The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

  Pete tried to picture the fight—Judson Hamill and his brother surprised by two mounted men, who according to the tracks near the cabin had not dismounted; an argument of some kind, and a battle. That the corralled horses had been turned loose after the Hamills had been shot down was plainly evident. But why had they been turned loose? The earth round the corral gate was so heavily tracked that it told no special story.

  Out in the clearing Pete discovered that the mounted men had departed with two led horses. Keeping within the timber, he followed their trail out to the rim of the cañon. Too far back from the rim to see the stone house, he could see the upper end of the cañon trail as it neared the crest. Nothing showed on the trail. About to turn back, he glanced up and down the stretch of rimrock in front of him. The glint of a saddle-gun caught his eye. Pete was puzzled. No one riding that country would leave a rifle behind unless there was a mighty good reason to do so.

  Still keeping within the timber, he rode west until almost opposite the carbine on the rimrock. Huddled at the base of a big pine lay Sarg, the railroad man who had joined the wild bunch. Wounded in the fight with the Hamills, he had fallen from the saddle, dropped his carbine, and had then crawled to the timber. And there his companion, whoever he might have been, had left him.

  Bending over the wounded man, Young Pete saw that he had been shot through the chest. He was unconscious and could not last long.

  So Bart Randall, Harper, Sarg, and the man wounded in the raid were out or it. Still remained four of the gang. Riding back to the homestead, Young Pete dug a trench near the charred logs. He buried Judson Hamill and his brother. He worked fast, never taking it for granted that the Randall gang would not return to the clearing. An hour later he was back on the south rim of the cañon, near the spot where Sarg’s carbine lay. Absorbed in watching the stone house, Young Pete was startled by a shuffling sound. Whirling, he saw a figure staggering toward him. It was Sarg, hands outstretched as though feeling his way in the dark. Shot through the body, and dying on his feet, he was evidently unaware of anyone near him. “Water,” he gasped tonelessly. “Water.”

  Young Pete stepped to his horse and unslung his canteen. “Here you are, Sarg,” he said, unscrewing the canteen cap. But the wounded outlaw did not seem either to see or hear. Slowly he lurched past Young Pete, groping blindly in the sunlight.

  “Hold on!” cried Pete as Sarg kept on. Standing within a few feet of the cañon rim, the outlaw hesitated, as if about to turn. Pete jumped forward, grasped his arm. Sarg jerked free. “Water,” he mumbled. He lurched forward and toppled into the chasm.

  For a moment Young Pete stood as though paralyzed. The flicker of a lizard across the rimrock brought him back to himself. Picking up Sarg’s carbine he examined the magazine. It was empty. Recalling how it had been emptied, he hurled the carbine out into space.

  A few minutes later he saw four men leave the stone house across the Hollow and ride toward the crest. Evidently the gang was heading for San Dimas Valley, possibly even leaving the country. Once they were below the border, it would take months of trailing to locate them. Mounting, Young Pete cut through the timberland and passed the Hamill clearing. Near the ridge trail of the range, he waited to see if the outlaws would come along the ridge or ride the valley trail below. For an hour he watched, unaware that, instead of heading either north or south, the gang had crossed the San Dimas Valley and had ridden up the opposite slope. Finally Young Pete rode down to where he had left his pack-horse. Stake rope, pack-horse, and provisions were gone.

  Where they had gone was not difficult to determine. The tracks near the river-bed showed where five animals had crossed the stream, three shod horses and two unshod. Pete began to trail the horses up the western slope of the San Dimas. “Got my eyes left, anyhow,” he muttered.

  To be out of provisions and blankets and riding an uninhabited country was no new experience to the Tonto Kid. He had a good horse under him, arms, and ammunition. He also had papers and tobacco. Heretofore he had not dared smoke. Now he curled a cigarette, and with his gaze on the brush-covered hillside before him, followed the plain trail of the five horses, three shod, two unshod. The unshod horses, he reasoned, had belonged to the Hamills. No doubt the Randall gang would tack shoes on them the first chance they got. They would have to if they expected the Hamill mounts to last long in the desert country.

  About an hour later, Young Pete reached the crest of the range. He was not surprised to see, far out in the desert below, a cavalcade making for the town of Carmelita, an outpost on the edge of the Bad Lands. Carmelita was populated largely by Mexicans. Brinkley, an ex-cattleman, ran the general store. He had a hard name. The kind of man, reasoned Pete, who for policy alone would be friendly toward the Randall outfit. It was with a decidedly unfavorable prospect before him that Pete rode down the western slope. But not as a peace officer. Halfway down the slope he unfastened his deputy star and shied it into the brush. “This here,” he told his horse, “is what Slim would call a strictly personal matter. Somehow, I kinda like it better that way.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Fading sunlight lay on the low adobes, the littered streets, and the weathered general store of Carmelita. Roundabout spread the desert, stripped of greasewood near the town, criss-crossed by goat trails and meandering wagon-roads. Shiftlessness and poverty were as apparent as though printed on a signboard. Mongrels of all sizes lay in the dust of the main street, or against the crumbling adobe walls. From a desert well, not much more than a square hole in the ground, and planked on the sides, the natives drew their supply of water and carried it to their homes. Adjoining the store stood a squat adobe with a blue door—the saloon. Storekeeper Brinkley’s partner ran the saloon. An occasional freighter hauled supplies through Carmelita to the distant cow town of Rodney. An occasional buckboard passed through the town, and once in a while a cowhand. Otherwise Carmelita was as isolated as a pinnacle in the Bad Lands.

  Far out on the desert Young Pete waited until dark before approaching the town. He smoked to dull his hunger, and to amuse himself talked to his pony. “Long haul and no grass, eh, Buck? Mebby so you’ll have to eat frijoles when we hit Carmelita. But you’ll eat. I said it.”

  “Mebby so the Randall bunch kept right on going. That would be bad.”

  Buck mouthed his bit. He wanted water.

  “If they’re bushin’ in town tonight, one of ’em will be watchin’ the back trail. What do you say if we was to ride round and come into town from the west. Think that would be healthier?”

  To the stout little buckskin it didn’t matter. All he knew was that he was hungry and needed water. He could see no reason for standing there in the sunset shadows, his rider sitting at his feet smoking a cigarette.

  “They got our pack-horse, and some grub.” Young Pete nodded toward the distant town. “That pack-horse belongs to Buck Yardlaw. We got to do somethin’ about it. Chucked my badge in the brush myself. All they got to do now is to get you,” he looked up at the pony, “and my gun, and I’ll be all washed up and ready for buryin’.”

  Pete caught himself thinking of Judson Hamill and his brother Brent, of Dave, and of Harper and Sarg, and Horse Thief Cañon. A man didn’t last too long riding the high trails. He himself had been lucky. He had taken about every chance a man could take, and aside from having been wounded in two of his many gunfights, had come through without a scratch. Sometimes it happened that way.

  There were four of the Randall gang still going: Ed Randall, Lindquist the Pecos cowboy, Stevens, and White Eye Johnson. The outlaw wounded in the recent raid was, according to an eye-witness of the fight, Bill Page. His body lay at the bottom of Horse Thief Cañon. Young Pete glanced toward the distant desert town, a vague outline in the gathering darkness. “White Eye Johnson and Ed Randall—I’d like to take ’em in and turn ’em over to Yardlaw. But shucks! Buck himself would have to knock ’em out and rope ’em to a buckboard and freight ’em in. A
nd I ain’t got a buck-board.”

  If he were lucky enough to clean up the gang, what proof, thought Pete, would the Governor have that the Randall bunch was wiped out? None, except his word. Of course time would tell the story. But a whole lot could happen before folks finally realized that the Randall gang was actually out of existence.

  Pete rose, gathered the reins and mounted. “We got to do this job quick. Tryin’ to put ’em under arrest would be a joke on me.”

  The Tonto Kid saw no romance in his work, no glory if he cleaned up the gang. It was simply a job, like roping out salty broncs and riding them. It was his own fault if he got piled.

  The desert stars shone high and clear when he stepped from his horse and led him up to the first adobe on the west side of Carmelita. A few houses down the street several horses stood tied to a hitch-rail. With one exception the horses were saddled. The exception was Pete’s pack-horse. They belonged to strangers in town, he learned. The young Mexican girl he talked with laughed in the starlight. “You also are a stranger, no?”

  Swarthy, black-haired, he could easily have passed as one of her country. “Yes, I’m a stranger. Got lost out yonder. Saw this town and rode in. If I could get something to eat, and some water and feed for my horse—” Pete took some silver from his pocket. “Perhaps you could help me?”

  “But there is the store. And there is water at the well.”

  “I know. But I can’t go in the store. Those fellows”—Pete lowered his voice—“are after me.”

  For a moment the girl studied Pete’s face. “I will get food for you. But from my father’s house, not from the store. The men in the store are bad men. They would talk to me. I am pretty, am I not?”

  “Pretty as a speckled pup under a yellow wagon,” blurted Pete. “But you don’t savvy American talk… Like a rose,” he added in Spanish.

  “I will bring the food and the water, and no one shall see me.”

  “I’ll be waiting—out yonder.”

  It was a long chance, but Pete had to take it. Carmelita was so small a town that should he appear on the street, his presence would soon be remarked. If the Mexican girl didn’t talk, he would be safe for the present. If the girl talked—well, the buckskin pony would have another long trip without food or water.

  The girl came stealthily through the shadows, at last. She gave Young Pete some food. She had filled his canteen at the well. “The men in the store want shoes for their horses,” she told him in Spanish. “There are no shoes. They have sent for my father, who does the work of a blacksmith. They have told him he must make shoes. But he has not the iron. These men from the San Dimas country do not speak with reason. They are drunk.”

  “That’s good,” said Young Pete laconically.

  “But it is not good! My father is afraid of these men.”

  “Kind of scared of ’em myself,” said Pete, smiling. “Suppose you go back to your house and forget all about me. Here’s something to buy you a new dress with.”

  The girl took the money. Two dollars, to her a fortune. Young Pete seemed like a being sent by the saints—one who gave much money, yet asked nothing. For a moment she hesitated, gazing at the dark young stranger. “Is that all I may do for you?” she said finally.

  Pete grinned. “You might give me a kiss. But I’m not beggin’ you for it.”

  The girl was gone. The first girl he had ever kissed.

  He brushed his sleeve across his mouth as he led his thirsty pony round to the well back of the store. From down the desert came the rumbling and clack of a freighter’s wagon. In Brinkley’s store there was loud talking and an occasional burst of harsh laughter. Pete’s pony raised a dripping muzzle and gazed toward the approaching wagon. The freighter would have supplies for the cow town of Rodney. As there was no water between Carmelita and Rodney, he would make camp in Carmelita. Chances were he would have a supply of blacksmith’s iron and horseshoes. That meant the gang would probably be able to get their horses shod and be ready for the long trail over the border.

  The wagon was still several hundred yards east of town. Young Pete mounted and rode toward the oncoming wagon.

  Just outside Carmelita he hailed the teamster. “Got any corn or anything a fella could use for horse feed?”

  The man on the high seat nodded. “Don’t figure to unload till I get in,” he mumbled.

  Young Pete’s pulse quickened. There was something slightly familiar about the teamster’s manner and his voice. Pete hated to be taken by surprise.

  “Suppose you quit chewin’ tobacco and talk human,” he blurted.

  The teamster laughed. “So they didn’t get you, after all?”

  “Not me. What in hell you doin’ up in this country?”

  “Freighting.”

  “Been doin’ some trackin’ too, I reckon.”

  “Some.”

  “Where’s the regular freighter?”

  “At Big South Bend. He’ll wait there till he hears from me.”

  Young Pete was regaining the poise which had slipped from him when he realized that the freighter was his old enemy, Sheriff Buck Yardlaw. Evidently the sheriff had trailed him to the Horse Thief Cañon country, read sign to advantage, and was now for some very good reason playing the part of a freighter. Perhaps because Yardlaw was also out to clean up the Randall gang.

  Yardlaw shook his head. “That was your job.”

  “Mebby you didn’t know some of the gang murdered Jud Hamill and his brother.”

  “I saw plenty sign at the homestead, but I didn’t know for sure just what had happened.”

  Pete gestured toward Carmelita. “You’ll find one of ’em yonder—the fellas that got the Hamills. The other, he’s, at the bottom of Horse Thief Cañon.”

  “How many in this bunch?”

  “Four. As I figure it, Ed Randall, Lindquist, White Eye, and Rud Stevens.”

  “Looks like you been busy.”

  “I had luck.”

  The tired horses fretted to get to water. “I’m camping at the well,” said Yardlaw.

  “Mebby I could help you unhitch.”

  “Mebby you could.”

  Pete nodded. “I’ll ride round and meet you. The gang are short on horseshoes. They’ll be askin’ you for some.” The arrival of the freight-wagon aroused no suspicion among the gang. White Eye Johnson came out of the store and asked the teamster if he had any horseshoes, and when he would be pulling out in the morning. The teamster replied that he had shoes, that he would not pull out until late in the morning, as he had to repair the wagon-reach before starting. White Eye went back into the store.

  Unhitched, the eight horses stood tied to the feed-trailer. Young Pete, on foot, stood near Yardlaw.

  Solid as a rock, the big sheriff gazed at the Tonto Kid for a moment. “Got plenty?”

  “Shells? Yes.”

  “Want to go after ’em now—or wait till morning?”

  “I been thinkin’ about that. Flip a coin.”

  Pete called heads, struck a match, and gazed at the coin in Yardlaw’s hand. “All right, Buck. I had a hunch somethin’ was on for tonight. Ed Randall is the fastest gun. White Eye ain’t slow, so I’ve heard.”

  Before entering Brinkley’s store, Yardlaw and Young Pete noiselessly braced a stout post against the rear door, so that no one could leave the building at that end. Just before they came round to the front, Young Pete took off his flop-brimmed sombrero and hung it on a fence-post. He might need it again, and he might not. Gray with alkali, gaunt and tall, Yardlaw strode round to the front of the building, Young Pete beside him. It was a warm night. The store door was open. Together they stepped in.

  “I hear somebody wants to see me,” said Yardlaw.

  Young Pete’s eye traveled round the room. Ed Randall, leader of the outlaws, was sitting sideways on the counter talking with the storekeeper,
Brinkley. White Eye Johnson sat astraddle of a chair facing the doorway. Stevens and Lindquist, a bottle between them, stood near the lower end of the counter.

  “Where’s Jamison?” asked the storekeeper quickly, naming the regular freighter.

  “Resting up at Big South Bend.” Yardlaw answered Brinkley, but he kept his eyes on Ed Randall.

  Lindquist and Stevens set their glasses down. Pete was watching White Eye Johnson’s hands.

  “How many shoes do you want?” Yardlaw’s question seemed filled with a double meaning. “Cold shoes, you said.”

  “I can use about eight,” said Randall easily. At any minute the tension would break, and the outlaws would go into action.

  Young Pete, whose unspoken motto was “The Sooner the Better,” laughed. “Eight shoes would be four too many if you’re lookin’ for luck.”

  For once in his life, Ed Randall seemed to be stricken with a sort of paralysis. Had either Yardlaw or the Tonto Kid shown up alone, it is possible the outlaw would have gone for his gun. Yardlaw took a step toward him. Still no one in the room made a move. Another step, and Yardlaw swung his sombrero and slapped Randall in the face. Young Pete heard the crash of their guns. His own hand was up and busy. Twice he fired. White Eye Johnson sagged along the counter, grasped it, and sank to his knees. Lindquist turned and dashed for the rear door. But his companion Stevens had his gun out and going.

  One of his shots struck Yardlaw, who flinched, then walked slowly toward him, firing as he came. Brinkley, dropping behind the counter, fired through it. As the splinters sprang up round the hole, Young Pete threw a shot which bored another hole within an inch of it. Pete’s gun was empty, and Stevens, though hit hard, was still firing. Suddenly Yardlaw dropped his own gun and collapsed. Young Pete dove for it and came up. Twice it flashed. Stevens staggered toward the front door and fell across the threshold.