Desert Death-Song

by Louis L'Amour

  A clatter of horses hoofs sounded suddenly on the hard-packed trail from town, and a horseman showed briefly in the light from the door. Ward McQueen heard Hollier hail the rider, and could hear the mumble of voices. Then the door opened. Watching from a corner window, Ward saw the rider ushered into the room. It was the lean stranger who had played poker with Gelvin and Keane.

  “You Jim Yount?” he asked. “They call me Rip. Just rode out here to say they got a express package at the station for Miss Kermitt. She can drop in and pick it up tomorrow if she likes.”

  Yount stared at him. “Express package? Why didn’t yuh bring it out?”

  The young rider shrugged. “Wouldn’t let me. Seems like it’s money. A package of dinero as payment on some property of hers back in Wyomin’. She’s got to sign for it herself. They won’t let nobody else have it.”

  Yount stared at him. “Money, is it? Well, Miss Kermitt’s gone to sleep, but I’ll tell her!”

  The rider turned and went out and in a few minutes Ward heard his horse on the road.

  “More dinero?” Packer grinned. “Not bad, Boss! She can pick it up for us, and well split it, huh?”

  Red Lund was staring at his pistol. “I don’t like it!” he said suddenly. “Looks like a chance to get us off the ranch and the girl into town!”

  Yount shrugged. “So if they do? Who in town will tackle us?” He leaned forward, smiling. “I think it’s probably the truth. But even if it ain’t, why worry? We’ll send Packer in ahead to look the ground over. If there’s any strangers, he can warn us. No, I think it’s all right. We’ll go in tomorrow!”

  An hour later, and far back on a brush-covered hillside, Ward McQueen bedded down for the night. From where he lay he could see any party that left the ranch. One thing he knew. Tomorrow was the pay-off. Ruth Kermitt would not be returning to that ranch.

  With daylight he was awake. He smoked his breakfast, trying to work the chill from his bones. It had been a damp, uncomfortable night. The sunshine caught light from the ranch-house windows and slow smoke lifted from the kitchen. Hollier walked out and began roping horses. He saddled his own, Ruth Kermitt’s brown mare, and the big gray horse that belonged to Jim Yount.

  Smoking his second cigarette, Ward McQueen tried to foresee what would happen. There were only nine buildings on the town’s main street, scarcely more than twenty houses scattered around them.

  The express and stage office was next to the saloon. Gelvin’s store was across the street.

  Where did this young rider stand? The man who called himself “Rip?” He seemed to be merely a tramp rider, but he had known of Ward McQueen’s shootout in Maravillas Canyon. Not many knew of that. Nor did Rip look like the casual drifter he was supposed to be. His eyes were too keen, too sharp. If he had baited a trap with money he had used the only bait to which these men would rise. But what was he hoping to accomplish?

  There were no men in Mannerhouse who would draw a gun against Jim Yount and Red Lund.

  Gelvin would, if he was there. But Gelvin had only courage, and no six-gun skill, and the one needed the backing of the other.

  CHAPTER FOUR: Six-Gun Return

  It was an hour after daylight when Packer mounted his paint gelding and started off for town. Ward watched him go, his eyes narrow. He had resolved upon his own course of action. It was no elaborate plan. He was going to slip into town and at the right moment he was going to kill Jim Yount, and if possible, Red Lund.

  The cigarette tasted bitter, suddenly. Ward McQueen was no fool. He knew what tackling that bunch meant. Even if he got the two, he would go down himself. There was no alternative. Yet if he succeeded and Kim Sartain came back, Kim might ride in and drive the others off Ruth’s ranch. The girl would have her own back.

  Thoughtfully, he saddled the buckskin. As always the little horse was eager to go. He checked his six-guns again. Then, his lips thin, he swung into the saddle and started working his way down through the greasewood and mesquite to the valley floor.

  He had gone but a few hundred yards when he saw Jim Yount and the girl ride away from the ranch. A few feet behind them was Red Lund.

  Pete Dodson, mounted on a sorrel horse, had taken the southerly trail and was skirting the town to approach from the other direction. Ward saw this, too, and his eyes were grim. Jim Yount was taking no chances… .

  The dusty street of Mannerhouse was warm in the bright morning sun. On the steps of the Express office, Rip was sunning himself. Abel, behind the bar of his saloon looked nervously at the door. He was on edge and aware, aware as is a wild animal when a strange creature nears his lair. Trouble was in the wind. He wanted no part of it.

  Gelvin’s store was still closed. That was unusual for this time of the day. Abel glanced at Rip, and his brow puckered. Rip was wearing tied-down guns this morning.

  Abel put the glass down and glanced at Packer who was sitting over a drink. Suddenly, Packer downed the drink and got up. He walked carefully to the door and glanced up and down the street. All was quiet. A man came out of the post office and walked down to the barber shop. The sound of the door closing was the only noise. Packer stared at Rip, noting the guns.

  He saw Pete Dodson stop his horse behind Gelvin’s store, and his eyes sharpened. Pete was carrying a rifle.

  Packer turned suddenly, staring at Abel.

  “Give me that scattergun yuh got under the bar!”

  “Huh?” Abel’s face paled. “I ain’t got—” he started to reply, but Packer cut him short.

  “Don’t give me that,” Packer snarled. “I want that gun!”

  When Abel put it on the bar, his tongue wetting dry lips, Packer picked it up with satisfaction. Then he walked back to the window and put the gun beside it. Carefully he eased the window up about three inches. His position covered Rip’s side and back.

  Jim Yount rode up the street with Ruth Kermitt beside him. Her face was pale and strained. Her eyes seemed unusually large. Red Lund trailed a few yards behind and reined in his horse across the street. Then he swung down.

  From the bar, Abel could see it all. Jim Yount and the girl were approaching Rip from the west. North and west was Red Lund. Due north, in the shadow of Gelvin’s store, was Pete Dodson. In the saloon, southeast of the express office porch was Packer. Rip was boxed. Signed and sealed. All but delivered.

  Jim Keane, Logan’s much older brother, was express agent. He saw Jim Yount come, and his face paled as he glimpsed Red Lund across the street.

  Rip got up lazily and smiled as Ruth Kermitt came up the steps with Jim Yount.

  “Come for yore package, Miss Kermitt?” he asked politely. “While yuh’re here, yuh might answer some questions.”

  “By whose authority?” Yount demanded sharply.

  Ward McQueen, crouched behind the saloon, heard the answer clearly.

  “The State of Texas, Yount,” Rip replied, “I’m a Ranger!”

  Jim Yount laughed shortly. “This ain’t Texas, and she answers no questions!”

  McQueen jumped inside his skin. A shotgun barrel was easing over the window sill of the saloon! Wheeling, he slipped to the back door. There was no reason now to be quiet. In fact, noise would help. He jerked open the door and jumped inside.

  Parker, intent on the tableau on the porch, and getting Rip lined up with the shotgun, heard the door slam open. Startled, he spun on the balls of his feet. Ward McQueen stood just inside the door, and Packer’s face blanched. Somehow his hand was dropping for a gun, but even as his hand moved, he knew it was hopeless.

  Ward McQueen palmed his six-gun with a gesture deadly as a striking snake. The shot sounded flat and dead in the empty room.

  Packer’s gun slid from helpless fingers and he pitched forward on his face.

  Outside, all perdition broke loose. Ruth Kermitt, aware of the danger Rip was in, had been tense and waiting. She knew she could not help him, only handicap, so when that shot sounded suddenly from the saloon, she dropped flat on the porch and rolled off into the dust
by the steps.

  Rip went for his gun, stepping quickly to the left as he did, trying to get Yount between him and Red Lund. Their guns all began barking at once, and even as the first shot sounded, Ward McQueen plunged through the saloon doors and caught himself with one of the posts on the edge of the saloon walk. He fired at Lund, and a bullet from Pete Dodson’s rifle clipped slivers from the post, spitting them into his face.

  Ward hit the dust on both feet and started toward Lund, both guns ready.

  Red had wheeled away from Rip, his face snarling, and Ward held his fire, stepping quickly and carefully. The steps carried him forward, and Pete Dodson had to get out from the side of the building to get him in his sights again.

  Red fired and fired again. Ward felt something hit him a savage blow and his knee buckled under him. He fired from one knee, taking his time and lining the sights as in a shooting contest. Red staggered back and sat down hard, then rolled over and got up.

  Ward fired again, then again. Red Lund got up again and, his face bloody, started toward McQueen. There was firing from the stage station porch and firing from behind Gelvin’s store, but through the dust and smoke, Ward McQueen saw Red Lund go down again. He forced himself up and turned his head, stiffly, seeking Jim Yount.

  The frock-coated gambler was clinging to his saddlehorn with his left hand, still gripping a gun in his right. Rip was down on the steps, crawling toward his own gun which had been knocked from his fingers. Yount, seemingly injured, was trying to get up a gun to kill Rip.

  Bracing himself in a teetering, rolling street, Ward McQueen lifted his gun, his eyes intent on Yount. A rifle barked somewhere behind him or off to his right, and he felt a bullet whiff by his face. He blinked his eyes, steadied the gun, and fired.

  Yount’s gray horse lunged, breaking the bridle that tied it to the hitchrail. There was a thunder of hoofs down the street, and Ward saw a dark, flashing figure crouching low over a flame-red horse come sweeping into the street. He clung low like an Indian, and as he rode his six-gun was blazing from under the horse’s neck. He seemed to be shooting at something off to the right.

  Yount was down in the dust and trying to get up. Suddenly, Ward saw that the gambler had a knife and was crawling toward the girl who was crouched against the steps where she had dropped to clear the field for Rip. Yount’s knife was gripped with the blade up in his right hand, and his face twisted viciously as he edged toward the girl.

  McQueen knew he couldn’t walk that far. He forced his six-gun up. He pulled the trigger, and it clicked on an empty chamber.

  Hazily he lifted his left hand. He lifted it waist high, staring at Yount. He rarely shot a gun with his left hand and was praying as he squeezed off the shot.

  Jim Yount contracted himself suddenly in an agonized jerk and his face twisted more. McQueen squeezed the trigger again and Yount rolled over on his back. Both shots had hit him in the left side.

  McQueen remembered Abel rushing from the saloon, and then Gelvin from his store. Ruth was running toward him, and for a moment, he blacked out.

  When he could see again, Ruth was bending over him, his head cradled in her arms. Kim Sartain was standing by the porch, the red horse behind him.

  McQueen tried to sit up. “What—happened?” he gasped.

  Kim shrugged. “Clean sweep, looks like.” He started building a smoke. “Charlie Quayle got to us, and we headed for the ranch. That Hollier hombre was there, and we smoked him out. He got Charlie. First shot. Then Bud Fox got him. I rode on into town while they were shakin’ the place down to see if there was any more there. When I come in, yuh had the job about done, only for Pete Dodson. Gelvin shot at him from behind the store, and that helped keep him busy. He missed one shot at you as I come up, and I rode up on him, got a couple of bullets into this before I rode him down. He’s dead.”

  “Red Lund?”

  “Got four bullets in him. Ready for Boot Hill. Yount’s alive and cussin’, but he won’t be long. He got two bullets into Rip, and Rip hit him once. You got him twice in the side, and burned him once. Packer’s dead.” Kim lighted his smoke. “Ward,” he said, “I been thinkin’ about the south range. Mebbe we should round up some cows and put ’em north of the creek for a while. Save that south grass.”

  “Good idea,” Ward said. “If I’m still foreman.” He looked up at Ruth.

  “You always were,” she said. “They told me you’d packed up and quit me. Then Yount made me fire Kim and the boys.”

  Rip hobbled toward them, leaning on Gelvin’s shoulder.

  “My name’s Coker, Ward. I was trailin’ Lund. Couldn’t figger no way to bust up Yount’s show unless I could get the straight of it from Miss Kermitt, so I faked that package to get ’em into town. I didn’t figger them to gang up on me like they done.”

  Baldy Jackson and Bud Fox were loping toward them. When they reined in, Bud glanced at Ruth, then at Ward.

  “Yuh know that old mossy horn, Ward? Found him while ridin’ in this mornin’! He’s got about thirty head wit him, back in the purtiest little valley yuh ever saw! Reckon he’s holed up there to stay!”

  Ward looked up at Ruth, then grinned at Bud.

  “I reckon I am, too!” he said. “I reckon he’s like me. So used to this range he wouldn’t be noways happy any place else!”

  “Why even think of anywhere else?” Ruth asked softly. “I want you to stay, Ward. Always! I think,” she added, “you’d better take full charge after this!”

  “Of everything?”

  “Everything!” she said.

  THE TURKEYFEATHER RIDERS

  CHAPTER ONE: Trouble on the Range

  Jim Sandifer swung down from his buckskin and stood for a long minute staring across the saddle toward the dark bulk of Bearwallow Mountain. His was the grave, careful look of a man accustomed to his own company under the sun and in the face of the wind. For three years he had been riding for the B Bar and for two of those years he had been ranch foreman. What he was about to do would bring an end to that, an end to the job, to the life here, to his chance to win the girl he loved.

  Voices sounded inside, the low rumble of Gray Bowen’s bass, and the quick, light voice of his daughter, Elaine. The sound of her voice sent a quick spasm of pain across Sandifer’s face. Tying the buckskin to the hitchrail, he ducked under it and walked up the steps, his boots sounding loud on the planed boards, his spurs tinkling lightly.

  The sound of his steps brought instant stillness to the group inside, and then the quick tatoo of Elaine’s feet as she hurried to meet him. It was a sound he would never tire of hearing, a sound that had brought gladness to him such as he had never known before. Yet when her eyes met his at the door her flashing smile faded.

  “Jim! What’s wrong?” Then she noticed the blood on his shoulder and the tear where the bullet had ripped his shirt, and her face went white to the lips. “You’re hurt!”

  “No—only a scratch.” He put aside her detaining hand. “Wait. I’ll talk to your Dad first.” His hands dropped to hers and as she looked up, startled at his touch, he said gravely and sincerely, “No matter what happens now, I want you to know that I’ve loved you since the day we met. I’ve thought of little else, believe that.” He dropped her hands then and stepped past her into the huge room where Gray Bowen waited, his big body relaxed in a homemade chair of cowhide.

  Rose Martin was there, too, and her tall, handsome son, Lee. Jim’s eyes avoided them for he knew what their faces were like, he knew the quiet serenity of Rose Martin’s face, masking a cunning as cold and calculating as her son’s flaming temper. It was these two who were destroying the B Bar, these who had brought the big ranch to the verge of a deadly range war by their conniving. A war that could have begun this morning, but for him.

  Even as he began to speak he knew his words would put him right where they wanted him, that when he had finished, he would be through here, and Gray Bowen and his daughter would be left unguarded to the machinations of this woman and her son. Yet he
could no longer refrain from speaking. The lives of men depended on it.

  Bowen’s lips thinned when he saw the blood. “You’ve seen Katrishen? Had a run-in with him?”

  “No!” Sandifer’s eyes blazed. “There’s no harm in Katrishen if he’s left alone. No trouble unless we make it. I ask you to recall, Gray, that for two years we’ve lived at peace with the Katrishens. We have had no trouble until the last three months.” He paused, hoping the idea would soak in that trouble had begun with the coming of the Martins. “He won’t give us any trouble if we leave him alone!”

  “Leave him alone to steal our range!” Lee Martin flared.

  Sandifer’s eyes swung. “Our range? Are you now a partner in the B Bar?”

  Lee smiled, covering his slip. “Naturally, as I am a friend of Mr. Bowen’s, I think of his interests as mine.”

  Bowen waved an impatient hand. “That’s no matter! What happened?”

  Here it was, then. The end of all his dreaming, his planning, his hoping. “It wasn’t Katrishen. It was Klee Mont.”

  “Who?” Bowen came out of his chair with a lunge, veins swelling. “Mont shot you? What for? Why, in Heavens’ name?”

  “Mont was over there with the Mello boys and Art Dunn. He had gone over to run the Katrishens off their Iron Creek holdings. If they had tried that they would have started a first-class range war with no holds barred. I stopped them.”

  Rose Martin flopped her knitting in her lap and glanced up at him, smiling smugly. Lee began to roll a smoke, one eyebrow lifted. This was what they had wanted, for he alone had blocked them here. The others they could influence, but not Jim Sandifer.

  Bowen’s eyes glittered with his anger. He was a choleric man, given to sudden bursts of fury, a man who hated being thwarted and who was impatient of all restraint.

  “You stopped them? Did they tell you whose orders took them over there? Did they?”

  “They did. I told them to hold off until I could talk with you, but Mont refused to listen. He said his orders had been given him and he would follow them to the letter.”