Guns of the Timberlands

by Louis L'Amour

“How’d you know?”

  “Saw ’em loading up. Couldn’t find Shorty.”

  There was a long silence and Hank Rooney retrieved and relighted his cigar. In the shelter of the chuckhouse he smoked and waited.

  “Hank … ?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Feller up there on the side-wall. He’s tryin’ to Injun us. How many times will be bounce?”

  “He’ll fall clean.”

  “Bet you a seegar. There’s a boulder up there on that face.”

  “You got a bet.”

  The Winchester stabbed flame. They heard a grunting cry, a rattle of rocks, and the man fell. He hit ground solidly like a sack of flour.

  “You owe me,” Hank said.

  Bullets screamed overhead and several smacked against the chuckhouse.

  “Hey—where’s Mahafee?”

  “Aw, the old coot went back up the pass. He’s got him a couple of wire traps. Tryin’ to catch some quail. He ain’t back.”

  Hank walked to the house and brought out the two Sharps rifles and the Spencer. Coffin was using his own Winchester.

  Far up the pass behind them they heard the sound of horses. Neither man made a comment, but each had been listening, and each knew the boys were coming. Yet the first man to come into the yard came from Piety way. It was Clay Bell.

  “Get set,” Hank whispered suddenly. “They’re fixin’ to rush.”

  There was a sudden pound of running feet and a scramble of gravel. All three men opened up, firing low and fast. The rifles stabbed flame into the darkness and the acrid smell of gunpowder was in the air. Lead hailed around them, but the rush broke.

  Even as they heard retreating feet, Jackson and Brown rode into the yard and sprang down, rifles in hand.

  “Ain’t over, is it?” Brown pleaded.

  Mahafee came into the yard behind them. He said nothing, merely went into his kitchen and began to make coffee.

  “Don’t reckon they’ve quit,” Rooney said, “but they lost their stomach for it.”

  Clay waited, listening. Out in the darkness he heard a faint groan.

  Holding their rifles high for greater distance, all five men fired, their shots racketing down the Gap. Far down a man cried out, and someone cursed wickedly. Then there was silence.

  “What’s the matter?” Coffin yelled, tauntingly. “You boys leavin’ so soon? We ain’t had a chance to be hospitable yet!”

  The echo died, and there was no other sound. The men waited, Hank Rooney smoking placidly.

  “Light up, Hank,” Clay said finally, “let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Hank walked to the end of the prepared fuse and knelt. He drew deep on his cigar and the end glowed. He touched it to the fuse, which spluttered into flame that ate its way along. Suddenly the long piles of stacked brush burst into flame. In the bright light they could see three men lying upon the ground. One man had been trying to drag himself away, but when the brush burst into flame he held himself still.

  “For Gawd’s sake, don’t shoot! We’re through!”

  Brown caught Bell’s arm. “Listen!”

  In the distance they could hear the sound of wagons. A yell came, then the sound of hoofs on stone and the rumble of wheels.

  “Pullin’ out,” Brown said. He swore softly, bitterly. “Figured we’d have us a battle.”

  Bill Coffin spoke, his voice reflective. “As I recall, Devitt bought those broncs off Wheeler. Mighty skittish, they were.”

  The air was pregnant with speculation. “Mighty skittish,” Jackson agreed, and in his voice was a sudden lighting of hope.

  “He always maintained,” Montana Brown said gravely, “they was the fastest runnin’ teams in the country. You reckon he was right?”

  “Interest of science,” Coffin said, “maybe we should find out. You reckon?”

  “Go ahead,” Rooney suggested. “I’ll see how bad those boys out there are hurt.”

  With a yell, the three cowhands ran for their horses and rode whooping into the night.

  Rooney chuckled. “Man’s only young once,” he said to Clay. He drew on his cigar. “Boss, I reckon those horses will be the fastest runnin’ teams in the country this night, anyway!”

  Hank Rooney and Bell walked out to the fallen men. “If you want to lie quiet and be taken care of,” Rooney advised them, “don’t start anything.”

  One man was dead … he was that one who had been shot off the rock wall by Coffin. One man had been shot through the leg, and the other shot twice through the shoulder. When they were bedded down in the bunkhouse and getting care from Rooney and coffee from Mahafee, Clay Bell walked back to the corral.

  “Takin’ the black,” he told Hank. “I’m goin’ into town. Shorty’s alone.”

  An hour after he had gone, three weary and bedraggled punchers rode back into the ranch yard. Over their coffee they told gleefully of their race with the wagons.

  “Them horses could run, all right,” Jackson said. “Montana nicked one with a .45 and he suddenly recalled some relatives back in Texas an’ lit a shuck.”

  “They might have made it,” Coffin agreed, “’cept the wagon tipped over.”

  “Runnin’ yet, them horses.”

  A young lumberjack with a broken leg turned around on his bunk. “What happened to the jacks?”

  “Walkin’,” Coffin said.

  Montana gulped coffee. “What’d you boys give us for twenty-two pairs of high lace boots?”

  “You made ’em walk? In their sock feet? Hell, I’d rather have a busted leg!”

  “They started for Tucson,” Coffin said. “We figured they wouldn’t have no reason to go to Tinkersville.”

  Quiet settled on the ranch. Jackson stood guard at the gate and was relieved by Coffin. Montana Brown, after a word with Rooney, saddled up and started for town. It was still dark—at least an hour before the first gray of dawn would light the sky.

  Clay Bell had gone down the Gap, but turned off the trail and cut across country for Tinkersville. The black was restless and wanted to run but he held him in. There was no telling what might lie ahead, but he had little hope of any break, despite this new defeat for Devitt.

  Stag Harvey and Kilburn were still in town. Was that entirely accident?

  It would pay to have a care, for Devitt might not hesitate to hire them. There had been shooting, and if there was more, nobody would be surprised. So far Devitt had lost, but with Harvey and Kilburn at his side there would still be trouble. They were dangerous men, men who killed without a qualm, men reared to the gun and steeled and tempered in its use.

  Bert Garry was dead and Shorty was in town. Much might have happened, but his first call had been to the ranch. Seriously, he pondered the situation.

  He was not worried about Shorty. The man was cool and careful, and a thoroughly dangerous fighter. No gunman, he had served his time in several cattle wars, had fought Indians and had been over the trail. He was tough and salty, and a thinking man. He was no match for speed with Stag or Kilburn, but he was dangerous to either of them. He was a man who would have to be killed before he could be stopped.

  And neither Kilburn nor Harvey were apt to take up the fight of a lumberjack.

  The fact remained that for several hours Shorty had been in town alone, and that town was filled with enemies.

  Clay Bell saw the sharp-cut outlines of roofs against the sky. Few lights showed at this hour, and everything was quiet.

  Somewhere a rooster crowed … another light went out. Clay Bell rode on, the only sound the footfalls of his horse on the dusty road.

  CHAPTER 16

  WHEN CLAY BELL rode out of town headed for his ranch at Emigrant Gap, it was Sam Tinker who brought up the subject of the grazing rights.

  “The rights to graze that area, along with the sole rights to develop or improve that land, belong to Clay,” Tibbott said. “Chase tried to block me, and he was making trouble until I met a man named O’Connell. Seems Bell saved his life at Shiloh.

 
; “O’Connell is active in the Party, and he knows the right people. On Clay’s right of prior use, the fact that he’s kept a fire watch, and that he has sold beef to the Army all helped.

  “O’Connell turned up a quartermaster who convinced the Senate committee that Bell’s beef was needed right there, that in case of a new Apache outbreak it would be the only stable source of supply in that area. We stretched a point here and there, but we made it stick.”

  There was silence in the dining room. Tinker’s spoon rattled on his saucer.

  “Leaves Devitt without a leg to stand on,” Miller said. “He won’t like it.”

  “Nor will some others,” Tinker said grimly.

  The big clock ticked off the seconds, and they waited, listening. Nobody phrased the situation, yet all understood. Somewhere out in the town was Shorty Jones, and somewhere else was Pious Pete Simmons.

  It was dark and still out there … and at any minute a man could die.

  Miller walked to the door and stood outside for some time. Finally he came in. “Firing at the Gap,” he said.

  “They won’t get through.”

  BOB TRIPP WAS dead tired but he could not sleep. He had watched the men load up for the drive to the Gap, then he had gone back inside. This was something of which he wanted no part. Many of the lumberjacks had done some hunting, a few of them had served in the Army, but most of them were men unskilled at fighting, and from talk around town Tripp knew they were facing a salty lot of fighting men.

  Bob Tripp was no coward, and he was also not a fool. Anyway, he had orders to stay in town.

  Jud Devitt had lost his head. It was sheer insanity to send that bunch out there to tackle the curly wolves from the high country who worked for Bell.

  Boots scraped on the gravel outside and a light tap came on the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Williams. Open up.”

  Tripp unbarred the door and Williams slid into the room. His face was drawn and white. “Bob, that kid died a while ago. Jones is packin’ a gun for Simmons!”

  “Didn’t Simmons go to the Gap?”

  “The Boss kept him here.”

  Williams mopped his face, then tucked the bandana in his pocket. “Bob, I’m leavin’. I’ll fight, but I’m no killer, and I don’t cotton to the ways of Duval and Simmons. Nor Jud Devitt, either, for that matter.”

  Bob Tripp sat down on his cot and began to pull on his boots. When he had tied the laces he sat there, staring at the gray rectangle that was the window. The room itself was in total darkness. Suddenly he reached under the cot and pulled out a carpetbag. He began to take down clothes and stuff them into it.

  “There’s a train at daylight, Wat. I’ll go with you.”

  “We can wait in the brush across the tracks,” Williams said.

  It was Jim Narrows who told Pete Simmons about Garry’s death.

  The burly Simmons was more the thug than the lumberjack. He had found occasion to shove Narrows around and had enjoyed taunting the older man. Jim Narrows was not a vindictive man, but neither was he a man likely to forget. When he heard that Bert Garry was dead he had deliberately walked by the shack where Simmons and Duval bunked. Duval had led the attack on the Gap, and Simmons was alone.

  Pious Pete was smoking on the step when Narrows came along. “Evenin’, Simmons.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Narrows. Just came from the Tinker House.”

  “What’s up? Seems a lot of stirrin’ around?”

  “You’re a dead man, Pete.”

  Jim Narrows said it quietly, without emotion. He could almost feel sorry for the man, but he remembered how he had put the boots to Bert Garry. He had seen what those calks could do to a man’s face.

  “Huh?”

  Jim took his time. He lighted his pipe. “Pete, that kid died tonight.”

  “Garry?” Simmons was on his feet.

  “You’d better get a gun, Pete.” Narrows spoke quietly. “When Shorty Jones heard that Garry was dead he just turned and walked out. He’s lookin’ for you, Pete.”

  Simmons turned and blundered through the door.

  “Better not strike a light,” Narrows advised. “That would only hurry it.”

  Jim Narrows walked away down the little slope. There was little time left for Pete. Knowing Shorty Jones, Narrows had no doubt of the outcome. Bert Garry had been a fine lad, but it was never good to see a man frightened.

  Pete Simmons strapped on a six-gun and picked up a shotgun. He went down the alley, hesitated at the street, then crossed to the livery barn.

  A solitary light glowed over the door of the stable and there was nobody in sight. For a long while Simmons studied that street; then he crossed swiftly. It was past one in the morning and nobody was around. Even the hostler was asleep.

  Simmons got a horse and saddled him clumsily, then led him to the door. Dropping the bridle reins, he stepped into the light to look down the street.

  As he appeared in the light he heard a boot scrape on gravel. He stiffened, standing where he was, his mouth dry, his heart pounding heavily.

  “You took your time, Pete.”

  Simmons’ last vestige of fighting courage surfaced. “I ain’t running!”

  “Goin’ for a ride, then? Didn’t figure you was the type to ride under the stars, Pete.”

  Simmons held the shotgun but the muzzle was down. He wished it was higher. He wondered how long it would take to come level. And just where was Shorty? Simmons strained his eyes at the shadow. There was a line of something darker—was that Shorty?

  There would be little time. A fraction of a second, only. He would have to swing the gun up. Suppose his finger missed the trigger guard?

  “The kid never wanted trouble, Pete. We didn’t even know there was a fight on. We had just come in for a drink. We’d been ridin’ dusty, all day.”

  Shorty Jones’ voice sounded nearer. “He was a good kid, Pete. It ain’t good to see the life stomped from a boy like that. Even up, it might have been different. You ganged us.”

  “It was orders!” Simmons’ throat was hoarse. His eyes probed the darkness, not quite sure.

  “You’ll never stomp another man, Pete—not ever.”

  Simmons’ lips felt parched. He could do with a drink. Where was Shorty? He took a firmer grip on the shotgun. His palm was sweaty—suppose the gun slipped?

  Something seemed to move in the darkness and Pete Simmons’ nerve broke. He sprang aside and swung up with the shotgun. His finger groped for a trigger but got both at once, and the shotgun roared and jumped in his hands.

  The darkness was deceiving and he was frightened. He sprang back and, dropping the shotgun, groped for his pistol.

  Shorty Jones stepped into the half-light. The post near him had taken most of the blast. A few shots had hit him and a thin trickle of blood showed on his cheek.

  “Good-bye, Pete.”

  Shorty fired twice, lifting his gun and taking his time, the two staccato reports blending. Simmons shrugged high his shoulders and rose on his tiptoes, then fell.

  Shorty Jones looked down at the man, waiting carefully. Simmons shuddered, slowly his muscles subsided, and he was dead.

  Shorty thumbed cartridges into empty chambers and holstered his gun. He turned and walked slowly back up the street. When he was almost at the Tinker House he stopped to roll a smoke. He did not look back.

  In the dining room of the Tinker House men sat huddled over their coffee. They heard the heavy boom of the shotgun, then the two sharp, deliberate shots.

  In his office down the street Jud Devitt had heard those shots too. Now he sat across the desk from two men.

  “Things have changed,” Harvey said.

  “We don’t like it,” Kilburn added.

  “Who fired those shots?” Devitt asked irritably. “Who was that? I thought it was you.”

  “It was Jones. He killed Pete Simmons.”

  Jud Devitt compressed his lips. Another mark against Clay Bell. He fel
t angry and uneasy. Nothing seemed to be going right. This town was a jinx, everything had gone wrong here, in a stupid hick cattle town!

  “What do you mean—things have changed?”

  “We took on a job. It looked pretty good. Now it doesn’t look good any more.”

  “You’re quitting?” Devitt sneered.

  Stag Harvey shook his head. “Call it what you like. This here’s our business. We don’t like to lose. You’ve lost.”

  Jud Devitt was suddenly cold and angry. “Don’t talk like fools!” he said. “I’ve not lost! I can’t lose! My man in Washington—”

  “Hardy Tibbott came back today. Tonight. He’s been in Washington. Clay Bell got the grazing right secured for ten years.”

  So that was how a dream ended? A beautiful, foolproof plan. This timber, so close to Mexican Central’s main line that transportation was a minor item. He could bid far below the others and still make a rich profit. And now it was over. If Tibbott had come back with the grazing permit then it was ended. Even if his men broke into the Deep Creek range, he was finished.

  And all because of one man.

  He looked up from his desk. “All right,” Devitt said, “I’ll make it five thousand dollars if he is dead before sundown tomorrow.”

  “No.”

  Jack Kilburn shifted his feet and Stag looked at him. Kilburn spread his hands, and Harvey knew what he meant. They were broke.

  “Five thousand.” Devitt repeated the sum. “I have it here.”

  Stag Harvey looked down at his hands. He had never deliberately gone in for killing. Fighting, yes. Yet he had always known, he realized now, that it would end this way. That if he continued to use a gun he would end by doing this. And Clay Bell was a good man.

  A little chill struck him, remembering Bell. There was something about gunfighters, one always knew another.

  “Half of it now,” he said. “On the line.”

  “All right. The other half when the job is done.”

  Devitt opened his safe and took out a sheaf of bills. He counted them out on the desk-top.

  “Don’t worry about the rest. I’ll pay it.”

  Jack Kilburn looked up at Devitt and something inside Jud turned over slowly, sickeningly.

  “We ain’t worried, Devitt. We’ll collect.”