Bowdrie got his canteen from his horse and lifted Doyle’s head to give him a swallow. The wounded man’s eyes flickered. “He wasn’t worth it, but I rode with him. No hard feelings?”
“None,” Bowdrie replied. “Next time you better choose better comp’ny. You could get yourself killed.” He opened the wounded man’s shirt. The one low down on the left side looked ugly, but the other shot had hit Doyle’s heavy metal belt buckle and glanced off, ripping the skin across his stomach for a good six inches, but the wound was only a bad scratch.
“Am I bad off?.”
“Not too bad. You’ll live, most likely. I’ll patch you up some when I get time. Now we got comp’ny.”
He thumbed cartridges into his guns, holstering the left one. His hand was still numb, but if necessary…
“What d’ you plan to do?” Doyle asked.
“Take the Ballards,” Bowdrie said. “I’m a Texas Ranger.”
“Bowdrie? A Ranger?”
“Since Fobes killed Noah Whipple.” He grabbed Doyle’s handkerchief and shoved it into his mouth, but the outlaw spat it out.
“I won’t holler,” Doyle said. “If I do, there’ll be shootin’.” They waited in silence, listening to the approaching horses. “Watch Northup,” Doyle said. “I don’t want Clyde shot up.”
Three men rode into the firelight and started to swing down. One was on the ground before they saw anything amiss. “Hold it, Ballard!” Bowdrie said. “This is Chick Bowdrie and I’m a Texas Ranger. I’m arrestin’ you for the Benton bank job!”
Clyde Ballard stood very still. His brother was beside him, only a few feet away, and Northup was a good ten feet to their left. They were full in the firelight and Bowdrie was in half-darkness beyond the fire. Clyde could see Fobes’s body, realizing for the first time that the man was dead, not sleeping. He could only see the legs of Luther Doyle but it was obvious the man was out of action.
Nobody had ever accused Clyde Ballard of lack of courage. He was hard, tough, and at times reckless, but even a child could see that somebody could die here, and Tom was only a kid.
“He means it, Clyde,” Doyle said. “He’s hell on wheels with them guns and we might get him but he’d get all of us. We can beat this one in court.”
It was wise counsel, Clyde knew. It would not be easy to convict them of the Benton job, as they had all been masked. Moreover, it was miles to prison and they had friends. “What about the Miller Crossing killing?” Clyde asked.
“Fobes did that. He’s dead. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a closed chapter. You can have it any way you want it. Doyle can live if we get him to a doctor.”
Ballard hesitated. With a single move he could turn the evening into a red-laced bit of hell, but what the Ranger said was true and he had been careful never to buck the Rangers. “You’ve got us cold-decked, Bowdrie. I’m dropping my guns.” His hands went carefully to his belt buckle. “Tom?” The guns dropped, and Tom’s followed.
“Like hell!” Cousin Northup’s tone was wild. “No damn Ranger is takin’ me in!”
Bowdrie’s gun was in his hand but he hesitated a split second as Northup’s pistol cleared leather; then he shot him. The Ballards stood, hands lifted. Bowdrie looked at them for a moment, then holstered his gun.
“Cousin was always a mite hasty,” Clyde said, and then added, “We might have gotten into that, but one of us would surely have gotten hisself killed, and there was Luther here. If we killed you, he’d have no show a-tall. An’ we’d have nobody who knew we’d surrendered ourselves.”
Bowdrie gathered their guns and hung the belts on his saddle. “If we can get him to Sloacum’s,” Clyde said, “that ol’ man’s most as good as a doctor. He might fix him up until we can get help.”
They got Luther into the saddle and started for the ranch. Bowdrie had three prisoners and a report to write up. He’d never written a report and did not know what to say. And he would have to stop in town to buy something for Joanie.
“You fellers could help me,” he said to Clyde. “If you was asked to buy something in town for a girl, maybe sixteen, what would you get for her?”
“Well,” Clyde said, “I’d …”
It was a long way to town.
A JOB FOR A RANGER
There were two bullet holes in the bank window, and there was blood on the hitching rail where the cashier had fallen while trying to get off a last shot. Lem Pullitt had died there by the rail, but not before telling how he had been shot while his hands were up.
Chick Bowdrie stood on the boardwalk, his dark, Apache-like features showing no expression. “I don’t like it,” he muttered. “Either the holdup man was a coldblooded killer or somebody wanted Pullitt killed.”
He glanced up the street again, his eyes searching the buildings, the walks, the horses tied at the rails. Many men kill, but killing a game man when his hands were up … it just wasn’t the way things were done in Texas. And Lem had been game or he would not have stumbled out there, dying, trying for a shot.
The bandits had come into town in two groups. One man with a rifle dismounted in front of the Rancher’s Rest while the others rode on to the bank. One then remained outside with the horses, and three had gone inside.
When shots sounded from inside the bank, men rushed to the street; then the man with the rifle opened fire. He covered the retreat of the four men at the bank, but what had become of the man with the rifle? He had not run the gauntlet in the street.
Henry Plank, clerk in the stage station, had stepped to the door and opened fire on the fleeing bandits. He claimed to have winged one of them. Bowdrie pushed his hat back on his head and studied the street, scowling.
A large man with a blond mustache emerged from the bank and walked over to where Bowdrie stood. His face was florid and he wore a wide, dusty Stetson. “Are you the Ranger?”
Bowdrie turned his black eyes on the man, who felt a sudden shiver go through him. There was something in those eyes that made him feel uncomfortable.
“Name of Bowdrie. Chick, they call me. You’re Bates?”
“Yes. They call me Big Jim. I am the banker. Or maybe I should say, I was the banker.”
“Is it that bad?”
Bowdrie’s eyes strayed up the street. That was the direction from which the bandits had come. They could not have been seen until they were right in the street, and when they left, it was in the opposite direction, which put them behind some cottonwoods within a minute or two.
On the side of the street where he stood were the bank, a livery stable, a general store, and a blacksmith shop. At the opposite end, standing out a little from the other buildings, was the Rancher’s Rest. Across from the Rest were a corral, two houses, a dance hall, now closed, and the Chuck Wagon, a combination saloon and eating house. Directly across was the stage station.
“Yeah,” Big Jim said, “it is that bad. I’ve got money out on loans. Too darned much. None of the loans are due now. A few weeks ago I loaned ten thousand to Jackson Kegley, and I was figurin’ on loanin’ him the ten thousand they stole.”
“Who’s Kegley?”
“Kegley? He owns the Rest. Got a big cattle spread west of town. Runs eight, nine thousand head of stock. His place runs clean up to West Fork. That’s where the Tom Roway place is.”
“Roway’s the man you think done it? Something to that effect was in the report.”
Bates shrugged. “I ain’t seen Tom Roway but twice in five years. He killed a couple of men in shootin’ scrapes, then went to the pen for shootin’ a man in the back.
“Three years ago he came back and brought Mig Barnes along. Barnes is pretty tough himself, or so they say.”
“Why did you suspect Roway?”
“Bob Singer .. . he’s a puncher around here, seen that paint horse. I guess everybody else saw it, too. The gent who used the rifle was ridin’ that paint. Sorrel splash on the left hip and several dabs of color on the left shoulder.”
“Did you send a posse after them?
”
Bates looked embarrassed. “Nobody would go. Tom Roway is mighty handy with a rifle and he’s fast with a six-shooter. Bob Singer is pretty salty himself, and he wouldn’t go, and after that, people just sort of backed off. Finally Kegley, Joel, an’ me went out. We lost the trail in the waters of West Fork.”
“Joel?”
“My son. He’s twenty-one, and a pretty good tracker.”
Chick walked past the bank. There was a bullet hole in the side window of the bank, too. When they started shooting in some of these towns, they surely shot things up. He walked on to the Rancher’s Rest and stepped inside.
Aside from the bartender, there were three men in the saloon. The big, handsome man standing at the bar had a pleasant face, and he turned to smile at Bowdrie as he entered.
A man at a card table playing solitaire had a tied-down gun.
The third man was a lantern-jawed puncher with straw-colored hair.
“You’ll be Bowdrie, I guess,” the big man said. “I am Jackson Kegley. This is my place.”
“How’re you?” Chick glanced at the straw-haired puncher. He grinned with wry humor.
“I’m Rip Coker. That shrinkin’ violet at the card table is Bob Singer. Better keep an eye on him. Ranger, he’s mighty slick with an iron, either shootin’ or brandin’.”
Singer glared at Coker, and his lips thinned as he looked down at his cards. Chick noticed the glance, then turned his attention to Kegley. “You know Roway. Do you think he done it?”
“I wouldn’t know. He’s a damn good shot. We trailed him as far as the West Fork.”
Coker leaned his forearms on the bar. His plaid shirt was faded and worn. “Roway’s not so bad,” he commented, “and I don’t think he done it.”
Singer was impatient. “Nobody could miss that paint boss,” he suggested. “Ain’t another in the county like it.”
Coker gave Singer a disgusted glance. “Then why would he ride it? If you was robbin’ a bank, would you ride the most noticeable horse around?”
Bob Singer flushed angrily and his eyes were hard when he looked up, but he offered no comment.
“I’ll look around some,” Bowdrie said.
He walked outside, studying the street again. There was a suggestion of an idea in his mind, and something felt wrong about the whole affair. He went to the hotel section of the Rest and signed for a room, then strolled outside.
Something in the dust at his feet caught his eye, and he stepped down off the walk, running the dust through his fingers.
He took something from the dust, placed it carefully inside a folded cigarette paper, and put it in his wallet.
Singer had come out of the saloon and was watching him.
Bowdrie ignored him and strolled down to where his horse was tied. He was swinging into the saddle when Bates came to the door.
“You ain’t goin’ after him alone, are you?”
Bowdrie shrugged. “Why not? I haven’t seen any of his graveyards around.”
He turned the roan into the trail. He was irritable because he was uneasy. There was something wrong here, it was too pat, too set up, and they were too ready to accuse Roway.
“Personally,” Bowdrie told the roan, “I agree with Coker. An outlaw using a horse everybody knew, that doesn’t even make sense.”
The trail was good for the first few miles, then became steadily worse. It wound higher and higher into rougher and rougher country. Skimpy trails edged around cliffs with drop offs of several hundred feet to the bottom of dry canyons. Then, of a sudden, the trail spilled over a ridge into a green meadow, and that meadow opened into still another, each one skirted by borders of trees. At the end of the last meadow was a cabin, smoke rising from the chimney. A few cattle grazed nearby, and there were horses in the corral.
Chick Bowdrie rode up and stepped down. One of the horses in the corral was a paint with a splash of sorrel on the hip, a few smaller flecks on the shoulder. It was an unusual marking, unlikely to be duplicated.
“Lookin’ for something?” The tone was harsh, and Bowdrie took care to keep his hands away from his guns.
The man stood at the door of his cabin not twenty feet away.
He was a hard aged man with an unshaved face and cold eyes under bushy black brows. He wore a gun in a worn holster, and beyond him inside the door another man sat on a chair with a rifle across his knees.
“Are you Tom Roway?”
“And what if I am?”
Bowdrie studied him coolly for a long minute and then said, “I’m Chick Bowdrie, a Ranger. We’ve got to have a talk.”
“I’ve heard of you. I’ve no call to like the law, but if you want to talk, come on in. Coffee’s on.” The man at the door put down his rifle and put a tin plate and a cup on the table. He was a stocky man with a pockmarked face.
“Ain’t often we have a Ranger for chow,” he commented.
Roway sat down, filling three cups. “All right, Ranger, speak your piece. What business do you have with us?”
“Have you been ridin’ that paint horse lately?”
“I ride that paint most of the time.”
“Did you ride into Morales Monday morning and stick up the bank?”
“What kind of a question is that? No, I didn’t rob no bank and I ain’t been in Morales in a month! What is this? Some kind of a frame-up?”
“Five men robbed the bank at Morales Monday morning, and one of them was ridin’ a paint horse, a dead ringer for that one out yonder.” Bowdrie gestured toward the corral. “Where was that horse on Monday?”
“Right where he is now. He ain’t been off this place in a week.” He looked up, scowling. “Who identified that animal?”
“A dozen people. He was right out in plain sight. Nobody could’ve missed him. One who identified him was Bob Singer.”
“Singer?” Roway’s eyes flashed. “I’ll kill him!”
“No you won’t,” Bowdrie said. “If there’s any killin’ done, I’ll do it.”
For a moment their eyes locked, but Roway was the first to look away. Mig Barnes had been watching, and now he spoke. “Do you reckon Tom would be so foolish as to ride to a holdup with the most known horse in the county? He’d have to be crazy!” He gestured outside. “We’ve got a cavvy of broncs, all colors an’ kinds. He could take his pick, so why ride the one horse everybody knows?”
“I thought of that,” Bowdrie agreed, “and it doesn’t look like anybody with a place like this would want to steal. You boys have got yourselves a ranch!”
“Best I ever saw!” Roway said. “Grass all year around and water that never gives out. Our cattle are always fat.”
“Has anybody ever tried to buy you out?” Bowdrie asked casually.
“You might say that. Jackson Kegley wanted to buy it from me, and for that matter, so did old man Bates. Then some of Kegley’s boys made a pass at running me off the place a few years back. We sort of discouraged ‘em. Mig an’ me, we shoot too straight.”
The coffee was good, so Bowdrie sat and talked awhile. The two were hard men, no doubt about that, but competent. Nobody in his right mind would try to drive them off a place situated like this. Bowdrie knew their kind. He had ridden with them, worked cattle with them. Left alone, they would be no trouble to anyone.
Neither of these men shaped up like a murderer. They would kill, but only in a fight where both sides were armed and where they believed themselves in the right.
The idea persisted that the bank cashier had been shot deliberately, and for a reason. But what reason?
Bowdrie was not taking Roway’s word for it as far as the paint horse went, but he did not have to. He already had some thoughts about that, and an idea was beginning to take shape that might provide an answer.
It was a long ride back to Morales, and Bowdrie had time to think. The sun was hot, but up in the high country where he was, the breeze was pleasant. Bowdrie took his time. Riding horseback had always been conducive to thinking, and now he turned over in his
mind each one of the elements. When he arrived at a point where he could overlook the town, he drew rein.
Morales, what there was of it, lay spread out below him like a map, and there are few things better than a map for getting the right perspective.
The paint horse was too obvious. Rip Coker had put that into words very quickly, but Bowdrie had been quick to see it himself.
To ride such a horse in a robbery meant that a man was insane or he was trying to point a finger of suspicion at its owner.
“What I want to know, Hammerhead,” he said to the roan, “is how that fifth bandit got away. More than likely, if he rode around behind the Rest an’ took to the woods, he had to come this way to keep from sight. He had to know a trail leading him up to the breaks of this plateau without using the main trail.”
For two hours he scouted the rim, returning to town finally with the realization that there was no way to reach the top without taking the main trail in full sight of the town.
“And if he didn’t use the main trail, he just never left town at all!”
Several men were running toward the bank as he rode into the street. Dropping from the saddle, Bowdrie tied his horse and went swiftly in the direction of the others. Hearing someone coming up behind him, he turned to see Jackson Kegley.
“What’s happened?” Kegley asked.
“Don’t know,” Chick said.
When they rounded the corner of the bank, they saw a small knot of men standing at the rear of the bank. Bowdrie glanced at Kegley. His face was flushed and he was breathing harder than what a fast walk should cause. A bad heart, maybe?
L'Amour, Louis - SSC 31 Page 16
