Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Then, working with infinite care, Finn Mahone worked down along the marksman’s trail.

  He lost the trail on the edge of the brush. Here the man had moved into a gully, and whether he had gone up or down, Finn could not tell. Yet from where he lay on the side of the bluff Finn had an excellent view of the grassy field between the Lazy K ranch buildings and the position he occupied. The sharpshooter would have to move out into position from here, and get into place to fire on the buildings.

  Suddenly, Finn saw the man. He had come out of the gully and was snaking along the ground, keeping low in the grass, still handling his rifle with utmost care. When the man reached the top of a low knoll, his position would be excellent.

  Only then did Mahone realize how carefully this had been planned. The way to the knoll was completely covered from observation from anywhere but this bluff. The man could never have been seen from the ranch.

  The Sharps rifle, known to kill at distances up to a thousand yards, had occasionally been effective at even greater distances, as Billy Dixon had proved at the Battle of Adobe Wells. It used the most powerful black powder cartridges ever made, and fired up to 550 grains of lead with terrific force and remarkable accuracy.

  With the distance deliberately paced off, probably late at night when all were asleep, the unknown marksman would know exactly how much his bullet would drop, and now the finely machined sight was set for precisely that range. One shot would be all he’d get at a target like Dowd, but as Finn correctly surmised, the man had no intention of firing more than one shot.

  Mahone lost him, then found him again, and when he next sighted him he was on the crest of the knoll and settling into position. Finn eased his own rifle up, and waited.

  There was little movement around the Lazy K. Occasionally someone appeared, then vanished. The man below lay perfectly still. Had Finn not known he was there, he could never have picked him out on the grassy, boulder-strewn knoll.

  Then the ranch house door opened, and Finn lifted his head. Remy was walking down to the corrals. A hand led her white mare out, and the girl swung into the saddle and galloped away over the plains, riding west.

  Finn’s eyes followed her. How beautifully she rode! He had never seen a woman ride with such grace. Angry with himself, he wrenched his eyes away.

  A man had come from the ranch house and was walking down to the corral. He wore an old black hat, but even at that distance Finn could recognize the straight carriage, the easy movement of the shoulders. Texas Dowd was a man difficult to forget and easy to pick out.

  Mahone’s eyes dropped. The man below was waiting for some particular thing, Finn could see that. All men are creatures of habit to some extent, and the marksman had evidently studied Dowd until he knew his every move.

  No one else was in sight. The cowhand who led out Remy’s horse had vanished, and the ranch lay hot in the glare of the sun. Dowd led out his horse and tied it to a rail of the corral fence. Then he brought out the saddle, and threw it on the horse’s back. Dowd was standing with his back squarely to the sharpshooter now, but the man waited. Then, slowly he eased his rifle up and Finn, even at this distance, could almost see the man settling his cheek against the stock ready for his shot.

  Finn lifted his rifle and triggered three fast shots at the figure below. Even as he fired, he heard the big rifle boom from the knoll, but his first shot must have come close, for the rifleman threw himself to one side.

  Finn got a hasty glimpse of Dowd’s horse rearing, but already his eyes were searching the grass below for the killer. The man had vanished as if he had dropped into the earth itself!

  Riveting his eyes on the grass, Finn began to search it with infinite care, taking it section by section, but he could see nothing of the man. He suddenly realized this was no place for him. If Dowd was to find him here he would be sure it was Finn who had fired, and the sharpshooter was certainly making his getaway.

  Scrambling through the brush, he started back to the horses. Somehow in his rush he took a wrong turn, and though delayed only a minute or two longer than he had expected, he reached the horses just as the marksman appeared. The fellow rushed to the horses and jerked at the slip knot. It stuck, and then Finn said, “All right, turn around and throw up your hands!”

  Mexie Roberts wheeled like a cornered rat and his hand flashed for his pistol. Finn’s rifle blasted and Roberts staggered back, coughing, his eyes wide and staring. He blinked once, very slowly, then sat down and rolled over, drawing his knees up tightly, and died.

  Mahone wheeled and raced for his horse. Then he was in the saddle and heading down range as fast as he could ride. He had no desire to see Dowd now. The Texan would see what had happened from the tracks.

  Meanwhile, there was business in town. If Sonntag was there, and looking for him, he could find him. Laird, he felt, was the center of things. Knowing as little as he did about all the people there, Finn had only a few ideas. He intended to learn what he could, and there were two sources on which he could rely: Lettie Mason and Otis.

  * * *

  REMY KASTELLE, RIDING west, heard the sharp cracking report of the Winchester, followed by the heavy boom of the Sharps, then the Winchester twice again. She wheeled her horse and started back on a dead run. She was just reaching the ranch house when she saw Texas Dowd, gun in hand, leave the ranch at a gallop.

  Swinging alongside she disregarded his motions to stay back, and rode on. Suddenly, he seemed to sight something in the grass, and wheeled, riding over to the knoll. He swung down from the horse and picked it up. It was Roberts’s Sharps rifle.

  He looked up at the girl, then removed his hat. The Sharps had torn a ragged gash in the brim. “Somebody shot at him,” Dowd said, “or he’d a had me sure! I heard that first shot and jerked. This came next.”

  The grass was pressed down where Mexie had crushed it in his retreat. The route by which he had approached was not the return route. Mexie had been too cagey for that. Yet his return had been a flight, and Dowd followed, riding his horse until he came to the two horses and Roberts’s body.

  He rolled the man over, and Remy drew back, her face pale. “Who…who is it?” she asked.

  “I’ve seen him around. Name of Roberts. Shot twice, right through the heart.” He looked up at her. His face was bleak and hard. “Not many men shoot like that!”

  Texas stepped over the body and looked at the knot. “No hombre expectin’ to leave in a hurry ever tied a horse like that!” he said. “Whoever shot him knew these horses were here. He tied that knot so if he was slow gettin’ back, this hombre wouldn’t get away!”

  Carefully, Dowd went through his pockets. There was some ninety dollars in bills. One, a twenty, was pasted together with a piece of pink paper. Dowd put them in his shirt pocket. Scouting around, he found the bush where the black stallion had been tied. His face stiffened as he looked. Then he lifted his eyes to the girl. “It’s him, damn his soul!” he said bitterly.

  “Who?”

  “Finn Mahone! He seen this hombre cat-footin’ around the hills. He followed him, an’ when he saw what he was up to, he scared him out of there. Then he got back here, an’ this hombre tried to shoot it out with him.”

  “Finn Mahone!” Remy stared at Dowd. “Then he saved your life, Tex!”

  “Yeah.” Tex stared at the tracks of the big horse. “That’s the third time!”

  “Tex,” Remy said quickly, “what’s between you and Mahone?”

  Texas Dowd raised his eyes and looked at her. “He murdered my sister,” he said coldly.

  CHAPTER 5

  DAN TAGGART LOPED his sorrel pony toward the McInnis ranch. At the time Mexie Roberts was lying in wait for his shot at Dowd, Taggart had been inspecting cattle far to the south.

  Taggart was a man of nearly forty who looked ten years older. Rarely clean shaven, he was grim, hard, and loyal. He was one of those riders who were the backbone of the cattle business. When he rode, he rode, in the parlance of the cattle country, “for th
e brand.” In other words, his loyalty was not a thing to be taken lightly.

  He was a man without imagination. Hardworking, ready to fight if need be, never hesitating at long hours or miserable conditions. Abe McInnis, who knew a good man when he saw one, had made Taggart foreman. It was the first position of responsibility Dan Taggart had ever held. He took it seriously, and he did more work than any two of his cowhands.

  That day he had seen a heifer with a fresh brand. He got a loop on her, and inspected the brand. It was P Slash L, the Logan brand. There was nothing surprising about it, as the cattle of the two ranches grazed the same land in this area, and had done so without question for some time.

  Nick James, who had formerly ridden for McInnis, saw Taggart pull down the heifer and rode over. He grinned at the older man. “Figger we’re rustlin’, Dan?”

  “Nope.” Taggart released the heifer and got up. “Just havin’ a look. That Kastelle girl said somethin’ the other day. Bothers me some.”

  “What was that?” James asked. He rolled a smoke and sat his horse, waiting.

  Taggart rolled his quid and spat. “Said somethin’ about this here Mahone feller sayin’ if we was to hunt rustlers we should do it with a pen an’ ink.”

  Nick looked at Taggart quickly, his eyes shrewd. “Yeah,” he said, carefully, “not a bad idea. You got that Spur brand, Dan. Feller could make that over into a lot of things.”

  “Uh-huh,” Taggart agreed. He picked up a bit of dead mesquite root. “Like an IH connected?”

  Nick James’s face was expressionless. He lighted his smoke. “Yeah,” he said again, “you can do purty well with a Lazy K, too.”

  Taggart looked up. “Nick, I wouldn’t say this to many people, but I reckon I got stampeded into doin’ somethin’ foolish the other night. First time I ever went to one of them Cattleman’s meetin’s, though.” He looked up again. “I voted for Sonntag.”

  “Heard about it,” Nick said gravely. “You seen The Branding Iron?”

  “No, why?” Taggart looked up at Nick.

  The P Slash L cowhand dug into his saddlebag. “Take a look then.”

  SONNTAG CHOSEN FOR RANGE

  INVESTIGATION

  By a vote of six to four, the Cattleman’s Association voted to appoint Byrn Sonntag as range detective to investigate and deal with rustling activities. Abraham McInnis, popular cattleman of the Spur Ranch, was unable to be present. There has been considerable wonder about how the vote would have gone had McInnis not been confined to his bed due to the mysterious shooting in the canyon below Rimrock. McInnis, seriously wounded in a yet unexplained shooting, is believed by many of his friends to be opposed to any such action as the hiring of a notorious gunman.

  Dan Taggart, foreman of the Spur, voted for Sonntag in McInnis’s place. Had he voted against Sonntag the question would have been dropped for the time being.

  “Looks kind of bad,” Taggart admitted. “I wished that girl had spoke up before I voted. Minute she said that, I began seein’ pictures in my head of all them brands.”

  “Yeah,” Nick agreed. “Know how you feel.”

  “Well,” Taggart said. “P Slash L’s in the clear on that, even if Logan did vote for Sonntag. No brand in the valley can be made into a P Slash L.”

  “That’s right,” Nick James glanced off across the prairie. “It’s too right.”

  Taggart looked up, scowling. “Huh? What did you say?”

  “Dan,” Nick said, “we lost some cows about a month ago. Maybe twenty head. I’d been workin’ back in Sage Canyon up until the day before, then Pierce told me to start breakin’ a couple of broncs we got.”

  “What about it?”

  “Those broncs could have been broke any time, Dan.”

  Dan Taggart got into the saddle and watched Nick James riding away. The more he thought about it, the surer he was that his vote had been a bad thing. He wished that McInnis was conscious so he could talk to him. He was worried, and had no idea what course was best.

  Clouds were bunching up over the Highbinders to the north. He dug his slicker out of his saddlebags and rode on with it lying conveniently across the saddle in front of him.

  It was already pouring rain when Finn Mahone rode into Laird. On a hunch, he had returned to Crystal Valley and thrown a hackamore on the old steel-dust gelding and brought it with him down into town. If push came to shove in the trouble with Texas Dowd the steel-dust might, just might, get him a fair hearing. In the past his pride had kept him from asking for understanding from the man who once had been his friend. But the situation was now different. He had just saved Dowd’s life, and they were both older and wiser. Heavy clouds loomed over the town and rain was falling in sheets. Not knowing what sort of reception he could expect, he avoided the livery stable and rode down a back street until he came to Doc Finerty’s. He led the stallion and gelding inside the doctor’s barn, rubbed them dry, and got feed from the bin.

  Splashing through the gathering pools of rain, he went to the back door of Lettie’s place. Turning the knob, it gave under his hand and he stepped within, loosening the buttons on his slicker to have his guns available. He was standing there, dripping water in the light that reflected from over the stairway, when Lettie came into the hall.

  “Finn!” she exclaimed. “Oh, it’s good to see you.”

  She was a small woman, beautifully shaped, and Finn was always surprised to find her in such a business. She wore beautiful but conservative clothing, and always looked smart and attractive. He knew enough of her story to admire her for her determination and her fine independence of spirit. Nor could he blame her for choosing this business, for when left a widow there had been only the choice between running a gambling house or slowly falling into a pauper’s life. She had not hesitated to make her decision, heedless of her reputation.

  One of those unaccountable movements that swept the tide of drifting mankind into some of the farthest and most unusual backwaters had brought her to Laird.

  “It’s good to see you again, too, Lettie.” He nodded toward the parlor. “Who’s in?”

  “Nobody, right now. I guess the rain’s keeping them home. Finn, what’s been happening? I hear Sonntag is gunning for you.”

  Mahone shrugged. “I haven’t seen him. He in town?”

  “No, but Ringer Cobb is. Be careful.”

  “Sure. Is Otis around?”

  “No, he isn’t. He’s wanting to see you, though. He’s been acting very strange. Stopped drinking all of a sudden, and seems to have something on his mind. You’d better see him.”

  “I will. Right now I want to look up Judge Collins.” Lightning flashed almost without cessation, and the rain had risen to a thundering roar. “Hombre tried to kill Tex today,” he told her. “Slim, wiry, dark fellow.”

  “Mexie Roberts. He comes and goes, Finn, always by himself.”

  “Know why he would want to kill Dowd?”

  “For money. Roberts never killed anybody unless he got paid. If he tried to kill Texas, somebody was paying him.”

  Mahone looked down at her. “Who d’you think, Lettie?”

  She hesitated, then she looked up quickly. He could see doubt and worry in her eyes. “I don’t know, Finn. I would be wrong if I said Sonntag or Salter…it feels like someone is playing with everyone like they were puppets!”

  “I agree, but that doesn’t help me know who it is. Well, I’m going over to see Collins. Armstrong, too.”

  “Be careful of Cobb!” she warned.

  He went out the front door, gathering his slicker about him but not fastening the buttons. At this time of night, judge Collins might be in the Longhorn, as there was no light at Doc’s. Or the judge might be at Ma Boyle’s for coffee. At the thought of coffee, Finn suddenly realized he was hungry.

  He slopped down the street in the pelting rain, and went on past the lights of the Longhorn. There was loud talk from within, and he hesitated while rain ran down his slicker and dribbled off on the walk. Otis might be in there.
Collins, too. On the other hand, Ringer Cobb was almost sure to be. For an instant longer he hesitated, half in mind to go in and end it right then. But when he saw Ringer, if it ended in a fight he might have to get out of town, and he had things he needed to do. He went on down the street.

  There was a light burning at The Branding Iron. He hesitated, then pushed open the door and walked in. When he had the door closed, he looked around. “Hey, Dean?”

  There was no answer. “Dean!” he called again, louder. When there was still no answer, he walked around the high counter toward the trays of type and the desk.

  Dean Anderson was lying facedown on the floor, his head bloody. Quickly, Finn bent over him. He was alive. Hurrying to the back door he filled a wash pan from the water bucket, grabbed up the towel that Dean kept hanging there, and hurried back.

  Lifting him, he cradled Dean’s head on his arm while he put the cold towel on his head. Gently, he sponged away the blood. It was a cut, a very nasty cut.

  There was another, higher and in his hair. He sponged that off, too, and then Armstrong began to stir and mutter. “Hold still!” Finn commanded.

  When Armstrong’s eyes opened, they stared about in confusion. At this moment, without his dignity, he looked strangely young. Then he looked up and saw Mahone.

  “Finn!” he said. “Man, I’m glad to see you!”

  “What happened?” Mahone demanded.

  “Cobb pistol-whipped me. Came in here about six, just after the rain started. Started in half joking about what I’d said in the paper, then he hit me over the eye with a pistol barrel.”

  “You mean that item about Sonntag?”

  Dean shook his head, then gasped and caught it with both hands. “No, the piece I had in today. I put out an extra edition.” He looked up. “It’s on the table there.”

  APPOINTMENT OF SONNTAG A MISTAKE