Collection 1983 - Bowdrie (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Whoever fired that shot from the rocks gave you away, John!” he called out. “I know all about that old watercourse now!”

  Somebody swore and Bishop stepped back out of sight. Then there was silence.

  Bishop was handling this all wrong. He had the total sympathy of the townspeople, but now they would begin to wonder. Why was John Bishop, their mayor and leading citizen, trying to kill a Texas Ranger? Bowdrie had yelled, hoping others would be listening, and wondering now.

  In the midst of the stillness Bowdrie had a sudden inspiration. Taking a couple of rawhide riatas Borrow had hanging on the clothes tree, he knotted one over a nail over the door to the bedroom, and crawling across the floor, knotted the other end over a nail near the outside door.

  Crawling back, he took a turn around the doorknob, rigging a crude pulley. Then he fastened the end of his riata through an armhole of Borrow’s poncho in such a way that by pulling on the riata he could make it move by the window. The light was such that anyone outside would see movement but could not detect who or what it was unless standing right outside.

  He pulled the poncho opposite the window, then pulled again. Instantly the poncho jerked and a rifle bellowed. Bowdrie was watching, and when the rifle flashed, he fired.

  There was a crash of glass and a startled yelp. If he hadn’t hit somebody, he had at least scared him. His shot was followed by a scattered volley that broke much of the front window.

  Keeping the Spencer in his hands, Bowdrie waited. Sweat trickled down his chest under his shirt. He wiped his hands on his pants. A searching shot struck the wall over his head, but he knew they could not see him, although given time, they might figure out his position. Bishop and Young must both have seen the inside of this office many times.

  He refilled his cup, sipped coffee, and sat back in his chair, waiting. He had two front windows and a side window, and the glass in the front windows was more than half gone. By now the people around town were wondering just what was going on.

  He waited, not wanting to waste a shot and hoping they would believe he had been hit.

  Nothing happened. Chick yawned. If they waited long enough, the Rangers would be here. Of course, they could not know that. Yet even if he left the office somehow, he was handicapped in not knowing the men he was fighting.

  A shot rang out and a bullet cut a furrow in the desk and buried itself in the wall. Another struck the floor and ventilated the wastebasket. They were probing with fingers of lead.

  He reached for his cup and caught a glimpse of movement from the window on the second floor of the harness shop across the street. There was a curtain inside that window, but he could detect a reflection of movement.

  A man was inching his way along the rooftop to fire from behind the false front of the building next to the harness shop and directly opposite. The man was getting into position to fire down into the office. He was out of sight behind the false front but dimly reflected in the window over the harness shop.

  Bowdrie took a swallow of coffee, put the cup down, and took the Spencer from his lap. He studied the window and then the roof. Taking up the Spencer, he took careful aim, drew in a breath, and let it out slowly and then squeezed off his shot.

  The heavy rifle leaped in his hands, firing right into the false front of the building. A pistol bullet would penetrate several inches of pine at that distance, and the .56-caliber Spencer would not be impeded by the half-inch boards on the front opposite.

  He heard a rifle clatter and fall into the dirt; then a man slid to the roof edge, clawing madly to keep from sliding on the steep roof, then falling.

  The man scrambled up, obviously hurt but moving. As he started to run, Bowdrie, with only the wide posterior for target, squeezed off another shot. There was an agonized yell and the man disappeared.

  Bowdrie thumbed two shells into the Spencer, then hit the floor as a hail of bullets riddled the windows and the door. One bullet ripped through the desk, leaving a hole in a half-open drawer right in front of his face.

  The shooting died down and he got up just in time to see a man sprinting across the street. Bowdrie fired and the runner drew suddenly to his tiptoes, then spilled over into the dust. “If you weren’t one of them,” Bowdrie said aloud, “you used damn poor judgment!”

  He slipped down the hall to the back cell. There was still a man behind the lumber pile, but there was no chance for a shot.

  Returning to the office, he stood well back in the room and searched the line of buildings opposite. He could see nothing.

  He put down the Spencer, mopped his face, and reached for the gun. Dust stirred on the floor and he wheeled, his grasp closing on the shotgun. Comanche George Cobb stood in the side door, his pistol in his hand.

  Bowdrie saw the man’s eyes blaze, and the pistol thrust forward; he saw the man’s thumb bend as it pulled the hammer back, and Bowdrie squeezed both triggers on the shotgun.

  Cobb’s body jerked as if kicked by a mule, and he took a staggering step backward before he fell, a spur hooking itself on the doorjamb.

  “Two gone,” he muttered, “and maybe one wounded.”

  He started to move, then froze in mid-stride as his nostrils caught the faintest smell of smoke.

  Smoke, and then the crackle of flames!

  Grabbing up shotgun shells, he jammed them into his pockets; then he reloaded the shotgun itself. Testing the sheriff’s pistols for balance, he thrust them into his waistband.

  Flames crackled outside and smoke began to curl up from the floor and into the windows. Evidently they had gotten under the building and set fire to it.

  Outside, men waited to cut him down the minute he showed himself. He might get some of them, but they would surely get him.

  Suddenly he remembered something seen earlier. He glanced up. A trapdoor to the loft over the office. Now, if there was only a second trapdoor to the roof, as was often the case when access was left for possible repairs . . .

  Leaping atop the desk, he shoved the trap aside, and grasping the lip of the opening, he pulled himself up. Though smoke was gathering even there, Bowdrie made out the square framework of a trapdoor in the roof. Closing the trapdoor behind him, he raced along the joists, shotgun in hand, unfastened the hasp, and lifted himself to the flat roof.

  The rooftop slanted down slightly to allow rain to run off. Bowdrie looked over the edge. There was no one in sight, as they evidently believed Comanche George was still there.

  Swinging his legs over, he hung for a minute, then dropped, knees bent to absorb the shock. He hit the ground, staggered, recovered, looked quickly around, his shotgun poised for firing.

  There was nobody in sight.

  A quick dash and he was behind the Longhorn Saloon. Opening the back door, he stepped in. A half-dozen men stood near the wide front window, watching the street. Opposite, plainly visible in the window across the street, was John Bishop.

  The bartender turned his head, and when he saw Bowdrie, his face paled. He drew back, his hands falling to his sides.

  Bowdrie walked quickly to the front door. The fire destroying the sheriff’s office could be plainly heard.

  “Hope it don’t burn the whole town!” somebody commented.

  “What started Bishop on a rampage? Who’re those fellers with him?”

  “Don’t know any of ’em. Strangers. Somebody said that Ranger killed Walt Borrow.”

  The roof of the building collapsed suddenly, and John Bishop stepped into the street, a red-haired man beside him. From down the street Hardy Young was approaching.

  “Stand aside, men!” Bowdrie said, and as they turned, he said quietly, “Red Bishop robbed your bank. John Bishop murdered Borrow because your sheriff had found him out. The dead man out there is Jack Latham, the outlaw. Keep out of this!”

  He stepped into the street as Hardy Young came up to the Bishops. Where was Decker, the man Bowdrie had shot when he fell from the roof?

  Bowdrie stepped off the walk. “Bishop! I arrest you fo
r robbing the Bank of Kimble, for the murders of Josh Phillips and Walt Borrow!”

  The three men turned, staring as if at a ghost. John Bishop had an instant of panic. “How in . . . !”

  “Drop your guns. You will get a fair trial!”

  “Trial, hell!” Red Bishop’s gun started to lift, and Bowdrie fired the shotgun. One barrel, then the other. The group were close together, the distance no more than sixty feet.

  Red Bishop was shooting when he took the shotgun blast. John Bishop caught a good half of a load of buckshot and toppled back against the hitching rail. He was fully conscious, fully aware.

  Hardy Young was running away down the street. He was running, crazed with fear, when the horsemen rounded the corner into the street. He glimpsed them and tried to turn away, and they saw him and tried to rein in. Both were too late.

  The charging horses ran him down and charged over his big body, trampling him into the dust.

  Rip Coker was in the lead, McNelly right behind him. “Bowdrie? You all right?”

  Automatically Bowdrie extracted the shells and reloaded the shotgun. “All right,” he said. “Case closed—no prisoners.”

  “Where’s Cobb? And Decker?”

  Bowdrie explained in as few words as possible. “Borrow finally figured it out. There’s a draw comes in from the south on Bishop’s land. Riders could come right up from Mexico, then follow that draw right to his ranch. Nobody need see them at all.

  “Once you forgot who Bishop was and just looked at the situation, it almost had to be him. Borrow left a note in my bedroll just in case. He should have the credit for this one.

  “I think,” Bowdrie added, “you’ll find the bank’s money in Bishop’s house. If they aren’t carrying it on their bodies.”

  “Good job, Bowdrie!” McNelly said. “Thanks!”

  Bowdrie lifted a hand. “There’s coffee waitin’ for me inside. Come an’ join me, if you’re of a mind to.”

  He turned toward the restaurant, suddenly tired. It was cool inside, and Ellen was standing by a table with the coffeepot in hand.

  Someday, he thought, someday he might find a town like this, a place where he could stop, get acquainted, and build something.

  “Your family will be glad you’re safe,” Ellen said.

  “I’ve got no family,” he replied. “I’ve got nobody. Only the Rangers and a mean roan horse. That’s all I got. Maybe it’s all I’ll ever have.”

  As he sat down, she was pouring his coffee, and he was tired. Very tired.

  Historical Note:

  THE BUFFALO WALLOW FIGHT

  IT WAS SEPTEMBER 10, 1874, and a party of six—two scouts and four soldiers—carrying dispatches from their camp on McClellan Creek, had started for Camp Supply in Indian Territory. The group consisted of Billy Dixon and Amos Chapman, scouts, accompanied by Sergeant Woodhall and Privates Smith, Rath, and Harrington.

  At sunrise on the morning of the twelfth they were attacked by a war party of approximately 125 Kiowa and Comanche Indians. The attack came at a point between Gageby Creek and the Washita River, about eighteen miles from where the Texas town of Canadian now stands.

  In the bitter fight that followed, four of the men were wounded before noon, one of them fatally. Billy Dixon discovered a buffalo wallow some distance away and ran for it. He was wounded in the process but dropped into the comparative shelter of the wallow and called for the others to join him. He then ran back and helped one man who had a broken leg.

  With their knives they built up an earthen parapet that offered a little more shelter. They had plenty of ammunition, but neither food nor water, and they suffered from the blazing heat.

  All day the Indians maintained their attack, at times sniping from cover, occasionally charging on horseback, sometimes circling about, but at all times keeping the pressure on the defenders.

  Soon all six were wounded, and Private Smith, although dying, tried hard to help the defense.

  A buffalo wallow, for those unaware of plains conditions at the time, was simply a place where buffaloes chose to wallow in the dust, just as a dog will. In so doing they usually rubbed out the grass in an area that might be fifteen feet in diameter. The spot might be in constant use for some time, and as a result there would be a small hollow that would offer some protection from enemy fire.

  Late in the evening, as darkness was descending, a violent thunderstorm struck the area. The rain lashed the prairie with its fury, drenching both Indians and white men, but it brought life-saving water to the defenders. The rain not only quenched their thirst but left a small pool in the lowest part of the wallow.

  Amos Chapman, Harrington, and Sergeant Woodhall were seriously wounded. Rath and Dixon, although wounded, were not disabled, and they continued to fight off the attackers. Both Chapman and Dixon were widely known frontiersmen, and Dixon was reputed to be one of the best rifle-shots in the West. Both were buffalo hunters, widely experienced in Plains warfare and undoubtedly known to the Indians who attacked them.

  On the morning of the thirteenth, just before daylight, Dixon managed to slip away and make contact with an Army unit. The Indians fled, taking their wounded with them. Private Smith died and was buried in the buffalo wallow. Others of the party were recommended for decoration by General Nelson Miles.

  Billy Dixon, of whom many stories could be told, was twenty-four years old at the time.

  DOWN SONORA WAY

  DOWN ON HIS stomach in the sand behind his dead horse, Chick Bowdrie waited for the sun to go down. It was a hot Sonora sun and the nearest shade was sixty yards away in a notch of the Sierra de Espuelas, where Tensleep Mooney waited with a Winchester.

  Bowdrie had scooped out sand to dig himself a few inches deeper below the surface, but a bullet burn across the top of his shoulder and two double holes in his black flat-crowned hat demonstrated both the accuracy and the intent behind Tensleep’s shooting.

  Five hundred miles behind them in Texas were two dead men, the seventh and eighth on the list of Mooney’s killings, and Bowdrie was showing an understandable reluctance to become number nine.

  The sun was hot, Bowdrie’s lips were cracked and dry, his canteen was empty. A patient buzzard circled overhead and a tiny lizard stared at the Ranger with wide, wondering eyes. It was twenty miles to water unless some remained in the tinaja where Mooney was holed up, and twenty miles in the desert can be an immeasurable distance.

  Neither man held any illusions about the other. Tensleep Mooney was a fast hand with a six-shooter and an excellent rifle shot. His courage was without question. His feud with the gunslinging Baggs outfit was a legend in Texas. Al Baggs had stolen Mooney’s horse. Mooney trailed him down, and in the gun battle that followed, killed him, recovering his horse. The Baggs family were Tennessee feudal stock and despite the fact that killing a horse thief was considered justifiable homicide, a brother and a cousin came hunting Tensleep. Mooney took two Baggs bullets and survived. The Baggs boys took three of Mooney’s slugs and didn’t.

  From time to time a Baggs or two took a shot at Mooney, and at least two attempts were made to trap him. Others were killed and the last attempt resulted in a woman being shot. Then Tensleep unlimbered his guns and went to work. Until then he had been rolling with the punches but now he decided if the Baggs clan wanted war, they should have it.

  Gene Baggs, the most noted gunslinger of the outfit, was in San Antonio. One Tuesday night Mooney showed up and gave Gene Baggs his chance. The Variety Theater rang with gunshots and Gene died of acute indigestion caused by absorbing too much lead on an empty stomach.

  Killings seven and eight had taken place near Big Spring, one of them a Baggs, the other an itinerant gunfighting cattleman named Caspar Hanna. Settling disputes with guns was beginning to be frowned on in Texas, so the Rangers got their orders and Bowdrie got his.

  Mooney was tricky and adept at covering his trail. Cunning as a wolf, he shook off his trailers and even lost Bowdrie on two occasions. Irritated, Bowdrie followed him to t
he Mexican border and kept on going. Out of his bailiwick though it was, the chase had now become a matter of professional and personal pride.

  So now they were in the dead heart of Apache country, stalemated until darkness. If Mooney escaped in the dark, Bowdrie was scheduled to walk home, the odds against his survival a thousand to one. If one left out the heat and lack of water, even the miles of walking in boots meant for riding, there were always the Apaches.

  “Thirsty, Ranger?” Mooney called.

  “I’ll drink when I’m ready,” Bowdrie replied. “You want to come out with your hands up? You’ll get a fair trial.”

  “I’d never live for the trial. Without my guns in Baggs country? I wouldn’t last three days.”

  “Leave that to the Rangers.”

  “Much obliged. I’ll leave it to Mooney.”

  Neither man spoke again and the hour dragged on. Bowdrie tried licking dry lips with a dry tongue. The heat where he lay was not less than one hundred and twenty degrees. Shifting his position drew a quick bullet. Carefully he began to dig again, trying to get at the rifle scabbard on the underside of his horse.

  Bowdrie had nothing but respect for Mooney. Under any circumstances but the present the two might have worked a roundup together. Tensleep was a tough cowhand from the Wyoming country that gave him his name, a man who had started ranching on his own, a man who had been over the cow trails to Montana from Texas, who had fought Indians and rustlers.

  Bowdrie continued to dig, finally loosening the girth on the dead horse.

  “Somethin’ out there.” Mooney spoke suddenly, and Chick almost looked up, then cursed himself for a fool. It was a trap.

  “Somebody travelin’ north.” Mooney’s voice was just loud enough for Bowdrie to hear.

  “In this country? You’ve got to be crazy.”

  He lay quiet, thinking. There had been no faking in Mooney’s tone, and travelers in this country meant, nine times out of ten, Apaches. They were in the middle of an area controlled by Cochise, with his stronghold just to the north in New Mexico. If those were Apaches out there, they were in trouble.