Guns Of the Timberlands (1955)

by L'amour, Louis

  Her chin lifted, her eyes straight before her, she stopped at the desk beside him. She was sharply aware of the man’s hands lying on the register. One knuckle, she observed, was skinned. But the hands were strong and well made.

  “Did Mr. Devitt go out?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ed Miller’s eyes were without guile. “I believe Mr. Bell here saw him, didn’t you, Clay?”

  Reluctantly, she faced him. “Could you tell me if he has left yet? Or is he around somewhere?”

  “A large—rather forceful gentleman?” Clay’s expression was almost too innocent. “With a mustache and an opinion?”

  Colleen’s lips tightened, but she felt a little ripple of amusement. The description was, she admitted, apt. “I believe that’s the man. Did you see where he went?”

  “He had a sort of argument. Some ill-bred cowhand, no doubt. Then he got into a buckboard and drove away.”

  She studied him, sensing the humor but not certain what it might mean. “You’d better tell that cowhand,” she said coolly, “that he’d best mind his ways. Mr. Devitt can be very fierce when angry.”

  “Mr. Devitt is new here,” Bell assured her. “Maybe he will learn better.”

  Colleen Riley had lived much among men and felt no hesitancy at talking to strangers. A composed girl, she had known many of her father’s friends, and even her years at an eastern school had not made her reticent.

  This tall stranger disturbed her. She felt she should go on, but she disliked to leave what she did not quite understand.

  She had seen him first from the head of the stairs, noting the broad shoulders under the sun-faded blue shirt, the lean hips and the boots. The gun he wore was no more obvious than the guns of other men, but it seemed to belong where it was. He would, she decided, look undressed without it. That he was unimpressed by Jud Devitt was evident, a fact that surprised her, for Jud had a way of making his presence felt and men moved around him with respect. Even her father treated him with some diffidence. The fact that this man was not impressed seemed a mute reply to something she had herself felt—yet she had no reason to put to the feeling.

  “Don’t underrate him,” she warned him. “Mr. Devitt is a man who gets things done. He built the railroad through Slide Canyon, if you remember.”

  “You seem to know him well.”

  Her eyes met his, cool and almost defiant. “Yes, we’re to be married.”

  Somehow the words sounded false, unreal. Yet why should they? She was going to marry him.

  “Are you?”

  Again that faint amusement in his voice. Her chin lifted. “Yes. Yes, I am!”

  He looked down at her, gravely serious. She was a tall girl, five-seven in fact, but his height made her seem short. “I wish you happiness,” he said, then lifted his hat and walked by her to the door.

  Colleen Riley turned on Ed Miller. “Who was that?”

  “Clay Bell,” Miller said, watching her with bright, curious eyes. “He runs cattle on Deep Creek.”

  She walked out to the boardwalk and looked down the street. He was nowhere in sight. Neither, she realized, was Jud Devitt.

  The full significance of Miller’s remark reached her then. This was the man who had the cattle Jud was going to move!

  She took a step, then paused. Moving those cattle might not be as easy as Jud seemed to believe. There was something about the tall young cattleman that made her feel he was not a man who could be run over with Jud’s usual heedless tactics.

  Her eyes found Wat Williams then. The big lumberjack was trying without much luck to hide his face behind an awning post, and with reason. One eye was black and swollen and there was a welt on his jaw.

  “Wat! You’ve been fighting again!”

  Wat Williams gave up his attempted concealment. “Ma’am, that was the shortest fight on record. I swung at him and missed. He swung at me and didn’t!”

  “Does Jud know about this?”

  “Not yet, but he had him a run-in with the same feller. They had some words about this land Jud’s goin’ to log, an’ Jud, he threatened to pull this feller off his horse and teach him a lesson. The feller told him to have at it.”

  Wat worked his jaw, touching it tenderly with his fingertips. “Ma’am, this man ain’t goin’ to be so easy as Jud figures.”

  She remembered the split knuckle, and the man’s casual indifference to Devitt. “This man—was his name Bell? Clay Bell?”

  “That’s him. Tall feller, steps mighty easy on his feet, and,” he added grimly, “hits hard!”

  Wind stirred the street’s hot dust. A fly buzzed lazily against a windowpane and sleepy horses stood hipshot at the rails.

  There was nothing to see in Tinkersville. It was just a sprawling small town with some ancient buildings of gray stone, and a few of red brick; the rest of the stores and houses were gray, wind-worried clapboard buildings, sun-dried and unpainted. Out on the plains dust-devils danced and the heat waves shimmered like clear liquid.

  Colleen Riley walked down the boardwalk to the end of the street. In the distance the mountains looked cool and attractive. She stood staring out over the vast expanse of plain and desert, listening to the desultory talk of western men. A horse stamped to free his hocks of flies, and distantly, from across town, a hammer rang on an anvil.

  Tinkersville—heat-baked, nondescript, cut off, what was there in such a place to hold the lives of men? Why would anyone choose such a place when there were New York, London, and Paris?

  A deeper blue in the far mountain range indicated a canyon … where did it lead to? A meadow? A lake? Some forest vastness where no man had been?

  She turned away and looked again at the town. The man at the hotel had told her of Indian wars and cattle trouble, of gun battles and struggles to live, yet the town showed no obvious scars.

  Some of those early men had gone on, but others had stayed. That big old man who founded the town—Sam Tinker. She must talk to him.

  Tall men stayed … short men … but strong men. Men with skin like saddle leather and clear eyes that saw beyond today.

  These men who stayed had not been wealthy men, but they had been steadfast men, confident men, strong with an inner strength that knows not defeat. Such men had built this town, had kept it alive, and would make it grow. Jud was such a man, building and shaping a new world—or was he?

  Was it old Sam Tinker who had said, “Two kinds of men here, Judge Riley. Them that come to build, and them that come to get rich and get out.”

  Walking back toward the hotel, she glanced through a space between the buildings. Far off, against the blue of distance, a feather of dust lifted, marking the trail of a rider.

  Clay Bell? Or was it some other horseman returning to the quiet hills?

  Men talked and she listened to the even cadences of their voices. A name caught at her attention and her steps slowed. “Clay? Knowed him since he was a boy, ‘cept for the time he was in the war. He was man-growed at fourteen, skinnin’ mules with a freight outfit on the Santa Fe Trail.

  “Out o’ Tennessee by way o’ Texas. He rode with Nelson Story on the first cattle drive to Montana.”

  The other man muttered something, and the older man replied. “Mebbe. He rode with the Rangers, down Texas way. With McNelly. Men with the bark on, them Rangers.”

  She wanted to listen, but walked on. Shadows were gathering along the faraway hills, and she remembered the music in what the old man said: “Out o’ Tennessee by way o’ Texas. Man-growed at fourteen, skinnin’ mules on the Santa Fe Trail.”

  What memories came to such a man? What women had he known? Dark-eyed girls in Taos and Santa Fe? Indian girls?

  She brought up sharply, her hand on the hotel door. He might be married! He might have children … he might be … But what difference could it make to her? Only, she would hate to see him lose his home if there were children. That, she told herself, was the only reason the thought disturbed her. There could be no other reason.

  Out of Tenness
ee, by way of Texas.

  Chapter 3

  Jud Devitt got down from the buckboard at the station. Bob Tripp, his foreman, was standing on the platform checking the unloading of some heavy machinery from flatcars. Jud watched for several minutes while he chewed his black cigar and thought. Then he motioned Tripp to one side.

  “Bob, I’ve had words with a cattleman named Bell. He runs stock on that range we’re going to log. We may have trouble, so have the boys primed for it. If that cowboy thinks he can keep me out of the stand of timber he’s mistaken!”

  Tripp nodded. He had worked a dozen jobs with Jud Devitt and enjoyed a good fight. He was an older man, and a tough one who knew how to handle men and get results.

  “The boys need it. They got bees in their britches.” He glanced at Devitt. “How about the land? That’s government property, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t worry,” Devitt replied confidently. “Frank Chase is in Washington now. He’ll handle that end. Our job is cutting timber.” He smiled. “We may have the place logged off before he gets it fixed, but who’s to stop us? This is an age, Bob, when the strong man gets what he goes after. This country likes enterprise! It was made for it! A man never gets rich standing still. Plan carefully, then go ahead and let nothing stand in your way.”

  Bob Tripp did not reply. Jud Devitt got things done, and they were things somebody had to do. Bob Tripp was the man who could get them done for him, and he liked the doing. Nevertheless, being a small man himself, he sometimes had his moments of doubt. To make one man big, many good men had to fall … How would he feel about it if he was one of those under the axe?

  “Paid off so far, hasn’t it?” Devitt asked, as if reading his thoughts. “No man has the right to stand in the way of progress.”

  “This here Bell,” Tripp said tentatively, “I’ve heard some about him. Can’t you buy him out?”

  “Buy him out?” Devitt gave an incredulous laugh. “You must be getting old, Bob. When did we ever buy a man off government range? He’ll get off peaceably or we’ll run him off!”

  He turned on his heel and started back to the hotel, leaving the buckboard for Tripp. That stand of fir was the finest in the state, and if all went well he would have it off the mountain before the government acted. There was no need to worry about that. Chase was his legal and political fixer, Chase understood how he operated, and Chase knew the right people and how to reach them. He would have the deal fixed up, but there was no use wasting time sitting around when there could be but one answer.

  Of course, there had been a time, the Charleston Mountain affair, when Chase had failed. By the time Devitt knew of his failure the mountain was logged off and his men had moved on to another job. A little skillful placing of money had covered that up. They were too busy in Washington to investigate the claims every rancher made, but if a man had money and a little influence almost anything could be done.

  The country was bursting with natural resources and the thing to do was get rich while they lasted. It was patriotic, in one sense. He was helping to build the country, and if he got rich in the process, wasn’t that the American way? Or was it merely his own way?

  A vague thought filtered into his mind that perhaps the natural resources of a nation were for the benefit of all, but he put the thought aside and went on down the street, planning as he walked.

  This Bell, now. The man would fight, probably, not realizing how hopeless it was. He had twelve hands, and that would not be nearly enough. The Deep Creek range was wide and deep, and there must be a score of ways he could get into it and start cutting without trouble. In any event, he had fifty tough lumberjacks spoiling for trouble, and if need be he could get as many more.

  He had taken time to check on Bell. The man had no cash resources. In fact, he owed money. If he made trouble, there would be more than one way to force him off his ranch.

  Riley was here, and that was another asset. It always paid to have one’s own judge. It was the first thing he had done—to have Judge Riley appointed Federal Judge in the district. If it came to a court fight, that gate was already closed.

  He had talked to the R&R, too. The railroad was eager for the lumbering to start, for it would result in good business for them during a slack time. That was another thing he and Chase had handled. They had not talked to local people, but had gone to the head office, right to the top, in New York. The local people would have their orders to cooperate. If Bell gave him trouble he would see that he got no cars to ship his cattle.

  Chewing his cigar, he went over the details again. He could find no loophole left open for Bell. The rancher had his tail in a crack. No getting around that.

  He chuckled. Imagine the nerve of the fellow! Offering to fight him! At the time he had been angry, but now it amused him. Might be fun, at that. But it could wait.

  Too tall—couldn’t weigh over one-seventy. If Bell wanted it, he could have it.

  He walked quickly along the street, scarcely noticing the people along the walk. There was a lot to do, but things were moving.

  Wat Williams was still loafing on the street, and Jud saw his black eye. He stopped abruptly, and Williams explained, reluctantly.

  Devitt was suddenly irritated. He did not care how much his men fought, but he wanted them to win. “Don’t worry! You’ll get another chance at him!”

  “If you don’t mind,” Williams said mildly, “I’ve had mine. You can have him, or anybody else. Me, I’m satisfied!”

  Jud Devitt brushed by him and went into the hotel dining room.

  Clay Bell’s B-Bar ranch lay in the open mouth of a lovely green valley that yawned widely into the flat that sloped up from the bottom where Tinker’s Creek ambled placidly over the sand.

  The ranch lay around a shoulder of the mountain from the town, and some miles away. It could not be seen from the town, but the green of the grass where the valley opened was plainly visible. The ranch buildings lay a good mile farther up the canyon on a long bench under the brow of the hills.

  From the wide and deep veranda of the ranch house the view stretched away for miles, past the bed of Tinker’s Creek and past the land that lay below the town. In late fall, winter, and spring, cattle could be grazed on those flatlands, but the number of acres per cow was too few, and without the excellent graze, water, and hay meadows of the upland valleys, no rancher could hope to succeed.

  The timber of the Deep Creek country was excellent; it was virgin timber and there was little undergrowth. Not until it had been cut over would brush invade those woodland parks to crowd out the grass.

  Clay Bell was grazing six thousand head of cattle, and of that number the greater part fed on the plateau behind the ridge. By carefully culling his herds and beefing the culls, he had built a fine mixed herd of white-face and shorthorn cattle, but his planning had exceeded his income and he had borrowed heavily, mortgaging his herds.

  Another year would see him free of his indebtedness and ready to increase his herds and to drill some wells on the flatlands where the prospects of water were good. But as he rode homeward he was considering the situation that now existed due to the arrival of Jud Devitt.

  The man had strength and force of character, he had the confidence born of victory, and Clay had seen the eagerness for battle manifest in the readiness with which Williams had attacked him. Devitt would have more money with which to fight, and more men.

  Once he had scouted the Deep Creek range and knew what lay before him, Bell had gone into his ranching with care. Times were changing. New men were coming west and the land would not alwavs be free.

  Two other men had preceded him, briefly, on Deep Creek. Chuck Bullwinkle had filed in a claim high up on the slopes of Piety Mountain above the creek. The creek itself flowed from a small cave on Bullwinkle’s place, and Clay’s first step had been to buy that claim. Chuck Bullwinkle was tired of the loneliness and sold his own claim and another he had bought from a former partner.

  Later, Bell bought another claim that str
addled an old wagon route through the ridge that spread out in two directions from Black Butte. This range of mountains formed the far wall of the Deep Creek valley, opposite Piety Mountain. The result of these purchases left him in sole possession of the only two passes giving access to the inner plateau. They also left him in possession of the principal source of water.

  Yet he was worried now. Logging off of the mountain and plateau would ruin him. Even the process of logging would force him to move his cattle off the Deep Creek range and back to the parched flatlands. Once the trees were gone, the washing away of the topsoil would ruin the plateau and the valley for grazing. Encroaching brush would finish it for good.

  If forced to sell now, he could sell nothing but his cattle. When his debts were paid and his hands paid off, he would have nothing left for six years of hard work and planning.

  He had no intentions of selling, but it was like him to consider all the facets of his problem. That he was in for a knockdown and drag-out fight, he knew. A shrewd judge of men, he did not take Devitt lightly. Jud was a man accustomed to victory and a man who would stop at nothing to win.

  Hank Rooney, Bell’s foreman, was waiting for him.

  “Got the boys out shoving them cows up from Stone Cup,” Hank said. “What’s happened?”

  Briefly, and without hedging, Bell explained the situation. “It’s war, Hank. Unless I miss my guess, it’s a war to the death. He struck me as a tough, smart man.”

  “Well,” Rooney spat, “things been sort of quiet, anyway. Will it be a shootin’ war?”

  “Later, maybe. First it will be a war of strategy. Maybe he’s got it on me there. This won’t be my kind of fight, to start.”

  Rooney considered that. He was a man pushing fifty, and no stranger to trouble. “You suppose he knows you’ve blocked the only two ways into this country?”

  “Doubt it. We’ll play a waiting game. He’s got men that he’s got to feed and house. First, we’ll get some fat on our cows. We might have to sell some for fighting money.”