L'Amour, Louis - SSC 31

by The Collected Short Stories Vol 2

  “Tell me about your pa,” he suggested, “and while you’re at it, tell me your names.”

  “She’s Dotty. I’m Tom,” the boy said.

  When Tom started to talk, Chick found there was little he did not already know. Three years later, Josh Pettibone had been arrested and had served a year in prison. Along with several other Rangers, Chick had always felt the sentence had not been deserved.

  Pettibone had torn down a fence that blocked his cattle from water, and had been convicted for malicious mischief. Ordinarily no western jury would have convicted him, but this was a case where most of the jury “belonged” to Bugs Tatum, Nero’s brother.

  The judge and the prosecuting attorney had been friends of the Tatums’, and Josh, having no money, had defended his own case. Chick Bowdrie had not been judge and jury, but he knew what he believed.

  “When does this case come up?” he asked.

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “All right, tomorrow you an’ your sister put on your best clothes and get out the buckboard and we’ll go into town together. Maybe we can help your pa.

  “In the meantime,” he added, “I’ll ride out in the morning and look the situation over.”

  It was not only a Ranger’s job to enforce the law and do what he could to protect the people, but in this thinly settled country where courts were few and of doubtful legality, they were often called upon to be judge and jury as well. They were advisers, doctors, in some cases even teachers. All too often the courts were controlled by a few big cattlemen for their own interests.

  Chick Bowdrie knew Josh Pettibone was not a bad man. A stubborn man, fiercely independent, and often quick-tempered, he knew the fencing of that water hole had been pure spite. By fencing the draw, Tatum had fenced out only Josh’s cattle, allowing all other cattle to come and go as they wished. Bugs Tatum had wanted Josh’s place, and while Josh was in prison, he got it.

  On his release, Josh got his children from a relative who had cared for them and filed on a new claim. Here, too, he encountered a Tatum, for Nero owned a vast range north of Pettibone’s new claim.

  Foss Deal had also wanted that claim, but failed to file on it, and was angry at Pettibone for beating him to it.

  Bowdrie was out before daylight and riding up the canyon.

  Young Tom had given him careful directions, so he knew where he was going. He found the dead horse lying near a marshy and reed-grown water hole in a canyon that branched off the Blue. It had been a fine mare, no question of that.

  Thoughtfully he studied the situation. He eyed the rocks and the canyon walls, which were some distance away, and finally walked up to the pool itself and studied the plant growth nearby.

  In the loose soil at the pool’s edge and among the rank grass were other plants, because of the permanent water supply.

  Squatting on his heels, he tugged one plant from the earth, noting the divided leaves and tuberous root. When he returned to his horse, he stowed the plant in his saddlebags. He led the roan off a little distance, and keeping a hand near his gun, swung into the saddle.

  He was almost back to Pettibone’s ranch when he heard several gunshots, then the dull boom of the Sharps.

  Spurring the roan into a run, he charged out of the branch canyon to see four riders circling the house, and heard a shrill cry from the stable. Lifting a hand high, he rode into the yard.

  One of the men rode toward him. “Get movin’, stranger! This is a private fight.”

  “Not ‘stranger,” Bowdrie said. “Ranger! Now, shove that gun back in the boot and call off your dogs or I’ll blow you out of the saddle!”

  The rider laughed contemptuously. “Why, I could—!”

  Suddenly he was looking into a Colt. “Back off!” Bowdrie said. “Back off an’ get out!”

  A scream from the stable brought Bowdrie into action. Not daring to turn his back on the other man, he suddenly leaped his horse at him and slashed out with the barrel of his Colt, knocking him from the saddle. Wheeling his horse, he rode into the stable.

  A man was grappling with Dotty, his face ugly with rage, blood running from a scratch on his cheek. When he glimpsed Bowdrie, he threw the girl from him and went for his gun, but the roan knew its business, and as Bowdrie charged into the stable, the roan hit the man with a shoulder, spilling him to the floor.

  Bowdrie hit the dust beside him, grabbing him by the collar and knocking the gun from his hand with a slap of the pistol barrel, then laying him out with another blow, this one to the head.

  He whipped the gunbelt from the man’s waist and was just turning when he saw two men charging into the barn. He covered them. “Drop ‘em! An’ drop ‘em fast!”

  Gingerly, careful to allow no room for a mistake, they unbuckled their belts.

  “Now, back up!”

  Tom Pettibone stepped from the house, the Sharps up and ready.

  “Cover them, Tom. If anyone so much as moves, blow him in two!”

  “Hey, mister!” one of the men protested. “That kid might get nervous!”

  “Suppose you just stand there an’ pray he doesn’t?” Bowdrie suggested.

  He walked over to the man he had pistol-whipped, disarmed and tied him. When he got back to the stable. Dotty was guarding the man who had been attacking her, holding a pitchfork over him.

  “Thanks, Dotty. I’ll handle him.” Jerking the man to his feet, he tied his hands, then brought him into the yard.

  “You’ve played hell!” one rider declared. “Nero Tatum will have your hide for this!”

  “So you’re Tatum’s boys? No sooner is the father of these youngsters in jail than you come over here. What are you doing here?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” one of them sneered.

  Chick smiled. “I will know. I intend to find out. Take a look at me again, boys. Does my face mean anything to you?”

  “You look like a damned Apache!”

  Chick smiled again. “Just think that over,” he said. He waved a hand around. “We’re a long way from anywhere, and I’ve just found you molesting a girl. Now, you know Texans don’t like that sort of thing. You thought you could get away with it and nobody would know. Before I am through, you will not only have told me what I want, but Texas won’t be big enough for you. Everybody in the state will know what a low-life bunch you are.

  “Maybe,” he added, “they’ll hang you. I’m a Ranger and I’m supposed to stop that sort of thing, but I can look the other way. Of course, to an Apache, hangin’ would be too good for you.”

  While Tom stood guard over the men with their hands and now their feet bound. Dotty brought up the buckboard.

  Meanwhile Chick had gathered sticks and a little straw from the barn and had kindled a fire. Into the fire he placed a branding iron. The prisoners stared at him, then at the fire.

  “Hey, now, what the devil do you think .. . ?”

  “Be surprised how tough some men are,” Bowdrie commented casually. “Why, sometimes you can burn two or three fingers off a man, or even an ear, before he starts to talk.”

  Bowdrie reached out suddenly and jerked to his feet the man who had attacked Dotty.

  “You, now. I wonder how tough you are.” He glanced at the others. “Does the smell ofbumin’ flesh make you fellers sick? It even bothers me, sometimes. But not right away. Takes a while.”

  “Now, see here .. . I” one man protested.

  Chick glanced at the wide-eyed Tom. “If any of these men start to move, just start shootin’.”

  “Wait a minute.” The man who spoke was mean-looking, short and wiry. “I don’t believe you’ll do this. I don’t believe you’ll burn anybody, but if you take us in, will we have to stand up in court an’—“

  “Tatum’s got the court in his hip pocket,” another sneered.

  Bowdrie glanced at him. “I’ll quote you. So will the youngsters. He won’t have any court in his pocket. He will be in jail.

  “I’m just one Ranger. If anything happens to
me or if I need more, they’ll come a-running. We started workin’ on this case while Josh Pettibone was in jail, and we’ve got enough to hang every one of you, but the Tatums will be first.”

  The wiry man interrupted. “Like I say, I don’t believe you’d burn anybody.” He looked into Bowdrie’s hard black eyes and shook his head. “Again, maybe you might. What I’m sayin’ is, if I talk, can I get out of this? Supposin’ I give you a signed statement? Will you give me a runnin’ start?”

  “I will.”

  “Laredo! For the Lord’s sake—!”

  “No, you boys do what you want! I’m gittin’ out o’ this! I ain’t gonna have my neck stretched for nobody, and I surely ain’t gonna stand up there in court.”

  “Dotty?” Bowdrie said.

  “Get pencil and paper, and what this man says, you write down. Then we’ll get him to sign it. But first”—with his left hand Bowdrie went into his saddlebags and brought out a small Bible—“we will just swear him in.”

  The others waited in silence. One of them twitched anxiously. “Laredo, think what you’re doin’!”

  “I am thinkin’. If I stand up in that court, somebody’s goin’ to recognize me. What did them Tatums ever do for me, that I should get hung for them? They paid me my wages, and I earned ever’ cent. I got a few days comin’, and they can have it.”

  Laredo began to speak. “We were sent to burn Pettibone out, and Tatum said he didn’t care what happened to the youngsters, only he didn’t want to be bothered with them. He said to drive ‘em out of the country or whatever, that Josh wouldn’t be comin’ back anyway. That’s what Nero Tatum told us.”

  Given the pad on which his statement had been written, he signed it. Without a word, Bowdrie freed him and pointed at the horses. “Take yours an’ get out!”

  For a moment there was silence. “How about me?” The speaker was a rough-looking man whose shirt collar was ringed with dirt. “Can I sign that an’ go free?”

  “Dammit, Bud!” One of the other men lunged at him. His hands and feet were bound, so all he could do was to butt with his head. Bud shook him off.

  “All right, Bud. Sign it and go, but you’re the last one.”

  “What? That’s not fair! Now, you see here, you—“

  “You all had your chance. That chance is gone. You’ll be in court.”

  Most of Mesquite’s population of three hundred and fifty-two people were gathered in the street close to the dance hall that was to double as a courtroom. None of the gathering had seen the buckboard roll into town the night before. The cargo was unloaded in an abandoned stable, and Chick Bowdrie took his place as guard,

  A few people who saw Bowdrie outside the stable wondered at the presence of the man in the flat-crowned hat, wearing twin six-shooters. He was joined by a lean red-haired cowhand who followed him on guard duty.

  Rawboned Judge Ernie Walters, judge by grace of Nero Tatum and two other large ranchers, called the court to order. As was often the case in the earliest days, the conduct of courtroom proceedings was haphazard, depending much on the knowledge or lack of it on the part of the court officials.

  Claude Batten, prosecuting attorney, was presenting the case against Pettibone.

  Walters banged the gavel and glared around the room. “If any of you have ideas of lynching get ‘em out of your heads. This here Pettibone is goin’ to get a fair trial before we hang him. Court’s in session!”

  Batten began, “Your Honor, gents of the jury, and folks, this court’s convened to hear evidence an’ pass sentence on this no-account jailbird Josh Pettibone, who’s accused of poisonin’ that fine black mare of our good friend and fellow citizen Nero Tatum.

  “Pettibone done time in jail, one year of it, sent to jail for a crime against Bugs Tatum, Nero’s brother. When he got out, he come here an’ grabbed off a piece of land alongside Nero Tatum an’ waited until he had a chance to get even. He poisoned the best brood mare this side of San Antone!”

  He glared around the room, his eyes hesitating only for an instant on the guileless countenance of Chick Bowdrie, a stranger.

  “Foss Deal?” Batten ordered. “Take the stand!”

  Deal came forward and seated himself. His hair was combed, plastered to his head with water, but he was unshaved. His cruel blue eyes focused on Pettibone and remained there.

  “Foss, tell the court what you saw!”

  Deal cleared his throat. “I was ridin’ out hunting’ strays and I seen Pettibone there poisonin’ Tatum’s Morgan mare. I seen him give her poison, and a few minutes later that hoss fell down an’ died!”

  There was a stir in the courtroom. Batten glanced around. “Hear that? I reckon no more’s necessary. Judge, I move you turn this case over to the jury!”

  “Just a minute, your Honor!”

  Bowdrie stood up. Walters, Batten, and Tatum had seen the lean, hard-faced young man and wondered who he was, as strangers were comparatively rare in Mesquite. It was off the beaten track, and they had not expected anyone to interfere in local affairs. So far, they had managed such things very successfully for themselves.

  “Who are you? What right have you to interrupt this proceedin’?”

  Bowdrie smiled, and with the smile his face lighted up, drawing an almost automatic response from many in the courtroom. “In this case, your Honor, I am acting as attorney for the defense.

  “You spoke of giving Mr. Pettibone a fair trial. If that is true, he should get a chance to speak for himself and for his attorney to question the witnesses, and perhaps to offer evidence on behalf of the defendant.”

  Walters glanced uneasily at Nero Tatum. He was confused. Tatum had told him to make it look good, but there was something about this stranger that worried him and spoke of a little more courtroom experience than he had.

  “What can he say?” Batten demanded.

  “Foss Deal saw him poison her!”

  “That’s the question. Did he see poison given to the mare?”

  “I don’t reckon we have to hear what you have to say,” Walters said. “You set down!”

  “In that case, gentlemen, I shall have to write a complete report of these proceedings for the governor of Texas!”

  “Huh?” Walters was startled. The governor was a faraway but awesome power. He glanced at Nero Tatum, who was frowning. “Just who are you, young feller?”

  “The name is Chick Bowdrie. I am a Texas Ranger.”

  Had he exploded a bomb, it would have caused no more excitement. Tatum caught Walters’ eye and nodded. Claude Batten sat down, looking uneasily at Foss Deal. He had been against the procedure from the first, not from principle but simply because it was too obvious. Not for a minute did he trust Foss Deal, nor believe in the kangaroo-court procedure. He had tried to explain to Tatum that the time for such tactics was past.

  “All right!” Walters grumbled. “Question the witness!”

  Bowdrie strolled over to Deal, who glared at him belligerently. “What kind of poison was it?” he asked.

  “Huh? What was that?”

  “I asked what kind of poison it was.”

  “How should I know? I wasn’t right alongside him.”

  “Then how do you know it was poison?”

  “I reckon I know poison when I see it!”

  “You’re very lucky,” Bowdrie said. He took two small papers from his pocket and opened them. Each contained a small amount of white powder.

  “Now, my friend, there are two papers. One contains sugar, the other holds a deadly poison. Suppose you decide which is which and then prove you are right by swallowing the one you have decided is not poison.”

  Foss Deal stared at the papers. He licked his lips with his tongue. His back was to Tatum, and he did not know what to do. He twisted in his chair, struggling for words.

  “Come, come, Mr. Deal! You know poison when you see it. We trust your judgment.”

  Batten leaped to his feet. “What are you doing? Trying to poison the witness?”

  �
�Of course not!” Bowdrie said. “There’s no danger of that! Why, this witness just testified he could recognize poison from a distance of two hundred yards!”

  “I never! I never done such a thing!”

  “If you had ever even been near the place where the mare died, you would know there’s no place where you could watch from cover within two hundred yards!”

  “That’s right!” The voice was from the audience. “I was wonderin’ about that!”

  “Order in the court!” Walters shouted angrily.

  “Isn’t it a fact,” Bowdrie asked, “that you wanted Pettibone off that place so you could file on it yourself?”

  “No such thing!”

  “Then,” Chick suggested, “if Pettibone is convicted, you will not file on it?”

  Deal’s face grew flushed. “Well, I—“

  “Forget it,” Bowdrie said. “Now, you said you saw Pettibone poison the mare? Or at least, you saw him give something to the mare?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He was alone?”

  “Yeah, he was alone.”

  “Deal, where were you the previous night?”

  “Huh?” Deal glanced hastily at Batten, but got no help. Claude Batten was unhappy. A Texas Ranger was the last thing he had expected.

  Previously such cases had all been pushed through without any outward protest. Now what he wanted was to wash his hands of the case and get out. Nero Tatum had gone too far, for no matter how this case turned out, Bowdrie had to write a report. In fact, if Batten understood correctly the Ranger procedure, the chances were that reports had already gone in or that he was acting upon orders.

  “Where were you Friday night?” Bowdrie insisted.

  “Why, I was … I don’t exactly recall.”

  “I can believe that!” Bowdrie said. He turned to the jury.

  “Gentlemen, I am prepared to prove that the witness was nowhere near Mesquite or the Pettibone ranch on the day in question. I am prepared to produce witnesses who will testify that Deal was lying dead drunk in O’Brien’s Livery Stable in Valentine!”