L'Amour, Louis - SSC 31

by The Collected Short Stories Vol 2

  The killer had not taken any chances. Chick still sat his horse.

  The killer had been smart to take no risks, as the man on the ground was no pilgrim. His was a good-looking face but one showing grim strength and the seasoning of many suns and the winds from long trails. He also wore two guns, and there were not many who did.

  Bowdrie walked his horse closer, careful to disturb no tracks.

  He noted the chain loops hanging from the strap button of the dead man’s spurs, looking from them to the horse, taking in the ornate Santa Barbara bit and the elaborate hand-tooled tapa deros that hooded his stirrups.

  “California,” Bowdrie said aloud.

  “He came a long way to get killed.”

  Dismounting, he walked over to the horse. It shied a bit, but when he spoke it hesitated, then reached for him with its nose, cautious but friendly.

  “Your rider,” Chick told himself, “must have been all right.

  You certainly haven’t been abused.”

  He scratched the horse on the neck, his eyes taking in all the details. The rawhide ri ata suspended from a loop near the pommel attracted his attention.

  “Eighty or eighty-five feet, I’ll bet! I’ve heard of ropes like that.

  California, you were a hand Texas riders stuck to hair ropes thirty-five to forty feet long and they worked close to a steer before making a toss. It needed an artist to handle such a rope, but he had heard talk of the California vaqueros who used ropes this long.

  Walking over to the dead man, he went through his pockets.

  Dust was heavy on the man’s clothing. He showed evidence, as did his horse, of riding far and fast. The horse was a tall black, heavier than most Texas cow horses, and was obviously well bred and carefully trained. He was a horse who could stand long miles of hard riding, and by the looks of him he had done just that.

  “Riding to see somebody,” Chick guessed, “because from the look of you, you never ran from anything.”

  Making a neat pack of the man’s pocket belongings, Chick tucked them into a hip pocket. Then he took the dead man’s guns and hung them from his saddle horn.

  The nearest town was too far away to carry a body, and there would be coyotes.

  “I mean the four-legged kind.” Bowdrie, like many a long riding man, often talked to himself.

  “You’ve already run into the two-legged kind.”

  He found a shallow place where the ground was not too hard, dug it out a little with a stick, and laid the body neatly in the trough he hollowed. Covering the rider’s face with his vest, Chick scraped dirt over him, caved more from the bank above, then piled on juniper boughs and rocks.

  When he swung to the saddle again he was leading the black horse. Starting away, he took a route that led past the brush covered boulder.

  A minute and painstaking examination told him little. He was about to leave when he saw the place where the killer’s horse had been tethered. Something caught his eye and he studied the rough side of the rock, scowling thoughtfully.

  The horse had waited for some time, judging by the hoof marks, and evidently had tried to scratch himself on the rock.

  Bowdrie gathered several tiny fragments of wood from the rough surface. Dry and hard on one side, they were fresh and un weathered on the other. Carefully he picked off several of the bits of wood, scarcely more than shreds, and put them in a cigarette paper.

  Hours later, when the shadows reached out over the little town of Hacker, Chick Bowdrie ambled the roan down the town’s dusty main street to the livery stable. The black trotted behind.

  Sitting in a chair tipped back against the outer wall of a saloon was a man who watched his arrival with some attention.

  As Bowdrie pulled up at the livery stable the man turned his head and apparently spoke to someone inside. A moment later the doors pushed wide and a man in a white hat stepped out and looked to where Bowdrie was stepping down from his horse.

  Stabling the horses, Chick rubbed them down with care, fed and watered them himself. A stable-hand, chewing methodically, strolled over and watched without comment.

  “Come far?” he asked, finally.

  “Quite a piece. What’s doin’ around town?”

  “Nothin’ much.” The hostler looked at Chick’s lean, hard face and the two guns.

  “Hunting’ a job?”

  “Could be.”

  “Herman an’ Howells are hirin’. If a man’s handy with a six shooter it won’t hurt none.”

  “There’s two sides to a fight. What about the other?”

  “Jack Darcy. Pitchfork outfit. Young sprout, but he ain’t hirin’ gun hands He’s got no money.”

  The stable-hand’s eyes went to the black.

  “You usually carry two horses?”

  “It’s handy sometimes.” Chick straightened and his black eyes looked into the stable-hand’s blue eyes.

  “You asking’ for yourself or getting’ news for somebody?”

  “Just asking’.” He indicated the black horse.

  “You look to be a Texas man but that ain’t no Texas outfit.”

  Chick smiled.

  “That’ll give you something to keep you from sleepin’ too sound. Somethin’ to think about. Rainy.”

  Astonished, the stable-hand stared at him.

  “How’d you know my name?”

  “Pays a man to keep his eyes open. Rainy,” Chick replied.

  “When I rode up, you were diggin’ tobacco out of your pouch.

  Your name’s burned on it.”

  The stable-hand was embarrassed.

  “Why, sure! I forget sometimes it’s there.”

  Bowdrie walked up the street, estimating the town. Quiet, weather-beaten, and wind-blasted, a few horses at the hitching rails, a stray dog or two, and a half-dozen saloons, a few stores.

  Only the saloons, a cafe, and the hotel showed lights in a town deceptively dead. He had seen many such towns before. A wrong word and they could explode into action.

  The killing on the trail and the fact that at least one outfit was hiring gun hands meant there was more than was easily visible.

  After booking a room at the two-story frame hotel, he went to the cafe. Ordering, he sat at a long wooden table and ate in silence. The slatternly woman who served him manifested no interest in the silent, leather-faced young man with the twin guns. She had seen them come and go and helped prepare a few for burial after they were gone.

  He ate thoughtfully, turning over in his mind the problem that brought him here. Somewhere in the town of Hacker was a cow-stealing killer known as Carl Dyson. He was wanted in Texas for murder. Chick Bowdrie had been working out the man’s carefully concealed trail for nearly a month.

  He was sitting over his coffee when Rainy came in, slumping into a seat across the table. He had no more expression than Bowdrie. Picking up the pot, he poured a cup of coffee, black and strong.

  “Couple of gents lookin’ your gear over,” he said without looking up.

  “Figured you might like to know. One of them is Russ Peters, a gun hand for the H&H outfit. The other was Murray Roberts, who ramrods for the H&H.”

  “Thanks.” Chick pushed back from the table.

  “Where do they hang out?”

  “Wagon Wheel Saloon, mostly. A couple of sidewinders, mister. Better watch yourself.” Rainy’s range-wise eyes dropped to the guns in their worn holsters as the stranger went out the door.

  “Or,” he added, “maybe they’d better watch out!”

  Several poker games were in progress in the Wagon Wheel, a few punchers were casually bucking a faro layout, and four men stood at the bar. One was a tall, fine-looking man in a white hat and neat range clothes. The other was shorter, heavier, and roughly dressed, with a brutal, unshaved face and a mustache.

  He wore a low-crowned sombrero with a crease through the middle.

  He muttered something to his companion as Bowdrie came to the bar, but the bigger man merely shot a glance at Chick and went on tal
king.

  “Darcy better sell while the sellin’ is possible. At this rate he won’t have anything left.”

  The man with the creased sombrero stared at Chick.

  “Right nice horse you led into town,” he commented, “and a good many of us are wondering what became of its rider.”

  Chick turned slowly. His left elbow rested on the bar; his right hand held a glass of rye. He stared into the yellow eyes of the man in the creased sombrero, and somebody in the room swallowed audibly. Menace seemed to rise like a cloud in the smoke-laden air of the room.

  Bowdrie’s Apache face did not change. He lifted his glass and drank the rye, putting the glass back on the bar. Tension in the room was a living thing, and the studied moves of the young man at the bar awakened something in the minds of the onlookers.

  “I said,” the man in the creased sombrero repeated, “a lot of folks want to know what became of the rider.”

  Chick’s eyes held steady, and then in a casual, almost bored tone he said, “The name is Russ Peters,” making it clear he referred to the man he faced.

  “Used to call himself Rusty Padwill.

  Fancies himself a gunfighter but is always careful who he does his shootin’ with. Ran with the Murphy-Dolan crowd in the Lincoln County War. Wanted in Colorado for stealin’ horses, suspected of dry-gulchin’ a prospector in Arizona. Run out of Tombstone by Virgil Earp.”

  Peters’ mouth dropped open and he started to speak, but Chick Bowdrie continued.

  “I might add that the man who rode that horse I brought in was dry-gulched, and I suspect everybody in town knows who is most liable to shoot a man in the back.”

  Peters had been startled into immobility by the quiet recital of his background. His face turned white, then red as a wild anger swept over him.

  “You pointin’ that at me?” he demanded.

  “When you throw a stone into a pack of dogs, the one that yelps is the one that got hit.”

  Overcome by fury, Peters lunged at him, but Bowdrie brushed Peters’ grasping hand away and snapped a jolting right uppercut to the chin. Peters’ knees buckled and he fell forward.

  Bowdrie moved back a step to let him fall, then said to the astonished bartender, “I’ll have one more. The riding across country was kind of dry an’ dusty.”

  Peters pulled himself to his knees, shaking his head. Realization struck him and he lunged to his feet, grasping for his gun. He got his hand on it and stiffened. He was looking into the unwavering muzzle of Bowdrie’s gun.

  “I’m in no mood for a shooting,” Bowdrie said, “and this ain’t your night. You’d better mount up and head back for the home ranch.”

  Murray Roberts glanced over at Bowdrie.

  “That tip is appreciated, mister. We had no idea Russ was a wanted man.” He glanced at the two guns.

  “You handle yourself pretty well. Where did you say you came from?”

  “I didn’t say.”

  “If you’re hunting’ a job, drop out to the H&H. We need men.”

  “If Peters is a sample of what you have”—he drained his glass—“I reckon you do.”

  Turning on his heel, he walked out, leaving Roberts staring after him, his features taut with anger.

  Bowdrie had reached the hotel porch when a dark figure detached itself from the shadows.

  “Hold it!” The man lifted a hand.

  “I’m friendly!” He was a short, blond man in worn boots, jeans stuffed into them.

  “You’re talking,” Bowdrie said.

  “Shall we step inside?”

  The young man wore a gun, a black-and-white-checkered shirt, and an unbuttoned vest. He had a wide, friendly face, very worried now.

  “You led a black horse into town? A California rig?”

  “I did.”

  “What happened to the rider?”

  “Shot in the back about ten miles south. Do you know him?”

  “He was my friend, and I was expecting him. I’m Jack Darcy, of the Pitchfork. That was Clan Lingle, and he was coming in to help me.”

  Bowdrie was surprised, then irritated with himself. He should have known the man.

  “That was Clan Lingle, the lawman? The one who cleaned out the Skull Canyon crowd?”

  “That’s him. What beats me is why they woul d shoot him. Nobody knew he was coming, nobody even knew I knew him. Lingle was my brother-in-law. Then my sister was killed.”

  “Killed? How?”

  “Some hand she hired while Clan was away. She caught him stealing. He knocked her down. In falling, she struck her head, apparently, and died. Clan knew the man by sight, and he was hunting him.”

  “When did your fight begin here?” Bowdrie asked.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Darcy hesitated, then shrugged. “We were getting along all right, the H&H an’ me. In fact”—he flushed—“I sort of was courtin’ Meg Howells.

  “Murray Roberts come in and hires out to Howells. Before long he’s got Herman and Howells down on me. He showed ‘em some doctored brands, and I never rustled a cow in my life! Then he started courting Meg, an’ they wouldn’t let me on the place.

  “I’m no gunfighter. He drew on me, Roberts did, and I reckon he’d of killed me if Meg hadn’t grabbed his arm. She claimed it was my fault and said I wasn’t to come back.”

  Bowdrie sat down on the cowhide settee and motioned Darcy to join him. They were sitting so Bowdrie could watch both the window and the door without being seen.

  “How long has Roberts been here?” he asked.

  “Six months, I’d say. His partner, Russ Peters, he showed up about a month ago, but he’d known Roberts before, I believe.”

  “Six months?” Disappointment was obvious in his tone. Rising, he started toward the stairway. “I’ll be riding your way tomorrow, Darcy. Might put up with you for the night. Maybe I’m not the man Clan Lingle was, but—“

  “Gosh a’mighty, man! Come ahead! I can use all the help I can get, but you’re welcome, anytime! Fact is,” he added, “it gets kind of lonely out there, with nobody coming by and me not seeing Meg anymore.”

  He turned to go, then stopped and looked back. “You didn’t say what your name was?”

  “I’m Chick Bowdrie.”

  “Chick Bowdrie, the Texas Ranger? I’ve heard of you.”

  Bowdrie went up the stairs, and the desk clerk, rising from his chair, watched until Darcy mounted his horse and rode out of town. The clerk came from behind his desk, glanced quickly around, then ran down the street.

  Bowdrie came down the stairs and followed, keeping to the shadows.

  A few minutes later, standing in the darkness outside an open window at the other end of town, he listened as the desk man told his story to Murray Roberts, Russ Peters, and a heavyset man with a bald head.

  “Chick Bowdrie, is it?” Roberts was saying.

  “That means we’ve got to kill him or we’re through here.”

  “Then we’ll kill him”—the fat man took the cigar from his lips—“and we can’t waste any time. If he finds any evidence, he’ll let McNelly know.”

  The fat man looked over at Roberts. “Who killed Lingle, Murray?”

  Murray Roberts shrugged. “Not me!” he protested.

  “Well, it wasn’t me, either!” Peters said. “I’m damned if I know!”

  “Murray, you ride back to the ranch. I’ll keep Russ here. Ride herd on the old man. We can’t let him start guessing or he might come up with some answers.” The fat man paused and pointed a thick middle finger at Roberts. “You watch him, not that girl! Women will be the death of you yet!”

  Chick Bowdrie returned to the hotel, slipped up the back stairs to his room, and went to bed. There were never any simple cases anymore. Maybe there never had been.

  He had started hunting a killer with no accurate description except that he was carrying two diamond rings, a watch, and four beautiful Morgan horses—a stallion and three mares.

  It had been a cold trail from the s
tart, but one thing he knew. The killer had sold no Morgan horses. Wherever he was, he still had them. “Better check those ranches tomorrow,” he told himself.

  He clasped his hands behind his head. Just to think! He, Chick Bowdrie, a Texas Ranger! No idea had been further from his mind a year ago. He’d grown up, at least part of the way, on a ranch not far from D’Hanis, a town near San Antonio. At sixteen he had killed his first man, a cow thief who was trying to run off some of his employer’s cattle, but even that had not been his first fight. At six years old he had helped load rifles for his father and uncle as they fought Comanches, and by the time his sixteenth birthday came around, he had been in a half-dozen Indian fights.

  His experience was not unusual for the time and the area.

  Indian fights and over-the-border raids were all too common, but skill with guns had come naturally. Like many another boy or girl of his time, he had been hunting meat for the table from the time he could hold up a rifle.

  Yet the way things had gone, he might have wound up on the wrong end of the law. It was only chance and Captain McNelly of the Rangers that turned him around.

  The H&H ranch lay six miles west of Hacker, and Chick Bowdrie made it by a few minutes after daylight. He reined in among some cedar at the end of a long hill and looked down upon the ranch.

  It was enough to make a cattleman dream. Miles upon miles of green, rolling range spreading out like a great sea behind the cluster of ranch buildings. And there were cattle. As far as a man could see, there were cattle, scattered over the range or gathered along the stream that watered it.

  Over against the foothills he could see what must be the Pitchfork holdings. Inquiries made before riding in here had told him what to expect. The Pitchfork cattle, or what he assumed to be them, ranged up the draws that led into the hills and along the flanks of the hills themselves.

  Only within the past year had trouble arisen. H&H cattle had been missed, brands had been blotted, and Rack Herman had been led to believe that Darcy was rustling. Then Roberts had come in, was taken on as foreman, and complaints against Darcy multiplied. Then a Darcy hand was reported to have killed an H&H rider.

  Chick studied the situation thoughtfully. He had grown up on the range, punching cows and riding the open range. He knew how range wars developed and on how little evidence accusations were often made.