The Chick Bowdrie Short Stories Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  “So you know what I do? I judge a man by his record. Suppose a man who’s rustled a few head in the old days goes straight after that? The country is settlin’ down now, so if a man settles down an’ behaves himself, we sort of leave him alone. If we went by the letter of the law, I could jail half the old-time cattlemen in Texas, but the letter of the law isn’t always justice. It was open range then, and two-thirds of the beef stock a man could find was maverick. If a man goes straight, we leave him alone.”

  “What do you mean?” Hadley kept his voice low. “You call robbin’ banks an’ killin’ goin’ straight?”

  “Not a bit of it. If Cane had robbed a bank or killed anyone, I’d have arrested him. He had nothing to do with it.”

  Their eyes met across the table and Bowdrie said, “That Rangers’ Bible of ours, it carries a lot of descriptions, like I said. It has descriptions of all the crowd who used to run with Pierce.

  “There was one thing always puzzled Pierce, and that was how the Rangers always managed to outguess him. What he never knew was that we were always tipped off by one of his own outfit.”

  Hadley pushed his chair back, both hands on the table’s edge. “You’ve got this man spotted, Bowdrie?”

  “Sure. He had a record, just like Cane, but at first I held off. Maybe I was prejudiced because of his record. It might have been Cane or Kent Friede, so I waited.”

  Chick Bowdrie lifted his coffee cup and looked over it at Sheriff Hadley. “You shouldn’t have done it, Hadley. You had a nice job. People respected you.”

  “With eight thousand dollars just waitin’ to be picked up? And Jim Cane to lay it on?” His tone deepened and became ugly. “An’ I’d have made it but for you.”

  “You tipped the Rangers to that Pierce hold-up, didn’t you? We always wondered where the money got to. Now I know. The Rangers got him and you got the money, and now you’ve tried it again. You’re under arrest, Hadley.”

  Hadley got to his feet, his hands hovering over his guns. “You make a move, Ranger, an’ you die! You hear that?”

  “Sure.” Bowdrie still held his cup. “I hear.”

  Hadley backed through the door and ran across the street as Bowdrie got up and tossed a silver dollar on the table. “For the kid’s grub, too,” he said.

  He glanced at the boy. “It was Hadley you saw, wasn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh. You lettin’ him get away?”

  “No, Tommy. I just didn’t want any shooting in here. He won’t get far, Tommy. You see, I planned it this way. There isn’t a horse on the street, nor in the livery stable. Hadley won’t go far this time.”

  Outside, the street was empty, yet people knew what was happening and they would be at the windows. Hadley was at his hiding place now, getting out the eight thousand dollars. Soon he would discover there was no horse in his stable, so he would rush to the street to get one.

  “Only he knew where the money was, Tommy. The bank has to have it back. He’ll get it for us.”

  Bowdrie walked outside and away from the front of the café.

  Hadley emerged from an alley, a heavy sack in his hand, a pistol in the other. When he saw no horses tied at the hitching rails, he looked wildly about.

  “Hadley, you needn’t look. There ain’t a horse within a quarter of a mile.”

  “You! You set me up!”

  “Of course I did. Just as you set up your partners, time after time.

  “I didn’t have enough proof, Hadley. Only that there were no cigarette butts, just ashes and sometimes burned matches. You smoke a pipe, Hadley.

  “Also, Pierce’s old partner was a knife-thrower, and the knife that killed Friede had to be thrown. At first I thought he’d been killed elsewhere, because nobody could have walked up behind Friede over that gravel.

  “We just had a few facts, Hadley, never a full description of you, so you could have gone straight and nobody the wiser. You tied it all up nicely, Hadley, you yourself.”

  Hadley’s gun came up and Bowdrie drew and fired before the gun came level. Flame stabbed from Bowdrie’s pistol and the sheriff dropped the loot and tried to bring his gun into line. Something seemed to be fogging his vision, for when he fired again, he was several feet off the target.

  Blood covered his shirt. He went to his knees. “A damn Ranger!” he said. Then he cursed obscenely. “It had to be a Ranger.”

  “Our job, Hadley, but you got yours in front, not in the back.”

  Hadley stared up at him; then his eyes glazed and the fingers on the pistol relaxed. Bowdrie bent down and took the gun from his fingers.

  People came out on the street. Some lingered, shading their eyes to see. Others came closer. Bowdrie indicated the sack. “There’s your money, Cane.”

  “Thanks. I moved the horses like you said.” Then he asked, “How did you know?”

  Bowdrie thumbed shells into his gun. He told Cane what he had told Hadley, then added, “It was all of it together, along with those mule-ear straps on Hadley’s boots. I saw the marks on the sand made by them when he sat talking in the outlaw camp. Some of those old-timey boots like Hadley wore had loose straps to pull on the boots. Nowadays they make them stiffer and they don’t dangle.

  “I had an idea what might have made those marks, but when I saw Hadley, I knew. I had to be around town a mite to see if anybody else around was outfitted like him. Nobody was.

  “All along, he had you pegged for the goat. He even rode one of your horses out there to talk to the outlaws. Hadley said he didn’t know I was in the country, but I happen to know headquarters told him I was ridin’ this way. He was the only one who could have thrown that note tipping me to the raid.”

  “You’d have thought he would have been sensible enough to go straight, with a good job, and all.”

  “Yeah,” Bowdrie said, smiling at Cane, “the smart ones do go straight.”

  “You got time for something to eat? Mary Jane’s frying up some eggs and she makes the best griddle cakes in Texas!”

  “Home cookin’! I always did have a weakness for home cookin’. Although,” Bowdrie added, “I never see much of it.”

  Rain on the Mountain Fork

  Lew Judd was a frightened man. His hands, white as those of a woman, gathered the cards from the tabletop, and he touched his tongue to dry lips. Overhead the rain was increasing its roar, and within the stuffy warmth of the sod shanty the air was thick with mingled tobacco and wood smoke, overlaid by the odor of wet, steamy clothing, drying wood, and worn leather.

  DeVant, Baker, and Stadelmann sat around the table. Peg Roper snored on a bunk against the wall, and Big Ed Colson, the stage driver, straddled a chair and leaned his hairy forearms on its back, watching the play. Judd was sure that Big Ed knew he wore a money belt, but whether the others knew, he could not guess.

  “You think the next stage will get through?”

  The question was important to Judd. If the stage came soon enough, he might get away, and he might get Nelly away. The stage on which they had come lay hub-deep in mire with a broken axle.

  Colson shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. This is the worst storm I’ve seen in this country, an’ I’ve seen a few.”

  Nelly Craig, Judd’s niece, sat beside the fire. It was bad enough to have to escort a young girl through such country without having to stop over in a place like this. As a protector he felt woefully inadequate, yet he kept his face composed, trying to keep the others from realizing his fear.

  “We might as well figure on spending the night here,” Baker commented. “If the stage does come, it will not get here before morning.”

  Big Stadelmann turned and stared toward the fire. Judd felt his abdominal muscles tighten, knowing he was staring at Nelly. In the feeble glow of the fire and the kerosene lantern he looked monstrous and brutal, a great bear of a man, his face covered with a stubble of short beard.

  DeVant was slender and sallow-faced with malicious yellow eyes, his agile fingers fondling the cards like a lover. All the m
en were armed, as was the sleeping man on the bunk, and there was a watchfulness about them that warned Judd these were dangerous men.

  Colson was armed, but where he would stand, Judd did not know. A postal employee from Minnesota, Judd was new to the country, and although he carried a gun, he was clumsy with it.

  The fire sputtered from rain falling down the chimney and in the interval that followed a roll of thunder, they distinctly heard the splash of a horse’s hooves on the sloppy trail.

  DeVant’s head came up sharply, and Stadelmann’s hands became still. All were listening. Ed Colson took the pipe from his mouth and turned his head.

  “Who in blazes would be riding on a night like this?” Baker demanded. “No man in his right mind would ride in this rain.”

  They heard the subdued sounds of a man stabling a horse in the sod barn adjoining. Then footsteps splashed and the flames flickered as the door opened to reveal wet boots and above them the lower edge of a slicker as the man stood on the steps closing the slanting door behind him. Judd waited, apprehensive and hopeful at the same time. Baker’s hand was in his lap and Judd knew it held a gun. What was he afraid of? What were they all afraid of?

  The newcomer came on down the steps, but nothing could be seen of him because of his raincoat collar and his tilted hat brim. The hat was flat-crowned and black, the visible mouth was firm, the jaw strong. His rain-wet chaps were black leather and when he removed the raincoat, he was wearing a fringed buckskin jacket over a gray wool shirt.

  He was, they all noted, wearing two guns, tied down.

  When he removed his hat to slap the rain from it, they saw a dark, Indian-like face. His eyes swept the room, lingering a bit on Roper, stretched on the bunk. Under his cheekbone there was a deep scar, possibly a bullet wound.

  “Who’s the owner here?” His tone was casual.

  After a moment, when nobody answered, Colson replied. “Place was empty. When the stage broke down, we took shelter. I was drivin’ the stage.”

  Judd looked at him hopefully. “Did you see the other stage on the trail?”

  The steady black eyes examined and judged him. “There won’t be a stage. A landslide wiped out the trail. Take work to get it back in shape. A lot of work.”

  DeVant’s mind, nimble as his too clever fingers, came up with the logical question. “How did you get here, if the road is closed?”

  “I came from the west, but that trail’s closed, too. I had to come over the mountain above the creek, but I circled to examine the other way out.”

  Colson took the pipe from his mouth. “You came over the mountain? You’re lucky to be alive. I wouldn’t have thought a goat could make it on a night like this.”

  “That second slide came while I was up there. Seemed like the whole mountain started to move, but mine’s a good horse an’ we made it.”

  Thunder muttered irritably back in the canyons. The rain seemed empowered by the sound and rose to a shattering roar. There was a slow drip of water from near the bunk where Roper slept.

  “We’re stuck then,” DeVant said. “We might as well make the best of it.” He glanced at Nelly, meeting her eyes boldly. “All the comforts of home.”

  Nelly turned her eyes away and added a stick to the fire. The flames reached for it hungrily, and the stranger moved nearer to the fireplace, aware of her fear. “You were on the stage?” He spoke softly.

  There were shaded hollows of tiredness beneath her eyes, which were dark and large. “I am traveling with my uncle, Lew Judd. We are from Illinois.”

  That would be the slender man in the store-bought suit, a feeble staff on which to lean on such a night, in such a place. She knew he would be of no help and she was frightened.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the stranger said. “It will be all right.”

  The others heard the murmur of their voices but the words were inaudible. When the stranger looked up, DeVant’s catlike eyes were on him. “A man ridin’ on a night like this must want to go somewhere mighty bad.”

  “You could be right.” The black eyes held DeVant’s and the man felt a distinct chill, which irritated even as it frightened him.

  Stadelmann was watching him, eyes suddenly attentive. Peg Roper shifted and muttered on the bunk.

  “You were all on the stage?”

  Baker’s eyes lifted from his cards. His was a narrow, rock-hard face with a clipped mustache on his broad upper lip. “Now you’re asking questions?”

  The black eyes shifted to Baker and held him an instant before moving on. “That’s right. I am asking questions.”

  The challenge was understood by everyone listening, and for a minute or so there was no sound but the hissing of the raindrops in the fire.

  Baker felt something cold and empty in his stomach and he fumbled the cards. The yielding of his eyes enraged him. Yet that voice had rung with the crisp sound of authority.

  The stranger turned his attention to Colson. “You were the driver? How many were on that stage?”

  “Only Judd, his niece, and DeVant. Stadelmann an’ Roper were in the dugout when we got here. Baker came along after.”

  “Roper was fast asleep when I come in,” Stadelmann said. “You got a reason for askin’?”

  “Murder’s my reason. Murder an’ robbery. The killer is in this room. He just can’t be anywhere else.”

  Nelly Craig’s face was a blotch of white. Her eyes seemed even larger.

  “You’re sure he came this way?” Colson asked.

  “You know this country. He had no choice. He could have been on the stage or he might have been one of the others.”

  “You’ve no description?” Baker asked.

  DeVant’s eyes lifted from his cards. “Who’re you? Askin’ all the questions?”

  “I’m a Ranger. My name is Bowdrie.”

  There was a heavy silence in the room. Others here might be wanted men. All at that moment felt guilty, and their resentment was electric in the room.

  “You should have kept still about it,” Judd said. “Now there will be trouble.”

  “You can’t avoid trouble in this case. One of you here is carryin’ money an’ the murderer knows it. The murder back yonder was not a planned thing, and the murderer did not get as much as he counted on. It was something he stumbled into.”

  A stick toppled over into the fire and sent a shower of sparks up the chimney. Nelly moved her wet feet closer to the blaze and Big Ed Colson got out his pipe and stoked it methodically. Peg Roper continued to sleep. Judd sat silent, keeping his palms pressed to the table so their trembling would not be observed. It was Stadelmann he was afraid of, Stadelmann and DeVant, yet he trusted none of them. Not even the Ranger.

  “Anybody got any coffee?” Baker suggested. “We might as well wait in comfort.”

  Bowdrie squatted against the wall. No doubt the killer was the most composed of them all. He alone knew who he was. No betraying clue had been left. Not a clue, only a slight indication of character. Somehow he must lead the murderer to betray himself.

  Surprisingly, Nelly seemed revived by the new element introduced by the Ranger’s arrival. Attention had been turned from her and other thoughts occupied the minds of the men in the room. More than one might be carrying money, and each would be likely to think himself the intended victim. Any of these men, she reflected, could crush Lew Judd like an insect.

  She arose and went to the box Judd had carried into the room and came away with coffee. Colson found a flat stone to be placed among the coals, and retrieved a blackened coffeepot from a shelf. There was darkness back there, a darkness into which they could not see, and when Colson went that way, all eyes followed him. All hands were resting near their guns. Colson returned with the pot and Nelly went about making coffee.

  Her quick, homey manner brought relief to the tension, and instead of fear there was a growing levity, as though each had become conscious that he held a seat at a very dramatic show. Underneath it all, however, there was the taut strain of nervous tens
ion. Of them all, Nelly and the stage driver seemed the least affected.

  Judd, his own danger alleviated for the moment, opened the case he had carried into the room along with the small box with the coffee, and brought out a mandolin. While they waited for water to boil, he sang, in a fair tenor, “Drill Ye Tarriers,” a song sung by Irish railroad builders, and inspired a healthy applause. He then sang “Sweet Betsy from Pike” and “Jenny Jenkins.” The listeners came up with requests and the singing continued.

  Bowdrie remained quiet against the wall. More than the others possibly could, he realized his own inadequacy. He knew his skill with guns, and that few men were better on a trail, but here he had only the devious path of a man’s thinking to follow. He was moving in the dark, only aware that the killer might give himself away. How that was to happen, he did not know. Later, he might ask more questions.

  Somehow, tonight, within this shack, the issue would be decided. And it was a narrow place for shooting.

  DeVant moved his chair against the wall, a position from which he could survey the room as well as Bowdrie, and from which he could move swiftly to attack, defend, or seek the doubtful shelter of the bunk’s corner.

  At this moment Peg Roper awakened and sat up, obviously confused by the singing, the smell of coffee, and the crackle of the fire. Swinging his feet to the floor, he caught one spur in the ragged blanket. Disengaging it with care, he sat up, blinking around him, his sleepy little boy’s face oddly puzzled under his shock of unruly hair.

  “What’s comin’ off?” Peg asked. “I go to sleep in a morgue and wake up in a party.”

  “Folks kept dropping in,” Baker said. “We’ve a special guest, a Texas Ranger.”

  Roper looked uneasy, but said, “Well, he seems a quiet Ranger. Knows how to keep his place.”

  Bowdrie smiled and put his shoulders against the wall. It was a thick wall and it felt good, about the only security he was likely to enjoy.

  Colson found several cups back in the darkness and brought them to the table. He rinsed them with rainwater from the barrel outside the door.