Nobody had seen that H&H rider killed. He had been found near Pitchfork range, shot through the back. The H&H then killed a Pitchfork rider, and the H&H began hiring gunmen.
“It looks like somebody wanted trouble,” Bowdrie surmised, but he was too experienced to draw any firm conclusions.
The trouble had started before Murray Roberts appeared, so he, apparently, was not the cause.
H&H hands were riding out on the range now. He sat his horse, watching them go. The fewer around, the better. Finally he started the roan and cantered down to the ranch yard.
A girl came running down the steps to drive some chickens from a flowerbed, her blond hair blowing in the wind. When she saw him she stopped, shading her eyes against the sun.
He drew up.
“Howdy, ma’am. How’s for a cup of coffee?”
“Of course. I am sure there’s some left. We try to have coffee throughout the day for any of the hands who might ride in. Will you come in?”
He swung down and tied the roan to the hitching rail, and followed her into the house. The Chinese cook was just cleaning up after the cowhands. Seeing Bowdrie, he asked no questions but brought coffee, then some eggs and sliced beef.
“You will be Meg Howells,” he said abruptly.
“Yes.” She studied him. “How did you know?”
“Why,” he said blandly, “I run; into a feller who said you were the prettiest girl in these parts. He surely was no liar.”
“Oh? You met Murray?”
He swallowed some coffee and used the fork on the eggs. “No, ma’am. His name was Jack Darcy.”
“Oh?” Her voice was cool.
“How is he?” She tried to keep her tone disinterested, but underneath it he could detect not only curiosity, but interest.
“Looks mighty peaked, like maybe things were goin’ bad at the ranch or maybe he lost his best girl or something.” Before she could respond to that, he continued, “Of course, he did lose his best friend.”
“Jack did? Who could that be?”
“Mighty fine man named Clan Lingle, a law officer from out California way. He was ridin’ in here to visit Jack, and somebody dry-gulched him. Shot him from ambush and in the back.”
“How awful! That’s just terrible! And that’s just how Jack’s .. . I” She hesitated, frowning.
“Jack’s what?” Bowdrie asked.
He was no judge of womenfolks. It was not like reading trail sign. Women made queer tracks, yet even he could sense that Meg Howells had something on her mind.
“Why, it just struck me that Jack’s father was killed that way. He was following some rustlers. It was about eight months ago. He was found lying beside the trail and he had been shot in the back.”
He sipped his coffee, and suddenly she turned on him. “Who are you? Are you looking for a job?”
“No, ma’am. I’m a Texas Ranger. I’m following a man who married a woman, murdered her, and then drove off her cattle.
“He told folks he was migratin’ west, that his wife was sick in the wagon. After he was gone, they found her body. He’d taken the rings her father gave her, and four Morgan horses.
“There was another killing of a woman after that, but we’re not sure the same man did it.”
“Four horses?”
“Yes, ma’am. A stallion and three brood mares. Fine stock. Have you seen any such horses?”
“No. No, I haven’t.”
She seemed suddenly eager to be rid of him, so he pushed back his chair and got up.
“Mind if I look around a little? You’ve a fine place here.”
“Please do! Go right ahead!”
She was already hurrying from the room. He drained his cup of coffee and walked outside. Taking his time, he strolled toward the stable. When he saw the row of saddles on a railing, his lips tightened a little.
“Somewhere,” he told himself, “you’re going to find a saddle with wooden, California-style stirrups. Real old-time stuff, and some of the wood will have been rubbed off, just recently, on a rock.”
No such saddle was in this lot, however. He was just turning away from them when a harsh voice cut into the silence, a voice that sent little prickles along the back of his neck.
“Who are you, and what are you doin’, prowlin’ around here?”
Chick’s face was blank. “Just lookin’ around,” he said. “I asked Miss Meg if it would be all right.”
“Well, it isn’t all right.” He was a short, enormously fat man with a thick neck rising from massive shoulders. Chick was suddenly wary. This man was not just fat. There was an ease and dexterity in his movements and the way he used his hands that belied his bulk. At least two inches shorter than he, the man must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. “Anybody who wants to look this ranch over comes to me!”
“I heard,” Chick said mildly, “that the place belonged to Howells and Herman.”
“That’s right. I’m Rack Herman!”
“Yeah?” Something about the man stirred all the antagonism within him. “From the way you talked, I figured you were both of them.”
Herman’s features seemed to tighten. The easy-appearing. fat man vanished and the face Bowdrie looked at was brutal. “Think I’m just a fat slob, do you?” His tongue touched his lips, and into his eyes came a queer eagerness that made Bowdrie cringe as though he had touched something unclean. “I like to beat clever fellers like you!”
“Take it easy, boss.” Murray Roberts appeared in the doorway behind Herman. “That’s Chick Bowdrie.”
Rack stopped in midstride, and the transformation was amazing. In an instant his face was all smiles. “Bowdrie? Why didn’t you say so? I thought you were some driftin’ cowhand lookin’ for something he could steal! Shucks, if I’d knowed you was the law .. .
“Come up to the house, will you?”
“Thanks, but I’ve some riding to do. However, if it is all right with you, I might stop by on the way back.”
“Of course! Stop by anytime! Glad to have you at any time!”
Bowdrie walked to his horse and swung into the saddle. Turning his horse toward the Darcy range, he wiped the sudden sweat from his brow. “That, Mr. Bowdrie,” he said aloud, “was a close one!”
Rack Herman was a new element in the situation, but the rancher was no tinhorn crook, but something more. He was a monster, a being of concentrated evil such as one rarely found on western range … or elsewhere, for that matter.
He was crossing the slope of a hill out of sight of the H&H when a movement caught his eye. It was Meg Howells on a small gray horse, approaching by a roundabout way and heading for the hills. Circling through the trees, keeping out of sight, he rode until he cut her trail; then he fell in behind. The girl was riding fast and she was going somewhere, obviously with a destination in mind.
Glancing down his back trail, he glimpsed another rider whose route had not crossed his. Hurriedly Chick Bowdrie pulled back into the trees until the horseman rode past. It was Murray Roberts.
The trail itself was dusty, so Bowdrie held to the grassy side of the road to raise no dust. It was simple enough to avoid being seen by keeping to low ground until suddenly Meg rode up a low hill and through a cleft in the rock wall.
Until now she had been riding a known trail, but she hesitated before going into the notch, obviously uncertain of what she might find. Hesitating from time to time, she rode on. ‘ Pulling the roan to a stop, Chick watched Murray Roberts allow the girl some time before he entered the cleft. He had the impression this was no new trail to Roberts.
Waiting approximately as long as Roberts had, Chick rode into the cleft.
It grew narrower and narrower, until at one point the sides of his boots rubbed the rock on either wall; then it widened again, and far ahead he could see the girl riding into a green and lovely box canyon. Beyond, there was a clump of cottonwoods and a small cabin. There was a corral, and in the corral, several horses.
Instinct told him what horses thes
e were, and with that realization came a heightened sense of danger. Roberts was just ahead, spurring now to catch the girl.
Bowdrie turned sharply away from the notch and skirted the canyon, keeping to the brush but riding fast. He dismounted behind a ramshackle barn and eased himself to the corner. Peering around, he saw four horses in the corral.
The Morgan horses! Then Roberts .. . He heard voices, Murray Roberts’ voice. “How’d you know about this place?” he was demanding.
“I saw you riding here. Later, I saw him coming here. I had no idea what was here, but I had to find out.”
“Now you’ve found out, you’d better get, an’ quick! If he finds you here, he’ll kill you.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “Meg, let’s you an’ me cut out. Nobody’s got a chance with him around! He killed—“
“Who did I kill?”
The voice was so close that Bowdrie started as if stung. Then he realized the voice came from the barn behind which he was hiding.
“Rack!” Roberts was startled.
“I thought—!”
“You thought I was back at the ranch!” Rack Herman moved out of the barn, walking toward them. “You didn’t think I’d have a hideout without two ways in an’ out, did you?”
He moved closer to them. “Murray, you’re a weak sister! I’ve seen this comin’ and knew I’d have you to kill. You’re no good to me, anyway, and I’ve got the old man right where I want him, and it’s time to clean house. I’ve already taken care of Peters, and now you.”
Murray Roberts went for his gun and was too slow by half. Rack Herman put three bullets over his belt buckle before Roberts’ gun had cleared its holster.
Rack Herman thumbed shells from his belt, but before he could load, Bowdrie stepped from behind the barn. “Drop it, Rack! Drop it right where you are and then move back!”
Rack let the gun slip from his fingers and moved back away from it. “If you didn’t have that gun, I’d … I”
What made him do it, Bowdrie never knew, but he unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it to Meg. “Don’t shoot unless it is to save yourself. Maybe I’m a damned fool, but I’ve got this to do.”
She took the guns, and Rack moved toward him, sure of himself now. As they came together, Bowdrie stabbed a left to Herman’s face, but the man took the blow and kept coming, very sure of himself.
A smashing blow caught Bowdrie in the ribs and a clubbing right caught his jaw and started bells ringing in his skull. He felt himself falling, heard Rack’s grunt of satisfaction.
His knees hit the dust and then Bowdrie came up as Rack closed in. Bowdrie hooked hard to the side of the face, twisted away, and stabbed a left to the heavier man’s mouth, drawing blood.
Herman could punch unbelievably fast. He caught Bowdrie with a left and right, but Bowdrie’s right caught Herman on the chin. Yet how he got through the next few minutes, he never knew. Blows rained on his head, jaw, and shoulders, yet he stayed on his feet, taking them and fighting back. Through his befogged brain an idea penetrated. Battered though he was, Bowdrie realized that Rack was gasping for breath.
Powerful as he was, and amazingly fast for such a heavy man, Herman was carrying a huge weight and the sun was hot. Bowdrie, dried by desert suns and winds, was lean as an ironwood tree and just as resilient. No doubt Herman had won most of his fights with a blow or two, but Bowdrie had soaked up what punishment he could give and was still on his feet.
Through the fog in his brain and the taste of blood in his mouth, Chick knew he could win. Hurt though he was, he drew on some well of desperation within him and began to punch.
Left, right, left, right, blow after battering blow pounded the huge body and the brutal face. His arms were weary from just punching, but Herman’s mouth was hanging open as he gasped for every breath.
Stepping away, he feinted, and as the heavier man’s hands came up, he threw a low hard right to the midsection. Then, weaving to avoid the pawing blows, he threw blow after blow to the heavy body. Then there was nobody in front of him and hands were grabbing him.
“Stop it, man! You’ll kill him! Stop it!”
They pulled him back, and Rack Herman lay on the ground against the barn wall, his face bloody and battered.
Jack Darcy and Rainy were there, holding him back from the man he had come so far to find, Rack Herman, the man who had once called himself Carl Dyson. Bowdrie knew he would have to look no further for the saddle he had hoped to find.
He shook his head to clear it of the last of the dwindling fog. He stared at Rainy. “What are you doing here?”
“I’d been wanting to marry Jack’s sister,” Rainy explained, “but Clan Lingle beat me out. He was a good man and I held no grudge, but I came on to find Darcy. I knew her murderer was somewhere around.”
“That was only one murder. There was another in Texas.” He took his gunbelt from Meg and slung it about his shoulders. “I’d no business doing this”—he gestured at Herman, who was being helped to his feet by Darcy—“but the man’s arrogance kind of got under my skin.”
“He had it coming,” Rainy agreed, “but he’ll live long enough to hang.”
Holding their prisoner, they walked toward the corral. The Morgans were waiting, heads up, alert.
“After you get those horses back where they belong,” Darcy suggested, “why don’t you come back? There’s a lot of good cattle country around here.”
Bowdrie slapped the dust from his hat.
“I’m a Ranger,” he said, “and there’s always work for a Ranger. Come to one trail’s end, and there’s always another. I kind of like it that way.”
A TRAIL TO THE WEST
Chick Bowdrie stared into the muzzle of the six-gun. His dark features showed no expression, but behind the black eyes there was an urge to draw and take his chance.
He had lived by the gun long enough to know that a wise man does not take such chances with the kind of man who was holding the six-shooter. He was a tall man with rounded shoulders and a narrow gray-skinned face, an unhealthy face on a man who had been out of the sunlight for some time.
“What’s the matter, partner?” Bowdrie inquired. “What makes you so jumpy?”
“Who are you? Where you headin’?”
“Me?” Chick inquired innocently. “I’m just a driftin’ cowhand, ridin’ the grub-line. I’m called Sam Dufresne.”
“What are you ridin’ up in the trees for? The trail’s down yonder.”
“Now an’ again a man finds that trails aren’t healthy. You know what I mean or you wouldn’t be so touchy. I had an idea I wouldn’t meet any travelers up here, an’ it would give me a chance to have a look at who is ridin’ the trail. Maybe see them before they saw me.”
“Meanin’ that you’re on the dodge?” The man holding the gun was beginning to relax. He was puzzled but cautious.
“Now, that’s a leadin’ question,” Bowdrie said, “but being’ behind that gun gives you the right to ask it. If you weren’t holdin’ that gun, you might hesitate to ask any such question.”
The round-shouldered man’s eyes glinted with sudden anger. “So?” The muzzle tilted just a bit, and Bowdrie was ready. If he died, he wasn’t going to die alone. His own gun was only inches from his hand.
“Hold it, Hess!” The branches of a juniper pushed forward and a man came out of the trees to stand facing Bowdrie. Here was a danger, perhaps more deadly than the gun at his head. He also knew he had found who he was looking for.
The newcomer was big; a leonine head topped a thick, muscular neck and massive shoulders. He had small feet and hands for his bulk, and a square-cut face tight-skinned and tanned. His eyes were pale, almost white. This was John Queen.
“Howdy,” Bowdrie said. “I’m glad you spoke up. I hate to get killed or kill a man this early of a morning.”
John Queen studied him with cool, appraising eyes. “I would say if any killin’ was done, he’d be apt to do it.”
“Maybe,” Bowdrie admitted, “but thin
gs ain’t always the way they seem. He might kill me, but I’d surely kill him.”
“You’d have to be a mighty fast hand with that gun,” Queen said, “an’ there’s not many who could do that—if anybody could do it.”
Queen glanced at the horse and saddle, and looked again at Bowdrie’s twin guns. “You say your name is Sam Dufresne. I can count the men who could draw that fast on the fingers of one hand, and none of them would be named like you.”
“Could be there’s somebody new in the picture,” Bowdrie suggested.
“You ain’t Billy the Kid because you’re too big and you don’t have those two buck teeth. You’re too slim and tall for John Wesley Hardin, and your hair’s the wrong color for any of the Earps, but I’ll come up with a name for you. Just give me time.”
Turning to the other man, he said, “Put your gun away, Hess. I want to talk to this man.” He motioned with his head. “Come on into camp, whatever your name is.”
Three men sat around the fire when Chick Bowdrie stepped down from his strawberry roan. As he stripped the saddle from his long-legged, ugly horse he mentally cataloged them from his memory of the Ranger’s bible, which carried descriptions of most of the wanted men in the Southwest.
The lean, hungry-looking man with the knife scar would be Jake Murray, wanted in San Antone for a killing and in Uvalde for bank robbery. The other two were Eberhardt and Kaspar, rustlers and horse thieves from the Pecos country. Without discounting the danger in Eberhardt, Kaspar, and Hess, the real trouble here was in Jake Murray and John Queen.
He did not look around, for there would be danger in that. If the girl was here, he would see her sooner or later. Above all, he must not seem curious or even aware anybody else was here, if indeed she was here in this camp.
“Where y’ headin’?” Queen asked when Bowdrie was seated with a cup of coffee in his hand.
“The Davis Mountains. Maybe Fort Stockton. If it doesn’t look friendly, I’ll just keep ridin’ out to Oak Creek Canyon. I’m hunting’ a place to lay up for the winter.”
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