The Fifth Western Novel

by Walter A. Tompkins

  Perris put his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands, his brain still stunned by the impact of Marengo’s bombshell and its unprobed ramifications.

  “If only Blackie had been on deck when Cleve Logan made that play at Riverbend,” Opal Waymire’s voice came as if from a remote distance from Perris’s ears. “His trickery is easy to figure out now, Duke. Logan put himself in your eye with such a melodramatic scene that you swallowed the bait—leaving his horse on the dock and throwing a lariat to stop the boat. And John Stagman showing up with a posse five minutes later. Anyone would have thought Logan was a desperado on the run. The whole thing was deliberately staged.”

  When Perris lifted his face from his hands he had regained his old composure.

  “Sure,” he laughed bitterly. “Sure. Hindsight is great stuff. Stagman must have got wind of my going over to Lewiston and chartering the Sacajawea to haul those dummy homesteaders back here. Stagman must have put this Cleve Logan on my trail because Logan could pass’d himself off for Trig Fetterman.”

  Opal’s face was a hard mask, harsh lines of strain robbing her of her natural beauty.

  “Well, the trick worked,” she said. “Logan convinced us he was an escaped convict with a price on his head. I shudder to think what would have happened if Blackie Marengo hadn’t turned up.”

  Marengo poured himself another drink, enjoying his position as an equal of these two.

  “I knew Fetterman at Deer Lodge pen,” he said thickly. “He’s the same height an’ complexion as Logan, but otherwise they’re completely different men. Why, hell, the grapevine at the pen claimed that Cleve Logan turned in his badge after he nailed me and bought hisself a little ranch over in the Blue Mountains. I figger John Stagman must have hauled Logan out of retirement just to find out what you were up to in Owlhorn, boss.”

  Perris got to his feet, his hand going up to the gold-bullet ornament on his watch chain. Opal, watching that oft-repeated mannerism of Perris’s, found herself pondering on how apt that luck charm was. A golden bullet symbolizing the forces that ruled Perris’s life—riches and violence, gold and gunsmoke.

  “I’ve got to think this thing out. No time to foul my head with alcohol,” Perris said, waving aside another offered drink. “A deputy marshal spying in my own camp. I can’t believe I could have been duped so completely.”

  He looked up, remembering something. “Opal, Logan sat in on my powwow with the dummy homesteaders over at the Ringbone tonight. He knows our whole setup from A to Z. Right this minute he’s probably making his plans to arrest Gus Gulberg and the rest of us when we meet in town tomorrow night.”

  Opal Waymire’s painted mouth made an inverted scarlet crescent against the chalky pallor of her face. Suddenly, and without apparent cause, she began to laugh hysterically, her arms folded across her breast, tears running down her cheeks.

  “What’s so damned funny?” demanded Perris.

  The girl got herself under control. “John Stagman’s been trying to pin something on you for fifteen years, Duke,” she said. “Up to now you’ve been too slippery for the law. This time he almost got the goods on you. A conviction for this land grab would put you and Jube Buckring behind bars for twenty years.”

  Perris saw the macabre humor in the situation, for a hint of a smile touched the corners of his predatory lips.

  “Sure, laugh at me, kid. I hired Stagman’s own deputy to bushwack Stagman. Go ahead. Laugh.”

  Blackie Marengo, well on his way toward a king-sized drunk, turned to Opal and dropped a hand on her thigh.

  “Looks like l’il ol’ Blackie saved your bacon, gal. Mebbe from here on out you won’t be so uppity with ol’ Blackie.”

  The crack of Perris’s palm lashing Marengo’s cheek was like a pistol shot in the keyed-up atmosphere of this room.

  “Go upstairs and sleep off this bender,” Perris raged. “Stay out of sight until I send for you. And the next time you lay a paw on Opal I’ll stomp your guts out.”

  Marengo, shocked cold sober, struggled to his feet and followed Opal over to a side door opening on stairs which led to the percentage girls’ rooms upstairs.

  When Opal turned to face Duke Perris, the big man said, “This thing is like a string of firecrackers, honey. Every few seconds another one explodes in my ear. Just this morning Tex Kinevan rode out to Ringbone and tipped off Grossett that Logan was really Trig Fetterman. That means Kinevan’s in on this deal with Logan, too!” The girl put a white arm around the promoter’s shoulders.

  “We’ve got to get out of here tonight,” she said. “Kinevan is probably a deputy marshal, too. We’re in this too deep to buck the Federals, Duke. Let’s pack up now!” Ferris shrugged off the girl’s embrace.

  “No. No,” he said. “We still got time enough to swing this deal. We’ve got to collect our money from Buckring before John Stagman shows up. By the time Buckring gets wise, we’ll be a long way from Owlhorn, sweetheart.” Opal Waymire walked over to the door which opened on the crowded barroom, and left the room. A few moments later she returned, her cheeks still chalk-white under her rouge.

  “Tex Kinevan’s shooting pool in the back room,” she reported. “If you want, I could get him in here for you.” After a long pause, Perris came to a decision.

  “No,” he vetoed her idea. “Taking Kinevan tonight might tip off my hand, and give Cleve Logan his chance to fly the coop. Do you think Kinevan saw Blackie Marengo tonight?”

  “No, Duke. Marengo only reached Owlhorn shortly before you got back from Ringbone. He came directly to the Palace. Kinevan’s been shooting pool since suppertime.”

  Some of the tension left Perris’s face.

  “That’s good. Kinevan must have known the real facts.”

  Opal shrugged her powdered shoulders.

  “You’d have found yourself looking into Logan’s gun. And has it occurred to you that the local sheriff must be in on this scheme of John Stagman’s?”

  Perris gave this possibility a moment’s thought.

  “Another firecracker in the string,” he said. “Sure, I imagine old Farnick knows Logan is a Federal deputy.”

  Opal Waymire crossed the room and flung her arms around Perris, kissing him passionately.

  “I’m afraid, Duke,” she pleaded. “We’ve got to get out of town while we can. Drop everything we’ve built up and cleave Owlhorn forever. Logan is too dangerous for us to handle. You ought to know just how dangerous he really is, darling.”

  But Perris’s jaw was set in a dogged outthrust.

  “This land grab is worth one hundred thousand dollars to us, Opal. Buckring’s got the money in his safe. It’s the biggest deal of my lifetime. We’ve put a year into planning this thing. I hate to be run out of the game while I’m holding all the aces.”

  Opal laughed bitterly. “Cleve Logan has a pat hand.”

  “But I’ve seen his hole card, thanks to Marengo’s tip-off. Who are we bucking? Logan and Tex Kinevan. And John Stagman, who isn’t due to show up until Saturday or Sunday. We can rake in this jack pot tomorrow night.”

  Knowing this man as she did, knowing the stark courage which complemented Perris’s criminal mentality, Opal Waymire knew the futility of urging Perris to drop the gamble he faced here, in favor of the safe way out.

  Slumping down on the sofa, the girl asked bleakly, her face shining with cold perspiration in the lamplight, “What will you do?”

  Perris wheeled to face her, all his old aplomb showing in his eyes.

  “Logan can be brought in with Buckring and the Lewiston boys tomorrow night,” he said. “We’ll make certain Tex Kinevan is on hand as well. You’ll take their guns at the door, Opal. That’s the sheriff’s rule, and will arouse no suspicion on their part. You’ll reserve the poolroom for our use tomorrow night. That poolroom will be my trap for Logan and Kinevan.”

  Having made his pla
n, Perris leaned down and kissed the girl. Then he let himself out through the back entrance, and Opal Waymire, stepping to the alley window a moment later, peeped through the shutters to see a light go on in Perris’s living-quarters behind the land office next door.

  Thinking over Duke Perris’s decision, Opal Waymire was struck by what she believed was an unnecessary angle—getting his revenge on Cleve Logan and Tex Kinevan before going ahead with his conspiracy with Gus Gulberg and, in turn, receiving Jubal Buckring’s $100,000 payoff.

  The logical and less hazardous alternative would be to keep Logan waiting out at the Ringbone, complete the deal with Gulberg without drawing Tex Kinevan into the picture at all, and making a secret exit from Owlhorn, leaving Buckring to hold the bag when Logan made his official report to U.S. Marshal Stagman.

  But that was contrary to the harsh forces which governed Perris’s character. To Perris, retribution against Logan and Kinevan was as important as the land-grab scheme which had brought them to Owlhorn in the first place.

  * * * *

  Nearly an hour later Opal Waymire left the Palace. The feverish activity on Owlhorn’s Main Street did not cease at sundown; carpenters were busy throwing up saloons and store buildings by the glare of flaming tar barrels.

  Shielding herself against the chill of the river fog with a shawl, Opal made her way up the hill to Alva Ames’s home in the Methodist parsonage. A light still gleamed from the front windows, though the hour was past midnight.

  Avoiding the long shaft of light from the Ameses’ window, Opal approached the parsonage. She saw Alva seated at a table writing. Her blind brother was nowhere in sight, and Opal concluded that Jebediah Ames had retired for the night.

  Alva came to the door in response to Opal’s knock.

  Surprise was limned in the girl’s features as she recognized the owner of the notorious Palace Casino at the doorstep, the tight-pulled folds of her shawl accentuating the brassy hue of her bleached hair.

  “I beg your pardon for this intrusion,” Opal whispered. “I can’t come in. But I must see you.”

  “Of course, Miss Waymire,” Alva said, stepping outside and easing the door shut behind her. “Are you in trouble?”

  The honkytonk singer’s fingers were like ice as they gripped Alva’s wrist.

  “It’s about Cleve Logan,” she whispered, an almost irrational note entering her voice. “He’s in terrible danger. I want you to ride out to Ringbone in the morning and deliver a message to him.”

  Alva drew in a breath, remembering her solemn pledge to Cleve never to ride across Ringbone’s boundaries again without proper escort.

  “If—if it is really important,” she faltered, “I will do as you say, Miss Waymire.”

  A sob put its tremolo in Opal’s voice.

  “Just—just tell Cleve that Duke Perris knows he is a deputy United States marshal, Alva. He’ll understand.”

  With which Opal Waymire released Alva’s hand and turned to vanish in the darkness.

  For a long time Alva Ames stood in the starlight by the parsonage door, giving way to the full run of her unleashed emotions. Cleve Logan a deputy marshal!

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Nice Shot, Marshal!”

  The corpse of Tore Grossett was consigned to an unmarked grave in a coulee overlooking the Ringbone headquarters just as the morrowing sun lifted over the bald tangents of the Horse Heaven Hills and poured its bursting golden flood into Buckring’s Hole-in-the-Wall.

  Cleve Logan saw the bounty hunter’s tarp-shrouded body leave on its one-way trip by buckboard wagon, as he was heading for the cookshack and breakfast, with one of Buckring’s roustabouts acting as gravedigger.

  The new day found Logan’s nerves eating at him. Joining the poker games with Perris’s unkempt henchmen at the bunkhouse had no appeal for him. He was keyed up with a sense of climax rushing toward him, knowing that tonight marked showdown, the closing phase of the assignment which had brought him out of retirement at the request of his old friend and superior, John Stagman.

  Going to the harness shop where he could sort out his thoughts in seclusion, Logan settled down to kill time soaping his saddle gear.

  One thing was clear—the time was past due for a conference with Sheriff Vick Farnick in Owlhorn. But getting off the heavily guarded ranch when he was under strict orders from Perris to lie low until sent for might make a trip to town well-nigh impossible.

  He was debating whether to saddle up and attempt to bluff his way through the gantlet of Buckring’s guards along the Owlhorn road when the shot sent its flat echoes breaching the early-morning quiet.

  The slam and crash of that gun’s report volleyed interminably off the shoulders of the Hole-in-the-Wall, and brought Jubal Buckring out on his front porch to scan the horizon with his field glasses.

  Ringbone was as edgy as a rattler in dog days, jumpy from long-built-up tensions. During the night the roundup crews had returned to the Hole; like an army massing for an attack, they were down at the main bunkhouse oiling their guns and readying their riding-gear.

  For his part, Logan dismissed the shot as some outrider knocking off a rattlesnake or a skulking coyote. He had resumed his work in the archway of the harness shop when his ears caught a drum-roll of hoofs, and a Ringbone rider appeared on the summit road. A wind off the outer valley rolled a great streamer of gritty volcanic dust off the ridge which led to the lone pine and proved that the horseman had come out of the hills from a right angle.

  Logan put his sharpened interest on the approaching rider, who lashed his horse up the poplar-bordered lane at a full gallop and hammered past the outbuildings to rein up in front of Buckring’s gate.

  Buckring was on hand to greet his scout, the field glasses slung about his neck. Fifty yards away, Cleve Logan caught the cattle king’s anxious question.

  “What was that shootin’, Buck? Homesteader squattin’ along our fence?”

  Buck’s answer was pitched in a voice which showed the strain of an all-night patrol. “Funny thing, Jube. Couple of hours before sunup, a rider tried to sneak past Lon Kirkman at the end of the section-line road. Turned out to be a girl. Claimed she was the new sky-pilot’s sister.” Cleve Logan shared Buckring’s astonishment.

  “Why should Alva Ames be ridin’ the hill road before daylight? Kirkman find out?”

  “No,” Buck drawled. “Lon told her nobody was ridin’ to the Hole-in-the-Wall, an’ she turned back toward town. Then just a few minutes ago, I was cookin’ myself a snack of bait up on the rocky patch—” Buck paused to light up a brown-paper cigarette which he had been rolling, and the interruption put an edge of suspense against Logan.

  “Fixin’ breakfast,” Buck went on, “I heard somethin’ or somebody pushin’ a hoss through Jackrabbit Coulee. I had myself a look. It was this same girl, tryin’ to sneak into the Hole from the west. She’d dodged the lookouts on the ridge an’ was almost in sight of the Hole here.”

  Remembering the gunshot, Cleve Logan felt a shock of apprehension stir the hairs on his neck. Buckring had the same reaction, for his question cut sharp and clear across the intervening distance. “You shot her, Buck? You killed a woman on my range?”

  Buck shook his head.

  “I ain’t that crazy, boss. But I dropped her pony out from under her when she tried to beat me out of that coulee. Only thing I could do, me bein’ afoot. An’ you give orders to let no strangers pass.”

  Buckring’s fists shook the picket gate.

  “You set the Ames woman afoot inside my range,” he said. “I can’t very well blame you, Buck, at that. Where is she now?”

  Buck picked up his reins and curveted his lathered pony away from the gate.

  “Kirkman was ridin’ in an’ come over to investigate. The girl acted like a scairt rabbit, wouldn’t tell us why she was snoopin’ around. So Kirkman give her a stirrup an’ right no
w he’s takin’ her back to Owlhorn. He’ll set her right down on the church steps, you can bank on that.”

  Buckring returned to the house, and Buck headed for the barns, his all-night tour of duty finished.

  Worry carved its notch between Logan’s brows. Alva Ames had seemingly taken desperate chances in her persistent effort to pierce Ringbone’s cordon, failing only when her horse was killed under her. Why?

  Instinct, compelling intuition which Logan could not shake off, told him that he was the object of the preacher’s sister attempting to reach Hole-in-the-Wall against her pledged oath not to ride on Ringbone range alone.

  The feeling persisted mounting until it was like a tight-coiled metal spring inside him. In the end, Logan knew he could not wait until night to sneak off the ranch and ride to Owlhorn. Alva’s frantic attempts to reach Ringbone could not have stemmed from any girlish whim. Alva Ames had not been joy riding last night as she had been yesterday morning.

  Carrying his saddle over to the cavvy corral, Logan roped his dun and was leading it through the gate when Jubal Buckring emerged from the tanks alongside the windmill tower, a drawn Bisley .38 flashing in the sun.

  “Ridin’ somewhere, Logan?”

  Logan took his own good time about answering. This proved he was being watched. Buckring, or one of the ranch crew, had divined his intentions to saddle and ride and had made this quick countermove to thwart him.

  “Any objections, Buckring?” Logan asked, sliding his bridle reins through taut fingers.

  The Ringbone boss came forward, hefting the Bisley, his thumb holding the weapon at half cock. It was the same .38 that had put Toke Grossett under the sod.

  “You’re under the same orders as those bums in the bunkhouse yonder,” Buckring snapped. “No man leaves this ranch until we ride to Owlhorn tonight in a bunch. And you won’t be with us.”