The Fourth Western Novel

by H. H. Knibbs

  For two hours they rode through the gathering gloom, and veered south in the velvety darkness which closed in. They had passed the bedded herd, and the plaintive song of a night-herder floated down the wind occasionally.

  Leather creaked as the cowboys turned in their saddles to untie their oiled slickers. Dollar-Sign Sibley grunted a sharp order and left the camp with twelve men. His job would be to circle the herd and come in from the right side. Crail Creedon would take a dozen more and come in from the left. Sutton would bring up the drag with his hand-picked crew.

  Sutton led his men toward the distant fires, walking the horses across the grass-covered prairie. They reined in not more than a quarter of a mile from the camp fires, and now they could hear the bawling of the weary steers. Dollar-Sign Sibley would give the hootowl call when he came into position.

  Then a night owl hooted three times!

  Sutton scratched with both spurs and gave the Texas yell. Revolver shots began to bark from both sides of the startled herd, and the longhorns came to their feet and started to run. A dozen men rolled out of their blankets fully dressed, and ran for their night horses.

  Sutton’s crew rode straight into the camp, triggering their guns with deadly accuracy. Plunging horses broke their reins and raced into the darkness. Four C Bar C men rode after the drag with their slickers flapping to increase the stampede, and when well away from camp, they turned to hem the rustlers in from four sides.

  The double herd was on the run and going north. The rumble of their hoofs sounded fainter as the battle increased in tempo. After a while the explosions became fewer as targets became scarce. Then an oppressive silence fell over the clearing, and the night noises became startlingly loud.

  The ground was trampled and torn to tell of the panic as trail-weary cattle had sought escape from the thunder which had come out of the night. The camp-fire had been scattered, and a chuck-wagon had been overturned.

  Sutton rode into camp and squinted down the barrel of his hot rifle. He could make out the bodies of a dozen men sprawled on the ground near another wagon. Torn blankets were ground into the dust, and Sutton shook his head slowly. Then his orders came briefly but clear.

  “Load up fresh all around, but hold your fire until I give the word, or unless a dead man comes back to life and wants more fight. I’m going in to make a tally.”

  There was no movement in the stricken camp as Sutton rode across the battlefield. He heard a faint scratching sound, and then an old colored man crawled out from under the front seat of the hoodlum wagon, and spoke prayerfully.

  “Yas suh, Mister Silent, suh. Never was so powerful glad to see any one since I signed on forty years ago to cook for Mister Dollar-Sign Sibley. I thought for shore and certain I was a gone goslin when the shooting began to start. I made myself plenty thin under the seat of that ole wagon, yas suh. You a going to rod the drive from now on, Mister Silent, I hope?”

  “That’s right, Shenandoah,” Silent answered. “Now I’ve got to get the men out to circle that stampede. You get plenty of hot coffee ready, and then you better span in your teams and move camp up about five-six miles, when you come to good water. We’ll catch you up, and all hands will be hungry.”

  CHAPTER XII

  DRIVE TO HELL

  Silent Sutton rode toward the north-east. He could hear the faint voices of cowboys coming down the gentle wind, and as he drew closer, the rattle of hocks and horns became louder. The men under Crail Creedon had turned the running cattle, and the trail-hands with Sutton tightened the circle until the weary cattle came to a stop.

  Creedon came out of the night with his old rifle in the saddle-boot under his left fender. He shouted a welcome when he saw Sutton.

  “We’ve saved the beef, thanks to you, Silent,” he murmured gratefully. “They ran off a lot of weight, but we’ll make that up on a slow drag before we reach Dodge again. You hurt any?”

  “Not a scratch,” Sutton answered, and headed for the wagon where Shenandoah had made camp, and a new fire.

  Daybreak was less than an hour away, and Shenandoah was already shifting his utensils for an early breakfast. After a hot meal, Creedon and Sutton saddled fresh horses and left the new camp.

  “We lost two men killed, seven wounded, but none seriously,” Creedon said with quiet satisfaction. “The rustlers lost twenty-eight dead, and the rest won’t be fit for much.”

  “We’ll bury the dead,” Silent answered slowly. “Have the boys rope those rustlers by the boots, and drag ’em over under that high cut-bank. Then we can cut the bank down on top of them.”

  “Now I know why you came up the trail alone, Silent,” Creedon spoke softly. “We were raising Texas beef for Stud Bailey and Percentage Parsons. Don’t argue with me, cowboy. We agreed to pay those rustlers twenty-five percent for safe delivery, and I’ll see that you get it!”

  “You won’t,” Sutton contradicted quietly. “That percentage was a hold-up, and we both know it. I came to try to make the Chisholm Trail safe for Texas beef, and you forget about Stud Bailey.”

  Creedon stared at his tall nephew, and his weathered face puckered into a frown. Then he spoke his mind.

  “You forget about Stud Bailey!” he snapped. “You and me are partners now, and your job is to ramrod the C Bar C. Let the law handle that snake-eyed killer!”

  “That’s right,” Sutton agreed quietly. His right hand touched his holstered six-shooter, and his left touched the spot on his vest where the law-star had worn a shine. “I’m still the law!”

  Creedon sighed. He nodded his shaggy head as he stared at the smoke-grimed guns on Sutton’s legs. He realized that further argument was futile.

  “Let’s be getting back to camp,” Creedon suggested. “You can give orders. Stay with us until we finish the drive, and when you ride into Dodge to pin on your star, remember why you rode up the trail alone!”

  Sutton returned the pressure of rope-calloused fingers. A streamer of light was painting the eastern sky and the creak of wheels announced the arrival of the chuck-wagons.

  “We need those Kansas markets, Silent,” Creedon continued. “But we need something else too. You brought it when you carried law to Kansas in your holster. And when you face Bailey, don’t forget that you are my partner!”

  “Thanks, Crail,” Sutton murmured. “I’ll handle the drive back to Dodge, and it will do me good. I missed working with my muscles, and I missed having a good cow-horse under my saddle.”

  The herd were allowed to rest for two days, and then the last leg of the drive began.

  Came the afternoon when they reached the Arkansas River with Dodge City in sight. A big camp was made out on the flat holding ground, and cattle buyers rode out to talk to Creedon and Sibley.

  The two old-timers were like different men as they talked price with the old confidence. A deal was made, and the buyers rode back to Dodge City alone. Sutton had asked no questions; he was still bossing the trail-driving cowboys who looked to him with a new respect.

  The next morning the two big trail-herds were being passed between the tally-men who made the count and marked down their figures in company tally books. Creedon and Sibley would be paid in cash for their Texas beef; their respective crews would serve as body guards to see that the money got back to Texas, after wages and debts had been paid.

  Sutton was drawn fine from more than two weeks in the saddle. He rode up to Creedon.

  “I figured you would,” Creedon said slowly, and extended his hand. “Take care of yourself, partner.”

  Bat Masterson and Buffalo McGrew met Sutton as he walked his roan across the toll bridge which spanned the Arkansas. Masterson unpinned the badge from his own vest as he stared at Sutton’s empty holsters.

  “Pin on the star and get yourself fully dressed,” Masterson said quietly. “We figured you’d obey Ordinance 6, and we likewise got word that Stud Bailey will arrive he
re tomorrow with Colonel Benton’s J Bar B herd.”

  Sutton took the badge and pinned it on his faded vest. Then he recovered his six-shooters from his saddlebags, and his face was stern with authority as he once more took up his official duties.

  Masterson and McGrew rode on into town when Molly Jo Benton and the colonel raced their horses toward Sutton. The girl’s eyes were dancing with excitement.

  “Silent,” she whispered. “You came back safe to me!”

  “That’s right, Molly Jo,” Sutton answered, and then he smiled at the did. Southerner. “Morning, Colonel. It’s good to see you up off bed-ground again. How you feeling?”

  “Never felt better in my life, son,” the colonel answered heartily, as he shook hands with a firm steady grip. “You’ve finished your work up here, but you’ve got three weeks to serve,” he added, with a glance at the marshal’s twin guns. “Good luck to you, Silent.”

  “I’ll be busy for a few days,” Sutton agreed, and he smiled at Molly Jo. “If you and the Colonel start home before I’m finished, I’ll be seeing you soon down there in Texas.”

  After a sponge bath in his old room, and a change of clothing, the tall marshal carefully cleaned his six-shooters. Then he left the Occidental, and started to work. He avoided the plaza for the rest of the day. It was late afternoon when McGrew burst into the courtroom and found Sutton talking with Bisley Jordan and Necktie Patton. McGrew’s face was tight with excitement.

  “That J Bar B herd just crossed the river, Marshal. They’ve started the count, and Bailey just rode in and stabled his horse. Right now he’s down at the Alamo!”

  “It’s a free country, and Bailey is a citizen,” Sutton said quietly. “What about it?”

  “You and him had a date,” McGrew reminded grimly. “There’s a new grave waiting up on Boothill, and some joker stuck up a board with your name painted on it!”

  “That name can be changed, according to law,” Sutton answered easily.

  Sutton started a routine patrol of Front Street, and a hush fell over the noisy drinkers as he passed the Alamo Saloon. Bailey stood behind the bar, his face tanned a deep rich bronze. He smiled pleasantly at Sutton, and saluted with his left hand.

  “Howdy, Marshal,” he said with a smile. “I’ll have my business all finished by ten in the morning.”

  Sutton answered the smile and waved his left hand. “I’ll be seeing you at ten, Stud,” he agreed, without breaking his stride.

  Sutton finished his patrol and turned in at the Occidental Hotel. Alone in his room, he sat down on the bed and carefully checked every moving part of his right-hand gun, A half-smile was on his stern face as he replaced the weapon and tried several swift practice draws. After which he slowly undressed, and sought his bed.

  The sun was streaming through his window when Sutton awoke entirely refreshed. He had gone to sleep as soon as his head had touched the pillow, and had slept soundly for nine hours.

  From force of habit, he sat at a table in the dining room with his back against the wall. After a hearty breakfast, he walked slowly to the little jail. He frowned when he saw everyone of his deputies gathered in the office, staring at him solemnly.

  “Is there a funeral?” Sutton asked with a smile.

  “We couldn’t get that new grave off our minds, Silent,” Buffalo McGrew blurted. “I don’t see how you could sleep all night with what you’ve got on your mind, and she’s past nine o’clock right now!”

  “Stud Bailey settled with the cattle buyers,” Masterson changed the subject “He’s got close to fifty thousand dollars in his hip pocket. He ought to be going up to pay Colonel Benton, but Bailey hasn’t made a move.”

  “He’s got both those ivory-handled sixes strapped on his legs,” Neal Brown muttered. “How you feeling, Silent?”

  “How do I look?” Sutton snapped, and then the three deputies smiled broadly.

  They knew fighting men, and in spite of his outward calmness, Silent Sutton was on edge. Buffalo McGrew made talk to ease the strain until Sutton glanced at his watch and stretched slowly to his feet. Pulling the brim of his Stetson low to shade his eyes, he faced them and spoke quietly.

  “You gents stay right here!”

  Bat Masterson frowned and then nodded. Neal Brown gripped a sawed-off shotgun in his brown muscular hands. Buffalo McGrew glared fiercely, but all three remained silent. They knew the marshal.

  Sutton turned on one high heel, walked slowly from the jail, and crossed the tracks.

  Bailey was waiting near a loading chute. As Sutton left Front Street, Bailey started walking toward him. Both men stopped at the same time as though motivated by a common purpose. A measured ten paces separated them. Bailey’s elbows twitched the tails of his long coat aside, and his black eyes glittered as he locked glances with the marshal.

  Neither man saw a crouching figure at the boarded end of the holding corrals where the tally men met to compare their figures. Molly Jo had been drawn to the loading chutes by some power stronger than her will.

  Sutton watched the gambler with steady eyes. His muscles twitched restlessly when Bailey licked his lips and leaned forward. If there was any talking to be done, Bailey would have to do it.

  “Crail Creedon and Dollar-Sign Sibley sold their herds,” Bailey began quietly. “I meant to keep that money after the buyers had paid off over at Wichita. I’d have paid off what they owe down in Texas, and all three spreads would have belonged to me!”

  Sutton merely nodded his head. Stud Bailey’s admission confirmed what he had known all along, but the gambler was finding some secret satisfaction in expressing himself.

  “That contract I had with the colonel was more than just a piece of paper,” Bailey continued. “Molly Jo would have done almost anything to save the J Bar B for her father.”

  Swift, blinding anger began to make a roaring sound inside Sutton’s head. For a moment he could scarcely see, and then reason asserted itself. Anger slows up a man’s muscles, and destroys both his accuracy and co-ordination. Had the gambler drawn at that moment, he would have been a certain winner. But Bailey was enjoying his own confession. A confession made because he believed that dead men could tell no tales, and he thought that no one else was within hearing distance.

  Sutton recovered his composure, and the film of anger cleared from his eyes. He knew when the waiting was over. Bailey’s thin nostrils began to flare, and again the gambler licked his lips. A single whispered word broke the sun-drenched silence.

  “Now?”

  Sutton nodded one time. A spray of fine wrinkles leaped to the corners of the gambler’s narrowed eyes. His two hands flashed up and dragged the twin six-shooters from his holsters as though they were a part of his fingers.

  Sutton twitched his right shoulder and bent his knees slightly. His right hand moved down and up without a break to mar his dazzling speed, and his thumb fanned back the hammer with the leap of his muzzle across the lip of his scabbard.

  Lightning flashed from his hand, and the thunder of exploding black powder snuffed out the blaze. Twin explosions echoed his shot to make a long stuttering roll, and that stutter meant that someone had shot…second. Two jets of dust plumed up just in front of Sutton’s scarred boots.

  Stud Bailey jerked back and to the left. He tried to swing his tough body back in line, and the heavy guns sagged in his hands. His fingers lost their grip and spilled the smoking weapons in the deep dust Bailey made a half-turn and broke at the knees.

  Silent Sutton holstered his gun and leaned down quickly. His fingers lifted a fat wallet from the gambler’s hip pocket and he was standing erect when the dust cloud settled.

  Colonel Jim Benton left the jail office and crossed the street, walking like an army officer reviewing his troops. He showed no ill effects from his wound, and his tall spare figure was erect and vigorous. He came to a halt in front of Sutton, clicked his heels smar
tly, and saluted.

  “My congratulations, Marshal!” he barked. “You have brought law to bloody Kansas, and you’ve made the long trails safe for honest men!”

  He offered his right hand to Sutton, and the marshal gripped the long slender fingers. Colonel Benton stared at the flat wallet in the marshal’s hand.

  “Bailey left this for you, Colonel,” Sutton said quietly. “It’s the money he got for your J Bar B trail-herd.”

  “My thanks to you, son,” Benton growled behind his white beard. “I’ll see you in Texas, suh,” and he walked away with a smile twitching his lips as Molly Jo came running.

  Sutton frowned and then stepped behind a loading chute. Molly Jo came up behind him, and when he did not move, she caught him by the arms and turned him to face her.

  He wanted to tell her he was no longer a drifting cowboy; that he was now a full partner with old Crail Creedon in the C Bar C. There were other things he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come to his lips. He knew that Molly Jo had heard Stud Bailey’s boasting confession, and he also knew that her interest would no longer be divided.

  Molly answered his unspoken queries. “I was a fool, Silent; a bigger fool than I ever thought I could be. I don’t know how it was possible for me to differ so widely from you in this matter of honesty. When he told you what he’d planned… She shuddered, averting her eyes from Bailey’s still, dust-covered form. “I was ashamed of myself, Silent. I should have believed the things you said, and all the things you thought, but did not say!”

  The hint of a smile curled the corners of the marshal’s mouth. “I love you, Molly Jo,” he whispered. “My work is almost finished here in Kansas. Will you marry me when I ride back the trail to Texas…and home?”

  “I’ll be waiting, Silent,” Molly Jo whispered. “I’ve waited a long time to hear you ask me, but you remained silent.”

  She looked up at him through tear-dimmed eyes, and pouted. A smile crinkled her eyes as she offered her lips and whispered, “Now?”

  COMANCHE VENGEANCE by Richard Jessup