Collection 1990 - Grub Line Rider (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Checking his guns, he limped slowly down into the brush. Here weakness suddenly overcame him, and he slumped to a sitting position. He had hurt his leg badly, and his head was swimming.

  He squinted his eyes, squeezing them shut and opening them, trying to clear his brain. The hammering in his skull continued, and he sat very still, his head bulging with pain, his eyes watching a tiny lizard darting among the stones. How long he sat there he did not know, but when he got started moving again, he noticed that the sun was well past the zenith.

  Obviously he had been unconscious for some time in the brush, and had lost more time now. Limping, but moving carefully, he wormed his way along the gully into which he had fallen and slowly managed to mount the steep, tree-covered face of the bluff beyond where he had fallen.

  Then, lowering himself to the ground, he rested for a few minutes, before dragging himself on. He needed water, and badly. Most of all, he had to know what had happened. Apparently Targ was still in command of the situation. The herd had come through, but Monaghan’s riders must have been driven off. Undoubtedly Targ had the most men. Bitterly he thought of his boasts to Rusty and what they had amounted to. He had walked into a trap like any child.

  It took him almost an hour of moving and resting to get near the falls. Watching his chance, he slid down to the water and got a drink, and then, crouching in the brush, he examined his leg. As he had suspected, no bones were broken, but the flesh was badly lacerated from falling into the branches, and he must have lost a good deal of blood. Carefully he bathed the wound in the cold water from the pool, then bound it up as well as he could by tearing his shirt and using his handkerchief.

  When he had finished, he crawled into the brush and lay there like a wounded animal, his eyes closed, his body heavy with the pulsing of pain in his leg and the dull ache in his skull.

  Somehow he slept, and, when he awakened, he smelled smoke. Lifting his head, he stared around into the darkness. Night had fallen, and there was a heavy bank of clouds overhead, but beyond the pool was the brightness of a fire. Squinting his eyes, he could see several moving figures, and no one sitting down. The pool at this point was no more than twenty feet across, and he could hear their voices clearly and distinctly.

  “Might as well clean ’em up now, Targ,” somebody was saying in a heavy voice. “He pushed these cattle in here, an’ it looks like he was trying to make an issue of it. Let’s go down there tonight.”

  “Not tonight, Tanner.” Targ’s voice was slower, lighter. “I want to be sure. When we hit them, we’ve got to wipe them out, leave nobody to make any complaint or push the case. It will be simple enough for us to tell our story and make it stick if they don’t have anybody on their side.”

  “Who rightly owns this range?” Tanner asked.

  Targ shrugged. “Anybody who can hold it. Mon-aghan wanted it, and I told everybody to lay off. Told them how much I wanted it and what would happen if they tried to move in. They said I’d no right to hold range I wasn’t usin’, an’ I told them to start something, an’ I’d show ’em my rights with a gun. I like this country, and I mean to hold it. I’ll get the cattle later. If any of these piddlin’ little ranchers wants trouble, I’ll give it to ’em.”

  “Might as well keep these cows and get the rest of what that Irishman’s got,” Tanner said. “We’ve got the guns. If they are wiped out, we can always say they started it, and who’s to say we’re wrong?”

  “Sure. My idea exactly,” Targ agreed. “I want that Monaghan’s ranch, anyway.” He laughed. “And that ain’t all he’s got that I want.”

  “Why not tonight? He’s only got four hands, and one of them is bad hurt or dead. At least one more is wounded a mite.”

  “Uhn-uh. I want that Sartain first. He’s around somewhere, you can bet on that. He’s hurt and hurt bad, but we didn’t find him at the foot of that cliff, so he must have got away somehow. I want to pin his ears back, good!”

  Kim eased himself deeper into the brush and tried to think his way out. His rifle was on his horse, and what had become of the dun he did not know. Obviously the Monaghan riders had returned to the Y7, but it was he who had led Tom Monaghan into this fight, and it was up to him to get him out. But how?

  The zebra dun, he knew, was no easy horse for a stranger to lay hands on. The chances were that the horse was somewhere out on the meadow, and his rifle with him. Across near the fire there were at least six men, and no doubt another one or two would be watching the trail down to the Y7.

  It began to look as if he had taken a bigger bite than he could handle. Maybe Rusty was right, after all, and he was just a loud-talking, drifting saddle bum who could get into trouble but not out of it. The thought stirred him to action. He eased back away from the edge of the pool, taking his time and moving soundlessly. Whatever was done must be done soon.

  The situation was simple enough. Obviously Monaghan and some of the small flatland ranchers needed this upper range, but Targ, while not using it himself, was keeping them off. Now he obviously intended to do more. Kim Sartain had started something that seemed about to destroy the people he called his friends. And the girl, too.

  He swallowed that one. Maybe he wasn’t the type for double harness, but if he was, Rusty Monaghan was the girl. And why shouldn’t he be? Ward McQueen had been the same sort of hombre as himself, and Ward was marrying his boss—as pretty a girl as ever owned a ranch.

  While he had decided to homestead this place simply because of Targ’s high-handed manner, he could see that it was an excellent piece of range. From talk at the Y7 he knew there were more of these mountain meadows, and some of the other ranchers from below could move their stock up. His sudden decision, while based on pure deviltry, was actually a splendid idea.

  His cattle were on the range, even if they still wore Monaghan’s brand. That was tantamount to possession if he could make it stick, and Kim Sartain was not a man given to backing down when his bluff was called. The camp across the pool was growing quiet, for one after another of the men was turning in. Aheavy-bodied, bearded man sat near the fire, half dozing. He was the one man on guard.

  Quietly Kim began to inch around the pool, and by the time an hour had passed and the riders were snoring loudly, he had completed the circuit to a point where he was almost within arm’s length of the nearest sleeper. En route he had acquired something else—a long, forked stick.

  With infinite care, he reached out and lifted the belt and holster of the nearest rider, then, using the stick, retrieved those of the man beyond. Working his way around the camp, he succeeded in getting all the guns but those of the watcher, and those of Tanner. These last he deliberately left behind.

  Twice, he had to lift guns from under the edges of blankets, but only once did a man stir and look around, but as all was quiet and he could see the guard by the fire, the man returned to his sleep.

  Now Kim got to his feet. His bad leg was stiff, and he had to shift it with care, but he moved to a point opposite the guard. This would be the risky part, and the necessity for taking chances. His Colt level at the guard, he tossed a pebble against the man’s chest. The fellow stirred, but did not look up.

  The next one caught him on the neck, and the guard looked up to see Kim Sartain, a finger across his lips for silence, the six-shooter to lend authority.

  The guard gulped loudly, then his lips slack ened and his eyes bulged. The heavy cheeks looked sick and flabby. With a motion of the gun, Kim indicated the man was to rise. Clumsily the fellow got to his feet and, at Sartain’s gesture, approached him. Then Sartain turned the man around, and was about to tie his hands when the fellow’s wits seemed to return. With more courage than wisdom, he suddenly bellowed: “Targ! Tanner! It’s him!”

  Kim Sartain’s pistol barrel clipped him a ringing blow on the skull, and the big guard went down in a heap. Looking across his body, Kim Sartain stood with both hands filled with lead pushers. “You boys sit right still,” he said, smiling.

  “I don’t aim
to kill anybody unless I have to. Now all of you but Tanner get up and move to the left.”

  He watched them with cat’s eyes as they moved, alert for any wrong move. When they were lined up opposite him, all either barefooted or in sock feet, he motioned to Tanner. “You get up. Now belt on your guns, but careful. Real careful.”

  The gunman got shakily to his feet, his eyes murderous. He had been awakened from a sound sleep to look into Sartain’s guns and see the hard blaze of the eyes beyond them. Nor did it pass unnoticed that all the guns had been taken but his, and his eyes narrowed, liking that implication not a bit.

  “Targ,” Kim said coldly, “you and your boys listen to me. I was ridin’ through this country a perfect stranger until you tried to get mean. I don’t like to have nobody ridin’ me, see? So I went to see Monaghan, who I’d never heard about until you mentioned him. I made a deal for cows, and I’m in these meadows to stay. You bit off more than you could chew. Moreover, you brought this yellow-streaked, coyote-killin’ Tanner in here to do your gun slinging for you. I hear he’s right good at it. And I hear he was huntin’ me. The rest of you boys are mostly cowhands. You know the right and wrong of this as well as I do. Well, right here and now we’re goin’ to settle my claim on this land. I left Tanner his guns after takin’ all yours because I figured he really wanted me. Now he’ll get his chance. Afterwards, if any of the rest of you want me, you can buy in, one at a time. When the shootin’s over here tonight, the fight’s over.”

  His eyes riveted on Targ. “You hear that, Jim Targ? Tanner gets his chance, then you do, if you want it. But you make no trouble for Tom Mon-aghan, and no trouble for me. You’re just a little man in a big country. You can keep your spread and run it small, or you can leave the country.”

  As he finished speaking, he turned back to Tanner. “Now, you killer for pay, you’ve got your guns. I’m going to holster mine.” His eyes swung to the waiting cowhands. “You”—he indicated an oldish man with cold blue eyes and drooping gray mustaches—“give the word.”

  With a flick of his hand, his gun dropped into its holster, and his hands to their sides. Jim Targ’s eyes narrowed, but his cowhands were all attention. Kim Sartain knew his Western men. Even outlaws like a man with nerve and would see him get a break.

  “Now!” The gray-mustached man yelled. “Go for ’em!”

  Tanner spread his hands wide. “No! No!” He screamed the words. “Don’t shoot!”

  He was unused to meeting men face to face with an even break. The very fact that Sartain had left his guns for him, a taunt and a dare as well as an indication of Sartain’s confidence, had wrecked what nerve the killer had.

  Now he stepped back, his face gray. With death imminent, all the courage went out of him. “I ain’t got no grudge ag’in’ you!” he protested. “It was that Targ! He set me on to you!”

  The man who had given the signal exploded with anger. “Well, of all the yellow, two-bit, four-flushin’ windbags!” His words failed him. “And you’re supposed to be tough,” he said contemptuously.

  Targ stared at Tanner, then shifted his eyes to Sartain. “That was a good play,” he said. “But I made no promises. Just because that coyote has yellow down his spine is no reason I forfeit this range.”

  “I said,” Sartain commented calmly, “the fighting ends here.” Stooping, he picked up one of the gun belts and tossed it to Targ’s feet. “There’s your chance, if you want a quick slide into the grave.”

  Targ’s face worked with fury. He had plenty of courage, but he was remembering that lightning draw of the day before, and knew he could never match it, not even approach it. “I’m no gunfighter!” he said furiously. “But I won’t quit! This here range belongs to me!”

  “My cattle are on it,” Kim said coolly. “I hold it. You set foot on it even once in the next year, and I’ll hunt you down wherever you are and shoot you like a dog.”

  Jim Targ was a study in anger and futility. His big hands opened and closed, and he muttered an oath. Whatever he was about to say was cut off short, for the gray-mustached hand yelled sud-denly: “Look out!”

  Kim wheeled, crouched, and drew as he turned. Tanner, his enemy’s attention distracted, had taken the chance he was afraid to take with Sartain’s eyes upon him. His gun was out and lifting, but Kim’s speed was as the dart of a snake’s head, a blur of motion, then a stab of red flame. Tanner’s shot plowed dust at his feet. Then the killer wilted at the knees, turned halfway around, and fell into the dust beside the fire.

  Sartain’s gun swung back, but Targ had not moved, nor had the others. For an instant, the tableau held, and then Kim Sartain holstered his gun.

  “Targ,” he said, “you’ve made your play, and I’ve called you. Looks to me like you’ve drawn to a pair of deuces.”

  For just a minute the cattleman hesitated. He had his faults, but foolishness was not one of them. He knew when he was whipped. “I guess I have,” he said ruefully. “Anyway, that trail would have been pure misery a-buildin’. Saves us a sight of work.”

  He turned away, and the hands bunched around him. All but the man with the gray mustache. His eyes twinkled.

  “Looks like you’ll be needin’ some help, Sar-tain. Are you hirin’?”

  “Sure.” Sartain grinned suddenly. “First thing, catch my horse…I’ve got me a game leg…and then take charge until I get back here.”

  The boardinghouse triangle at the Y7 was clanging loudly when the dun cantered into the yard.

  Kim dismounted stiffly and limped up the steps.

  Tom Monaghan came to his feet, his eyes widened. The hands stared. Kim noted with relief that all were there. One man had a bandage around his head; another had his arm in a sling, his left arm, so he could still eat.

  “Sort of wound things up,” Sartain explained. “There won’t be any trouble with Targ in the high meadows. Figured to drop down and have some breakfast.”

  Kim avoided Rusty’s eyes but ate in silence. He was on his second cup of coffee when he felt her beside him. Then, clearing a space on the table, she put down a pie, its top golden brown and bulging with the promise of fruit underneath.

  He looked up quickly.

  “I knew you’d be back,” she said simply.

  Desert Death Song

  I

  When Jim Morton rode up to the fire, three unshaven men huddled there, warming themselves and drinking hot coffee. Morton recognized Chuck Benson from the Slash Five. The other men were strangers.

  “Howdy, Chuck,” Morton said. “He still in there?”

  “Sure is,” Benson told him. “An’ it don’t look like he’s figurin’ on comin’ out.”

  “I don’t reckon to blame him. Must be a hundred men scattered about.”

  “Nigher two hundred, but you know Nat Bod-ine. Shakin’ him out of these hills is going to be tougher’n shaking a possum out of a tree.”

  The man with the black beard stubble looked up sourly. “He wouldn’t last long if they’d let us go in after him. I’d sure roust him out of there fast enough.”

  Morton eyed the man with distaste. “You think so. That means you don’t know Bodine. Goin’ in after him is like sendin’ a houn’ dog down a hole after a badger. That man knows these hills, every crack an’ crevice. He can hide places an Apache would pass up.”

  The black-bearded man stared sullenly. He had thick lips and small, heavy-lidded eyes. “Sounds like maybe you’re a friend of his’n. Maybe when we get him, you should hang alongside of him.”

  Somehow the long rifle over Morton’s saddle bows shifted to stare warningly at the man, although Morton made no perceptible movement. “That ain’t a handy way to talk, stranger,” Morton said casually. “Ever—body in these hills knows Nat, an’ most of us been right friendly with him one time or another. I ain’t takin’ up with him, but I reckon there’s worse men in this posse than he is.”

  “Meanin’?” The big man’s hand lay on his thigh.

  “Meanin’ anything you like.” Morto
n was a Tennessee mountain man before he came West, and gun talk was not strange to him. “You call it your ownself.” The long rifle was pointed between the big man’s eyes, and Morton was building a cigarette with his hands only inches away from the trigger.

  “Forget it!” Benson interrupted. “What you two got to fight about? Blackie, this here’s Jim Morton. He’s lion hunter for the Lazy S.”

  Blackie’s mind underwent a rapid readjustment. This tall, lazy stranger wasn’t the softheaded drink of water he had thought him, for everybody knew about Morton. A dead shot with rifle and pistol, he was known to favor the former, even in fairly close combat. He had been known to go up trees after mountain lions, and once, when three hardcase rustlers had tried to steal his horses, the three had ended up in Boot Hill.

  “How about it, Jim?” Chuck asked. “You know Nat. Where’d you think he’d be?”

  Morton squinted and drew on his cigarette. “Ain’t no figurin’ him. I know him, an’ I’ve hunted alongside of him. He’s almighty knowin’ when it comes to wild country. Moves like a cat an’ got eyes like a turkey buzzard.” He glanced at Chuck. “What’s he done? I heard some talk down to the Slash Five, but nobody seemed to have it clear.”

  “Stage robbed yestiddy. Pete Daley of the Diamond D was ridin’ it, an’ he swore the robber was Nat. When they went to arrest him, Nat shot the sheriff.”

  “Kill him?”

  “No. But he’s bad off, an’ like to die. Nat only fired once, an’ the bullet took Larrabee too high.”

  “Don’t sound reasonable,” Morton said slowly.

  “Nat ain’t one to miss somethin’ he aims to kill. You say Pete Daley was there?”

  “Yeah. He’s the on’y one saw it.”

  “How about this robber? Was he masked?”

  “Uhn-huh, an’ packin’ a Winchester Forty-Four an’ two tied-down guns. Big black-haired man, the driver said. He didn’t know Bodine, but Pete identified him.”

  Morton eyed Benson. “I shouldn’t wonder,” he said, and Chuck flushed.