“That’s just it,” Jim’s eyes turned to Army. “She never was his wife.”
“I married them,” Burt said quietly, “right in my own office.”
“The marriage wasn’t valid, because she was still married to Chance Varrow.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“I am sure. The two of them were teamed up, trimming suckers out in Frisco, and when Reed came to town flashing money around and talking big about his ranch and mining interests, they latched onto him.
“Army came over here to marry him, then found out he had lied, and backed out. Chance had come along to enforce her claim, and he got wind of George’s silver strike.
“They let Reed Castle keep the ranch to quiet him down.” Locklin drew a deep breath. He was tired, very tired. He wanted this over, he wanted to be away from here. “She has takin’ ways, this girl does, and I nigh fell for her myself. George left me a note telling me all about it.
“She found him alone and lonesome, buttered him up some, let him think he was saving her from Castle, and then, after they left town, she shot him in the back.
“That back shot puzzled me, for George was touchy about anybody coming up behind him. I couldn’t see a man getting such a chance, but a woman might. As she shot him, Chance came out of the woods to finish him, but George got away.
“Varrow had to wait until daylight to pick up the trail, and by that time George had left his horse and crawled into the cave. His legs were paralyzed, but he wrote the details, then stuffed his notes, his will, what else he had, into a tin box he kept there.
“On that sandstone he scratched the old L Bar brand that would mean nothing to anybody but us.”
“Where’s Varrow, then?” Shippey demanded. “Let’s get the sheriff and round him up.”
Army’s eyes were on Jim, wide and empty. She knew, and he could see that she knew.
“He was waiting for me at the cave. I left him there.”
Jim dropped the notes and the will on the table before Burt. “There it is. There was enough to hang Varrow, and enough to send Castle away for a good long stretch.”
Burt glanced at Patch. “Where does he fit in?”
“She my half-sister,” Patch said sullenly. “She no good. Some white man bad, some Indian bad. She no good.”
Locklin looked over at Patch, liking what he saw. “You want a job? A permanent job?”
“Uh-huh. I work good.”
Army’s eyes were sullen with hatred. Having them know she was a ’breed bothered her more than being accused of murder. Jim looked at her, marveling. When would people realize it wasn’t race that mattered, but quality and integrity?
“How’d you work it out?” Burt wondered.
“The first thing was the back shot; then George’s guns were gone. Later, I saw them hanging on a nail in her cabin. George’s holsters and belt with his name carved into them were left; only his guns were taken.
“George took those guns off for nobody, and the holsters in the cabin weren’t his. That started me on the right track.
“Then I found tracks where she and Varrow had been meeting over on Butler Creek. My head was aching so bad I could scarcely think; then it dawned on me where I’d seen her tracks before. Varrow’s I did not know.
“My brother had seen her talking to Varrow one time, but did not want to believe there was anything between them.”
Locklin got to his feet. “That winds it up.” He looked over at Castle. “I’m moving onto the Antelope Valley place tomorrow. All your personal effects will be sent to town.”
The door opened behind them, and a short, heavy man stepped into the door. “I’m Jacob Carver, of Ellsworth, Kansas. I’m holding six hundred head of cattle outside of town, but I hear you folks got this country closed up. Is that right?”
Shippey started to speak but Locklin interrupted. “No, of course not. There’s some unused range up in Grass Valley, northwest of here. As long as a man is honest and a good neighbor we’ve room for him. Glad to have you.”
As Carver left Locklin glanced at Shippey. “He’s a good man. I knew his brand back in Kansas. This country can use his kind.”
Locklin left followed by Pike. Fish Creek Burns glanced after him, then said, glancing from Shippey to Burt. “Things are clearin’ up around here, and she looks like fair weather ahead.”
He stood up. “Looks like we’ve got a new pair of pants in the saddle. It surely does!”
HISTORICAL NOTE
CLAY ALLISON
ALMOST ANY OLD-TIMER in West Texas or New Mexico had a Clay Allison story. He was a cattleman and a former Confederate soldier, reported to have ridden with Nathan Bedford Forrest, one of the greatest. Born in Tennessee in 1840, he had come West after the War, had ridden up the Goodnight-Loving Trail with Charles Goodnight (who invented the chuck wagon) and had begun ranching with his brother, John.
A handsome man but of uncertain temper, he had settled several disputes with gunfire, and later rumor was to credit him with at least 30 killings. This figure is no doubt exaggerated as most such figures were, yet on one occasion the six gun was not the weapon selected.
During a bitter dispute with a neighboring rancher, the other man protested, “Don’t go for your gun, Clay! The gun is not my weapon!”
“Then what is?” Clay asked.
“The Bowie knife.”
“All right, we will dig a grave, six feet deep, six feet long. You stand at one end with your knife and I will stand at the other end with mine. The winner fills it in.”
Sometime later, with a bad wound in his thigh, and with several minor cuts and abrasions, Clay filled it in.
SQUATTERS ON THE LONETREE
TANNER WAS FASTENING the tailgate when Wiley Dunn saw him and started across the street. Algosa held its collective breath, for this was the first meeting between the owner of Hat and the nester who had squatted on Lonetree.
For fifteen years Wiley Dunn and his hard-bitten Hat riders had ruled unchallenged over two hundred thousand acres of range, growing in wealth and power. Occasionally, ill-advised nesters had moved on Hat range, but the only nesters still there were buried. The others had departed hurriedly for parts as far away as possible. Tanner was the exception. He had squatted on a small, rugged corner with a lovely green meadow where there was plenty of both timber and water.
Dunn was a square, powerful man who walked with quick, knee-jerking strides. That Tanner defied his power nettled him. He could see no sense in the man starting a fight he had no chance of winning.
Tanner straightened as Dunn approached, and Dunn was startled to find his eyes piercingly black, although the nester’s hair was a faded rust color. Tanner had a lean body, slightly stooped.
“Howdy, Dunn. Been aimin’ to see you. Some of your critters been watering down around Sandy Point and getting caught in quicksand. You ought to have your hands throw up a fence.”
“Thanks.” Dunn was brusque. “Tanner, you have forty-eight hours to get off my range.”
Tanner took a slow drag on his cigarette. “Now, Mr. Dunn, you know better than to tell me that. If I was fixin’ to leave at all I’d have been long gone. That place appeals to me, so we’re just a-stayin’ on.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Dunn said impatiently. “You haven’t a chance! My cattle have been grazing that range for years, and we’re not about to give it up to some two-by-twice nester who comes driftin’ into the country. I’ve got forty tough cowhands, and if you persist, I’ll—”
“You’ll get some of them hurt. Now look here, Mr. Dunn. You’ve got a sight of range out there, and it’s all government land. I’m not takin’ much of it, so you just leave me alone.”
“Be reasonable!” Dunn was not anxious to fight. He had done his share of fighting. “You can’t make a living on that piece of ground.”
“I aim to raise some shoats,” Tanner said, squinting against the sun. “Put me in a few acres of corn.” He indicated the sacks in the wagon. “Got my seed already.”<
br />
“Hogs? This is beef country!”
“So I figure to raise hogs. Folks like a mite of side meat, time to time.”
“You get off that land in forty-eight hours.” Dunn was growing impatient. He was used to issuing ultimatums that were instantly obeyed, not to discussing them. He was also aware the whole town was watching.
“Look, Mr. Dunn, my folks and I like that little place. We can be right neighborly, but we can also be a mite mean, if pressed.
“We’ve got little to lose. You’ve got plenty. I don’t want a fight, but if you start it I won’t set and wait. I’ll come after you, Mr. Dunn. I’ll bring the fight to you.”
Enraged, Dunn turned away, yet it was disappointment as much as anger. He had hoped there would be no fight, but if this man stayed, others would move in. None of them would make it. And when they started to go hungry they would start killing his cattle. He had seen it happen before. Moreover, the man baffled him. Tanner should have been frightened or worried. He was neither.
“Boss,” Ollie Herndon suggested, “let me take him? He’s askin’ for it.”
“No, no!” Dunn protested. “I won’t have a man killed with his wife and children looking on.”
“That’s his wife’s brother,” Turner said, “they’ve only been married a couple of years.”
“You let me have him,” Herndon said. “He’s too durned sure of hisself.”
“Funny thing,” Turner commented, “this is the third time I’ve seen that wagon in town, but I’ve yet to see tracks comin’ from his place.”
“What’s that mean?” Dunn demanded.
“You figure it out, Boss. I surely can’t.”
Despite his determination to rid himself of the nester, Dunn knew the man would be a hard nut to crack, and it would be apt to create quite a stir if there was a killing. And there could be.
Tanner had built his house of stone right against the face of a limestone cliff in the small valley of the Lonetree, a place approachable only from the front. Tanner was reputed to be a dead shot. Yet there was a way—catch him in an open field.
Hat made its try the following day.
Eight riders slipped close under protection of the willows, then charged. Tanner was in plain sight in the open pasture, nothing near him for shelter but a few scattered rock piles, bushes, and trees.
“Got him!” Ollie yelled triumphantly. “Now we’ll show him!”
They rushed first to cut him off from the house, then swept down upon him. Only he was no longer there.
Tanner had vanished like a puff of smoke, and then a rifle boomed. A horse went down, spilling his rider; another boom, and the hat was knocked from Ollie’s head. As the riders swirled past where they had seen Tanner they found nothing, absolutely nothing! It was unbelievable.
The angry riders circled. “Shots came from those rocks,” one maintained.
“No, it was from that clump of brush.”
A rifle boomed from the house, and one of the horses started pitching wickedly. When the horse ceased bucking, a scattering of shots caused them to scatter in flight. Hastily, they hunted cover.
“It ain’t possible!” Ollie protested. “We all seen him! Right out there in plain sight!”
At daybreak the following morning, irritated by the report of the previous day’s events, Wiley Dunn was up pacing the floor. He walked out on the wide veranda, and something caught his attention.
Three large watermelons lay on the edge of the porch, beside them a sack of roasting ears. Pinned to the sack was a note:
Figured these would go well with beef. Better keep your outfit to home. They git kind of carried away with theirselves.
Wiley Dunn swore bitterly, glaring at the melons. Sobering a little, he decided they did look mighty tasty.
Ollie Herndon’s report worried him. Dropped from sight, Ollie said. Obviously the mountain man had been concealed in the brush, but why hadn’t they found him? Ollie was no pilgrim. He should have been able to smoke him out.
Three days went by before they attacked again. Ollie led this one, too, and he had seven men. They rode to within a few hundred yards, then concealed their horses and approached on foot. They did not talk, and they had waited until it was good and dark before they began their approach. They could see the lights in the cabin, and they started across the field through the grass, walking carefully. They were halfway across when Ollie suddenly tripped, staggered, and fell. Instantly a gun boomed.
Flat on their faces in the grass, they lay cursing. That shot had been close, and it sounded like a shotgun.
Ollie ran his fingers through the grass. “Wire!” he said with disgust. “A durned trip-wire!” He glanced up. The lights were gone.
Ollie was furious. To be tricked by a damned nester! He got to his feet and the others arose with him. Red moved closer to Ollie. “No use goin’ up there now. That ol’ catamount’s ready for us.”
It was a fact understood by all. There was literally nothing else they could do. The stone house was situated in such a position that one had to cross the meadows to approach it, and the corrals, stock, and hay were all in a box canyon entered from beside the house. To get nearer without being heard was no longer possible, and shooting at the stone house would simply be a waste, as well as dangerous. It was a thousand to one against their scoring a hit, and their gun-flashes would reveal their positions, making them good targets in the open meadow.
Disgusted, they trooped, grumbling, back to their horses and rode back to the ranch.
Wiley Dunn was irritated. The continued resistance of Tanner was not only annoying and disconcerting, but was winning friends for Tanner. Even his own lawyer made a sly comment on it, but to Dunn it was not amusing. He had hoped that Tanner could be pushed off without any real bloodshed, but it appeared that the only way to be rid of him was to kill him. Ten years ago he would not have hesitated, but the times had changed, and people were looking askance at big outfits running rough-shod over people.
He was tempted to turn Ollie Herndon loose, but hesitated. There should be some other way. If he could only catch Tanner on the road and destroy his place while he was gone.
Somehow the story had gotten around that Dunn’s hands had failed in an attack on the Lonetree nester and he had repaid them with watermelons. The next time Dunn appeared in town Ed Wallis asked, “How were the melons, Wiley? Didn’t upset your stomach, did they?”
Dunn’s smile faded. “That nester’s askin’ for it. He’s been warned to get off my place!”
“It ain’t like it was, Wiley. Why don’t you let him be? A man like that might prove to be a good neighbor. He seems a decent sort.”
“Look, Ed, if I allowed Tanner to stay on that place my range would be over-run by squatters. Besides, in a bad year I’d need that water.”
Wallis shrugged. “It’s none of my affair, although folks are saying that with two hundred thousand acres you should let a man have enough to live on. As for water, you’d have plenty of water, and grass, too, if you didn’t over-graze. You’ve got more cattle on that grass than it can carry.”
“You tellin’ me my business? I’ve been in the cow business twenty-five years, and no small potatoes storekeeper is going to tell me how to do it.”
Ed Wallis turned abruptly. “Sorry I spoke to you, Dunn. It is none of my business. You handle your own affairs.” He returned to his store.
Wiley Dunn stared after him, angry at Wallis but even more angry at himself. What was he getting mad at Ed for? They had been friends for fifteen years. But that talk about carrying too much stock was stupid, although, in a year like this when he was going to be in a tight for feed, it might make sense. It was that damned nester’s fault, he decided. If Tanner hadn’t moved onto that range he would have been all right.
He started along the street to the post office, and was just turning in at the door when Tanner and his wife came out.
Tanner was no more than thirty at best, his wife a good ten years younger, a quietly
pretty girl whose eyes widened when she saw him. That she was frightened angered Dunn even more. What kind of a person was he supposed to be, that a young woman should be afraid of him? What had Tanner been telling her?
“Tanner,” he said abruptly, “have you moved yet?”
Tanner smiled. “Why, howdy, Mr. Dunn! No, we haven’t moved and we don’t plan to. That’s government land, Mr. Tanner, and you’ve no rightful claim to it. On the other hand, I’ve filed on it for a homestead. All we want is to make a livin’, so leave us alone, Mr. Dunn.”
People were listening, and Wiley Dunn was aware of it. There was such a thing as prestige, and by simply telling the Tanners they might stay on undisturbed he could have established a reputation of another kind; on the other hand, he had lived so long with the psychology of the feudal baron it was not in him to change quickly. This Tanner had to be put in his place.
“Now you see here, Tanner. I am not going to fool around any longer. You’re on my water and I want you off. You get off now, or you’ll answer to me. I’ll send my men around to take care of you.”
“What’s the matter, Mr. Dunn?” Tanner’s voice was suddenly soft, but something in it brought Wiley Dunn up short. “Can’t you fight your own battles? Have you been hidin’ behind Ollie Herndon so long you don’t remember what it means to get a bloody nose?”
Wiley Dunn stared at Tanner. Nor for years had anyone dared challenge him. Not for years had he had a fight of any kind. He was a burly, husky man who had won many a rough-and-tumble fight in years gone by, but there was something about Tanner that warned Dunn he would be hard to handle. Yet Dunn had had the reputation of being a fighter, and he had won it the hard way.
“I don’t mix in dirty brawls, Tanner. It won’t be a matter of fists if I come after you.”
Tanner was no longer smiling. “Mr. Dunn, I have never hunted trouble with any man, although here and there trouble has come to me. I’ve not hunted trouble with you, but your boys have attacked my home twice.
“Now, Mr. Dunn, I’ve always hoped I’d never have to kill another man, but if it is guns you want it is guns you can have. Right now, right here at this minute, if you want it that way. I’m carrying a gun, Mr. Dunn. Are you?”
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