Guns of the Timberlands

by Louis L'Amour

  Without a word, Devitt turned and went down the steps. He did not glance back, but he knew the man was waiting there, making sure that he left. Filled with fury and humiliation, Jud Devitt was in no condition to notice anyone. He walked past Clay Bell and headed for the Tinker House.

  Almost at the hotel a man stepped from the shadows. He stepped directly into Devitt’s path.

  “Mr. Devitt? Maybe we could talk business now.”

  Clay Bell saw the man, and he heard the words. But he did not recognize the man, who stood in partial darkness, nor did he recognize the voice.

  Devitt’s voice came, after momentary hesitation. “Yes, come along.”

  Bell walked to his horse and stepped into the leather. It was time he returned to the ranch, but he sat there, the thoughts churning in his head. He had measured the anger and fury in Devitt just now, and he knew the man in this frame of mind was capable of any sort of violence. He couldn’t stop Devitt from getting on his land, for the injunction had already been processed. But his move to stop Devitt from logging until the courts decided the issue was an effective legal counteraction. The only thing, Clay knew, was that when Devitt found out about it, anything might happen.

  It struck him that it would be better to be right here on the spot when Devitt found out about it. Maybe the whole thing could be settled one way or another, right then. The thought of spending the night in the hotel didn’t appeal to him, but Hank was out at the ranch, and that was good enough for Clay.

  He turned his horse and headed for the livery, feeling a lift of spirit. His mood would have been less agreeable if he had recognized the man who had stopped Devitt.

  It was Jack Kilburn.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE EVENTS LEADING up to that night had been not unusual, and there was about them nothing not to have been expected in the normal course of human relations. Their importance was due to the time of their happening, only indirectly to the events themselves. They were, in many respects, a culmination. Of all those concerned, the one most aware of what was happening was the man only indirectly concerned, Sam Tinker.

  Jud Devitt was a man with an eye for a well upholstered blonde, and he had seen Randy Ashton singing in a dance hall. Randy, he had been advised, was hard to get. Jud had permitted himself a smile, and nothing that happened immediately thereafter had caused him reason to doubt the thought behind the smile. He was not the first man to misunderstand the workings of the feminine mind. He had his motives. Randy Ashton had hers.

  Jud Devitt was a handsome man with plenty of money. Randy was entertaining in Julesberg. They had talked one evening and Randy had been tempting but evasive. Randy was a girl who knew what she had and knew where it was wanted, yet underneath the glittering appearance and the apparently compliant manner was a girl who had grown up on a cow ranch. The daughter of a rancher and the sister of cowhands, a girl who could cook a meal as good as any man might wish to eat, a girl who could, when necessary, handle a six-horse team or rope a steer, and who had, at twelve, loaded guns for her father and brothers during an Indian attack on their homestead.

  Unsuccessful on that attempt, the Indians had caught her father halfway to town and left him without his hair. Her brother Ben had been going over the trail to Wyoming when the herd took off in a stampede, and his friends buried what was left of him on the banks of the Platte. Pete, a husky lad and the sole support of his sister, lost a running argument with Apaches and left Randy with no relatives, no money, and no prospects.

  One thing she knew how to do. She could sing. All her family had been singers and she had grown up singing the Scotch and Irish folk songs that were the heritage of her people. The songs of the East came west with its people and she had learned those, and so when Pete was killed, Randy began singing. Later she learned to dance. She had always known how to handle men.

  Julesberg’s boom slowed to a walk, and Jud, not yet aware that his fiancée was to accompany her father to Tinkersville, had written her suggesting she come on and join him. The letter had been sufficiently ambiguous to imply a lot of things, and his intentions seemed serious.

  Not long after her arrival she discovered his intentions were serious enough, but not exactly what she had expected. She had to admit they had not been entirely unsuspected, either.

  Yet a climax had been postponed, due to the sudden turn of events for Jud Devitt. Colleen had arrived with her father and the Deep Creek timber had not fallen easily into his hands.

  In the meantime, Randy had seen Bill Coffin, just as he had seen her.

  Randy made discreet inquiries of Kesterson as to who Bill Coffin was, and Kesterson, dryly but not without understanding, had told her. And the storekeeper, of whom no one suspected a sense of humor, was fully aware of Bill’s weakness for jokes, and appreciated them. So the report on Bill Coffin had not been lacking in color.

  Later, when Bill met Randy, he proceeded to give even more glowing and picturesque accounts of himself, and, coupled with wavy hair and an engaging grin, they had their effect.

  Randy Ashton was a girl who looked as if born to a dance hall, but she was a girl whose heart only beat in tune to cotton print and kitchens. She had grown up with cowhands, and Bill Coffin was a cowhand.

  Jilted by his fiancée, at least temporarily, Jud Devitt remembered the blonde. He beat a path to her door and was received politely, but his suggestions fell upon ears apparently deaf. A more direct suggestion met with a quiet refusal and the pointed implication that he would find the air agreeable.

  This unexpected stubbornness where he had expected compliance had been the final straw. He burst out into the night only to see Bill Coffin dismounting. Their brief encounter had sent him away a poor second, and he could imagine them laughing at him. As a matter of fact, neither had given him another thought.

  It was late when Bill Coffin left Randy. He stepped into the saddle and rode slowly down the street. Shorty was around town. They had best get together and start back for the ranch.

  Drawing up before the Homestake, Coffin leaned forward and peered into the window. There was no sign of Shorty. The place was crowded with lumberjacks. Nor was there a B-Bar horse tied at Doc McClean’s.

  Coffin swung down and checked with the doctor. Garry was restless and had a bad fever. It was better not to disturb him. Shorty Jones had come and gone hours ago. So had Clay.

  Stepping back into the saddle, Bill Coffin soft-footed his horse down the street, keeping to the shadows. Clay Bell was in town, and that meant that Rooney was alone at Emigrant Gap! Unless Shorty had started back, and Bill doubted that Shorty would go back without him.

  A lumberjack came from the stable leading several teams. He walked with them to the watering trough. Bill Coffin, suddenly alert, waited in the shadows. More lumberjacks came from the stable, all carrying rifles. Other men were already gathering around three wagons.

  Bill turned his horse. No time to look for Shorty now. He walked his horse down an alleyway, eased around the livery stable corral, and rode between two haystacks and into the cottonwoods along the creek. The night was cool and there was a faint smell of woodsmoke. He reached the desert and started his horse on a lope for the Gap. Then, changing his mind suddenly, he turned his horse and started across the desert toward Piety Mountain. The cool wind fanned his cheeks and he rode swiftly, holding his horse to a steady pace, weaving among clumps of grease-wood and racing by the looming shadows of mesquite. The trail up Piety was heavy going.

  Stacked high on Piety was the dry wood of the signal fire that would bring in the guards and the men riding with the cattle. With Rooney, Rush Jackson, and Montana Brown—He chuckled. They could come! They could come and stand ten deep all across the Pass!

  A half-hour later, even as the rumbling wagons rolled out of town, he was dropping to his knees beside the stack of wood. He brushed dried leaves together, a bit more dry grass, then placed a lighted match. Flame caught and curled, smoke lifted, then the tongues of the flame lapped at the dry branches, twist
ing hungrily about the cedar and the pine. They leaped, caught, crackled… .

  THE LATE STAGE rumbled to a stop at the stage station and Stag Harvey, loafing on the street with two belted guns, watched a big, loose-jointed man in a rumpled suit get down from the stage carrying a worn leather traveling bag.

  “How are you, Stag? Clay around?”

  “Down to the hotel, I think.”

  “You might as well light a shuck, Stag. The war’s over. At least, it will be when I talk to Judge Riley.”

  “Maybe.” Stag smiled past his cigarette. “That’ll be no good news for Jack an’ me. We need money.”

  Tibbott started on, then caught by a sudden thought, he stopped abruptly. “Stag, never knew you to wear two guns unless you were working.”

  Stag Harvey straightened from the post. “You can tell Clay that, Tibbott. Tell him I’m workin’. Both Jack an’ me.”

  “Don’t do it, Stag.”

  “You tell him.”

  “Stag, he don’t wear that gun for show. He’s no pilgrim.”

  “Didn’t figure so.”

  Hardy Tibbott walked on, more swiftly now. It was good to be back, but he did not like to think of that man standing back there by the stage station. With either Kilburn or Harvey, Bell might have a chance, but with both?

  Ed Miller looked up as the tired man dropped his bag. “Hey! Bell’s been askin’ for you, almost every day. He was beginning to believe you were dead.”

  “Dead tired, is all.”

  He looked around at Sam Tinker. “Stag Harvey’s wearing both guns.”

  “The hell you say!”

  “Saw some wagons leaving for the Gap, too.”

  Sam Tinker turned on his chair. “Ed, you get up those stairs and tell Clay! Quick now!”

  The door shoved open and Shorty Jones came in. His barrel chest spread the wool shirt taut over its muscles. He looked quickly around the room, then at Tibbott. “The boss will be glad to see you.”

  “Who’s at the ranch, Shorty?”

  “Rooney. Coffin came in with me.”

  “Coffin’s gone back.” The speaker was a tall, lazy-looking man. “Shuttin’ my hen house when I saw him ease down the alley and then go hell a-whoopin’ into the desert.”

  Stag Harvey pushed open the door and came in, glancing around as if to check those present. His eyes went to Jones. There was no love lost between the two, but Stag jerked his head toward the Gap.

  “Looks like a fire on Piety. Can’t see the fire, but there’s a reflection.”

  “That’s Coffin.” Shorty tucked his thumbs behind his belt. He had not missed the fact that Harvey wore both guns. “He’s with Rooney by now.”

  “You spoke too soon, Tibbott,” Harvey said, “the fight’s just started.”

  Shorty Jones turned to face him. He was cocked for trouble and Stag Harvey could see it. “Believe me, Stag, it’s over. You and Kilburn better rattle your hocks.”

  Harvey smiled. This man was tough and dangerous, but Harvey was not interested in fighting for fun. He used his gun for pay; it was a cold, simple business. “Maybe, Shorty. Maybe we will.”

  He opened the door to step out, and Colleen came in. Her face was pale, her eyes dark with foreboding. “Bert!” she spoke quickly. “Where’s Clay? Bert’s dead!”

  “Dead?” Several voices echoed the word, one of them Harvey’s.

  The bat-wing doors to the saloon fanned sharply and they looked around. “Who was that? Who went out?”

  “It was Shorty Jones.” Ed Miller’s voice was low, unintentionally dramatic. “Better look to your hole-card, Stag.”

  “Shorty? And Bert Garry dead? Then God help Pete Simmons!”

  STAG HARVEY STOOD on the street rolling a smoke. He was sweating, although the night was cool. Better than anyone, he could appreciate what the death of Bert Garry would mean to a tough outfit like the B-Bar. Ed’s advice had been good. It was time to look to their hole-card. But where was Jack?

  He lighted up, inhaled, and quickly ran over in his mind the places Jack might be. They had not been sure that Clay was in town—but he was.

  Had it not been for the presence of Shorty, Stag might have gone upstairs after Clay and played a lone hand. But Shorty was tough enough by himself, and Sam Tinker would not sit idle, nor would Hardy Tibbott. Innkeeper and lawyer, but both had used guns in their time.

  If the B-Bar was going on the warpath they had best get their job done and split the breeze getting out of town.

  Clay Bell had waited no longer than it took to pull on his boots and belt his guns. He wanted to see Tibbott, but there was no time for talk with an attack beginning at the ranch. He went down the back steps, crossed to the corral and saddled up.

  The fire was still burning when he started for Piety. There was dust lingering in the air, dust from the passage of wagons.

  It was not until he was nearly at the beginning of the climb up Piety Mountain that he recalled he had asked Tibbott nothing about Washington! Too late now—that could wait. He took the trail up the mountain, and when at last he topped the rise there was only the lingering of woodsmoke in the air, and the few embers of the signal fire.

  He started down the short trail to the ranch, and had scarcely taken it before he heard, faint and far away, the sound of a rifle shot.

  CHAPTER 15

  HANK ROONEY WAS no fool. Shortly after Shorty and Bill slipped away, he became aware of the unusual silence around the place. A casual round of the buildings and a check of saddles showed him the two riders were gone. It took no great amount of imagination to guess their destination.

  There was, he knew, no immediate danger of an attack, yet if Devitt realized that he was alone he might attempt to force a way through.

  He was too seasoned a campaigner to leave anything to doubt. Preparations for an attack had been made long before this, but he made the rounds and checked all the available weapons. Bert Garry’s Winchester was in the bunkhouse. Hank brought it to the house and loaded it.

  He had two Sharps .50 buffalo guns, a Spencer .56, and an express shotgun.

  Again he studied the Gap. All was empty and still. He threw more hay to the horses. Suddenly the ranch began to feel very lonely. Night came quickly in the narrow space between the cliffs and the darkness crept down and engulfed the ranch while the far-off hills were still touched with light.

  Long since, every man on the ranch had learned the range to the opening of the Gap. By day there was no cover in the last two hundred yards. By night it was another story.

  Somewhere a coyote yapped the moon. A wind stirred the cottonwood leaves, and Hank Rooney walked up on the porch of the ranch house and sat down, looking out at the hills.

  One of the boys should have stayed. But he was not worried. If an attack came he could stand them off for a good long while. He had protection and a good field of fire … but it would soon be dark.

  The night came and held only silence. Above the towering black walls of the Gap the sky seemed light, and stars hung like lanterns in the still sky.

  A wind came down the pass and sent leaves skittering over the hard-packed ground. He walked outside and went to the corrals. The horses seemed friendly and close. Restlessly, he walked back. It was early, but he might catch a bit of sleep.

  He stretched out on a cot and stared up into the darkness. It seemed unnaturally still, but he was tired… .

  Suddenly, he was awake. How long he had slept he had no idea, but he came awake with a start, instantly aware of distant sound. A wagon rolling over stones. In the clear night air of the desert, channeled by the walls of the Gap, he caught the sound from some distance.

  With Garry’s Winchester in his hand he went outside to the gate. Standing at the corner of the stone chuckhouse, he strained his eyes into the darkness.

  After a while he heard vague sounds. To a man who had fought Apaches and Kiowas, these men seemed clumsy. He listened, judging their distance and number.

  Stepping around the corner of the
bunkhouse he lit a cigar, took a deep draw, and placed it on the windowsill ready to hand.

  He was alone but he was not worried. He had fought before, from worse positions. Like the time he and Red Jenkins had fought Comanches from a buffalo wallow. Or the time three hands from the old Goodnight outfit ran into a Kiowa war party. He chuckled, remembering. It would be like the old days.

  A faint footfall sounded. Somebody was creeping up the Gap. He stepped around the corner and took another long draw on his cigar, then picked up the Winchester. When a footfall sounded again the rifle came smoothly to his shoulder and he fired.

  Running a half dozen steps, he fired again, and sprang back for a third and fourth shot. He spaced his shots, shooting blindly down the Gap.

  There was silence and then a stone rattled. He fired at the sound and heard a yelp, whether of pain or only astonishment he could not say, but instantly there was a volley.

  He was standing behind the gate post and was completely sheltered. The sound of the shots racketed against the walls, and died away into dark silence. The Gap was still.

  “Quite a party,” he told himself. “Must be a dozen or more.”

  Something had been forcing itself upon his consciousness for some time, and suddenly he realized what it was. On the far wall of the Gap was a vague reflection, yet instantly he placed it.

  The signal fire on Piety!

  A warm feeling came over him and some of the loneliness vanished. The boys knew, and the boys were coming. Jud Devitt would pay for this night’s work.

  Down the Gap there was a faint stir. Instantly, he fired. He heard the bullet smack rock and ricochet, and a dozen rifles replied. Somewhere behind him hoofs pounded and then a horse raced down the Gap and a voice called out, “Hold it, Hank! It’s me!”

  Coffin swung down as a rifle shot, aimed at the voice, howled high and far.

  “I lit the fire on Piety. The boys are comin’.”