Gunsmoke Justice

by Louis Trimble

  The possibility firing him, he cut downhill toward Parker. As he neared, he could make out the horse and rider, but now it was too dark for recognition. Carefully, Arden worked out his rope and made it ready. He guessed he would reach Parker shortly before he made the turn up to June Grant’s.

  Parker rode into the softly flung loop of Arden’s rope with no warning. He gave a grunt of surprise as he was jerked out of the saddle, and then the wind was gone as he crashed to the hard-packed ground.

  Arden pulled his bandanna over his face to guard against all possibility of recognition as he left his horse and finished the roping job. He rounded up Parker’s dun pony and lashed the man in the saddle. Parker was nearly out, too groggy to resist.

  That done, Arden made a wide swing of town, leading the other horse, and working back until he came to the edge of Parker’s spread. He wanted no slip-ups in this. Stopping the horses, he loosened the ropes enough to let Parker slide to the ground.

  Deliberately, he drove his boots into the other man’s body. In the darkness he could not see well and most of his kicks were aimless. He jerked Parker to his feet and lashed out with his fists.

  “We told you to get out,” he said in a rough voice. “This time you get.”

  Parker was sagging at the knees, but he found strength to work one arm free of the rope and drive an ironhard fist at Arden. It connected with Arden’s heavy belt buckle, bringing a grunt of pain from both men. Arden dodged the next blow and threw out a foot, tripping Parker. This time he worked the rope on tight and then returned to his beating.

  When Parker buckled into unconsciousness, Arden let up, panting from effort. He struck a match and peered down. Parker was not beat too badly, and with cold methodicalness Arden struck him twice more in the face.

  Once again he lifted Parker up and roped him to the saddle. He lashed Parker’s horse savagely with the end of the reins and the animal leaped forward, taking off at a headlong gallop toward the gap.

  Arden stood and listened, breathing heavily, the reins hanging loosely in his hands. It came to him that the horse might run out into the desert and then there would be no one to know Parker had been driven off.

  “By God,” he whispered angrily, “I’ll let them know it!”

  He wheeled his horse and hurried up the road to Parker’s small spread. There he found coal oil and threw it hastily against the tinder-dry walls of the few outbuildings. He saved the small house, thinking it might come in handy as a line shack when his graze covered the whole west side.

  Without hesitating, Arden threw a match at the coal oil, saw it well lit, and headed his horse along the west ridge for the long ride to find Brad Jordan.

  • • •

  Ike Quarles was pacing the floor of his parlor, stopping to curse Jordan and Nick Biddle alternately. Biddle sat on a chair taking Quarks’ rage without answer.

  “You want to run Split S beef out of Pine Canyon,” Quarles said angrily. “That can wait, I tell you. Get Jordan, that’s the first thing.”

  “You can’t get the water back,” Biddle said.

  Quarles swore again. “I can put the dam back once I move Jordan out. Then it’s time to worry about Pine Canyon.”

  “Clip’s taking care of Jordan,” Biddle answered placidly.

  “He’s taking a long time doing it,” Quarles answered sourly. “I sent him out as soon as it was dark enough. Jordan’s too careful to be caught by daylight.” He looked at his watch and was amazed at the hours that had gone by. He stopped talking for a time, but when he did so, he could hear the roar of water mocking him from the river gully below, and he began cursing again.

  Over the sound of the water and his own heavy breathing, he heard the sound of a running horse. “Clip,” Biddle said.

  “One horse,” Quarles answered. He went carefully to the door and stepped onto the veranda. He stood there in the darkness, listening. The horse came openly to the front, and a man slid off to the ground. He took two staggering steps forward and pitched on his face.

  Quarles hurried out and bent over him. Rising, he bawled for Biddle. Together they got the man into the house. It was Clip, and he had barely enough strength to talk. Quarles poured two shots of whisky down him before Clip managed to get any words out.

  “They beat us off from the meadow,” he said. “The Swede slipped around behind and got us. Tied Arny and Bart and me in that old shack of his. I got loose.”

  “Where are the others?” Quarles demanded.

  “Dead,” Clip said without emotion. “The boys across the ridge come in?”

  “Nobody came in.”

  “The Swede got them, too, then,” Clip said. His head dropped. “Arny and Bart’ll be along. They’re bringing the others.”

  Quarles stepped away from the couch, his wrath too deep to find relief in swearing. He thought he would burst with it, and it was some time before he could fight himself quiet enough to think clearly.

  He stepped to the veranda and stared out at the darkened fields. He could hear the roar of water below, and he turned his eyes bitterly toward town. It was then he saw the distant flame, no bigger than a campfire from where he stood. But he was too old a hand at the ways of this country not to understand. He went inside.

  “Looks like Parker’s been fired.”

  “Jordan do that, too?” Biddle asked. There was no intentional humor in him. “Maybe to get you blamed.”

  “He’s been pecking at me like a crazy rooster,” Quarles said. He clenched his heavy hands and let them fall open. His deep-set eyes studied Biddle until the other man grew uncomfortable. “That wasn’t Jordan,” Quarles said thoughtfully. “He wouldn’t have had time to get there.” He took a short turn about the room and faced Biddle again. “You get rid of Jordan. I’m through nursing him along. There’s no law that says a man can’t fight back when he’s hit.”

  Biddle said, “Jordan? Me and the crew?”

  “You alone. Now!”

  Fear was plain in Biddle, but he swallowed it back — his thick hands working together the only sign he failed to hide. “How?” he demanded. He looked meaningly toward the now sleeping Clip.

  “How? You made a living tracking Indians once, didn’t you? You ought to know how.”

  “Jordan ain’t no Indian. I’d rather go after a dozen Indians.”

  Quarles curbed his anger with an effort. “I want Jordan and that Swede out of the way. Tonight. Then fix it so they can’t be found until we want them found. After that, you take care of Arden. I want him near Jordan. I want it done to look like they got each other.”

  Biddle nodded and got up reluctantly. He saw to his gun and worked his hat over his head. “Be quiet about it,” Quarles warned. “Jordan’s no fool.”

  “So I know,” Biddle said.

  He took it slowly, fearing the idea of riding alone on Brad Jordan. The nearer he got to the foot of the meadow the colder his sweat ran. He lingered, seeking some excuse that Quarles would accept. But he realized that Quarles would be satisfied only with the job done. Slowly, he pushed his horse up into the hils. If he wanted his share of the valley, he would have to do his share of the work.

  It seldom occurred to Biddle that Quarles sent him on most of the dangerous jobs. Quarles did the planning — something Biddle knew he had little talent for. He accepted the situation. But now, remembering his last brush with Jordan, and remembering what had happened to Clip, he had no liking at all for the work. What if Jordan had moved out of the meadow and was watching the trail? What if he, Biddle, didn’t hit square the first shot? What then?

  He stopped again, still some distance below the mouth of the meadow. He had chosen to go this way hoping he could find a route that would make less noise. He figured they would have a watch from the back, and he had no desire to get into what Clip had. If he could come up from the front he might have a chance.

  He was ready to start again when he heard the sounds of hoofbeats hurrying up from below. He sucked in his breath, and in a panic rushed h
is horse off the trail into a nest of scrub fir. Had Jordan trailed him, first hiding below to watch?

  His hand trembled as he pulled out his gun, and he put the other hand on the horse’s neck to quiet it. The rider below was coming closer fast, hitting a good clip.

  Biddle tried to see out of his screen of trees, but they gave him no sight of the trail at all. He could do nothing but wait and listen, trying to judge when the horse reached him.

  The rider was almost before him when Biddle took a final breath and plunged into the open. One hand held his gun and the other a match. He said, “Hold it up,” and struck the match.

  He saw Arden’s twisted face and saw Arden go for his gun. He cried, “Biddle here!”

  Arden’s face relaxed, and Biddle let the match drop to the dirt, where it went out. He remembered Quarles’ telling him that Arden was against him and so, though he made a pretense of holstering his gun, he kept it lying in shadow along his leg.

  “Jordan’s in the meadow,” Biddle said. He was thinking that this would please Quarles — his getting both Arden and Jordan at the same time.

  Arden’s mind had caught at this new development and was working it over. He had thought about Biddle, but during the last few hours it had gone from his mind. Now the idea he had once pondered returned, and he took it back quickly. He had only to get Biddle to Jordan’s camp, shoot him, drawing Jordan out by the noise, and then pick Jordan off. It would leave the blame on Biddle and, therefore, on Quarles. It was that simple.

  Now he loosened his gun and dropped his horse back to be alongside Biddle. He was pleased at this night’s work and felt the need for boasting. Who better to listen than one of the men who had planned to rob him of his share in the valley?

  He kept the gun across his lap, but away from Biddle so it could not be seen. His voice was amused as he spoke. “I burned Parker out tonight. Beat and ran him out, too.”

  Biddle’s slow wits were quick enough to warn him to caution. “Why?”

  Arden laughed a little. “Keinlan and me figured it out. He’ll take the town and I’ll take the valley. You and Quarles won’t be here, Nick.”

  Biddle could feel the cold breath of hell on his neck. “Why?” he asked again.

  “They’ll run Quarles out for burning Parker,” Arden said. “And you’re going to bait a trap for Jordan.” His laugh came a second time, a little unsteady. “Don’t try anything. I got my gun.”

  He was still trying to say it, still laughing nervously when Biddle’s gun lifted from the shadow of his leg and fired. The second shot hit Arden before he could feel the blow of the first.

  Biddle pulled his horse back and watch Arden pitch out of the saddle and land soggily on the trail. It came to him that he had shot too soon. It wasn’t far to the meadow, and Jordan might have heard the gun. The idea worked in him like warm yeast, and in a sudden panic he swung down trail and raced wildly for the valley.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  BIDDLE rode into Quarles’ yard, still going as if pursued by devils. He left the saddle, hardly seeing the strange horse tethered close by, and bulled his way into the house. Panting, he leaned against the wall.

  Keinlan was sitting relaxed in a chair. He looked around, saw Biddle, and continued with what he was saying. Quarles started to interrupt, then turned his back on Biddle.

  “They think you did it,” Keinlan was saying. “They think you rode on Parker. More’n one’s getting scared you’re going after them and the town because the water got loose. They’re talking about a posse.”

  “Posse be damned!” Quarles roared.

  He fought to choke back his rage. Taking a cigar from his case, he took out a match. But he kept the cigar unlighted in his fingers. “I’ll ride in and talk to them,” he said. “Hell, I burned nobody. That ain’t my way.”

  “You think they’ll listen?” Keinlan asked softly. “You ever see a burning crew, Quarles? It’s like a lynching mob. They go crazy. You can’t talk to crazy men.” Quarles started for the door, and Keinlan added, “What are you going to do?”

  Quarles wheeled about, flinging the still unlighted match savagely to the floor. “Get my crew. No one’s going to burn me out!”

  Biddle broke in. “Ike, I got Arden.”

  “Shut up. You didn’t get Jordan. I can see that.”

  Keinlan rose, smiling his peculiar smile. “Play it the way you want,” he said. “I’ll go back to work.”

  He had passed Quarles and was nearly to the door, when Quarles said, “What other way is there? What would you do?”

  “I wouldn’t pull into my hole,” Keinlan said. This was the time he had been waiting for, and he spoke cautiously, making sure there would be no mistakes. “What if you do beat them off? You’re done here. You make a stand now and you’ll crawl forever after.”

  It was a long speech for him, and he paused to let it take effect. “If it was me,” he said, “I’d keep prodding. They think you started it. All right, finish it.” His voice rose. “Hit them hard enough and they’ll stop being crazy. They were afraid before. Make them afraid again. Keep them that way. Ride down before they can ride on you!” Quarks’ hoarse breathing was the only sound for a long moment. “I’ll wait no more,” he said softly. “Go hole up in your saloon so you don’t get shot.” His laughter was without amusement.

  Keinlan walked silently out of the house and got to his horse. He was in the saddle when he heard Biddle bawl, “Ike, listen — ”

  “Shut up. We got got things to do.”

  Biddle waited no longer. He jerked his gun free stepped to the veranda and fired at Keinlan. Keinlan felt the slug tear into him, throwing him forward across the saddle horn. Instinctively, he kicked at his horse and raced off as two more bullets spatted angrily. He felt one nick the cantle, and the other found its mark on him. He rolled in the saddle but kept his seat, and soon he was on the road and out of range.

  “You crazy fool,” Quarles shouted at Biddle.

  Resentfully, Biddle told him what Arden had said. Quarles was silenced, his eyes narrowing, seeking a meaning to this. He said, finally, “He stirred the town and then he stirs me. I was to ride into a trap. Go after him.”

  “He won’t get far,” Biddle said. “I hit him too square.”

  Quarles turned as if this was enough to make him forget Keinlan. “They expect us to ride. We’ll ride,” he said grimly. “Go get your crew ready. We’ll meet at your place. We’ll hit the Split S and then town. They want burning — we’ll give them burning.”

  Keinlan kept hitting feebly at the horse, forcing it to greater speed. Though the jolting was almost beyond what he could bear, he knew there was just so much life in him, and he wanted to save it until he reached town.

  He was not bitter. He had realized the chance he took, and it was a matter of some surprise to him that this had not been done before.

  He saw the town ahead and knew he could make it. The horse was stumbling from weariness, lathered heavily, but it kept going until Keinlan managed to pull up before the sheriff’s office. He cried out McFee’s name, and then he could hold on no longer He went out of the saddle and sprawled in the dust of the street.

  McFee and Faith helped him into the jail office. He was bleeding freely, and the pain that twisted his long, odd face was etched deeply. He managed to say, “Quarles is riding.”

  Faith stood back and, without fastidiousness, wiped his blood from her hands. “On June?” she asked.

  “Split S is on his way to town,” Keinlan said. “Warn her.”

  Faith scooped a rifle from the rack behind the sheriff’s desk and hurried out. “Tell the others,” she called back to her uncle.

  “Wait,” Keinlan said to McFee. “I got something to say.”

  McFee tried to get him to a chair, but Keinlan folded to the floor. “Leave me be,” he said painfully. “Not much time.” He began to talk slowly, with a great deal of effort. He told about his plans and about Arden. He told McFee Arden’s scheme to cross Quarles. He sai
d that Biddle had got Arden. When he had finished, he fumbled uncertainly for a cigar.

  McFee got it for him and struck a match. “I’m going after the Doc,” he said.

  “Not time enough,” Keinlan answered.

  McFee watched the cigar smoke slide in slowly and come out in a painful cloud. Keinlan was even smiling a little. McFee said, “What did you want? Wasn’t a good living enough?”

  “A living?” Keinlan coughed, and the effort brought fresh sweat to his face. “No, I wanted more. A man always does. What’s a living?” He spoke haltingly. “But I didn’t want Quarles sharing it. His greed is too big. Never give anything to Quarles’ kind. I wanted more — but he wanted it all.”

  He coughed again, and his voice came slower, weaker. “Remember that, never give anything to his kind.”

  “I’ll remember,” McFee said grimly.

  “If you live long enough,” Keinlan answered. The cigar fell from his fingers and hissed out in a pool of blood seeping from under him. “Arden didn’t get what he wanted any more than I did,” he added.

  “I’ll find the Doc,” McFee said again. But when he looked at Keinlan he could see it would be no use. Putting the dead man’s hat over his face, the sheriff hurried out.

  • • •

  Brad heard the two shots and came alert. He caught the sound of a horse running rapidly, and the fact that it was fading puzzled him. By the stars he judged that it was close to midnight, and he suspected it was about time for another attack by Double Q.

  When there were no further sounds, he slipped out of the overhang with Olaf and got their horses. They worked carefully around the meadow until they were on the trail. From a small bench that overlooked the valley the last of Parker’s fire caught Brad’s eye.

  “Burning,” he said. His voice was low and hard.

  “Split S?” Olaf asked.

  “South of town. I’d say Parker.” He paused. “It will be Split S next, if that’s so.”

  They went on down the trail, and before long Brad discovered the reason for the shots. He left the saddle at the sight of the dark mound lying in his path. He lit a match and bent, studying Arden in silence.