Novel 1954 - Utah Blaine (As Jim Mayo) (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “He’ll have his chance.”

  She shrugged, then smiled at him. “Oh, I shouldn’t argue! You’re probably right. Only…only…only I’d feel safer if you were over there with me. Maria is wonderful, and I know she would die for me, and so would Kelsey and Timm, but neither of them could face Clell. He frightens me.”

  He looked at her quickly. “You don’t think he’d bother you?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him. Or the others.” She was not being honest and she knew it. Clell—well, he might—but she doubted it. He liked telling her off, he liked being impudent because she had been boss so long, but Clell for all his killing and the innate vicious streak he undoubtedly had, was always respectful to women. Even, she had heard, to bad women.

  Yet she could see her suggestion had influenced Utah. He was disturbed, and she set herself to play upon this advantage. He was handsome, she told herself. And the first man she had ever seen whom she could really admire. It would be pleasant to have him at the ranch.

  “It seems so silly,” she said, “you and Rip Coker down there batching when you could be having your meals with us. I can cook and so can Maria. And you know how foolish it is to divide our forces.”

  “I’ll see Ortmann first,” he said. “Then I’ll come back this way and I’ll bring Coker.”

  They left it at that.

  *

  ALL WAS QUIET on the ranch when Blaine rode in, and none of the men were back. Rip walked out from the house with a Winchester in the crook of his arm. Briefly, Blaine explained the plan. Coker shrugged, “Well, it gives us some help we can use. I know those boys. One thing about them, they’ll stick.”

  “All right,” he said, “first thing tomorrow I’m heading for Ortmann’s bunch. I’m going to try to swing him my way.”

  “You won’t do it.”

  “We’ll see, anyway. Want to come along?”

  Coker chuckled. “I wouldn’t miss it. I want to see your expression when you see that gent. He’s bigger’n a horse, I tell you.”

  The next morning they were on their way. The trail led back to the rim of Tule Mesa and ran along the Mesa itself. It provided Blaine with a new chance to study the country and he took time to turn and look off to the southeast toward the Mazatzals, twenty-five miles away to the southeast. It was all that had been implied from the looks of it, a far and rugged country.

  Rip rode without talking, his eyes always alert. They had reached the Yellowjacket Trail before he spoke.

  “Neal’s got me worried. What if something happens to him? I mean, what happens to you?”

  It was a good question, and it started Utah thinking. He had come with the backing and authority of Neal, but if Neal died or was killed, he would be strictly on his own. His lips tightened at the thought. “No need to worry about that. Cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Better think of it.” Coker shifted his seat in the saddle. “I’ll bet Nevers has.”

  “What about Nevers? You know him?”

  “Yep. He’s one o’ those gents who puts up an honest front but who’s been mixed in a lot of dirty stuff. He’s got guts, Utah, an’ he’s a wolf on the prowl, a hungry wolf. He’s strong, tough, and smart. He’s not erratic like Fox. He’s no gunman, but he’s been in a lot of fights. He’ll be hard to handle.”

  Blaine shrugged and swung his horse into Yellowjacket Canyon. “None of them are easy.”

  Almost at once he saw the shacks. There were at least twenty of them. Not more than half of them were occupied, and the others were in varying stages of ruin. There was a long building with a porch on which was a sign that informed the wandering public that here was a saloon and store. Several loafers sat on the edge of the porch, legs dangling.

  Blaine drew up. “Howdy, boys. Ortmann around?”

  One of the men jerked his head. “Inside.”

  Utah dropped to the ground and Coker glanced at him, his eyes faintly amused. “I’ll stand by,” he said, “an’ keep ’em off your back.”

  Utah grinned. “Keep ’em off yours,” he retorted. Turning he walked up the steps. The loafers were all hardcases, he could see that. They eyed him wearily and glanced curiously at the hatchet-faced blond man who leaned against the watering trough.

  There were three men inside the store and one of them was Lud Fuller.

  Blaine stopped abruptly. “What you doin’ over here, Lud?”

  Fuller shifted his feet. He hadn’t expected to meet Blaine and was confused. “Huntin’ cows,” he said bluntly.

  “You’ll find some back near the end of Chalktank,” Blaine told him. “We rode past a few on the way up.”

  He turned then to look at the big man who sat on the counter. Blaine was to learn that Ortmann always sat on the counter because he had no chair to fit his huge size. He was the biggest man Blaine had ever seen, wide in the shoulder with a massive chest and huge hands. That he stood at least eight inches over six feet, Blaine could believe, and all his body was massive in proportion to his height.

  “You’re Blaine.” Ortmann said it flatly and without emphasis.

  “And you’re Ortmann.” Neither man made an effort to shake hands, but sized each other up coolly. Blaine’s two hundred pounds of compact rangerider was dwarfed by the size of this man.

  “I’m in a fight, Ortmann.” Blaine had no intention of beating around the bush. “Neal is out of the state and I’m in charge here. It seems that everybody in this country has just been waitin’ for a chance to grab off a chunk of 46 range.”

  “Includin’ me,” Ortmann acknowledged. His face was very wide and his jaw and cheekbones flat and heavy. He wore a short beard and his neck was a column of muscle coming from the homespun shirt. The chest was matted with hair.

  “Includin’ you,” Blaine agreed. “But I’m goin’ to win this fight, Ortmann, an’ the fewer who get hurt the better. You,” he said, “size up like a tough chunk of man. You’ve got some salty lads.”

  “You biddin’ for our help?” Ortmann asked.

  “I want no help. I’m askin’ you to stay out. Let me handle the big outfits. I don’t want you on my back while I’m tangling with the others.”

  “That’s smart.” Ortmann turned his glass in his fingers. He drank from a water glass and in his huge hand it looked like something a doll might use. “That’s smart for you. Not so smart for me. That there range is free range. As long as a man uses it, he’s got a rightful claim. When he steps out, it falls to him who can hold it. Well, me an’ the boys want grass. We want plowland. It lays there for us.”

  “No.” Blaine’s voice was cool. “You will never have one acre of that ground unless by permission from Joe Neal or myself. Not one acre. I say it here and now, and it will stick that way.

  “Nor will anybody else. I’m saying that now and I hope you spread it around. All the ideas these would-be range grabbers have, they’d better forget. The 46 isn’t givin’ up anything.”

  “You talk mighty big. You ain’t even got an outfit.”

  Utah Blaine did not smile. He did not move. He merely said quietly, “I’m my own outfit.” Despite himself, Ortmann was impressed. “I don’t need your help.”

  “In answer to your question.” Ortmann got to his feet. “No, I won’t lay off. Me an’ the boys will move in whenever the time’s ripe. You’re through. The 46 is through. You ain’t got a chance. The wolves will pull you down just like they pulled down Gid Blake.”

  Utah Blaine’s eyes grew bleak and cold. “Have it your way, Ortmann,” he said flatly. “But if that’s the way you want it, the fight starts here.”

  For an instant the giant’s eyes blinked. He was startled, and felt a reluctant admiration for this man. There was Ortmann, a giant unchallenged for strength and fighting fury. There were twenty of his men within call, and yet Blaine challenged him.

  “You think you can kill me with that gun.” Ortmann placed his big hands on his hips. “You might do it, but you’d never stop me before I got my hands on you. And th
en I’d kill you.”

  Blaine laughed harshly. “You think so?” He turned his head slightly. “Rip!” he yelled. “Come an’ hold my coat! I’m goin’ to whip the tallow out of this big moose!”

  “Why, you damn’ fool!” Fuller burst out. “He’ll kill you!”

  “You’d better hope he does,” Blaine replied shortly. “I’ll settle with you afterward.”

  As Coker came through the door, Blaine stripped off his guns and handed them to him. “Ortmann,” he said, “my guns would stop you because every bullet would be in your heart. I can center every shot in the space of a dollar at a hundred yards. You’d be easy. But you’re too good a man to kill, so I’m just goin’ to whip you with my hands.”

  “Whip me?” Ortmann was incredulous.

  “That’s right.” Utah Blaine grinned suddenly. He felt great. Something welled up inside of him, the fierce old love of battle that was never far from the surface. “You can be had, big boy. I’ll bet you’ve never had a dozen fights in your life. You’re too big. Well, I’ve had a hundred. Come on, you big lug, stack your duds and grease your skids. I’m goin’ to tear down your meat house!”

  Ortmann lunged, amazingly swift for such a big man, but Utah’s hands were up and he stabbed a jarring left to the teeth that flattened Ortmann’s lips back. A lesser man would have been stopped in his tracks. It didn’t even slow the giant.

  One huge fist caught Blaine a jarring blow as he rolled to escape the punch. But with the same roll he threw a right to the heart. It landed solidly, and flat-footed, feet wide apart, Utah rolled at the hips and hooked his left to Ortmann’s belly. The punches landed hard and they hurt. Blaine went down in a half crouch and hooked a wide right that clipped Ortmann on the side of the head.

  Ortmann stopped in his tracks and blinked. “You—you can hit!” he said, and lunged.

  Chapter 7

  *

  ORTMANN PUNCHED SWIFTLY, left and right. Utah slipped away from the left, but the right caught him in the chest and knocked him to the floor. Ortmann rushed him, but Blaine rolled over swiftly and came up, jarring against the counter as Ortmann closed in. Utah smashed a wicked short right to the belly and then a left. Burying his skull against the big man’s chest, he began to swing in with both fists.

  Ortmann got an arm around Blaine’s body and held the punching left off. Then Ortmann smashed ponderously at Blaine’s face. The blows thudded against cheekbone and skull and lights burst in Blaine’s brain. Smashing down with the inside of his boot against Ortmann’s shin, Blaine drove all his weight on the big man’s instep. Ortmann let go with a yell and staggered back, and then Blaine hit him full.

  Ortmann went back three full steps with Blaine closing in fast. But close against the counter the big man rolled aside and swung a left to the mouth and Blaine tasted blood. Wild with fury he drove at Ortmann, smashing with both fists, and Ortmann met him. Back they went. Ortmann suddenly reached out and grabbed Blaine by the arm and threw him against the door.

  It swung back on its hinges and Blaine crashed through, off the porch and into the gray dust of the road. Following him, Ortmann sprang from the porch, his heels raised to crush the life from Utah. But swiftly Blaine had rolled over and staggered to his feet. He was more shaken than hurt. He blinked. Then as Ortmann hit the ground, momentarily off balance, Blaine swung. His fist flattened against Ortmann’s nose and knocked him back against the porch. Crouched, Blaine stared at him through trickling sweat and blood. “How d’ you like it, big fella?” he said, and walked in.

  Ortmann ducked a left and smashed a right to Utah’s ribs that stabbed pain into his vitals. He staggered back and fell, gasping wide-mouthed for air. Ortmann came in and swung a heavy boot for his face. Blaine slapped it out of line and lunged upward, grabbing the big man in the crotch with one hand and by the shirt front with the other.

  The momentum of Ortmann’s rush and the pivot of Blaine’s arms carried the big man off his feet and up high. Then Blaine threw him to the ground. Ortmann hit hard, and Blaine staggered back, glad for the momentary respite. Panting and mopping blood from his face, he watched the big man climb slowly to his feet.

  Blaine had been wearing a skin tight glove on his left hand, and now he slipped another on his right, meanwhile watching the big man get up. Blaine’s shirt was in rags and he ripped the few streamers of cloth away. His body was brown and powerful muscles rippled under the skin. He moved in, and Ortmann grinned at him. “Come on, little fella! Let’s see you fight!”

  Toe to toe they stood and slugged, smashing blows that were thrown with wicked power. Skull to skull they hit and battered. Ortmann’s lips were pulp, a huge mouse was under one eye, almost closing it. There was a deep cut on Blaine’s cheekbone and blood flowed continually. Inside his mouth there was a wicked cut.

  Then Blaine stepped back suddenly. He caught Ortmann by the shoulder and pulled him forward, off balance. At the same time, he smashed a right to Ortmann’s kidney.

  Ortmann staggered, and Blaine moved quickly in and stabbed a swift left to the mouth. Then another. Then a hard driven left to the body followed by a right.

  Blaine circled warily now, staying out of reach of those huge hands, away from that incredible weight. His legs felt leaden, his breath came in gasps. But he circled then stepped in with a left to the head, and setting himself, smashed a right to the body. Ortmann went back a full step, his big head swaying like that of a drunken bear. Blaine moved in. He set himself and whipped that right to the body again, then a left and another right. Ortmann struck out feebly, and Blaine caught the wrist and threw Ortmann with a rolling hip-lock.

  Ortmann got up slowly. His eyes were glazed, his face a smear of blood. He opened and closed his fingers, then started for Blaine. And Blaine came to meet him, low and hard, with a tackle around the knees. Ortmann tried to kick, but he was too slow. Blaine’s shoulder struck and he went down. Quickly, Utah rolled free and got to his feet.

  Ortmann got up, huge, indomitable, but whipped. Blaine backed off. “You’re whipped, Ort,” he said hoarsely, “don’t make me hit you again.”

  “You wanted to fight,” Ortmann said, “come on!”

  “You’re through” Blaine repeated. “From here on I’d cut you to ribbons, an’ what would it prove? You’re a tough man, an’ you’re game, but you’re also licked.”

  Ortmann put a hand to his bloody face then stared at his fingers. He looked disgusted. “Why,” he said, “I guess you’re right!” He mopped at his face. Then he stared at Blaine, who was standing, bloody and battered, swaying on his feet, but ready. “You don’t look so good yourself. Let’s have a drink.”

  Arm in arm the two men staggered into the store and Ortmann got down a bottle and poured two big drinks, slopping the liquor on the counter. “Here,” Blaine said, “is to a first class fightin’ man!”

  Ortmann lifted his glass, grinning with the good side of his mouth. They tossed off their drinks, and then Blaine turned abruptly to Lud Fuller who had followed them inside. “Lud, you’re fired. Get your stuff off the place by sundown and you get out of the country. You tried to hang Joe Neal, tried to hang him slow so he’d strangle. You tried to double-cross me. If I see you after sundown tonight, I’ll kill you!”

  Lud’s face grew ugly. “You talk big,” he sneered, “for a man who ain’t wearin’ a gun! I’ve got a notion to—” his hand was on his gun.

  “It’s a bad notion, Lud,” Rip Coker said, “but if you want to die, just try draggin’ iron. Blaine ain’t got a gun, but I have!”

  Lud Fuller stared at Coker. The blond man’s face was wicked in the dim light of the door. He stood lazily, hands hanging, but he was as ready as a crouching cougar. Fuller saw it and recognized what he saw. With a curse he swung out and walked from the room.

  The return to the 46 was slow. Twice Blaine stopped and was sick. He had taken a wicked punch or two in the body and when he breathed a pain stabbed at his side. Rip Coker’s eyes roved ceaselessly. “Wish Fuller had gone for his
gun,” he complained bitterly. “As long as he’s alive he’s a danger. He’s yella, an’ them kind worry me. They don’t face up to a man. Not a bit.”

  Miles away, on the B-Bar, Timm paced restlessly while awaiting the return of Kelsey. He should have been back by now. Some of the crew were down in the bunkhouse and drunk. Where the liquor had come from he did not know, but he could guess. With Kelsey around he wouldn’t be worried, but this was too big a house for one man to defend. Maria came in and brought him coffee. When at last they heard a rattle of hoofs, Timm ran to the door. It was Mary.

  “Gosh, Ma’am!” His voice shook. “I sure am glad to see you back! I been worried. Tom ain’t showed up.”

  “Is Clell out there?”

  “I don’t figure so. He rode off an’ I ain’t seen him come back.” Timm walked restlessly from window to window. “You better eat something. Did you see Blaine?”

  “Yes. He’s with us. And Rip Coker is with him.”

  That was good news to Timm. Utah’s reputation was widely known, and while he knew little of Rip Coker, it was sufficient to know the man was a fighter. Nevertheless, knowing Tom Kelsey as he did, his continued absence worried him.

  “When’s Blaine showin’ up?” he asked.

  “He wanted to see Ortmann first. He thinks he can talk him out of butting in until the fight is over.”

  “Ma’am, where could Kelsey go? This ain’t right. He was to start me back for here, which he done. Then he was to see Blaine. An’ as Blaine met you, he sure enough did that—but where is he now?”

  *

  HOWEVER, TOM KELSEY was not thinking of Timm. Nor was he thinking of getting back to the B-Bar. He was lying face down in the trail atop Mocking Bird Pass with three bullets in his body and his gun lying near his outflung hand.

  Kelsey lay there in the road, his blood darkening the sand. A slow cool wind wound through the trees. Leaves stirred on the brush. His horse walked a few feet away, then looked back nervously, not liking the smell of blood. Then it walked into the thick green grass and began to crop grass. Kelsey did not move. The wind stirred the thin material on the back of his vest, moved his neckerchief.