“You ain’t Jesse Evans,” Queen said, “although you’ve something of his look.”
Bowdrie sipped his coffee. John Queen was too knowing, and if this continued he was going to come up with an answer. So far the Earps were the only peace officers mentioned, but if he started on Texas Rangers, he would not be long in coming up with an answer. Bowdrie was new to the outfit, but he had already made a name for himself.
“What the hell?” Bowdrie said. “You boys are all right. You’ve probably never heard of me, anyway. My name’s Shep Harvey.”
It was a gamble, of course. There was a possibility one of these men knew Shep Harvey, a gunman who had come from the Missouri River country and was riding with King Fisher’s outfit.
Harvey had come to Texas only a few weeks before, after killing a gambler in Natchez. He had been a cowhand and buffalo hunter in the Dakotas, had held up a stage on the Deadwood run, and killed a sheriff in Yankton who tried to make an arrest.
John Queen looked relieved. “No wonder I couldn’t place you. How come you’re down in this country?”
“Lookin’ for a place to hole up for the winter,” Bowdrie said. “I’m tired of runnin’. I want to put my feet under the same table for a while an’ sort of rest up.”
“Heard of you,” Murray admitted. “Didn’t you have some trouble in Laredo?”
“Some.” Chick leaned back against a rock. He was riding a dangerous trail, he knew that. If these men discovered who he was, they would kill him without hesitation. They were all wanted men, and doubly so now. They had much to lose and nothing to gain by keeping him around. All they needed was an excuse. Somehow he had to locate the girl and get her away from them.
It had started three weeks earlier. Five hard-bitten men had ridden up to the lonely ranch of Clinton Buck on the South Canadian. Buck had gone to the door in answer to their hail, and died in a burst of gunfire. They had given no warning, no chance.
Old Bart Tendrel had come from the corral, only to be shot down in his tracks. Then they had taken the girl, what riding stock was available, and what money was in the house, and headed west, out of Texas.
McNelly had sent for Chick Bowdrie.
“This is a job for a man who knows the outlaw trails, Bowdrie, and it’s a one-man job. If we go after them with a bunch of Rangers, they will simply kill that girl. Somehow we have to get her away from them before the final verdict.
“We’ve got Damon Queen coming up for sentencing, and Judge Whiting is Jeanne Buck’s uncle and he raised her from a baby whilst her father was off buffalo hunting. John Queen has gotten word to Whiting that if his decision is wrong, the girl dies. Clinton Buck was no kin to the judge, but the girl is. The old judge loves that girl like she was his own. You go get her back.”
The wind whined through the junipers, moaning like a lost dog. “Sounds like rain,” Queen said, “and we don’t need that.” He looked over at Bowdrie. “How far to Oak Creek, Shep?”
“Not too far. There’s a good hideout there. A friend of mine told me about a gent who has a ranch over that away
Eberhardt started dishing up the food and Jake Murray walked back into the trees, and when he returned, a girl was walking ahead of him. She was a shapely girl with auburn hair. She glanced at Bowdrie, then looked away.
“Friend of ours goin’ west with us,” John Queen explained.
Chick betrayed no interest. “Lots of folks movin’ these days,” he commented.
They moved out at sunup and there had been no chance for him to speak to the girl or to give her any hint that would have her alert and ready. One thing he discovered quickly. The girl had spirit. At breakfast it showed itself clearly when Hess idly dropped a hand to her shoulder.
Jeanne turned sharply, catching up the knife beside her plate. “Keep your filthy hands off me! You put another hand on me and I’ll cut it off!”
Bob Hess jerked his hand back, and the other outlaws laughed.
Hess’s face reddened with anger and he started for the girl, when Queen spoke. “Set down, Bob!” he commanded. “You asked for it. Now, you keep your hands to yourself!”
Jeanne resumed her seat, in no way disturbed, the knife ready at hand. She was reaching for the coffeepot when her eyes met Chick’s. He lowered one eyelid and took a mouthful of beans.
Then, in case he had been seen, he rubbed his eye.
Chick Bowdrie was a man virtually without illusions. His boyhood had been a hard one and he had narrowly missed becoming an outlaw himself. It was only Captain McNelly who made the difference. Unknown to him, the Ranger captain, always alert for promising material, had been watching him for some time.
A top hand on any outfit, Bowdrie was simply too good with a gun, and sooner or later he was going to kill the wrong man and become an outlaw. He had had several minor brushes with the law, none of them justified and none leading to gunplay, but there were too many around who thought themselves fast. McNelly knew from his own observations and those of some of his older, wiser men that Bowdrie was simply too good.
“Cap,” one of his sergeants had said, “recruit the kid. He’s one of the best trackers around, he’s got good sense, nobody stampedes him, and he’s so much better with a gun than any other man I know, that there’s no comparison.
“He’s instinctively a good shot, he’s very cool, and he’s been born with remarkable coordination and eyesight. He’s got the makings for a Ranger if I ever saw one, and frankly, I’d rather have him on our side.”
To use a gun well was one thing; to know when to use it was another.
Chick Bowdrie knew the odds were against him in every way. He was miles from Texas and the jurisdiction of the Rangers. Some law officers extended courtesy and worked with others; some resented any intrusion into their area. Whatever happened, he must handle himself.
Hess hated him. It was an instinctive and bitter hatred, and Bowdrie’s certainty that he could get off a shot before Hess could kill him, rankled.
They rode out of the scattered junipers now and followed a long, grassy bottom toward distant hills. Chick was remembering a canyon north of their route where cliff dwellers had built their houses under the overhang of the cliffs.
It was something to remember. If he could get Jeanne Buck away, it would be only the beginning. They were almost five hundred miles west of the Texas line—he could only guess at the exact distance.
Once he got her away, if he could, he would have to exercise jurisdiction with a six-shooter and a Winchester.
Several times when he looked up he caught Bob Hess staring at him, eyes ugly with hatred.
Eberhardt and Kaspar seemed to have no great interest in him, but Jake Murray was a morose, silent man who went through life with a chip on his shoulder. Several of the killings for which he was known had simply resulted from minor slights that many a man would have passed over. He was extremely touchy.
Hess might bring danger upon him, but it was Jake Murray and John Queen whom he would have to face at the showdown.
The little cavalcade wound around the hills, in and out of the pines.
Queen saw an antelope. “Fresh meat,” he said, and throwing his rifle to his shoulder, he fired.
Queen made a beautiful shot. The antelope leaped straight up, then fell dead, but with the report Jeanne’s horse bounded as if shot from a gun and broke into a dead run.
Instantly Bowdrie put spurs to his roan and went after her. It was a thrilling chase, but the roan was simply too fast for the paint, and closing in, Bowdrie seized the bridle.
It was a chance. They were off in the lead and might escape. He glanced back. Murray and Queen were sitting with their rifles up and ready. “Not a chance,” he told Jeanne.
“He’d nail us just like he did that antelope.”
She was staring at him with angry eyes. “That’s the chance I’ve been waiting for!” she protested.
“You wouldn’t have a prayer. Now, tell ‘em your horse ran away with you, and act the same way you have up
to now. I’m a Texas Ranger.”
Hope leaped into her eyes, then sank into sullenness as she tried to assume her old manner. Chick took her bridle and waited for the other men to come up.
“Lucky you stopped her,” Queen said. “She might have been killed.”
He looked sharply at Jeanne. “How does it feel to be rescued? Doesn’t that make Shep, here, a hero?”
“No hero would ride with a bunch of low-down thieves and murderers!” she flared.
“If it was me,” Hess said viciously, “I’d slap those words right down her throat!”
“It ain’t you,” Queen replied mildly. “I like the gal’s spunk.”
Bowdrie’s black eyes missed nothing. The big gunman was a shrewd judge of character, and Chick was sure the man suspected him. Also, he knew that every mile they put between themselves and Texas made the task more difficult.
This was Queen’s country. He had ridden here before. He knew the land and the people, and they had come far from the Rangers and any chance of rescue.
Chick felt trapped. Every instant of delay drew him deeper and deeper into an entangling web of hills, and at any moment there could be a showdown. Bowdrie guessed Queen had seen the hurried conversation between Jeanne Buck and himself the day her horse ran away.
Yet the big gunman was agreeable, always pleasant, quick to smile. Then one night they camped some thirty miles south of San Francisco Peak.
When they finished eating, John Queen looked up suddenly.”Shep, you an’ Hess might as well ride into the settlement with Kaspar. See if there’s any strangers around, buy supplies, and you might as well bring back a jug of whiskey while you’re at it. We’re going to be holed up until the trial’s over—“
“Trial?” Bowdrie looked surprised. “Who’s being’ tried?”
He thought he made a credible appearance of ignorance, but a man could never be sure with John Queen. “Oh? Didn’t we tell you? Miss Buck here is sort of stayin’ with us until we see how a trial goes back in Texas. We both kind of want to see it turn out right so’s she can go home.”
John Queen’s smile faded. “Now, you boys just ride into town and get what we need. We’ll be waitin’ for you.”
Chick’s dark, Indian-like face showed no expression. He walked to his horse and started saddling up. It meant that for several hours she would be left alone with these men.
Not that they would molest her. If that had been a part of their plans, it would have happened long before this. What he feared was that Queen would spirit her away while he was gone. He might have decided who Bowdrie was, and be using this method to be rid of him. It was signiBcant that Bob Hess had been chosen to accompany him. Hess was too volatile to trust to ride into a strange town when secrecy was imperative.
There was nothing to do but obey. There was a murmur of voices from the fireside, but Kaspar joined him and there was no way he could listen.
The time had come for a showdown, and he was sure Queen suspected him. In any event, he was not one of them, just a man on the dodge supposedly traveling the same route, and this was a good time to be rid of him.
As they headed for town, he was aware of the increasing silence on the part of his companions. It was a sullen, determined silence his comments could not invade. Bob Hess he did not expect to talk, but Kaspar was usually a talkative man.
Kaspar rode beside Bowdrie, Hess always half a length behind, and the danger of his position was obvious. Whether John Queen suspected him or not, he wanted no more of the man called Shep Harvey.
In town they trotted their horses to the hitching rail in front of the Frontier House. Inside, a half-dozen men were at the bar, and several gaming tables were active. Chick walked to the bar and bought a drink for Kaspar. Bob Hess lingered at one of the tables.
Suddenly Bob Hess’s voice lifted over the noise and the talk. “Hey, Shep! Come here a moment!”
Chick Bowdrie turned instinctively, aware of the undercurrent in the man’s voice. He straightened away from the bar, knowing if he went toward Hess he would put Kaspar at his back. As things stood, the two men were on the same side of him.
“You come here,” he said, “I’ve got me a drink.”
There was a muttered exchange at the table, and then a man got up and started toward Chick. He walked beside Hess, and Bowdrie could see the triumph in Hess’s eyes he was trying to hide.
The young man, scarcely more than twenty, had a hard, reckless face and he walked with a bit of swagger. When he was a year or two older, he would drop that. A tough man did not have to make a parade of it.
They stopped about twelve feet away and the young man said, “My name is Shep Harvey!”
Bowdrie felt his pulse jump, but he had half-expected something of the kind. His features showed no change. “How nice for you! It’s a pleasure to know you.”
Harvey hesitated. The announcement had been calculated to throw Bowdrie into confusion. Hess, too, was surprised.
“I hear you’ve been usin’ my name.”
“That’s right. It sounded like a good name to me, and I didn’t want these boys to know who I really was.”
“I don’t like four-flushers usin’ my name. I don’t like it one bit. I’m goin’ to put an end to it right now!”
“My name’s Bowdrie,” Chick said, “Chick Bowdrie.”
Bob Hess’s face turned sick and Shep Harvey was caught flat footed He was good with a gun and liked being known as a fast man, but he had no stomach for facing men who might be faster. He preferred shooting, not being shot at. He took a step back, suddenly aware he was holding a busted flush.
“Go ahead, Hess,” Bowdrie said. “You’ve wanted it, now you’ve got it.”
Magically, the room behind them had cleared. Hess, panic stricken dropped a hand to his gun, and Bowdrie’s flashing draw put a period to the moment. One shot only, and Bowdrie’s gun swept past Harvey and shot into the slower-moving Steve Kaspar.
Kaspar took the bullet standing and continued his draw. As his gun came up, Bowdrie shot him again, and his knees gave way and he pitched to the floor.
Shep Harvey, his face a deathly white, held his hands high, away from his guns. It was the first time he’d had a chance to shoot it out with a really fast man, and suddenly all his appetite for gun fighting vanished. He stepped back, shocked, staring at the blood where Bob Hess lay dying.
“Drop your gunbelt, Harvey. Then get your horse and get out of town. But don’t go back to Texas. We don’t want you there.”
Harvey stepped back, unbuckling his guns; then he ducked through the door, almost running. Bowdrie glanced around the room, then gestured at the men on the floor.
“These were Texas men. They abducted a girl after murdering her father. It is Texas business, and I’m a Ranger.”
The bartender had both hands on the bar. “Far’s we’re concerned, mister, your business is cleared up. You probably saved Arizona the trouble of hanging them.”
The campfire was cold and dead when he reached the spot where he had left the girl and her captors. It was now too dark to find a trail, and much too dangerous. Moving back into the trees, he put down his bedroll and slept soundly until morning.
There was a faint chill in the air when he awakened. Obviously Hess and Kaspar had known where to go when they were rid of him. Some plan had been arrived at, either to tell him he was no longer wanted or to get him drunk and kill him. The accidental meeting with Harvey had probably seemed an easy way out.
If Hess and Kaspar had known where to go, it argued a hangout not too far away. If such was the case, no doubt the others awaited them there. Whatever was to be done must be done at once.
Trailing the horses proved simple enough. No effort was made to disguise their trail. They must be so close to home that it no longer mattered, or … The reason became obvious. The trail led to a large shelf of rock, then vanished.
He studied the situation with care. Shod horses do not cross rock without leaving tiny white scars, which often rem
ain for days or until the next rain. However, in this case the rock was scarred by many comings and goings.
There were other considerations. In any hideout, water would be needed for themselves and their horses. Riding to the highest point he could safely reach, Bowdrie sat down and began a careful study of the country.
They would be in a draw, a hollow, or a canyon. At least, that would be the first choice. Otherwise they might choose someplace that would permit them to look over all the approaches.
Seating himself against a rock, he studied the area before him. From this study emerged three strong possibilities.
He was still studying them when he saw a horseman. The rider, astride a buckskin pony, came from the direction of town and he was riding fast. Bowdrie gathered his reins and swung to the saddle, cutting diagonally across the mountain on a route that would bring him in behind the rider.
“Nine chances out of ten, that feller is taking John Queen the news that I’ve killed his water boys.”
Reaching the comparative concealment of a draw, he touched spurs to the roan and raced ahead. If he could round that rock right ahead before the rider reached it, he could be out of sight.
He heard the snapping whir one instant before the noose dropped over his head. He tried to duck—too late!
The loop dropped over his arms and tightened and he pulled in the roan but he was jerked from the saddle with a bone-jarring thud. The roan, relieved of his rider, whirled about and stared back, ears pricked.
Chick lunged to his feet, reaching for his gun. “Hold it!” The harsh voice was Jake Murray, with a shotgun. “Better not try it, Bowdrie. John Queen wants to talk to you.”
“You know me, then?”
“It was John Queen. He’s got a memory for gunfighters. He never quit tryin’ to figure who you was. He never bought that Shep Harvey story even a little. Last night it come to him.”
Circling around behind him, Murray took his guns. “Where’s the others?” he asked.
“Hess never liked me an’ he got carried away by the idea. He ran into the real Shep Harvey and braced me with it. Hess started it an’ Kaspar had no choice but to back him.”
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