Collection 1983 - Bowdrie (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “They’ll be takin’ him back to Texas,” the young man suggested. “Couldn’t you have waited?”

  “I had to see him first! I’ve been told that awful gunfighting Ranger, Chick Bowdrie, is coming after him. He might kill Starr before he gets back to Texas.”

  “Now I doubt that. I hear the Rangers never kill a man unless he’s shootin’ at them. Have you ever met this Bowdrie fellow?”

  “No, but I’ve heard about him, and that’s enough.”

  Gates thrust his head in the door. “Time to mount up, folks! Got to roll if we aim to make Deadwood on time.”

  Clare Marsden hurried outside and Walter Luck stepped up beside her.

  “Seen you talkin’ with that young feller in the black hat. Did he tell you his name?”

  “Why, no,” she realized. “He did not mention it.”

  “Seems odd,” Luck said as he seated himself. “We all told our names but him.”

  Kitty Austin drew a cigar from her bag and put it in her mouth. “Not strange a-tall! Lots of folks don’t care to tell their names. It’s their own business!”

  She glanced at Clare Marsden. “Hope you don’t mind the smoke, ma’am. I sure miss a cigar if I don’t have one after dinner. Some folks like to chaw, but I’m no hand for it, myself. That Calamity Jane, she chaws, but she’s a rough woman. Drives an ox team an’ cusses like she means it.”

  Luck had a cigarette but he tossed it out of the window as the stage started.

  The young man in the black hat reached into his pocket and withdrew a long envelope, taking from it a letter, which he glanced at briefly as they passed the last lighted window. He had turned the envelope to extract the letter, but not so swiftly that it missed the trained eye of Gentleman Jim Bridges. It was addressed, Chick Bowdrie, Texas Rangers, El Paso, Texas.

  Bridges was a man who could draw three aces in succession and never turn a hair. He did not turn one now, although there was quick interest in his eyes. There was a glint in them as he glanced from Bowdrie to the girl and at last to Walter Luck.

  “If you plan to see Starr, you’d better get at it,” Luck suggested. “Texas wants him back and I hear they’re sendin’ a man after him. They’re sendin’ that border gunfighter, Chick Bowdrie.”

  “Never heard of him,” Bridges lied.

  “He’s good, they say. With a gun, I mean. Of course, he ain’t in a class with Doc Bentley or Ernie Joslin. That says nothin’ of Allison or Hickok.”

  “That’s what you say.” Kitty Austin took the cigar from her teeth. “Billy Brooks told me Bowdrie was pure-Dee poison. Luke Short said the same.”

  “I ain’t interested in such,” Luck replied. “Minin’ is my game. Or mine stock. I buy stock on occasion when the prospects are good. I don’t know nothin’ about Texas. Never been south of Wichita.”

  Bowdrie leaned back and relaxed his muscles to the movement of the stage. Clare Marsden aroused his sympathy as well as his curiosity, yet he knew that Billy Marsden was as good as convicted, and conviction meant hanging. Yet if his sister was right and Starr knew something that might clear him, he would at least have a fighting chance. How much of a chance would depend on what Starr had to say, if anything. The court would not lightly accept the word of an outlaw trying to clear one of his own outfit.

  If he had even a spark of the courage it took to send his sister rolling over a thousand miles of rough roads, he might yet make something of himself.

  Chick had himself made a start down the wrong road before McNelly recruited him for the Rangers. It had been to avenge a friend that he had joined the Rangers. It led to the extinction of the Ballard gang and the beginning of his own reputation along the border. Yet since he had ridden into that lonely ranch in Texas, badly wounded and almost helpless, he had never drawn a gun except on the side of the law.

  It was easy enough for even the best of young men to take the wrong turning when every man carried a gun and when an excess of high spirits could lead to trouble. Chick Bowdrie made a sudden resolution. If there was the faintest chance for Billy Marsden, he would lend a hand.

  Dealing with Curly Starr would not be simple. Curly was a hard case. He had killed nine or ten men, had rustled a lot of stock, stood up a few stages, and robbed banks. Yet so far as Bowdrie was aware, there were no killings on Starr’s record where the other man did not have an even break. According to the customs of the country, that spoke well for the man.

  When the stage rolled to a stop before the IXL Hotel & Dining Room in Deadwood, a plan was shaping in Bowdrie’s mind. He was the last one to descend from the stage and his eyes took in an unshaven man in miner’s clothing who lounged against the wall of the IXL, a man who muttered something under his breath as Luck passed him.

  Stooping, Bowdrie picked up Clare’s valise with his left hand and carried it into the hotel. She turned, smiling brightly. “Thank you so much! You didn’t tell me your name?”

  “Bowdrie, ma’am. I’m Chick Bowdrie.”

  Her eyes were startled, and she went white to the lips. He stepped back, embarrassed. “If there’s any way I can help, you’ve only to ask. I’ll be stayin’ in the hotel.”

  He turned quickly away, leaving her staring after him.

  Bowdrie did not wait to see what she would do or say, nor did he check in at the hotel. He had sent word to Seth Bullock, and knew the sheriff would have made arrangements. He headed for the jail.

  Curly Starr was lounging on his cot when Bowdrie walked up to the bars. “Howdy, Starr! Comfortable?”

  Starr glanced up, then slowly swung his feet to the floor. “Bowdrie, is it? Looks like they sent the king bee.”

  Bowdrie shook his head. “No, that would be Gillette or Armstrong. One of the others.

  “Anyway, I’ve a lot of work to do when I get you back, Curly. There’s Bentley, Joslin, Tobe Storey to round up.” And then he added, “We’ve got the kid.”

  Starr came to the bars. “Got any smokin’?”

  Bowdrie tossed him a tobacco sack and some papers. “Keep ’em,” he said.

  “Curly,” he said as Starr rolled his smoke, “the kid’s going to get hung unless something turns up to help him.”

  “Tough.” Curly touched his tongue to the paper. “We can go out together, if you get me back to Texas.”

  “I’ll get you back, settin’ a saddle or across one, but that kid’s pretty young to die. If you know anything that would help, tell me.”

  “Help?” Starr chuckled. He was a big, brawny young man with a hard, square brown face and tight dark curls. “You’re the law, Bowdrie. You’d hang a man, but I doubt if you’d help one.”

  “He’s a kid. I’d give any man a break.”

  “He was old enough to pack a gun. In this life a man straddles his own horses and buries his dead. Nobody is lookin’ for any outs for me. Besides, how do I know you ain’t diggin’ for evidence against the kid? Or all of us?”

  DESPITE HIMSELF BOWDRIE was disturbed as he walked back to the IXL. He was positive the man Luck had spoken to was Tobe Storey. He had had only a glimpse, but the man’s jawline was familiar, and the Pecos gunman could have ridden this way.

  What if they had all ridden this way? What if they planned a jailbreak? Curly Starr was the leader of the outfit and they had ridden together for a long time.

  Later, in the dining room of the IXL, he loitered over his coffee. Deadwood was wide open and booming. Named for the dead trees along a hillside above the town, it was really a succession of towns in scattered valleys in the vicinity.

  The Big Horn Store, the Gem Theater, the Bella Union Variety Theater, run by Jack Langrishe, and the Number Ten Saloon all were busy, crowded most of the time.

  After leaving the jail, Bowdrie had drifted in and out of most of the places, alert for any of the Starr outfit. Now he sat over coffee for the same purpose, waiting, watching.

  The door opened and Seth Bullock appeared. With him was Clare Marsden. As her eyes met Bowdrie’s, she flushed. Bowdrie arose as they cam
e to the table.

  “Bowdrie, this young lady wants to talk to Curly Starr. I told her Starr was your prisoner and she would have to ask you.”

  “She can talk to him,” Bowdrie replied. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a man standing just inside the saloon, looking into the dining room. It was the man he believed was Tobe Storey.

  “Tonight?” Clare asked.

  Bowdrie hesitated. It was foolhardy to open the jail now unless necessary, but . . .

  “All right. I’ll go along.”

  As she turned toward the door, he hesitated long enough to whisper to Seth Bullock, “Tobe Storey’s in town, and maybe the rest of that Starr outfit.”

  She walked along beside him without speaking, until suddenly she looked up at him. “I suppose you think I am a fool to come all this distance to help a man who is as good as convicted, even if he is my brother.”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t. If you think there’s a chance for him, you’d be a fool not to try, but if you’ve any reason for believing your brother wasn’t involved, why not tell me?”

  “But you’re a Ranger!” The way she said it, the term sounded like an epithet.

  “All the more reason. You’ve got us wrong, ma’am. Rangers don’t like to jail folks unless they’ve been askin’ for it. Out on the edge of things like this, if there weren’t any Rangers there’d be no place for people like you.

  “If your brother took money with a pistol, he’s a thief and a dangerous man, and if he killed or had a part in killing an innocent man, he should hang for it.

  “If he didn’t, then he should go free, and if Starr has evidence that he’s innocent, I’ll do my best to clear him.”

  They turned a corner but a sudden movement in the shadows and the rattle of a stone caused Chick Bowdrie to swing aside, brushing Clare Marsden back with a sweep of his arm.

  A gun flamed from the shadows and a bullet tugged at his shoulder. Only his sudden move had saved them, but his gun bellowed a reply.

  He ran to the mouth of the alley, then stopped. It led into a maze of shacks, barns, and corrals, and there was nobody in sight. The ambusher was gone.

  He walked back to Clare. She stared at him, pale and shocked. “That man tried to kill you!” she protested.

  “Yes, ma’am. I am a Ranger and they know why I am in town.”

  “But why here? Deadwood is a long way from Texas!”

  “I am here to take Starr back. They don’t want him to go. If your brother was involved in that holdup, the man who tried to kill me is his friend. Or an associate, at least.”

  “My brother wouldn’t do any such thing!” she protested, but her voice was weak.

  He had expected something of the kind. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as they neared the jail, remembering something he had noticed earlier.

  The deputy on guard opened the door cautiously, gun in hand, then opened it wider when he saw who was there.

  Starr was sprawled on his bunk. A big man in a checked shirt, jeans stuffed into cowhide boots.

  He swung his feet to the floor. “You again? Was that you they shot at?”

  “Wouldn’t you know?” Bowdrie saw Starr’s eyes go to the tear in the shoulder of Bowdrie’s shirt. “Close, that one. I reckon the boys aren’t holdin’ as steady as they should.”

  His eyes shifted to Clare, and he came quickly to his feet, surprise mingled with respect. He could see at a glance that she was a decent girl, and he had that quick Western courtesy toward women. “How d’you do, ma’am?”

  “Curly, this is Clare Marsden, sister of Billy Marsden. The law thinks he is Bill Cross. She hopes you can tell her somethin’ that will get her brother off the hook.”

  Starr shrugged contemptuously. “Is this another trick, Bowdrie? I won’t give evidence, not any kind of evidence. I don’t know anybody named Marsden, or Cross either. I’ve nothing to say.”

  “You can’t help me?” she pleaded. “If only Billy wasn’t with you! Or if he was only holding the horses or something!”

  Curly avoided her eyes. He looked a little pale but he was stubborn. “I don’t know nothin’ about it.”

  “You were seen an’ identified by four men, Curly.” Bowdrie’s tone was gentle. “So was Tobe. Everybody in town knew Bentley. That leaves Joslin and the kid. We have no description of Joslin, but the kid was identified by one man and he was caught under suspicious circumstances. If you can save his neck, why not do it?”

  She stared helplessly for a moment, then dropped her hands from the bars and turned away with a gesture of hopelessness that caught at Chick’s heart.

  “Starr, I knew you were a thief but I didn’t think you were a damned louse! This won’t do you any good.”

  “I’ll do myself some good before we get to Texas. I’ll have your hide, Bowdrie. It’s a long road home and I’ll get my break.”

  At the door of the IXL Bowdrie paused. “You’d best go home, ma’am. Most outlaws aren’t like him. They are rough men but many of them are pretty decent at heart. I am sorry.”

  “Thank you, and I am sorry for what I said. You really tried to help me.” Tears welled into her eyes and she turned away.

  He stared after her, and swore under his breath.

  THE WIND HAD a way of rippling the grass into long waves of gray or green, and it stirred now, rolling away over the sunlit prairie. Bowdrie, astride the appaloosa gelding he had bought in Deadwood, rode beside his prisoner.

  Curly Starr, his chin a stubble of beard, stared bleakly ahead. “You won’t get me much further! Ogalalla’s ahead, an’ I’ve friends riding the cattle trails.”

  “You talk too much. I’ve prob’ly just as many friends as you’ve enemies among those herds, too. You stole too many horses, Curly. I’ll be lucky if I get you back to Texas unhung.” He paused. “What happened to Tobe an’ Doc?”

  “How would they guess you’d ride fifty miles west out of Deadwood? That you’d ride fifty miles out of your way to keep me away from them? But you’re back on the cattle trails now, an’ they’ll find us.”

  It had been a hard ride. On impulse Bowdrie had taken his prisoner out of Deadwood on the same night he left Clare Marsden at the door of the IXL. He headed due west, only later turning south and heading for the tall-grass country.

  Ogalalla, which lay ahead, was a tough trail town and a dozen Texas herds were gathered nearby. Bowdrie had friends there, as did Starr. When things went well for him, the big outlaw was a friendly, easygoing man who had punched cows with many of the trail hands. Those friends would not forget.

  Bowdrie kept his plans to himself. He had no intention of going into Ogalalla at all. He would camp at Ash Hollow, then head south again, keeping west of Dodge on a course roughly parallel to the proposed Nation Trail, until inside the Texas boundaries. At that time he would veer west toward Doan’s Store and Fort Griffin.

  “They’ll be good hunters if they find us,” Bowdrie commented. Starr looked at him, but said nothing. He had been watching the stars, and was puzzled.

  At dusk they camped in a canyon where a few ash trees grew and which had been named Ash Hollow by Frémont. They made camp close to the spring, and then taking Starr with him, Bowdrie went down to a moist place in the brush where gooseberries and currants were growing. When they had picked a few to supplement their supper, they walked back.

  “You takin’ these irons off me? I’ll sleep better if you do.”

  Bowdrie smiled. “And I’ll sleep better with them on, so why don’t you just settle down an’ rest? Nobody is going to turn you loose unless you get a smart Texas lawyer.”

  Despite their continual bickering, the two men had come to respect and even like each other during the ride. Curly Starr was typical of a certain reckless, devil-may-care sort of puncher who often took to the bad trails when the country was wild. He was not an evil man, and under other circumstances in another kind of country he might never have become an outlaw.

  Bowdrie was not fooled by his liking for the man. He knew t
hat at the first chance Starr would grab for a gun or make a run for it. By now the outlaw knew something had gone awry with their planning. He kept staring around at the spring, then the ash trees.

  “Hey?” he exclaimed. “This place looks like Ash Hollow, west of Ogalalla!”

  “Go to the head of the class,” Bowdrie replied.

  “You’re not goin’ into Ogalalla?” Disappointment was written in his expression. “Ain’t you goin’ to give me any chance at all?”

  “Go to sleep,” Bowdrie said. “You’ve got a long ride tomorrow.”

  When he picketed the horses he took a long look around. Earlier he had glimpsed some distant riders who rode like Indians.

  He slept lightly and just before daybreak rolled out of his blankets and got a small fire going. Then he went for the horses. He was just in time to see an Indian reaching for the picket pin. The warrior saw him at the same instant and lifted his rifle. Bowdrie drew and fired in one swift, easy movement. Grabbing the picket ropes, Bowdrie raced back for the shelter of the trees.

  Curly was on his feet. “Give me a gun, Bowdrie! I’ll stand ’em off!”

  “Lie down, Starr! If it gets rough I’ll let you have a gun. In the meantime, just sit tight.”

  A bullet clipped a leaf over his head, another thudded into a tree trunk. Chick rolled into a shallow place in the grass and lifted his Winchester.

  An instant he waited; then he glimpsed a brown leg slithering through the grass and aimed a bit ahead of it and squeezed off his shot. The Indian cried out, half arose, then fell back into the grass. A chorus of angry yells responded to the wounding of the warrior.

  Bowdrie waited. This was, he believed, just a small party on a horse-stealing foray, and two of their number were down. His position was relatively good unless the Indians decided to rush them. Which they promptly did.

  Dropping his rifle as they broke from the brush and arose from the grass, Bowdrie drew both six-shooters. He opened fire, dropping the nearest Indian; then with his left-hand gun he got the man farthest on the right. Then they vanished, dropping into the grass and the brush. One warrior was slow in getting under cover and a rifle boomed behind Bowdrie and the Indian fell.