Collection 1983 - Bowdrie (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  BOWDRIE’S

  LAW

  Louis L’Amour

  B A N T A M B O O K S

  Contents

  Title Page

  Foreword

  McNelly Knows a Ranger

  Historical Note: John Coffee Hays, Texas Ranger

  Where Buzzards Fly

  Case Closed—No Prisoners

  Historical Note: The Buffalo Wallow Fight

  Down Sonora Way

  Historical Note: Fort Griffin

  The Road to Casa Piedras

  Historical Note: John Ringo

  A Ranger Rides to Town

  Historical Note: Horsehead Crossing

  South of Deadwood

  Historical Note: Doan’s Store

  The Outlaws of Poplar Creek

  Rain on the Mountain Fork

  Historical Note: Espantosa Lake

  Strange Pursuit

  About Louis L’Amour

  Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour

  Bowdrie—Tough Enough

  Copyright Page

  FOREWORD

  WAS THE WEST really wild? Much depends on one’s definition, as well as one’s viewpoint. There were areas of comparative quiet, and much of the “in town” violence occurred in the saloons or the red-light districts. Church services, social affairs among the town’s outstanding citizens, or quiet evenings at home were rarely disturbed by distant gunshots.

  On the other hand, in the period between 1865 and 1892 there were 823 battles between the Indians and the Army. That says nothing about raids upon ranches, settlers’ homes, or the various conflicts between private citizens and the Indians. Fights such as the one told elsewhere in this book, “The Buffalo Wallow Fight,” would not be listed by the Army. It was simply too small to be considered a battle.

  Neill Wilson, in his excellent book Treasure Express, lists a series of Wells Fargo holdups that took place in one period of 14 years. In that period there were 313 robberies of stages and 34 more were attempted. Of the robbers, 16 were killed, 7 hanged by irate citizens, and 240 convicted.

  Wells Fargo was only one express company, and these were only horse-drawn stages. The above listing does not include train robberies and, of course, has nothing to say of robberies of other kinds at other places. One can safely say there was considerable criminal activity at the time.

  Cattle and sheep wars were numerous, and there were feuds between families or factions, some of which lasted for years and involved pitched battles as well as numerous gunfights. In the case of the family feuds, there were some outright murders.

  The Sutton-Taylor feud, the Mason County War, the Lee-Peacock affair, the Horrell-Higgins fight, the Lincoln County War, and the Graham-Tewksbury fight in the Tonto Basin of Arizona were only a few of those that actually took place, and most of the writing on the subject centers around the cattle drive period, the Texas-to-Kansas route and the action at either end. Attention is also given to Tombstone, and Deadwood gets a quick glance because of the killing there of James Butler Hickok.

  The Johnson County War of 1892 was another such, although most of the killings took place before the Invaders arrived to attack Nate Champion on the KC Ranch. The movie Heaven’s Gate was based on this conflict, and in it the ranchers are shown riding roughshod over a bunch of Russian immigrants. Nothing could be less true. This movie is now circulating abroad, presenting a portrayal of events that has nothing to do with the truth. No Russians were involved. That is pure invention. The participants were homesteaders and ranchers, most of whom were Anglo-Saxon, Scotch or Irish on both sides. In the motion picture Nate Champion is portrayed as a gunman riding for the big cattlemen. As a matter of fact, he was the one they most wished to kill!

  Of course, the West was wild. Much of it was wide open country (and much still is) where a man’s life often depended on his horse. There were vast plains, then mountains, and after that desert and more mountains. It was a place where a man might lose himself, and some did. These men, however, were rarely outlaws. The latter were, despite what many may believe, usually gregarious. They did not want money to buy food, they wanted it for whiskey, women, and gambling, and this necessitated being where people were.

  Very few eluded the law for long, for the money was of no use while they hid out in the hills. They had to come to town, and the towns were so small, nearly everybody knew what everybody else was doing and strangers were noticed. Moreover, the robbers and the robbed, as well as the lawmen, often went to the same saloons, where voices could be remembered, clothing recognized, and questions might be asked.

  In the earliest years men often settled disputes with guns, and as long as the fight had some semblance of an even break the law paid small attention. When a man carried a pistol, it was expected he could use it, and if he could not or was unwilling to, he was better off unarmed.

  As the West became more organized the law tightened its grip and gunplay was no longer tolerated as it once had been. Shootings in town became rare, except when bandits attempted a robbery, which gave the local boys a chance to unlimber their artillery and get into action.

  It is an interesting fact that those gunfighters usually credited with being the most dangerous were on the side of the law. John Wesley Hardin was for a time an outlaw because of his killings, but he was a cattle drover, occasionally a gambler; he was never a thief. Hickok, Tilghman, Masterson, Milton, the Earps, Stoudenmire, Slaughter, Gillette, McDonald, all wore the badge.

  The men who rode the western trail were individuals, men accustomed to handling their own problems, and most of them had grown up using firearms. Many were veterans of the Civil and Indian wars; many were from the border states, those states that bordered on the wild country. They were often half-wild themselves, states such as Missouri, Arkansas, Iowa, Illinois, Tennessee, and Kentucky. These men were not trouble hunters, but when it came to them, they knew what to do.

  It has been estimated that 20,000 men were killed in various pistol arbitrations in the West. I believe that figure is too large, but not by very much.

  MCNELLY KNOWS

  A RANGER

  HE RODE UP to Miller’s Crossing just after sundown and stopped at the stage station. Stepping down from the saddle he stood for a moment, taking in the street, the storefronts, and the lighted saloons.

  Turning abruptly he crossed the boardwalk into a saloon. The bartender looked up, swallowed hard, and then turned quickly to polishing the back bar. The loafers at the tables glanced at each other, and one picked up a deck of cards and began riffling them nervously.

  Bowdrie’s question warned them they had not been mistaken. “Where’ll I find Noah Whipple?”

  The bartender’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “He—they—they shot him.”

  “Killed?”

  Bowdrie’s eyes were cold. The bartender swallowed again and shifted his feet uncomfortably, staring in fascination at the man with the dimplelike scar under the cheekbone below his right eye.

  “It was Aaron Fobes done it, Mr. Bowdrie. He’s one o’ the Ballards.”

  Bowdrie stood silent, waiting.

  “About two this afternoon. They come ridin’ in, five of them. Four got down an’ come in here. The other’n stayed by the horses. They looked to be a purty salty outfit. They’d been ridin’ hard by the look of the horses.

  “They took a quick look around when they come in and paid no attention after. They seen everything with that first look. We all knew who they was, even without that holdup over at Benton where they killed the cashier. Everybody knows the Ballards are ridin’ again and there ain’t two gangs alike.

  “The tall one I spotted right off. Had a blaze of white hair over his temple. That would be Clyde Ballard
. He’s a known man in Texas, from the Rio Grande to the Cimarron.

  “The tall gent with the towhead, that would be Cousin Northup, and the slim, dark-faced youngster was Tom Ballard. The other two was Aaron Fobes and Luther Doyle.”

  “You seem to know them pretty well,” Bowdrie commented. “Tell me more.”

  “Noah, he come in here three or four minutes before the Ballards got here. You maybe know about Noah. He was a good man, no trouble to anybody, but Noah was a talker. He hadn’t paid no attention when the Ballards came in, just a glance and he went on talkin’.

  “‘Feller come through last night an’ said the Ballards was ridin’ again. Used to know that Fobes up in the Nation.’ We tried to catch his eye but there was no stoppin’ him. ‘That Fobes,’ he says, ‘never was no account. Poison mean, he was, even then.

  “‘Time’s a-comin’ when they won’t let thieves like that ride around the country robbin’ decent people.’ Noah was just talkin’ like he always done but Fobes was right there to hear him.

  Fobes tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You talk too much, stranger,’ he said, speakin’ kind of low and mean.”

  Chick Bowdrie listened, seeing the scene all too clearly, and the inevitable ending. That was Noah, all right, always talking, meaning no harm to anybody, a decent, hardworking man with a family. At least, there was Joanie. Thinking of her his face tightened and he felt empty and kind of sick inside.

  “Fobes, he said to Noah that maybe he’d like to stop the Ballards from ridin’ the country? Maybe he’d like to try stoppin’ them himself?

  “Well, you know Noah. He might have been a talker but he was no coward. ‘Maybe I would,’ Whipple says. ‘This country should be made safe for honest people.’

  “Clyde Ballard put in then, ‘Forget it, Aaron. He didn’t know what he was sayin’. Let’s ride.’ Tom Ballard, he started for the door, Northup followin’. Noah Whipple thought it was all over, an’ he dropped his hand.

  “He never should have done it, but Noah was a habity man. He was reachin’ for a chaw. He chawed tobacco, an’ especially when he was nervous or bothered by somethin’. He reached for his tobacco an’ Aaron shot him.

  “It happened so quick nobody had time to move or speak. Clyde Ballard swore, and then they made a run for their horses and rode off. Noah was dead on the floor, drilled right through the heart, and him not wearin’ no gun.”

  Chick was silent. He looked at the rye whiskey in his glass and thought of Joanie. Only a few months before he had ridden up to their ranch as close to death as a man is apt to get, with three bullet holes in him and having lost a great deal of blood.

  Joanie had helped him from his horse and she and Noah had gotten him inside, then nursed him back to health. When able to ride again he had started helping around the ranch. He had not yet become a Ranger and the Whipples needed help. There was only Noah, his wife, and Joanie. They had two old cowhands but they were not much help with the rough stock.

  Ranching folks weren’t inclined to ask questions of those who drifted around the country. You took a man for what he was and gave him the benefit of the doubt as long as he did his share and shaped up right. Hard-faced young men wearing two tied-down guns weren’t seen around very much, even in that country.

  Names didn’t count for much and both Whipple and Joanie knew that any man wearing two guns was either a man who needed them or a plain damned fool.

  He never told them his name. To them he was simply Chick. Noah and his wife treated him like a son, and Joanie like a brother, most of the time.

  It had taken him a while to regain his strength but as soon as he was able to get around he started helping, and he had always been a first-rate cowhand.

  Bowdrie walked outside the saloon and stood there on the street. He knew what he had to do, and nobody had to ask his intentions. It was the kind of a country where if you worked with a man and ate his bread, you bought some of his troubles, too. The townspeople remembered him as a young cowhand who had worked for Noah, and they also knew he had come into the country in a dying condition from bullet wounds. Why or how he obtained the wounds, nobody ever asked, although curiosity was a festering thing.

  He tightened his cinch, stepped back into the leather, and rode out of town.

  TWO DAYS LATER Bowdrie rode back to Miller’s Crossing. Folks working around town saw him ride in and they noted the brightness of the new Winchester he was carrying.

  Bill Anniston, who ranched a small spread not far from the Whipples’, was standing on the steps of the stage station when Bowdrie rode up. He had ridden with Bill on a roundup when the two outfits were gathering cattle.

  “Bill, I’d take it as a favor if you’d ride over to the Whipples’ an’ see if they’re all right.” Bowdrie paused, rubbing the neck of the hammerhead roan. “I joined up with McNelly. I’m ridin’ with the Rangers now.”

  “You goin’ after the Ballards?”

  “Time somebody did. McNelly said he’d send some men as soon as they finished what they were doin’, but I told him I didn’t figure I’d need no help.”

  As he rode away Bowdrie heard someone say, “I wonder why McNelly would take on a kid like that?”

  Bill Anniston replied, “McNelly doesn’t make mistakes. He knew what he was doing. Believe me, I’ve ridden with that boy and he’s brush-wise and mountain-smart. He’s no flat country yearlin’!”

  Bowdrie rode south into the rough country. The wicked-looking hammerhead roan was a good horse on a long trail, a better horse than the Ballards would have. The roan liked to travel and he had a taste for rough country, a hangover from his wild mustang days.

  The Ballards had not expected to be followed and their trail was plain enough. Once in a while they made a pass at hiding their trail, but nothing that would even slow Bowdrie’s pace.

  It was not new country to him although he had ridden it but once before. South and west were some hills known locally as the Highbinders, a rough, broken country loved by Comanches because there was not a trail approaching them that could not be watched and there was ample water if one knew where to look.

  Bowdrie thought as he rode. Clyde Ballard would be irritated. Clyde did not hold with killing unless it was in a stand-up fight or in the process of a holdup. An outlaw had to have places to hide and if people were set against you you’d never last long. Often enough they were indifferent, but never if you killed a neighbor or someone they respected.

  Aaron Fobes was another type entirely. There was a streak of viciousness in him. Yet Fobes would not want to cross Clyde Ballard. Not even Luther Doyle would consider that, for Clyde was a good man with a gun.

  No one of them considered the possibility of pursuit. They had been a long way from Benton when the shooting took place and there was no marshal in Miller’s Crossing.

  With the shrewdness of a man who had known many trails, Chick Bowdrie could guess their thinking now. Clyde would be inwardly furious because the useless killing would make enemies and Miller’s Crossing was a town they must avoid in future rides, and that meant some long, roundabout riding to get in and out of their hideout.

  Bowdrie was in no hurry. He knew what awaited him at the ride’s end and he was not riding for a record. It was almost ten days after the shooting before he rode up to the Sloacum place.

  He drew rein outside the house as Tate Sloacum came striding up from the barn. “How’s about some chuck?” Bowdrie suggested. “I’ve been thirty miles on an empty stomach.”

  “’Light an’ set,” Sloacum said. “Turn your hoss into the corral. There’s a bucket there alongside the well if you’d like to wash off some dust.”

  When he had washed, he ran his fingers through his hair and went up to the house. He had no Indian blood but he looked like an Apache and sometimes there was hesitance from those who did not know him. There was food in plenty but nobody talked during the meal. Eating was a serious business.

  Tate Sloacum was the old man of the house, a West Virginia mountaineer b
y birth. He had two sons and a hawk-faced rider named Crilley. His wife was a slatternly woman with stringy red hair and a querulous voice. A daughter named Sary served them at table. She had red hair and a swish to her hips. With brothers like hers she was a girl who could get men killed.

  Bowdrie was uncomfortable around women. He had known few of them well. He took in Sary with a glance and then averted his eyes and kept them averted. He knew trouble when he saw it.

  At twenty-one Chick Bowdrie had been doing a man’s work since he was twelve, herding cattle, breaking the wild stock, and riding the rough string. There had been little softness in his life and few friends. Once, when he could have been no older than eight, a man had stopped by the house for a meal. It was wild country with Indians about, and few traveled alone. This man did.

  When Chick walked out to the corral with him he watched the man saddle up and step into the stirrup. For some reason, he hated to see him go. There had been something about the man that spoke of quiet strength.

  Looking down from the saddle, the man had said, “Ride with honor, boy, ride with honor.”

  He did not know exactly what honor was but he never forgot the man and he was sure what the man had said was important.

  A member of the Ballard gang had killed a man who befriended him, and he needed no more reason for hunting him down, and wanted no more. He had enlisted as a Ranger because it was practical. The law was coming to Texas and he preferred to ride with the law. McNelly, a shrewd judge of character, had recognized him for what he was. This young man was destined to be a hunter or one of the hunted, and McNelly reflected dryly that he’d rather hire him than lose men trying to catch him.

  “We demand loyalty,” he suggested. “Absolute loyalty.”