Guns Of the Timberlands (1955)

by L'amour, Louis

  Bob Tripp came up the street, pausing briefly in the door of a saloon across the street. Jud stepped to the edge of the walk.

  “Bob! Oh, Bob!”

  Tripp turned, trying to locate the voice. Devitt called again.

  “Come over! Got something for you!”

  Tripp crossed the street and stepped up on the walk. “Looks like a fight, Mr. Devitt,” he said. “The boys ain’t happy out there, either.”

  “How many of them are in town? There must be thirty or more.”

  “About that. What’s on your mind?”

  “Some of those B-Bar riders will be in town. If a few fights start and some of those boys get hurt, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

  Tripp touched a match to his pipe. “In other words, you want the boys to bust them up? All right, our boys are set for trouble, anyway. What if some of our men are hurt?”

  “Pay all the time while recovering. A bonus if Bell gets laid up himself.”

  Tripp listened, drawing on his pipe. Sometimes he did not like Jud Devitt, but he could find no better job, and no better pay. Besides, there was always action, and he liked action. And one thing you could say for Jud—he never shied at a fight himself.

  “Seen Stag Harvey or Jack Kilburn?”

  “Who are they?”

  “Gunmen—paid warriors. They’re not doing anything right now.”

  Jud Devitt looked at the end of his cigar. Killers, then. Yes, that might come. It was to be avoided if possible, but the treatment from Bell rankled, and that the man would shoot he did not doubt. All right then, if they wanted it that way … He was going to have that timber.

  ‘Tell them to stick around town, but don’t make any promises.” He took a couple of gold pieces from his vest pocket. “Give this to them. With my compliments, but don’t make any promises.”

  A couple of weary riders came up the street. The two men slumped in their saddles, dusty and tired. Both rode gray horses, both had B-Bar brands.

  “There’s a pair of Bell’s boys now. I want him short-handed, Bob.”

  Tripp took the pipe from his mouth and knocked it out on the awning post. “All right,” he said, and stepped off the porch and started across the street.

  This was a job for Frenchy Duval and Pious Pete Simmons. They would like this. Both men were big, tough, and known as rough and dirty fighters. Devitt kept them on the pay roll for jobs like this.

  Tripp walked along the street, studying the other horses at the hitch rails. None were B-Bar brands. Two men … and Bell was reported to have but twelve.

  Shorty Jones and Bert Garry had been away from the ranch for fifteen days. Shorty, blond and pink-cheeked, almost as wide as he was tall, blinked against the light in the saloon. Men who rode with him said that Shorty was as tough as a winter on the Black Rock Desert. Bert Garry was nineteen, a lanky youngster, but game.

  Shorty took the bottle and poured a drink. He tossed it off, then stood, still holding the bottle while the fiery liquor burned through him. He glanced around at the few men in the saloon.

  All were unfamiliar faces. It was early for the usual night crowd, and none of the B-Bar boys were around.

  “Jacks,” Garry said, low-voiced, “timber beasts. I wonder what’s up?”

  Shorty filled his glass. “Only timber around here is on Deep Creek, and …” His voice trailed off. He thought fast, then dropped a hand on Bert’s wrist. “Lay off the whiskey. We’re in trouble!”

  “What?” Garry looked around, his eyes still red-rimmed from heat and dust. His eyes followed Shorty’s warning glance.

  Two men had stepped to the bar on each side of the two cowhands. Two more had moved up closer along the bar. All were big, all looked tough.

  “Watch it!” Shorty repeated.

  Bert Garry was young but he had been over the trail. What was coming he could guess, but he did not know why.

  Jones did not lift his eyes from his glass. He spoke just loud enough for Garry to hear. “The only timber is on Deep Creek. The boss wouldn’t let no man cut logs up there. We’d better get out of here.”

  “We’ll finish our drinks,” Bert said stubbornly.

  The lumberjack next to Bert bumped hard against him. Before Garry could turn to speak, Jones caught his arm. He whispered quickly, and Bert Garry caught the idea. Together, muscles poised, they waited. The lumberjacks on either side gathered themselves for a hard lunge at the two cowboys and the one called Frenchy dropped his right shoulder preparatory to driving into Jones. Instantly, Shorty caught Bert’s arm and they both stepped back.

  It was too late for Duval to catch himself and the sudden disappearance of the cowhand shot his weight into the empty space, where he met Pete Simmons, lunging from the other side. Their bodies smashed together and Simmons’ feet left the floor and he sat down hard. Bert Garry laughed.

  Simmons came off the floor with a lunge. “Laughin’ at me, cowhand?”

  “I reckon. You looked almighty funny, fallin’ like that. I always heard a timber beast was fast on his feet.”

  “I’m fast enough on mine.” Simmons stepped closer. “I can tear down your meathouse, cowboy.”

  Several other lumberjacks had moved in, forming a tight ring around the two. Shorty Jones dropped his hand to his gun, but a lumberjack nailed his wrist with a huge hand.

  Shorty’s only idea had been to back them off so they could walk out unmolested, but this he could never have explained. He jerked his wrist free and swung hard. And in the same instant three men swung on him. The battle was short, desperate, futile. Outnumbered four to one, the two B-Bar men were beaten brutally, then thrown into the street. They hit hard and rolled over. Bert Garry came up, choking on blood and dust, almost in tears. With a lunge he started for the door. “Bert!” Shorty yelled. “Wait!”

  Garry went through the door with a lunge and the first man he saw was Pious Pete Simmons. He swung from the hip and the blow caught the surprised lumberjack in the mouth and knocked him sprawling. Bert Garry had lost all reason. Set upon by total strangers, for what reason he had no idea, he had been beaten unfairly by a crowd of men. Now he thought of nothing but getting a little of his own back and he went into the fray with a rush.

  As Simmons went down another jack sprang at Bert but, battered as he was, Garry was set and he knocked the man rolling under a table. Then he grabbed chair and waded into the crowd.

  There could be but one end to such a battle, and Simmons, beside himself with fury, came off the floor and sprang on Garry’s back. Out in the street Shorty Jones staggered to his feet. One arm hung useless and his eyes were closed to mere slits, but he started for the door.

  He burst through the door just in time to hear an agonized scream and to see Simmons jump high in the air and come down, calks and all, on Bert Garry’s face!

  The cowhand screamed and tried to get up. Brutally, Simmons kicked him. Wat Williams grabbed Simmons. “Pete! Stop it! You’ll kill the kid!”

  Shorty dropped beside Garry. The boy’s face was a mask of blood and he breathed with great gasps.

  The lumberjacks had vanished, and Shorty Jones looked up to see Pious Pete Simmons leaving through the front door. “I’ll see you!” The puncher was hoarse with anger. “I’ll see you again!”

  Wat Williams dropped on his knees beside the boy. “We’d better get this kid to the doctor. Simmons jumped on his belly, too.”

  “I’ll get Doc McClean!” the bartender said, ducking out the door into the street.

  Jones put his folded jacket under Garry’s head, then looked up at Williams.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “You don’t know?” Williams sat back on his heels. “You ride for the B-Bar?”

  “Sure. But we just rode in from Santa Fe. We never heard of no trouble.”

  Williams explained, then added, “This eye I got. Your boss gave it to me.”

  “Fightin’s one thing. This here’s another.” Shorty Jones looked up at Williams and his eyes were utterly cold. “
Tell Simmons to start packin’ a gun. I’m goin’ to kill him.”

  Wat Williams was silent. For the first time he was beginning to see what they had encountered. They had been in fights before, but they fought to win and did win. Simmons was not of his stripe, but Simmons had been the front man for a lot of their trouble. Now Williams could see they had stepped into a world not of lumber camps, but a world of guns and gunfighters.

  When Bert Garry was safely bedded down in Doc McClean’s home, Shorty crawled stiffly into the saddle and started for the B-Bar. His jaw was swelling and he was discovering bruises he had not known he had, but he knew he must get through to the ranch. Clay Bell would want to know about this.

  Simmons was pulling off his boots when Wat Williams found him. He was showing the bloody calks to the other lumberjacks. “We taught ‘em!” he chuckled. “I sure greased the skids under that cow nurse!”

  “We should have got the other one,” Duval said.

  Williams liked neither man. Some of it was in his tone when he spoke. “That’s right. Now you’ve played hell.”

  They looked up at him. “The other one told me to tell you to start packin’ a gun.”

  Simmons blinked. Slowly he put a boot down on the floor. “What would I want with a gun?”

  “He said he would kill you on sight.”

  Simmons touched his tongue to his lips. A brutal thug, used to barroom brawls and sluggings, guns were something out of his consideration. A beating in an alley … a lead pipe or a cant-hook, but a gun? He drew off his other boot amid absolute silence.

  Within a matter of hours the story of the fight in the Tinker House was told in every bunkhouse and prospect hole within fifty miles. Many men knew or had heard of Jud Devitt, and knew the thugs that made up his crew, men chosen as much for their ability to maim and destroy as for their ability in the timber.

  Noble Wheeler heard the story with satisfaction. In this fight, as a not too innocent bystander, he stood to win no matter who lost. Knowing the way of war, he realized both sides would lose in the end. And that, he decided as he rubbed fat hands together, was exactly as he wanted it.

  Morning dawned bright and clear, giving promise of a hot day. Lumberjacks this morning did not walk singly but in tight bunches of four or five men. That they held the town was obvious. There were thirty of them and all carried clubs.

  The townspeople walked warily, doing their buying and hurrying off the street. Everyone waited to see what Clay Bell would do. From his big chair on the veranda of the Tinker House, Sam Tinker studied the groups of lumberjacks thoughtfully, and without pleasure.

  It was going to be hot. Sam Tinker scowled and scratched the back of his neck. This was his town. He started it, he built it. And now he did not like what was happening. He found himself looking more and more toward Emigrant Gap, and waiting.

  The day moved on with no sign of anyone from the B-Bar. The lumberjacks drank in the saloons, swaggered about town and traded coarse talk. Yet there was growing uneasiness. They had always won with Jud Devitt, and they were sure they would win again, but Shorty Jones’ warning to Simmons had left its effect.

  Jud Devitt, accompanied by Williams and Duval, had left town before daylight, headed for The Notch. It was a long and rugged ride over rough country. They were compelled to circle widely because The Notch lay almost directly opposite the town and across the mountains.

  Before leaving town Devitt had sent three wires, one to Washington, one to the state capital, and one to the county seat. He would have the law on his side. Devitt was not worried about Garry, and whether the cowhand lived or died, he did not care. His death could always be passed off as a barroom brawl. But a lot could be done with that threat to kill.

  Noble Wheeler had also been active. A year before Montana Brown had been implicated in a shooting at Weaver. Brown had undoubtedly been in the right, so the shooting had been passed over and forgotten. Now Wheeler started the wheels turning to reopen the case and have Brown arrested. That the man would be acquitted was unimportant. He would be out of action during the coming battle.

  He sat back in his musty office in the bank and chuckled as he considered the situation. It was going his way—he could not lose.

  Chapter 7

  Clay Bell received Shorty’s report in silence. The stocky cowhand had come immediately to the ranch house and he was still caked with dried blood and his eyes swollen almost shut. His wrist, although not broken, was badly injured and the arm all but useless. Of the twelve men on whom Clay counted, two were now out of action.

  The hands crowded in. “What’s next, Boss?” Montana was ready for trouble. “Do we go to town?”

  “No.”

  He sat very quiet, listening to their angry protests until they quieted. He had expected trouble, but not this soon, and it gave him a new measure of Jud Devitt. The man was not one to waste time, nor to stop at killing.

  “Hold it!” He lifted a hand. “The only way we can take care of this is to win the fight. If we lose now he will hound down every last one of us. Now we have him stopped here. What’s his next move?”

  “The Notch. He’ll try The Notch.”

  “You’re right, Hank, and I think he’ll try it today. Now don’t think I wouldn’t like to go down to Tinker, but don’t you believe he isn’t expecting it. He’s got at least thirty men in town. If we took everybody we’d still be outnumbered and we’d have to leave this place unguarded.”

  Montana Brown swore softly. “All right. What do we do? Sit on our hands?”

  “We stand pat. We watch the Gap and The Notch.” When they were gone, Clay got to his feet. “Hank, I’m going to town myself.”

  “Alone?”

  “I want to see Wheeler. If we’re going to have a war we’ll need money.”

  When Hank followed the others, Clay walked to the edge of the veranda and looked down the valley. Devitt’s men and teams were still waiting, just beyond the white marker.

  Hank Rooney, Coffin, and Shorty would remain at the Gap. Shorty could still use his left hand, if need be.

  Montana Brown and Rush Jackson had returned to The Notch. Two men could easily defend either place. Other hands were scouting or on lookout.

  Point by point he considered the situation, trying to overlook nothing. There had been no word from Tibbott. That might mean nothing, and it might mean everything. Jud Devitt must have taken care to have a man in Washington, to try to get a grant of land or the right to log off Deep Creek. If he got such a right, a U. S. Marshal would enforce it.

  All he could do now was sit tight and wait for Devitt to move. But he would need money. And he should hire more riders. He thought of Harvey and Kilbum, then dismissed the thought. The men were too bloody, had too many killings behind them. If it came to a court battle, the hiring of such men would stand against him.

  Mounting the palouse, he took the trail to Deep Creek. It was cool and still and the spotted horse walked swiftly through the tall grass under the stately columns of the Douglas fir. They grew straight and tall, and the thought of seeing them cut gave him a pang. The destruction of such trees left nothing but desolation behind, for trees like that would take years to grow again; and so they would never grow again, for man in his haste would not allow them the years they would need to become so magnificent.

  The grass rustled with the movement of the horse’s hoofs. Far away an eagle cried, and somewhere he could hear water falling. The sound of wind in the tree tops was like the rushing of a distant train.

  On his left Piety Mountain lifted, shouldering brutally against the sky. There were still streaks of snow in the cracks and hollow places where the sun had not yet reached. Here, away from the heat of the flatlands, it was utterly still, cool, restful.

  Without thinking, he had turned his horse toward the headwaters of Deep Creek and the old Bullwinkle claim. There, too, was the ghost town of Cave Creek, deserted by all but pack rats and owls. Beyond the town, and beyond Quartz Mountain, was an old burro trail that wo
uld take him into Tinkersville from the opposite end of town.

  Pausing at Cave Creek to water the palouse, he changed his plans. He would not slip quietly in and out of town. He would give them a treat. He would go right down the main drag in full sight of everyone. He would show them clearly where he stood, and that Devitt inspired him with no fear.

  While the palouse rested, he wandered among the dilapidated buildings of the ghost town. Grass grew high in the streets and a pine had forced its way up through the porch of the saloon and stood twenty feet high. Some roofs had fallen in; most of the buildings were near collapse. Returning to his horse, he mounted and took to the burro trail.

  It was no trail for the inexperienced. Steep, and in places almost washed away by torrential rains, it required a good mountain horse to descend it. Reaching the bottom, he hesitated long enough for a prolonged survey of the flatlands, then took to a wash and after that skirted hills to keep himself under cover.

  At the head of the street he slowed his horse to a walk and, his right hand resting on his thigh, he walked it down the street, sitting straight in the saddle.

  It was midafternoon and the sun lay like a curse upon the town. Clusters of men in laced boots, each with a club, stood stock-still and watched him come. On the steps of the Tinker House, Bob Tripp took his pipe from his mouth and stared. Old Sam Tinker chuckled fatly, and rubbed his palm on the polished arm of his chair.

  Clay rode on through town until he drew up before Doc McClean’s adobe.

  McClean met him at the door. He was a tall old man with a shock of white hair and a mustache. “Clay! Glad you came in. This boy’s in bad shape.” Garry was unconscious and breathing hoarsely. His face was bandaged, but the little Bell could see was a ghastly gray. Clay put his hand on the cowboy’s shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Bert,” he said gently. “We’re with you, all the way!”