The Fifth Western Novel

by Walter A. Tompkins

  Hagen rubbed a hand over the knot behind his right ear. “I’m just waitin’ for a chance to tangle with Janner,” he said. “The son hit me when I wasn’t lookin’.”

  “Well, next time look!”

  “Don’t worry. I’m goin’ to fix his face so his own mother would think it was somethin’ somebody dug out from under a rock.”

  “Maybe you won’t have to tangle with Janner after all,” Elkhart said. He was thinking of the assignment he had given Baldy Renson. But he must have had a premonition, for he added, “Just in case Clay Janner has a streak of luck, finish him next time.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “With your fists. Not a gun. Understand?”

  Hagen had ridden back to Spade and Elkhart returned to Arrow. Several times during the day Elkhart had an urge to ride to town and see the excitement—and view Janner’s body in the shed behind the New Mexico Hotel which served as the morgue of Reeder Wells. But he held himself in. To keep his mind off Janner that day he kept himself busy. He helped break a horse, something he had not done in years. It kept his mind off Nina, too.

  When he left the breaking pen, sweating, dead tired, Lon Perry fell in step with him. “Sure hell to be in love with a married woman, ain’t it, Byrd?”

  Elkhart stiffened. He resented Perry’s familiarity, but decided to overlook it. Right now he needed Perry’s gun. But if the time ever came when he had to face up to Perry, he felt up to the job.

  “I’ve been in love with Nina for a long time,” Elkhart said, and paused to take a dipper of water from a bucket on the house porch. “A damn long time before that no-good Alford showed up.”

  Elkhart drank the cool water, hung the dipper back on the edge of the barrel. Joe Alford’s return had been unsettling enough, but Alford’s partner was even more of a threat. Elkhart had sized Clay Janner up at their first meeting and judged him to be no man to fool with. Janner was the one stirring up the basin ranchers. He had to be. He was the one with the guts.

  As he told the judge one night over a bottle: “This fence of mine will show the boys their day is done around here. It’s not forty miles of fence like I claim, but it sounds good. Anyhow, I’ve got enough wire to fence them off from the pass. That’s all that counts. When they see I mean business they’ll sell out. Or they’ll pay a toll.”

  “Or drive across the Sink,” the judge put in. He was a small, watery-eyed man. He poured two drinks to Elkhart’s one. “You can’t get away with it, Byrd.”

  “I can and will,” Elkhart retorted. He edged forward in his chair. “I’ve got a contract with Triple X in Chicago. It’s the biggest contract a packing house ever gave a ranch in this territory.” His voice was shaking with excitement. “That means I’ve got to have more graze. Those fools in the basin are licked already. If they sell out they’ll have a few dollars to get a start somewheres else—”

  “But if it goes to court,” the judge warned, “you won’t win.”

  Elkhart watched him pour another drink. “You better play your cards right, Judge,” Elkhart said coldly. “If you do you might be a senator. But you’d need my backing to swing it.”

  The judge frowned thoughtfully and seemed to relish the idea. He tossed off his drink. “Just don’t let it get to court, Byrd.”

  “Don’t worry. It won’t.”

  “These things are better done in the dark of the moon,” the judge said in parting.

  And then, just as Elkhart got set to put oh the pressure, Joe Alford had returned home—with this tough-hand Janner to side him.

  Now, in his small office, Byrd Elkhart eyed a bottle on his desk. He extended a hand for it, then shook his head. No, he wouldn’t let liquor weaken him. It had ruined too many men in this country.

  He was about to blow out the lamp when he heard a commotion in the yard. Buckling on his gunbelt, he went outside. Some of the men had gathered around a horse. One of them held a lantern.

  Lon Perry saw Elkhart coming from the house and moved to intercept him. “Renson’s horse,” Lon Perry said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Where’s Renson?”

  “Just the horse. Not Renson,” Perry said significantly.

  Elkhart drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I see,” he said. “Blood on the saddle?”

  “No. The reins were tied to the saddle-horn.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Elkhart said, clenching his big hands. The man with the lantern was leading the horse toward the corral.

  “We could take the boys and ride to Spade and get Mr. Janner outa bed. We could rope him to a good tree.”

  Elkhart gave a quick shake of his head. “I want to stay out of it.”

  “Then I’ll go.”

  “We’ll wait and see what develops.”

  “You should’ve let me go after Janner,” Lon Perry said bitterly. “Now you wasted two hundred dollars. Janner’s got it and he’s laughing at you.”

  “We’re going to be around these parts for a long time, Lon,” the rancher said. “So we’re going to move cautiously.”

  “And while you move cautiously,” Perry sneered, “you’ll lose your fence—and lose the girl.”

  “Keep Nina’s name out of this,” Elkhart said. “We’d be in good shape now if you hadn’t got that bright idea to drive some of Janner’s cows to the fence and shoot them.”

  “It’ll still be a good idea,” Perry said, and smiled in the darkness. “We’ll have Clay Janner swinging from the end of a rope. You’ll see.”

  He started away but Elkhart caught him by an elbow, swinging him around. “We’ll ride up to Squaw Creek tomorrow and see if we can back-track Baldy’s horse. If we can locate his body we’ll take it to the sheriff. That’s all we’ll need to bring Janner to the rope. But we’ll do it my way. Understand?”

  “So you’re goin’ to ease up on Alford, huh?”

  “We’ll keep the pressure on him. If he keeps on drinking like Russ Hagen says he is, he’ll do some damn fool thing that’ll get his head blown off.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Lon Perry said.

  Elkhart went back to the house and tried to sleep. But all he could think of was Nina Alford and her drunken no-good husband.

  CHAPTER 10

  In the quiet of the dark cottonwoods beyond the barn, Clay Janner tried to bring the objectives of his life into focus. He stared up through the leafy branches at the stars blinking in the clear New Mexican sky. What would he do next, providing he managed to sell the herd of Chihuahuas? Drift on to some new territory, meet new women, make money, lose it. Never with any roots. Always planning to settle down in some locality, but at the last moment pulling up stakes to move somewhere else. He wondered where he would be today if he had stayed put as Elkhart had. There were many things he didn’t like about the man, but Elkhart had become a success and that seemed to be all that counted. He had a sheriff and, according to the pool ranchers, a judge.

  Hell, Elkhart had the power of life and death over his neighbors. Or it amounted to that. They failed or succeeded only if Elkhart allowed them room in which to grow. But still the town of Reeder Wells seemed to respect him. Fear him, anyway.

  Powerful as he was, Elkhart could hire a novice like Baldy Renson and set him against an experienced man like Clay Janner. The odds might be all against Renson, but that didn’t matter. Lying here in the darkness, Clay couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. Renson had played the game smart enough while he was trailing his quarry. But once it came to the handling of guns he had no chance.

  A sound in the darkness beyond the trees caused him to snatch his gun from under his blanket and sit up. Someone was coming toward him. Just as he was about to order a halt, he saw a woman’s figure outlined in the moonlight. It was Nina Alford. She spoke his name. She came up to him and stood looking down at him. She had put on a shirtwaist and skirt. Drawing the skirt
about her ankles, she sank down to the ground.

  He put away his gun, feeling embarrassed somehow. “How’d you know I was out here?” he demanded.

  “I saw you strike a match when you lit your cigarette.” She sat so near that he caught her scent and it stirred him. “Joe’s still passed out,” she said and ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. “He won’t wake up until noon, probably. He never does when he’s like this.”

  The statement sent his nerves to humming, but he did not let on that her bold declaration affected him. “You better get back to the house.” He threw away his cigarette. It lay glowing at the base of a tree. “What if one of the men saw you come out here?”

  “Why should you care? You think little enough of me as it is.”

  “I like Joe.”

  “And maybe I like him,” she whispered. She arched her body, resting her weight on her hands, and peered up at the moon. “How were the girls in Mexico?” she asked suddenly. “The ones you and Joe had.”

  “I told you once,” he said. “There were no girls. Besides, that’s a hell of a thing for a married woman to ask a man.”

  “Don’t lie to me, please. Joe had a girl, didn’t he?”

  “What do you want me to do? Swear on my mother’s grave?”

  He could see moonlight reflected in her eyes. “You mean to tell me that for fourteen months Joe didn’t have a woman?” She gave a scornful laugh and nudged his arm with her elbow. “Tell me the truth.”

  She was so close he could feel her warm breath against his cheek. “It’s not smart to push a man like this.”

  “Just tell me the truth about Joe.”

  He clamped a hand on her arm as one of the horses nickered in the corral, but there was no further sound. She relaxed and he dropped his hand from her arm. She moved against him then and he was aware of her softness.

  Suddenly he caught her by the shoulders and found her mouth. She came alive, clinging to him. Then, after a moment, she pushed him away. She sat looking at him. Then she began to weep and laugh all at the same time. The sounds were awesome there in the darkness.

  Puzzled by her behavior, he got up. She rose unsteadily to her feet.

  “This is what I really wanted to find out,” she said hoarsely. “This great friendship. Yours and Joe’s. You’re a gun runner, a cheap saddle bum who profits from the misery of others.”

  “Hold on with that kind of talk,” he warned.

  “A man who puts guns in the hands of peons when they need bread.”

  “How else do you think they’ll get bread except with a gun? They’re sick of Diaz down there. They’ll follow Monjosa until somebody else better comes along. And I admire their guts.”

  “But I hardly admire yours,” she said scornfully. “Trying to make love to your best friend’s wife.”

  He leaned close. “I had a low opinion of you when Joe and I came home and found you alone with Elkhart. Don’t make it any lower with this sort of crazy business.”

  She stepped back, defiantly hooking her left hand at the V of her shirtwaist. “What if I tear my clothes? And scream?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Joe would come,” she said, “and you know what he’d try and do.”

  “So that’s your idea,” Clay said. “Coming out here and—”

  “You’ll have to get on your horse and ride. Because Joe is your friend and you won’t want to take a gun to him. If you stay Joe will try and kill you—” Suddenly she bent her head and began to weep again. But this time there was no hysteria. This time the sobs were low, choked.

  “Half of that herd is mine,” he told her. “I paid for it with my blood. I’m not going to ride off and leave it. No matter what you figure to tell Joe about this.”

  “Why can’t Joe be like you? Why can’t he talk up to people? Talk up to me?”

  He couldn’t stand it any longer. “Maybe you planned for me to kill Joe,” he snarled. “Then you could marry Elkhart—”

  She slapped him hard across the face. She hooked her fingers to use her nails on him. He caught her wrists with one hand and jerked her against him. Her face came against his and the life seemed to go out of her. She sagged and her lips moved across his cheek and to his mouth.

  “Oh, Clay—” Her abrupt change of mood frightened him. He held her off, knowing he could not fight her for long. She was soft and warm and the prison dungeon at San Sebastian had starved him, left him woman hungry. She was Joe Alford’s wife, he told himself. And she was no good. She and Elkhart together while her husband rotted in a Mexican prison….

  “Get back to the house,” he said.

  She seemed utterly spent. “Please believe me, Clay. I didn’t want you to kill Joe. Not so I could marry Elkhart.” She stepped toward him, her eyes swollen from her weeping. “Maybe I did have a crazy idea about making you leave. Before you brought real trouble to us. But—”

  “You can still scream,” he reminded her.

  “That was a nasty threat to make. I’m sorry.” She peered at his tall figure in the shadows of the cottonwoods. “That story about you and Joe in prison. Was it really the truth?”

  “Yeah. I wish to hell it wasn’t.”

  Her shoulders sagged. He put a hand on her arm, feeling the warm flesh beneath the thin material of her blouse. “Go home now, before Joe wakes up and misses you.”

  “Why couldn’t I have married someone like you, Clay?”

  “You married Joe instead.”

  “But why can’t he be strong? Just once?” She moved away, then turned and looked back at him. Moonlight touched her pale hair. “I could love you, Clay. I could love you a lot. If I let myself.”

  She ran toward the house. He lay down in his blankets again. But sleep was a long time in coming.

  * * * *

  Next day, Joe Alford seemed cheerful. He didn’t even show signs of a hangover. “Nina poured black coffee into me last night,” he explained when Clay found him outside the bunkhouse, washing up for breakfast. He nudged Clay. “Me and Nina made up. What do you think of that?”

  “You’re a lucky man,” Clay said glumly, wondering how long it would last.

  “Nina likes you, Clay. She says you’re a good friend. A real friend.”

  Clay thoughtfully ran a thumb along the brown line of his jaw. “It only proves there’s no figuring women,” he mumbled, and let it go at that. At least one thing was settled, temporarily.

  For the next several days they worked roundup, and after Clay and his men had helped with the Spade herd, he rode with Alford to Reeder Wells. Leo Reese had sent one of his riders over to Spade with a message: it was time to ship beef. It was time to quit beating around the bush and reach a definite decision regarding Elkhart’s fence.

  Clay had seen these pools before. A group of frantic ranchers with more talk than guts, trying to buck one of the big outfits that held all the cards. He didn’t see where a meeting would do much good but he agreed to accompany Alford. In addition to the .45 at his hip he wore a revolver under his shirt. There was no telling what sort of reception he might get from the sheriff. It was his first visit to town since the shooting of Baldy Renson. He had told no one of the incident, believing the fewer who knew about it the better. He had half-expected the sheriff to show up at the roundup camp with a posse and put him under arrest. But apparently Renson’s body had not been found—And if it had been, Elkhart likely planned to do nothing about it. For the time being at least.

  It was very hot when they rode into Reeder Wells. Dust curled up from the hoofs of their horses. A few dogs barked half-heartedly, then sought the shade of ’dobe walls. The moment they entered Fierro’s, Clay felt the tension. He scanned the sprinkling of customers at the bar and along the walls. He turned his head and saw Lon Perry at the far end of the bar. The Arrow foreman had placed his hat on the bar beside a bottle. Pomade plastered his p
ale hair tight to his skull.

  Fierro stood woodenly behind his bar.

  A little way down the bar, Buck Bogarth was alternately licking his lips and mopping his brow with a bandanna.

  “You boys holding a wake?” Clay asked the basin rancher.

  Before Bogarth could reply, Lon Perry said, “If there’s goin’ to be a wake it’ll be for you.”

  Clay stared the length of the room, meeting the gunman’s small bright eyes. Then he stepped up to the bar and signaled Fierro to set out a bottle. Alford came up beside him, looking sick.

  “Clay, let’s drift,” Alford said hoarsely.

  Fierro, setting out a bottle, said in a tight whisper, “Get out, señor, while you can. Perry wait here for you. He wants to make the trouble.”

  Alford put a trembling hand on Clay’s arm. “He’s right, Clay. No use askin’ for it.”

  “You can’t always run,” Clay said. “Sometime in your life you’ll have to make a fight of it.”

  The rebuke stung and Alford flushed deeply. Instantly Clay regretted saying it. He closed his eyes, remembering how this big redhead, barehanded, had kept a Mexican officer from impaling him with a saber. He slapped Alford on the arm. “We’ll make out, Joe,” he whispered, and tried to grin. But Alford still looked sick.

  Clay had his drink. Leo Reese and Shanley were sitting at a table, trying to play two-handed stud. They reminded him of mourners waiting for a funeral. Clay shifted his gaze through the window and saw four men cross the street and range themselves on the walk in front of the cantina. Two of them he recognized as having been with Perry the day of the stampede. Obviously the other two then were also Arrow men.

  He felt a cold finger move slowly down his spine. This was a trap. He and the other pool members were boxed in this tight little building. The Elkhart men had drifted up nonchalantly the moment he and Alford had entered Fierro’s. Well, he thought, a man can have only so much luck. You can outshoot fools like Baldy Renson, but somewhere along the line you’re going to make a wrong move and walk right into it. This was Elkhart’s town and Elkhart’s sheriff. Elkhart’s money and pressure could produce a dozen witnesses to satisfy a court that the events about to take place had been started by the pool. Sure. Eliminate competition in one grand move.