Desert Death-Song

by Louis L'Amour

  Ray stared at Gary. “Not that I recall,” he said seriously. “He sure don’t look familiar to me!”

  “Blaze,” Gary said suddenly, “if you’ll turn my hands loose and give me a gun I can settle this in three minutes! I can prove he’s a liar! I can prove that he does know me, an’ that I know him!”

  “There’s nothin’ you can prove with a gun you can’t prove without it!” Blaze said flatly. “Whatever you know, spill it! Else you’re gettin’ your neck stretched! I’m tired of this fussin’ around!”

  Jim Gary kneed his horse forward. His eyes were hot and angry. “Mart,” he said, “I always suspected there was a streak of coyote in you, but I never knowed you’d be this low down. I don’t like to remind anybody of what I done for him, but I recall a stampede I hauled you out of. Are you goin’ to talk?”

  Ray shook his head smiling. “This is a lot of trouble, Dan. Take him away and stretch his neck before I get sore and plug him.”

  “You’d be afraid to meet me with a gun, Mart. You always were afraid!” Jim taunted. “That’s why you left Red and Tobe with the cattle. You wanted the profit but none of the trouble! Well, you’ve got trouble now! If I had a gun I’d see you eat dirt!”

  Mart Ray’s face was ugly. “Shut up, you fool! You call me yellow? Why, everybody knows you’re yellow as—!” He caught himself abruptly, his face paling under the tan.

  “What was that, Ray?” Dan Blaze’s face had sharpened. “Ever’body knows what about him? If you’ve never seen him before, how could you say ever’body calls him yellow?”

  Ray shrugged. “Just talkin’ too fast, that’s all!” He turned and stepped up on the sidewalk. “He’s your man. You settle your own war.” Ray turned to go, but Jim yelled at him, and Ray wheeled.

  “Mart, if I don’t know you, how do I know you’ve got a white scar down your right side, a scar made by a steer’s hoof?”

  Ray laughed, but it was a strained laugh. He looked trapped now, and he took an involuntary step backward. “That’s silly!” he scoffed. “I’ve no such scar!”

  “Why not take off your shirt?” Jerry said suddenly. “That will only take a minute.” The lean jawed cowhand’s face was suddenly hard. “I think I remember you having such a scar, from one time I seen you swimmin’ in the San Juan. Take off your shirt an’ let’s see!”

  Mart Ray backed up another step, his face sharp and cold. “I’ll be damned if I take off my shirt in the street for any low down rustler!” he snapped. “This here nonsense has gone far enough!”

  “Loose my hands!” Jim pleaded in a whisper. “I’ll take his shirt off!”

  Kitty stared at him. Her face was white and strained, but in her eyes he now saw a shadow of doubt. Yet it was Jerry who acted suddenly, and jerked him around and before anyone realized what he had done, he severed the bonds with a razor sharp knife and jerked the ropes from his hands. With almost the same gesture, he slammed guns in Gary’s holsters. “All right! Maybe I’m crazy!” he snapped. “But go to it!”

  The whole action had taken less than a minute, and Mart Ray had turned his back and started away while Blaze waited in indecision. It was Red Slagle who saw Jim Gary hit the ground. “Boss!” he yelled. His voice was suddenly sharp with panic. “Look out!”

  Ray wheeled, and when he saw Gary coming toward him, chafing his wrists, he stood still, momentarily dumbfounded. Then he laughed. “All right, Yellow! You’re askin’ for it! This is one bunch of trouble you can’t duck! You’ve ducked your last fight!”

  Furious, he failed to realize the import of his words, and he dropped into a half crouch, his hands ready above his gun butts. It was Jerry who shook him. Jerry who made the casual remark that jerked Mart Ray to realization of what he was facing.

  “Looks like whatever Ray knows about him, he sure ain’t heard about Jim Gary killin’ Miguel Sonoma!”

  Mart Ray was staggered. “Sonoma?” he gasped. “You killed Sonoma?”

  Jim Gary was facing him now. Some of the numbness was gone from his hands, and something cold and terrible was welling up within him. He had ridden beside this man, shared food with him, worked with him, and now the man had tricked and betrayed him.

  “Yes, Mart, I killed Sonoma. I ain’t afraid. I never was. I just don’t like trouble!”

  Ray’s tongue touched his lips and his eyes narrowed to slits, he sank a little deeper into the crouch, and men drew away to the sides of the street. Scarcely twenty feet apart, the two faced each other. “Take off your shirt, Ray. Take it off and show them. Reach up slow and unbutton it. You take it off yourself, or I’ll take it off your body!”

  “Go to blazes!” Ray’s voice was hoarse and strange. Then, with incredible swiftness, his hands dropped for the guns.

  In the hot, dusty stillness of the afternoon street, all was deathly still. Somewhere a baby cried, and a foot shifted on the board walk. For what seemed an age, all movement seemed frozen and still as the two men in the street faced each other.

  Kitty Blaze, her eyes wide with horror, seemed caught in that same breathless, time-frozen hush. The hands of the men were moving with flashing speed, but at that instant everything seemed to move hauntingly slow. She saw Mart Ray’s gun swing up, she saw the killing eagerness in his face, his lips thinned and white, his eyes blazing.

  And she saw the stranger, Jim Gary. Tall, lithe and strong, his dark face passionless, yet somehow ruthless. And she saw his lean brown hand flash in a blur of movement, saw flame leap from the black muzzles of his guns, and saw Mart Ray smashed back, back, back! She saw his body flung sideways into the hitching rail, saw a horse rear, his lashing hoofs within inches of the man, she saw the gun blaze again from the ground, and a leap of dust from the stranger’s shoulder, and she saw Gary move coolly aside to bring his guns better to bear upon the man who was now struggling up.

  As in a kind of daze, she saw Jim Gary holding his fire, letting Ray get to his feet. In that stark, incredible instant, she saw him move his lips and she heard the words, as they all heard them in the silence of the street. “I’m sorry, Mart. You shouldn’t have played it this way. I’d rather it had been the stampede.”

  And then Ray’s guns swung up. His shirt was bloody, his face twisted in a sort of leer torn into his cheek by a bullet, but his eyes were fiendish. The guns came up, and even as they came level, red flame stabbed from the muzzle of Gary’s guns and Ray’s body jerked, dust sprang from his shirt’s back, and he staggered back, sat down on the edge of the walk, and then as though taken with a severe pain in the groin, he rolled over into the street and sprawled out flat. Somewhere thunder rolled.

  For a long moment, the street was motionless. Then somebody said, “We better get inside. She’s rainin’.”

  Jerry swung from his horse and in a couple of strides was beside the fallen man. Ripping back the shirt, he exposed the side, scarred by a steer’s hoof.

  Dan Blaze jerked around. “Slagle!” he yelled. “Where’s Red Slagle! Get him!

  “Here.” Slagle was sitting against the building, gripping a bloody hand. “I caught a slug. I got behind Ray.” He looked up at Blaze. “Gary’s right. He’s straight as a string. It was Ray’s idea to ring him in and use him as the goat after he found him with us.”

  Dan Blaze knelt beside him. “Who killed my brother?” he demanded. “Was it you or Ray?”

  “Ray shot him first. I finished it. I went huntin’ for him an’ he busted out of the brush. He had a stick he’d carried for walkin’ an’ I mistook it for a gun.”

  “What about Langer?” Gary demanded. “Where’s he?”

  Red grinned, a hard, cold grin. “He lit a shuck. That whuppin’ you gave him took somethin’ out of him. Once he started to run he didn’t stop, not even for his money.”

  He dug into his pocket. “That reminds me. Here’s the forty bucks you earned.”

  Jim Gary took the money, surprised speechless. Slagle struggled erect. Gary’s expression seemed to irritate him. “Well, you earned it didn’t you? A
n’ I hired you, didn’t I? Well, I never gypped no man out of honest wages yet!

  “Anyway,” he added wryly, “by the looks of that rope I don’t reckon I’ll need it. Luck to you, kid! An’,” he grinned, “stay out of trouble!”

  Thunder rumbled again, and rain poured into the street, a driving, pounding rain that would start the washes running and bring the grass to life again, green and waving for the grazing cattle, moving west, moving north.

  MCQUEEN OF THE TUMBLING K

  CHAPTER ONE: Ramrod

  Ward McQueen reined in the strawberry roan and dug W for the “makin’s.” His eyes squinted against the sun as he stared across the moving herd toward Kim Sartain, who was hazing a pair of restless steers back to the mass of tossing horns.

  “Bud” Fox loped his horse out of the dust along the flank of the herd and then walked him up the slope. Digging out his papers, he reached for McQueen’s tobacco.

  “Recollect that old brindle ladino with the scarred side?” he said. “This here’s his range, but we ain’t seen hide nor hair of him.”

  “That mossyhorn?” Ward glanced cynically at Fox. “Reckon I won’t forget him too quick. He’s prob’ly back in one of them canyons. Yuh cleaned ’em out yet?”

  “Uh-huh, we have. Baldy and me both worked in there. No sign of him. Makes a body plumb curious.”

  “Yeah.” Ward’s brow puckered. “Ain’t like him not to be down here makin’ trouble. Missed any other stock since I been gone?”

  Fox shrugged. “If there’s any missin’ it can be only a few. But yuh can bet if that ol’ crowbait’s gone some others went with him. He ramrods a good-sized herd all by hisself.”

  “Baldly” Jackson joined them on the grassy slope. The cattle were moving steadily down the widening valley. Kim Sartain and the long-geared “Tennessee” were enough to keep the herd moving. Working them out of the cedar brakes and the canyons had been the job.

  Baldy jerked his head back toward the nearest canyon mouth. “Seen some mighty queer tracks over yonder,” he said. “Like a man afoot.”

  “We’ll have a look.” Ward McQueen touched a spur to the roan and loped it across the narrow valley. Jackson and Fox fell in behind him.

  The canyon mouth was narrow and high-walled. It was choked with tumbled boulders and dense brush with only a dry watercourse making a winding trail down the canyon floor. In the spreading fan of sand where the watercourse emptied into the valley, Baldy swung down.

  Ward, a big, wide-shouldered rider with keen eyes, stared thoughtfully at the tracks. “Yeah,” he muttered, “they do look odd. Got him some homemade footgear. Wonder if that’s man blood or critter blood?” Turning, he followed the tracks back up the narrow watercourse.

  After a few minutes, he stopped. “Uh-huh, he’s hurt. Look at them tracks headed thisaway. Fairly long, steady step. I reckon he’s a tall man. Goin’ back the steps are shorter, an’ he’s staggerin’ some. He stopped twice in about twenty yards. Both times he leaned against somethin’.”

  “Reckon we better foller him?” Baldy squinted doubtfully at the jumble of boulders. “If’n he don’t aim to git ketched he can make us a powerful lot of trouble!”

  “Uh-huh,” Ward agreed. “But we’ll foller him. Baldy, you go back and help Kim. Tell him where we’re at. Bud will stay with me. Mebbe we can trail this hombre down, an’ he should be grateful. It looks like he’s bad hurt.”

  They had moved along for a hundred yards or so when Bud Fox stopped, mopping perspiration from his face.

  “He don’t aim to be follered,” he answered. “He’s makin’ a try at losin’ his trail for us. Even tried to wipe out a spot of blood.” Ward McQueen drew thoughtfully on his cigarette and glanced up the watercourse with keen, probing eyes. There was something wrong about all this. He had been riding this range for almost a year now, and believed he knew it well. Yet he remembered no such man as this must be, and had seen no tracks.

  They moved on, working along the trail in the close, hot air of the draw. The tracks ended suddenly on a wide ledge of stone where the canyon divided into two branches.

  “We’re stuck,” Bud said, puzzled. “He won’t leave no tracks with them makeshift shoes on this stone. There ain’t nowheres he can go up either one of them canyons, that I know of.”

  The right-hand branch ended in a steep, rocky slide, impossible to climb in less than hours of struggle up the shifting rock. The left branch ended against the sheer faces of a cliff against whose base were a heaped-up jumble of boulders and rocky debris.

  “He must’ve doubled back,” Fox suggested doubtfully. “Mebbe hid in the brush.”

  Ward threw his cigarette down in disgust. “Reckon he don’t aim t’ be found,” he remarked. “But wounded like he is, he’d better be. He’ll die shore as shootin’!”

  Turning their horses they rode back down the canyon to rejoin the herd… .

  Ruth Kermitt was waiting on the ranch house steps when they left the grassy bottom and rode up to the bunkhouse. With her was a slender, dark man in a frock coat and black trousers. He wore a new white hat. As Ward McQueen walked his horse toward the steps he saw the man’s quick, cold, all-encompassing glance take him in, then slide away.

  “Ward,” Ruth said, “this is Jim Yount. He’s buying cattle, and wants to have a look at some of ours.”

  “Howdy,” Ward said agreeably.

  He glanced at Yount’s horse and then, his eyes more speculative, at the man’s tied-down guns.”

  Two more men were sitting on the steps of the bunkhouse. A big, square-bodied man in a checkered shirt, and a slim redhead with a rifle over his knees.

  “We’re wantin’ to buy five hundred to a thousand head,” Yount said. “Heard yuh had some good stock.”

  “Beef?”

  “No. Stockin’ a ranch. I’m locatin’ on the other side of the Newton’s.”

  Ward looked at him and nodded. “Well, we’ve got some cattle,” he said. “Or rather, Miss Kermitt has. I’m just the foreman.” “Oh?” Yount looked around at the girl with a quick, flashing smile. “Widow?”

  “No.” She flushed a little. “My brother and I came here together. He was—killed.”

  “Kind of hard for a girl runnin’ a cow ranch alone, ain’t it?” He smiled sympathetically.

  “Miss Kermitt does mighty well,” Ward suggested drily, “and she ain’t exactly alone!”

  “Oh?” Jim Yount glanced at McQueen thoughtfully, one eyebrow lifted. “No,” he said after a minute, “I don’t expect one could rightly say she was alone as long as she had some cowhands on the place, or cattle.”

  Ruth’s eyes widened a little at the sudden tightening of Ward’s mouth. “Mr. Yount,” she interrupted hastily, “wouldn’t you like to come in for some coffee? Then we could talk business.”

  When they had gone inside, Ward turned on his heel and strode back to the bunkhouse. He was mad, and didn’t care who knew it. The thin-faced rider with the red hair glanced at him as he drew near.

  “What’s the matter, friend?” he asked. “Somebody take yore girl?”

  Ward McQueen halted and turned his head. Baldy Jackson got up hastily and moved out of line. It was a move which brought him alongside the corner of the bunkhouse and put Yount’s two riders at the apex of a triangle of which McQueen and himself formed the other two corners.

  “Miss Kermitt,” McQueen said coldly, “is my boss. She’s also a lady. Don’t get any funny notions!”

  The redhead chuckled. “Yeah, and the boss is a ladies’ man! He knows how to handle ’em!” Deliberately, he turned his back on Baldy. “Ever been a foreman on a spread like this, Dodson? Mebbe you or me’ll have us a new job.”

  For an instant Ward hesitated, then he turned on his heel and walked into the bunkhouse. Bud Fox was loitering by the window. He straightened as McQueen came in. Ward saw that he, too, had been watching the pair.

  “Don’t seem like they want to make friends,” Bud suggested, pouring warm water into the wash basin.
“Like they might even want to start trouble!”

  Ward glanced at the young cowhand thoughtfully. “What would be the idea of that?” he demanded.

  Yet curiously he wondered over it. Certainly the attitude of the two wasn’t typical of the West. He glanced toward the house and his lips tightened. Jim Yount was a slick-looking gent. He was a smooth talker, and probably a woman would think him good-looking.

  He sat down on his bunk and dug out the “makin’s.” Out there beyond the ranch house was a distant light. That light would be in Gelvin’s store, down to Mannerhouse. Gelvin had ranched the country beyond the Newtons. Suddenly, McQueen made up his mind. After chow he would ride into Mannerhouse and have a talk with Gelvin.

  Supper was a quiet meal except for Ruth and Jim Yount who talked and laughed at the head of the table. Ward, seated opposite Yount, had little to say. Baldy, Bud and Tennessee sat in strict silence, and “Red” Lund sat beside Pete Dodson, only occasionally venturing some comment. At the foot of the table, lean, wiry Kim Sartain let his eyes move from face to face.

  Ward left the table early, and paused on the step to light a smoke. Kim moved up beside him.

  “What goes on?” he asked softly. “Never seen everybody so quiet.”

  Briefly, Ward explained. Then he added, “Yount may be a cattle buyer, but the two hombres with him ain’t ordinary punchers. That Red Lund is a gun slick if I ever saw one, and Dodson looks to me like an owlhooter.” He drew on his cigarette. “I’m ridin’ into town. Keep an eye on things, will yuh?”

  “Shore thing!” Kim’s voice was dry, cold. “That Lund, I don’t like him, myself.” Then glancing at Ward. “Nor Yount,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWO: The Drygulch

  Gelvin’s store was closed, but McQueen knew where to find him. Swinging down from the roan he walked through the swinging doors into the saloon. Abel was polishing glasses behind the bar, and Gelvin was sitting at a table with Dave Cormack, Logan Keane, and a tall, lean-bodied stranger. They were playing poker.