The Tumbling K foreman was riding into the ranch yard when the shot rang out. Something had struck a wicked blow on his head, and he was already falling when he heard the shot.
* * * * *
His head felt constricted, as if a tight band had been drawn around his temples. Slowly, fighting every inch of the way, he battled his way to consciousness. His lids fluttered, then closed, too weak to force themselves open. He struggled against the heaviness and finally got his eyes open. He was lying on his back in a vague half-light. The air felt damp, cool.
Awareness came. He was in a cave or mine tunnel. Turning his head carefully, he looked around. He was lying on a crude pallet on a sandy floor. Some twenty feet away was a narrow shaft of light. Nearby his gun belt hung on a peg driven into the wall, and his rifle leaned against the wall.
The rift of light was blotted out, and someone crawled into the cave. A man came up and threw down an armful of wood. Then he lighted a lantern and glanced at McQueen.
“Come out of it, did you? Man, I thought you never would.”
He was lean and old, with twinkling blue eyes and almost white hair. He was long and tall. Ward noted the footgear suddenly. This was the man they had trailed up the canyon!
“Who are you?” he demanded.
The man smiled and squatted on his heels. “Charlie Quayle’s the name. Used to ride for Chait, over beyond Newton’s.”
“You’re the one we trailed up the canyon the other day. Yesterday, I believe it was.”
“I’m the man, all right, but it wasn’t yesterday. You’ve been lyin’ here all of two weeks, delirious most of the time. I was beginning to believe you’d never come out of it.”
“Two weeks?” McQueen struggled to sit up, but the effort was too much. He sank back. “Two weeks? They’ll figure I’m dead back at the ranch. Why did you bring me here? Who shot me?”
“Hold your horses. I’ve got to wash up and fix some grub.” He poured water in a basin and began to wash his face and hands. As he dried his hands, he explained. “You was shot, and I ain’t sure who done it. Two of them rustlin’ hands of Yount’s packed you to the canyon and dropped you into the wash. Then they caved sand over you and some brush. But they weren’t about to do more than need be, so figurin’ you were sure enough dead, they rode off. I was almighty curious to know who’d been killed, so I pulled the brush away and dug into the pile and found you was still alive. I packed you up here, and, mister, it took some packin’. You’re a mighty heavy man.”
“Were you trailin’ them when they shot me?”
“No. To tell you the truth, I was scoutin’ the layout at the ranch, figurin’ to steal some coffee when I heard the shot. Then I saw them carry you off, so I follered.” Quayle lighted his pipe. “There’s been some changes,” he added. “You friend Sartain has been fired. So have Fox and that bald-headed gent. Tennessee had a run-in with Lund, and Lund killed him. Picked a fight and then beat him to the draw. Yount is real friendly with Ruth Kermitt, and he’s runnin’ the ranch. One or more of those tough gunmen of his is there all the time.”
Ward lay back on his pallet. Kim Sartain fired! It didn’t seem reasonable. Kim had been with Ruth Kermitt longer than any of them. He had been with them when Ruth and her brother came over the trail from Montana. Kim had been with her through all that trouble at Pilot Range when Ward himself had first joined them. Kim had always ridden for the brand. Now he had been fired, run off the place. And Tennessee killed!
What sort of girl was Ruth Kermitt? She had fired her oldest and most loyal hands and taken on a bunch of rustlers with a tinhorn gambler for a boss. And to think he had been getting soft on her! He’d actually been thinking she was the girl for him, and the only reason he’d held off was because he had no money, nothing to offer a woman. Well, this showed what a fool he would have been.
“You’ve got a hard head,” Quayle was saying, “or you’d be dead by now. That bullet hit right over your eye and skidded around your skull under the skin. Laid your scalp open. You had a concussion, too. I know the signs. And you lost blood.”
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Ward said. “I’ve got to see Ruth Kermitt.”
“You’d be better off to sit tight and get well. Right now she’s right busy with that there Yount. Rides all over the range with him, holdin’ hands more’n half the time. Everybody’s seen ’em. And if she fired all the rest of her hands, you can be sure she doesn’t want her foreman back.”
He was right, of course. What good would it do even to talk to a woman who would fire such loyal hands as she’d had?
“Where d’you fit into all this?”
Quayle sliced bacon into a frying pan. “Like I told you. I rode for Chait. Yount rooked him out of his ranch, but as a matter of fact, Chait was glad to get shut of it. When Yount found what he’d won, he was sore. Me, I’d saved me nigh on a year’s wages an’ was fixin’ to set up for myself. One of those hands of Yount’s, he seen the money and trailed me down, said it was ranch money. We had us a fight and they got some lead into me. I got away an’ holed up in this here canyon.”
* * * * *
All day McQueen rested in the cave, his mind busy with the problem. But what could he do? If Ruth Kermitt had made her choice, it was no longer any business of his. The best thing he could do was to get his horse and ride out of there, just drop the whole thing.
It was well after dark before Quayle returned, but he had news and was eager to talk.
“That Yount is takin’ over the country! He went into Mannerhouse last night, huntin’ Gelvin, but Gelvin had gone off with that stranger friend of his that he plays poker with all the time. Yount had words with Dave Cormack and killed him. They say this Yount is greased lightning with a gun. Then Lund an’ Pete Dodson pistol-whipped Logan Keane. Yount told them he was runnin’ the Tumblin’ K and was going to marry Ruth Kermitt, and he was fed up with the talk about him and his men. He thinks he’s got that town treed, an’ maybe he has. Takes some folks a long time to get riled.”
Ruth to marry Jim Yount! Ward felt a sharp pang. He realized suddenly that he was in love with Ruth. Now that he realized it, he knew he had been in love with her for a long time. And she was to marry Yount.
“Did you see anything of Kim Sartain?”
“No,” Quayle replied, “but I heard the three of them rode over into the range beyond Newton’s.”
* * * * *
Ward McQueen was up at daybreak. He rolled out of his blankets, and although his head ached, he felt better. No matter. It was time to be up and doing. His long period of illness had at least given him rest, and his strength was such that he recovered rapidly. He oiled his guns and reloaded them. Quayle watched him preparing to travel but said nothing until he pulled on his boots. “Better wait until sundown if you’re huntin’ trouble,” he said. “I got a hoss for you. Stashed him down in the brush.”
“A horse? Good for you! I’m going to have a look at the ranch. This deal doesn’t figure right to me.”
“Nor me.” Quayle knocked the ash from his pipe. “I seen that girl’s face today. They rid past as I lay in the brush. She surely didn’t look like a happy woman. Not like she was ridin’ with a man she loved. Maybe she ain’t willin’.”
“I don’t like to think she’d take up with a man like Yount. Well, tonight I ride.”
“We ride,” Quayle insisted. “I didn’t like gettin’ shot up any more than you-all. I’m in this fight, too.”
“I can use the help, but what I’d really like you to do is hunt down Kim Sartain and the others. I can use their help. Get them back here for a showdown. Warn them it won’t be pretty.”
Where Quayle had found the quick-stepping buckskin, Ward neither knew nor cared. He needed a horse desperately, and the buckskin was not only a horse but a very good one.
Whatever Yount’s game was, he had been fast and thorough. He had m
oved in on the Tumbling K, had Ward McQueen dry-gulched, had Ruth Kermitt fire her old hands, replaced them with his own men, and then rode into Mannerhouse and quieted all outward opposition by killing Dave Cormack and beating another man. If there was to have been opposition, it would have been Cormack and Keane who would have led it. Tennessee, too, had been killed, but Tennessee was not known in town, and that might be passed off as a simple dispute between cowhands. Yount had proved to be fast, ruthless, and quick of decision. As he acted with the real or apparent consent of Ruth Kermitt, there was nothing to be done by the townspeople in the village of Mannerhouse.
Probably, with Cormack and Keane out of the picture and Gelvin off God knew where, they were not inclined to do anything. None of them was suffering any personal loss, and nothing was to be gained by bucking a man already proven to be dangerous. Obviously, the gambler was in control. He had erred in only two things: he had failed to kill Charlie Quayle and to make sure that McQueen was dead.
The buckskin had a liking for the trail and moved out fast. Ward rode toward the Tumbling K, keeping out of sight. Quayle had ridden off earlier in the day to find Kim Sartain, Baldy Jackson, and Bud Fox. The latter two were good cowhands and trustworthy, but the slim, dark-faced youngster, Kim Sartain, was one of the fastest men with a gun Ward had ever seen.
“With him,” Ward told the buckskin, “I’d tackle an army.”
He left the buckskin in a clump of willows near the stream and then crossed on stepping-stones, working his way through the brush toward the Tumbling K ranch house.
He had no plan of action or anything on which to base a plan. If he could find Ruth and talk to her, or if he could figure out what it was that Yount was trying to accomplish, it would be a beginning.
The windows were brightly lit. For a time he lay in the brush, studying the situation. An error now would be fatal, if not to him, at least to their plans.
There would be someone around, he was sure. Quayle had said one of the gunmen was always on the ranch, for the gambler was a careful man.
A cigarette glowed suddenly from the steps of the bunkhouse. Evidently, the man had just turned toward him. Had he inadvertently made a sound? At least he knew that somebody was there, on guard.
Ward eased off to the left until the house was between himself and the guard. Then he crossed swiftly to the side of the house. He eased a window a little higher. It was a warm night, and the window had been open at the bottom.
Jim Yount was playing solitaire at the dining room table. Red Lund was oiling a pistol. Packer was leaning his elbows on the table and smoking, watching Yount’s cards.
“I always wanted a ranch,” Yount was saying, “and this is it. No use gallivanting around the country when a man can live in style. I’d have had it over beyond Newton’s if that damned sand bed I got from Chait had been any good. Then I saw this place. It was too good to be true.”
“You worked fast,” Packer said, “but you had a streak of luck when Hollier an’ me got McQueen. From what I hear, he was nobody to fool around with.”
Yount shrugged. “Maybe so, but all sorts of stories get started, and half of them aren’t true. He might be fast with a gun, but he had no brains, and it takes brains to win in this kind of game.” He glanced at Lund. “Look, that Logan Keane outfit lies south of Horsetail Creek, and it joins onto this one. Nice piece of country, thousands of acres with good water, running right up to the edge of town. Keane’s scared now. Once me and Ruth Kermitt are married so our title to this ranch is cinched, we’ll go to work on Keane. We’ll rustle his stock, run off his hands, and force him to sell. I figure the whole job shouldn’t take more than a month, at the outside.”
Red glanced up from his pistol. “You get the ranches, what do we get?”
Yount smiled. “You don’t want a ranch, and I do, but I happen to know that Ruth has ten thousand dollars cached. You boys …” For a moment his eyes held those of Red Lund. “… Can split that among you. You can work out some way of dividing it even up all around.”
Lund’s eyes showed his understanding, and McQueen glanced at Packer, but the big horse thief showed no sign of having seen the exchange of glances. Ward could see how the split would be made; it would be done with Red Lund’s six-shooter. They would get the lead; he’d take the cash. It had the added advantage to Jim Yount of leaving only one witness to his treachery.
Crouched below the window, Ward McQueen calculated his chances. Jim Yount was reputed to be a fast man with a gun. Red Lund had already proved his skill. Packer would also be good, even if not an artist like the others. Three to one made the odds much too long, and at the bunkhouse would be Hollier and Pete Dodson, neither a man to be trifled with.
A clatter of horses’ hoofs on the hard-packed trail, and a horseman showed briefly in the door and was ushered into the room. It was the lean stranger who had played poker with Gelvin and Keane.
“You Jim Yount? Just riding by and wanted to tell you there’s an express package at the station for Miss Kermitt. She can drop in tomorrow to pick it up, if she likes.”
“Express package? Why didn’t you bring it out?”
“Wouldn’t let me. Seems like its money or something like that. A package of dinero that’s payment for some property in Wyoming. She’s got to sign for it herself. They won’t let anybody else have it.”
Yount nodded. “All right. She’s asleep, I think, but come morning I’ll tell her.”
The rider went out, and a few minutes later, Ward heard his horse’s hoofs on the trail.
“More money?” Packer grinned. “Not bad, boss! She can pick it up for us, and we’ll split it.”
Red Lund was wiping off his pistol. “I don’t like it,” he spoke suddenly. “Looks like a move to get us off the ranch and the girl into town.”
Yount shrugged. “I doubt it, but suppose that’s it? Who in town has the guts or the skill to tackle us? Personally I believe it’s the truth, but if it ain’t, why worry? We’ll send Packer in ahead to scout. If there’s any strangers around, he can warn us. I think it’s all right. We’ll ride in tomorrow.”
* * * * *
An hour later, and far back on a brush-covered hillside, Ward McQueen bedded down for the night. From where he lay, he could see anybody who arrived at or left the ranch. One thing he knew: tomorrow was the payoff. Ruth Kermitt would not be returning to the ranch.
At daylight he was awake and watching, his buckskin saddled and ready. It had been a damp, uncomfortable night, and he stretched, trying to get the chill from his muscles. The sunshine caught reflected light from the window. Hollier emerged and began roping horses in the corral. He saddled his own, Ruth’s brown mare, and Yount’s big gray.
Ward McQueen tried to foresee what would happen. He was convinced, as was Red Lund, that the package was a trick. There were only nine buildings on the town’s main street, scarcely more than two dozen houses scattered about. The express and stage office was next to the saloon. Gelvin’s store was across the street.
Whatever happened, Ruth would be in danger. She would be with Yount, closely surrounded by the others. To fire on them was to endanger her.
And where did that young rider stand? He had been called Rip, and he had known of McQueen’s gun battle in Maravillas Canyon. Ward was sure he was not the aimless drifter he was supposed to be. His face was too keen, his eyes too sharp. If he had baited a trap with money, he had used the only bait to which these men would rise. But what was he hoping to accomplish?
There were no men in Mannerhouse who could draw a gun in the same league with Yount or Lund. Gelvin would try, if he was there, but Gelvin had only courage and no particular skill with a handgun, and courage alone was not enough.
It was an hour after daylight when Packer mounted his paint gelding and started for town. Ward watched him go, speculating on what must follow. He had resolved upon his own course of action. His was no elab
orate plan. He intended to slip into town and, at the right moment, kill Jim Yount and, if possible, Red Lund.
The only law in Mannerhouse was old John Binns, a thoroughly good man of some seventy years who had been given the job largely in lieu of a pension. He had been a hard-working man who owned his home and a few acres of ground, and he had a wife only a few years younger.
Mannerhouse had never been on the route of trail drives, land booms, or mining discoveries, and in consequence the town had few disturbances or characters likely to cause them. The jail had been used but once, when the town first came into being, and few citizens could remember the occasion. John Binns’s enforcement of the law usually was a quiet suggestion to be a little less noisy or to go home and sleep it off.
Ward McQueen, a law-abiding man, found himself faced with a situation where right, justice, and the simple rules of civilized society were being pushed aside by men who did not hesitate to kill. One prominent citizen had been murdered, another pistol-whipped. Their stated intention was to do more of the same, to say nothing of Jim Yount’s plan to marry Ruth, and his implication had been that it was simply a means to seize her land. Once they had won what they wished, there was no reason to believe the violence would cease. Gangrene had infected the area, and the only solution open to Ward McQueen was to amputate.
Yet he was no fool. He knew something of the gun skills of the men he would face. Even if he was killed himself, he must eliminate them. The townspeople could take care of such as Hollier and Packer. If he succeeded, Kim Sartain could handle the rest of it, and would. That was Kim’s way.
Mounting the buckskin, he started down the trail toward Mannerhouse, only a few miles away. When he had ridden but a few hundred yards, he saw from his vantage point above the ranch that three riders were also headed for town. Jim Yount, Ruth, and, a few yards behind, Red Lund.
Pete Dodson, riding a sorrel horse, was also headed for town but by another route. Jim Yount was taking no chances.
* * * * *
The dusty main street of Mannerhouse lay warm under the morning sun. On the steps of the express office, the young rider, Rip, was sunning himself. In the saloon, Abel, behind his bar, watched nervously both his window and his door. He was on edge and aware, aware as a wild animal is when a strange creature nears its lair. Trouble was in the wind.
Draw Straight Page 7
