Utah Blaine and Rip Coker found him there just at sundown. The best route from Yellowjacket to the B-Bar lay over 22 Mesa and through Mocking Bird. They switched horses at the Rice place on Sycamore. Rice was a lonely squatter who gardened a little, trapped a little, and broke a few wild horses he found in the canyon country. He was neutral and would always be. He took their horses without comment, glancing at Blaine’s swollen and battered face with interest. But he asked no questions. “Take good care of that stallion,” Blaine said. “I’ll be back.”
On fresh horses they pushed on, holding to a rapid gait. Things would begin to break fast now; they knew that. There was no time to be lost. Dusk was well along before they pushed into the Pass. Blaine was riding ahead when suddenly he reined in and palmed his gun. “Horse ahead,” he said hoarsely. “No rider.”
Rip grabbed his Winchester out of the bucket and spurred forward. Alert for an ambush, they glimpsed Kelsey’s body almost at once. “Man down!” Rip said, and swung from the saddle. Then he swore.
“Who is it?” Blaine dropped to the ground.
“Kelsey. He’s shot to doll rags. How he stayed alive this long, I don’t know.”
Blaine turned abruptly into a small copse and began breaking up dead dry branches. Swiftly, he built a fire. Making a square dish of birch bark, he began to boil water. Then he helped Coker carry the injured man to the fire. Coker stared at the bark container.
“Hell,” he said, “why doesn’t it burn? I never saw that before.”
“Water absorbs the heat,” Blaine explained. “Don’t let the flames get above the water level. It’s an Injun trick.”
Working swiftly, they removed enough of Kelsey’s clothes to get at the wounds. All were bad. Two were through the stomach and one right below the heart. There was, and both of them knew it, not one chance in a million.
Blaine bathed the wounds with hot water and then bandaged them. Kelsey stirred on the ground and then opened his eyes. “Blaine,” he muttered. “Got to see Blaine.”
“I’m here, Tom,” Utah said. “Who shot you?”
“Blaine!” he groaned. “Blaine! You got to run! All of you! Get out! Mil—Miller told me. Neal’s dead. Killed. They are all comin’ after you.”
Coker swore. Crouching over Kelsey’s body, he demanded quickly, impatiently, “Tom—you sure?”
“Rink…Rink killed him.”
“Rink,” Coker straightened to his feet. “That tears it. If Rink went after Neal, then he’s dead. That means you’re out, Utah.”
“Like hell.” Utah was still working over the wounded man. “Take it easy, Tom.”
“It ain’t what you think I’m talkin’ about,” Coker protested. “It’s them. With Neal dead you’ve no authority. The lid’s off an’ they’ll come like locusts. An’ they’ll hunt you—us—like animals.”
“Maybe.” Utah’s jaw was set, his face grim. Suddenly, he was tired. He had tried, but now Neal was dead. That good old man, murdered by Rink Witter.
Rink…well, that was something he could do. “I’ll kill Rink,” he said quietly.
“If you stay alive long enough.” Coker was pacing the ground. “God, man. They’ll all be after us! We’ll have a real fight now!”
“Clell Miller did this?” Utah asked.
Kelsey was growing weaker. “Yes,” he said faintly. “Don’t mind me. I’m—I’m—finished. Ride. Get out.”
He started a deep breath and never finished it.
Utah swore softly. “Good man gone,” he said, unconsciously speaking his epitaph. “Let’s get out of here. Timm will be alone at that ranch.”
“Take his guns. We’ll need ’em. I’ll get his rifle and start his horse home.”
They mounted again and rode off in silence, leaving behind them the body of a “good man gone.”
When they crossed the ridge near Bloody Basin they could see, several miles off, the lights at the Big N.
“There they are,” Coker said bitterly. “Gettin’ ready for us.”
Utah’s comment was dry. “What you kickin’ about? You asked for a fight.”
“You stickin’ it out?”
“Sure.”
Coker smiled. This was his kind of man. “You got a partner,” he said quietly. Then he added, “You take Rink. I want Clell.”
Chapter 8
*
RINK WITTER HAD come upon Neal at Congress Junction. Witter, under orders from Nevers, had started for El Paso to find and kill Joe Neal. He arrived at the Junction in time to see Joe Neal get down from a cattle train, and Witter swung down from his horse and walked up the platform. Neal did not see him until they were less than twenty feet apart.
“Hello, Joe,” Rink Witter said, and shot him three times through the stomach. As the old man fell, Witter walked up to him, kicked away the hand that groped for a gun and shot Neal again, between the eyes. Then he walked unhurriedly to his horse, mounted and rode back to the Big N.
The news swept the country like wildfire. Neal was dead. Blaine, therefore, no longer had any authority. The few who had lagged now saw there was no longer any reason for delay. As one man they started to move. Nevers began at once to gather his forces. He wanted to be on the 46 range in force before any opposition could arrive. Then he could dictate terms.
Otten worried him none at all despite the man’s political influence over the Territory. Nevers figured they could buy Otten off with a few square miles of range which he would accept rather than enter a free-for-all fight. There would be trouble with Ortmann, but with Clell and Fuller’s men that could be handled. It was Lee Fox who worried Nevers—far more than he would have admitted.
Fox, at Table Mountain, was between Nevers and the bulk of the 46 range. Moreover, Fox was a highly volatile person, one whose depth or ability could not be gauged. He was given to sudden driving impulses, and reason had no part in them. If he went into one of his killing furies the range might be soaked with blood within the week.
Nevertheless, Nevers fully appreciated the strategic value of the accomplished fact. If he were sitting at Headquarters on the 46, his position would be strong and he could dictate terms. Moreover, because of his affiliation with the hands of the two big spreads, he far outnumbered the others.
*
WHEN CLELL MILLER reached the ranch house on the 46 he found it almost deserted. A few of the hands were around and they told him that neither Utah nor Lud were around. Fuller and some of his men had been sent off to work the north range and had not returned. Rip Coker was riding with Blaine.
Clell considered that while he built a smoke. Coker was a tough hand. If he had decided to ride with Blaine, they would make a tough combination to buck. Alone he couldn’t tackle them. He turned his horse and rode south, heading for the river and the easiest route to the Big N.
Clell Miller was a man at odds with himself. For the first time a killing was riding him hard. The memory of the falling of Tom Kelsey, and the memory of just how good a man Kelsey had been nagged at him and worried him. He could not shake it off, and that had never been true before. An old timer had told him just what would happen, and that was years ago. “You’re fast with your guns, Clell,” he had said. “But someday you’ll shoot the wrong man an’ you’ll never rest easy again.”
Hunching his shoulders against the chill, Miller stared bitterly into the darkness. The night seemed unusually cold, and suddenly he felt a sharp distaste for going back to the Big N, for seeing those hot, greedy eyes of Nevers, the dried-up, poison-mean face of Rink Witter.
*
UTAH BLAINE RODE up to the B-Bar and swung down. Then he said to Rip, “We’ll have a showdown with the crew, right now.”
He walked swiftly to the bunkhouse. Coker heard Timm come to the door. “Stay where you are, Timm. We’ll handle it.” He walked after Blaine who threw open the door of the bunkhouse and stepped in.
Five men were there. The other hands were off somewhere. One of those was dead drunk and snoring on a bunk. The others looked u
p when Blaine stepped in. Coker followed and moved swiftly to the right.
“Showdown, men!” Blaine spoke crisply. “All cards on the table. Neal’s been murdered by Rink Witter. Clell Miller has killed Tom Kelsey, shot him down up on the Mocking Bird. Now you declare yourselves. If you’re with us, fine! If you’re not, you ride off the ranch right this minute, just as you are. If you want to call, shuck your iron and let’s see how many of you die game!”
Nobody moved. Not a man there but had used a gun. Not a man there but who had been in fights. So they knew this one, and they liked nothing about it. With those two men facing them even their numerical superiority would not help. Several men would die in those close quarters and none of them wanted to die. Each seemed to feel that Blaine was directing his full attention at him.
“Always wanted a shot at some of you,” Coker said easily. “Suppose we settle this fight right now. If you boys want it, you can have it.”
A short, squat man with a stubble of coarse beard and a bald head spoke. “We’ll ride out. We ain’t afeerd, but we ain’t buckin’ no stacked deck. Do we take our guns?”
Blaine laughed. “Why, sure! I’d never shoot an unarmed man an’ some of you rannies may need killin’! Take ’em along, but remember this: if I ever see any one of you east of Copper Creek or north of Deadman again, he’d better be grabbin’ iron when I see him.”
“My sentiments,” Coker agreed. “Any of you feel like takin’ a hand right now? Utah figures we should give you an out. Me, I’d as soon open the pot right now.”
The bald man stared at him. “You wait. You’ll get yours. You ain’t so salty.”
“Want to freshen me up?” Coker invited. “I think we ought to shorten the odds right here.”
The man would say no more, but a tall, lean man in long underwear looked at Blaine. “Don’t I get to put on no pants?” his voice was plaintive.
“You look better that way. I said you ride the way you are. If you hate to lose your gear, blame it on double-crossin’ your brand.”
The men trooped out, taking the dead drunk with them. One after another they rounded up their horses, mounted and rode off. There were no parting yells, nothing.
Mary Blake was standing in the doorway. Timm got up from where he had been crouched by the window with his Winchester.
“Utah! You’re back! I was so worried!” she cried.
“Seen Tom?” Timm asked quickly.
Blaine hesitated, feeling how well these men had known each other. “Tom won’t be back,” he said quietly. “Clell Miller killed him on Mocking Bird.”
Timm swore softly. “I was afraid of that. He was a good man, Tom was.” He rubbed a fumbling hand over his chin. “Rode together eight years, the two of us. I wish,” he added, “I was a gunslinger.”
“Don’t worry,” Coker promised, “I’ll stake out that hide myself.”
Blaine walked restlessly across the room. He had never liked being cooped up when a fight was coming. It was his nature to attack. Nor did he like the presence of the women. Bluntly, he explained the situation to Mary. “The stage for hesitation is over now,” he said quietly, “and all the chips are down. You’d better go.”
“And leave you to fight them alone?” she protested. “I’ll not go.”
“It would be better if you did,” he told her. “We may have to leave here, fight somewhere else.”
Coker took his rifle and went outside, moving off into the night, and heading away from the house. Timm walked out on the porch and stood there, lighting his pipe. He felt lost without Kelsey. It seemed impossible that Tom could be dead.
“Mary,” Utah said it quietly, “I wish you would go. Red Creek if you like, or over east of here, to that Mormon settlement. You might be safer there. All hell’s breakin’ loose now.”
She looked at him, her eyes serious. “What will you do? What can you do now? Against them all, I mean? And without the backing of Joe Neal’s authority?”
He had been thinking of that. The murder of Neal cut the ground from beneath his feet. Neal had no heirs and so the range would go by default. He might, of course, claim it himself. Had he the fighting men to enforce such a claim, he might even make it stick. But he had no such men nor the money to pay them.
Nor could they hope to hold out long against the forces to be thrown against them. “We’ve got to get out.” He said it reluctantly but positively. “We’ve got to move. We’d be foolish to try to hold them off for long, but I will try. If we fail, then we’ll run.”
Coker had come back to the door. “Riders headed this way. What do we do?”
Utah turned to the door. “Better ride out, Mary. This isn’t going to be nice.”
“Are you quitting?”
He laughed without humor. “You’re the second to ask me that question in the last few hours. No, I’m not quitting. A man killed Joe Neal. Another man ordered it. I’ve a job to do.”
Rip Coker was leaning against the corner of the house. He looked around as Blaine walked over to him. “Quite a bunch. Timm’s bedded down by that stone well.”
“All right. Hold your fire unless they open the ball. If they do, don’t miss any shots.”
“Who’s goin’ to miss?”
Utah Blaine walked slowly down the trail. The moon was up and the night was bright. As the riders neared they slowed their pace. Blaine moved forward. “All right, hold it up!”
They drew up, a solid rank of at least twenty men. “That you, Blaine?”
“Sure. Who’d you expect? You murdered Joe Neal.”
There was a short, pregnant silence. Nevers replied, his rage stifled. “All right, so Neal’s dead. That finishes you on this place.”
“I’d not say so. If Neal had lived he might have fired me. As it is, he can’t. I was given a job. Nobody has taken me off. I plan to stay.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Nevers burst out. “I’ve twenty men here! I’m takin’ over this spread right now.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Blaine replied quietly, “an’ if you do take over, Nevers, you’ll have fewer men than you’ve got now. And also,” he paused slightly, “I’ll be back.”
“Not if you die now.”
Blaine lifted his voice. “Boys, you’re backin’ this gent. Let’s see what kind of an Injun he is. Nevers, I’ll take you right now, with any man you pick to side you. I’ll take the two of you right here in the moonlight, Nevers. Come on, how much guts have you got?”
It was the last thing in the world that Nevers had expected. Moreover, it was the last thing he wanted. With nerve enough for most purposes, he had no stomach for facing a gunfighter of Blaine’s reputation—not even with a man to help him. He knew, just as Blaine had known he would, that Blaine’s first shot would be for him—and it wouldn’t miss.
Yet he knew how much depended on courageous leadership. Men, particularly Western men, do not follow cowards. He had been fairly called, and his mind groped for a way out, an excuse.
“What’s the matter, Nevers? Not ready to die?” Utah taunted. “Don’t worry too much. My hands aren’t in the best shape right now, an’ you might have a chance.” He was stalling for time, trying to turn their attack, or at least to dull its force. “They took quite a hammering yesterday when I whipped Ortmann.”
“When you what?”
That was somebody back in the crowd, one of the silent riders who waited the outcome of this talk.
From off to the left, Rip Coker spoke up. He wanted them to know he was there, too. “That’s right, boys. Blaine gave Ortmann the beating of his life. Called him right in his own place of business and whipped him good. Although,” he added, “I’d say Ort put up one hell of a scrap.”
“Did you hear that?” One rider was speaking to another. “Utah Blaine whipped Ortmann—with his fists!”
“Wish you gents would make up your minds to die,” Coker commented casually. “This here Colt shotgun is loadin’ my arms down.”
Rip Coker was carrying a Winchester, b
ut he was well back. He knew all they could see was light on his barrel. A Colt revolving shotgun carried four shells and no man in his right mind likes to buck a shotgun. It was a shrewd comment, well calculated to inspire distaste for battle in that vague light.
“Yeah,” Timm’s voice came from the well coping. “You hombres make a right tempting target. This Spencer sure can’t miss at this range!”
All was quiet. Nobody spoke for several minutes. Nevers held himself still, glad that attention was off him for the minute. He had no desire to meet Blaine with guns now or at any time, yet he knew of no easy way out of the situation he was in. He had been neatly and effectually out-guessed and it infuriated him. Moreover, with a kind of intuition he knew that the men behind him had lost their enthusiasm for the attack. Blaine was bad enough, but that shotgun…a blast from a shotgun did awful things to a man, and this gun held four shells. And there was the possibility of reloads before they could get to him.
The Spencer .56 was no bargain either.
“All right!” Blaine stepped forward suddenly, gauging their hesitancy correctly. “Show’s over for tonight. You boys want this ranch, you take it the hard way. Let’s start back.”
Nevers found his voice. “All right,” he said evenly, “we’ll go. But come daylight, we’ll be back.”
“Why sure! Glad to have you!” Blaine was chuckling. “Room enough on this place to bury the lot of you.”
Slowly, those in the rear began to back off. None of them seemed anxious to push ahead. Reluctantly, stifling his frustration and fury, Nevers followed his retreating men.
Rip Coker walked over slowly. “It’ll never be that close again,” he said sincerely. “I had goose flesh all over me there for a minute.”
“That shotgun remark was sheer genius, Rip,” Blaine said.
Coker was pleased. “Just a trick idea. I sure wouldn’t want to buck a shotgun in the dark.”
“What’s next?” Timm had walked up. “I was listenin’ for Clell, but I don’t think he was with this outfit.”
Novel 1954 - Utah Blaine (As Jim Mayo) (v5.0) Page 6