranchers, farmers, and gardeners—had come in, eager for any kind of a show. All had known Neal Webb, at least by sight. Many had not liked him, but he was one of their own. This Ward McQueen was a stranger and, some said, a killer. The general attitude was that he was a bad man.

  A few, as always, had misgivings. Their doubts increased when they saw him ride into town sitting his horse beside the sheriff. He was not in irons. He still wore his guns. Evidently Foster trusted him. Western people, accustomed to sizing up a man by his looks, decided he didn’t look like somebody who needed to drygulch anybody. It was more likely Webb would try to drygulch him!

  Some of those who came to see drifted up between the buildings into the street. Among these was Bud Fox, with his narrow-brimmed gray hat and his long, lean body, looking like an overgrown schoolboy. The pistol on his belt was man-size, however, and so was the Winchester he carried.

  Kim Sartain, young, handsome, and full of deviltry, they recognized at once. They had seen his sort before. There was something about him that always drew a smile, not of amusement but of liking. They knew the guns on his belt were not there for show, but the West had many a young man like him, good cowhands, great riders, always filled with humor. They knew his type. The guns added another dimension, but they understood that, too.

  The pattern was quickly made plain. The preliminary hearing was already set and the court was waiting. McQueen glanced at the sheriff. “Looks like a railroading, Foster. Are you in this?”

  “No, but I’ve nothing against the law movin’ fast. It usually does around here.”

  “When who is to get the brunt of it? Who’s the boss around town, Foster? Especially when they move so fast I have no time to find witnesses.”

  “You know as much as I do.” Foster was testy. “Move ahead!”

  “If I’d been around as long as you have, I’d know plenty.”

  The judge was a sour-faced old man who McQueen had seen about town. Legal procedures on the frontier were inclined to be haphazard, although often they moved not only swiftly but efficiently as well. The old Spanish courts had often functioned very well indeed, but the Anglos were inclined to follow their own procedures. McQueen was surprised to find that the prosecuting attorney, or the man acting as such, Ren Oliver, was said to have practiced law back in Missouri.

  Sartain sat down beside McQueen. “They’ve got you cornered, Ward. Want me to take us out of here?”

  “It’s a kangaroo court, but let’s see what happens. I don’t want to appeal to Judge Colt unless we have to.”

  The first witness was a cowhand Ward had seen riding with Webb’s men. He swore he had dropped behind Webb to shoot a wild turkey. He lost the turkey in the brush and was riding to catch up when he heard a shot and saw McQueen duck into the brush. He declared McQueen had fired from behind Webb.

  McQueen asked: “You sure it was me?”

  “I was sworn in, wasn’t I?”

  “What time was it?”

  “About five o’clock of the evenin’.”

  “Webb comes from over east of town when he comes to Pelona, doesn’t he? From the Running W? And you say you saw me between you and Webb?”

  “I sure did.” The cowboy was emphatic, but he glanced at Oliver, uncertainly.

  “Then”—McQueen was smiling—“you were lookin’ right into the setting sun when you saw somebody take a shot at Webb? And you were able to recognize me?” As the crowd in the courtroom stirred, McQueen turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I doubt if this man could recognize his own sister under those circumstances. I think he should be given a chance to do it this evening. It’s nice and clear like it was the other night and the sun will be setting before long. I think his evidence should be accepted if he can distinguish four out of five men he knows under the conditions he’s talking about.”

  The judge hesitated and Oliver objected.

  “Seems fair enough!” A voice spoke from the crowd, and there was a murmured assent.

  The judge rapped for silence. “Motion denied! Proceed!”

  Behind him McQueen was aware of changing sentiment. Western courtrooms, with some exceptions, were notoriously lax in their procedure, and there were those who had an interest in keeping them so. Crowds, however, were partisan and resentful of authority. The frontier bred freedom, but with it a strong sense of fair play and an impatience with formalities. Most Western men wanted to get the matter settled and get back to their work. Most of the men and women present had ridden over that road at that time of the evening, and they saw immediately the point of his argument.

  There was a stir behind them, and, turning, they saw Flagg Warneke shoving his way through the crowd and then down the aisle.

  “Judge, I’m a witness. I want to be sworn in.”

  The judge’s eyes flickered to Oliver, who nodded quickly. Warneke still bore the marks of McQueen’s fists, and his evidence could only be damning.

  Warneke was sworn in and took the stand. Kim muttered irritably but Ward waited, watching the big man.

  “You have evidence to offer?” the judge asked.

  “You bet I have,” Warneke stated violently. “I don’t know who killed Neal Webb, but I know Ward McQueen didn’t do it.”

  Ren Oliver’s face tightened with anger. He glanced swiftly toward a far corner of the room, a glance that held appeal and something more. McQueen caught the glance and sat a little straighter. The room behind him was seething, and the judge was rapping for order.

  “What do you mean by that statement?” Oliver demanded. He advanced threateningly toward Warneke. “Be careful what you say and, remember, you are under oath.”

  “I remember. McQueen whipped me that evenin’, like you all know. He whipped me good but he whipped me fair. Nobody else ever done it or could do it. I was mad as a steer with a busted horn. I figured, all right, he whipped me with his hands but I’d be durned if he could do it with a six-shooter, so I follered him, watchin’ my chance. I was goin’ to face him, right there in the trail, an’ kill him.

  “’Bout the head of Squirrel Springs Cañon I was closin’ in on him when a turkey flew up. That there McQueen, he slaps leather and downs that turkey with one shot! You hear me? One shot on the wing, an’ he drawed so fast I never seen his hand move.”

  Flagg Warneke wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “My ma, she never raised any foolish children. Anybody who could draw that fast and shoot that straight was too good for anybody around here, and I wanted no part of him.

  “Important thing is, McQueen was never out of my sight from the time he left town headin’ west an’ away from where Webb was killed until he reached Squirrel Springs Cañon, and that’s a rough fifteen miles, the way he rode. It was right at dusk when he shot that turkey, so he never even seen Webb, let alone killed him.”

  Ren Oliver swore under his breath. The crowd was shifting; many were getting up to leave. He glanced again toward the corner of the room and waited while the judge pounded for order.

  Oliver attacked Warneke’s testimony but could not shake the man. Finally, angered, he demanded: “Did McQueen pay you to tell this story?”

  Warneke’s face turned ugly. “Pay me? Nobody lives who could pay me for my oath. I’ve rustled a few head of stock, and so has every man of you in this courtroom if the truth be known. I’d shoot a man if he crossed me, but by the eternal my oath ain’t for sale to no man.

  “I got no use for McQueen. He burned us out over in Bear Cañon. He shot friends of mine, but he shot ’em face-to-face when they were shootin’ at him. The man I’d like to find is the one who killed Chalk. Shot him off his horse to keep him from tellin’ that Webb put them
up to rustlin’ Firebox stock.”

  Ward McQueen got to his feet. “Judge, I’d like this case to be dismissed. You’ve no case against me.”

  The judge looked at Ren Oliver, who shrugged and turned away.

  “Dismissed!”

  The judge arose from his bench and stepped down off the platform. Ward McQueen turned swiftly and looked toward the corner of the room where Oliver’s eyes had been constantly turning. The chair was empty.

  People were crowding toward the door. McQueen’s eyes searched their faces. Only one turned to look back. It was Silas Hutch.

  McQueen pushed his way through the crowd to Flagg Warneke. The big man saw him coming and faced him, eyes hard.

  “Warneke,” McQueen said, “I’d be proud to shake the hand of an honest man!”

  The giant’s brow puckered and he hesitated, his eyes searching McQueen’s features for some hint of a smirk or a smile. There was none. Slowly the big man put his hand out and they shook.

  “What are your plans? I could use a hand on the Firebox.”

  “I’m a rustler, McQueen. You’ve heard me admit it. You’d still hire me?”

  “You had every reason to lie a few minutes ago, and I think a man who values his word that much would ride for the brand if he took a job. You just tell me you’ll play it straight and rustle no more cattle while you’re working for me and you’ve got a job.”

  “You’ve hired a man, McQueen. And you have my word.”

  As the big man walked away, Sartain asked: “You think he’ll stand hitched?”

  “He will. Warneke has one thing on which he prides himself. One thing out of his whole shabby, busted-up life that means anything, and that’s his word. He’ll stick, and we can trust him.”

  VII

  Tough as Ward McQueen felt himself to be, when he rode back to the ranch, he was sagging in the saddle. For days he had little sleep and had been eating only occasionally. Now, suddenly, it was hitting him. He was tired, and he was half asleep in the saddle when they rode into the yard at the Tumbling K’s Firebox.