Guns Of the Timberlands (1955)

by L'amour, Louis

  “You came into town with mighty little money,” Sam Tinker was ruthless. “You made some here. You leave with what you got on you.”

  “That’s robbery! That’s—”

  “You goin’?” Sam’s voice was deceptively mild. Noble Wheeler looked up and did not like what he saw. Sam Tinker had come into this country when the Apaches held it. He had outlasted them.

  “I—I’m goin’.”

  His hands fluttered helplessly. Then he saw the gun in the drawer, and suddenly something stilled inside him. He had never killed, but… He looked up and saw that Sam Tinker held a tiny .41 derringer in his hand.

  “See you’re on that train,” Tinker said, and held open the door.

  Heavily, Wheeler got to his feet. He hesitated, started to frame some new protest, but the gun motioned and he walked outside.

  It was hot in the street, and his mouth tasted like old copper. He squinted his eyes against the sun, and then turned and went up the steps to his rooms. At the head of the steps he looked at his huge old watch. It was twenty minutes past two.

  Judge Riley looked up when Colleen came into the room. He was sealing the letter he had written. “You wanted to come west, Colleen,” he said quietly. “I hope you’ll not be sorry.”

  “There was a reason behind it, Dad. Maybe a better reason than I knew.”

  “It will be good to get back again,” he said thoughtfully. Then he put his hand on the letter. “I’ve resigned my post.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “But you wouldn’t want to stay here after this, and I want to—”

  “Dad,” she interrupted, putting her hand on his arm, “I’m not going back. I’m staying here—on the B-Bar.”

  His eyes searched hers and her face held a smile, despite her pallor. “I belong here, Dad. I want to stay … with him.”

  Judge Riley sat down. “He’s a good man. A better man by far than Jud Devitt. But Colleen”—he jerked his head toward the street—“he’s got that to do. Someday he may have to do something like it again.”

  “He’s my man. He’ll be my husband. Whatever he does won’t change that.”

  Judge Riley looked at the letter a minute, then hesitated. If Clay Bell were killed…

  She seemed to understand what he was thinking. Her chin was set, her lips tight. Then she smiled at him. “Tear it up, Dad. We’re staying.”

  Judge Riley picked up the letter, so painfully written, and tore it across. He dropped the pieces into the wastebasket.

  A huge fly buzzed against the window glass. Down the street a door slammed …. They waited, listening ….

  Chapter 19

  At twenty-five minutes past two Clay Bell came down the stairs from his room and ordered a cup of coffee in the dining room.

  He sat very still at the table, thinking over his plans. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and tentatively moved his shoulder. His hand was no longer stiff and he felt good. The rugged life and good food of the cattle country had brought him out of the weakness left by his wound.

  He drank his coffee slowly, and when the cup was half empty, he rolled a smoke. When he was lighting up, the door opened and Jackson came in.

  “Stag’s down at the livery barn. Kilburn’s nowheres in sight.”

  “Thanks.”

  “If Stag comes up the street you’ll have the sun in your eyes.”

  “I thought of that.”

  As he smoked he considered the situation. Jud Devitt could be considered as out of the picture for the duration of the fight. Shorty was watching him, and Shorty was no man to fool with.

  Mentally, he surveyed the walk from the livery barn, timing Stag. He knew that Harvey was the planner, that he would have calculated the killing with cold-blooded accuracy. Kilburn would be spotted where he could be of most help.

  He turned suddenly and looked at Coffin, who had come into the room.

  “Bill, a few days ago I saw you aping my walk. Could you do it again?”

  Coffin flushed sheepishly at the accusation, but at the question his eyes sharpened.

  “I reckon,” he said slowly.

  “Then switch hats with me.”

  Bill Coffin looked briefly into Clay’s eyes, then exchanged hats.

  Colleen came down the steps and looked across the room toward him, yet instinctively she knew this was no time for her to approach him. She walked across the room to her father and sat down there with him.

  Clay got to his feet and settled his guns in place. With Coffin he walked to the door, where they conversed in low tones, then Clay turned and left Coffin standing at the door. He walked back through the room and as he passed Colleen he dropped his hand to her shoulder and squeezed gently. Then he went on, without speaking.

  When he was gone there was silence in the room. Sam Tinker could feel the sweat on his face. His mouth felt dry. He looked at Coffin standing in the door, his back toward the room. The blond cowhand was smoking a cigarette.

  Somewhere a dog yelped … then there was silence. The town seemed to be without movement. Far across the hills, a train whistle sounded. It was still miles away.

  Judge Riley cleared his throat and looked across at Colleen. Neither spoke.

  A spoon rattled on a saucer and someone gasped and turned, half in irritation. The slight rustle of the man’s clothing was loud in the stillness.

  Stag Harvey had planned well. Jack Kilburn was posted in an empty building between the blacksmith shop and the Piddle Saddle Works.

  Harvey pulled his hat brim low and stepped out into the street, and as he did so he saw the tall, black-hatted figure in a gray wool shirt and black neckerchief step from the Tinker House.

  Stag Harvey felt a curious elation. This was as it should be. No ducking, no dodging, two men meeting as men should meet. Killer he might be, but he was a product of the Code Duello.

  The man up the street walked to the center of the thoroughfare and did an abrupt left face, looking down street, the sun in his eyes.

  Stag Harvey started to move, a glow of satisfaction going through him. He walked on, taking his time and judging his pace and that of the man coming toward him so they would finally have their showdown with the Piddle Saddle Works at right angles to Bell.

  The distance narrowed. Stag felt sweat on his cheeks. A dust-devil spun crazily in the street and played itself out against the steps of a building up ahead. Little puffs of dust lifted from his boots as he stepped off the distance.

  A fleeting black shadow passed over the street and involuntarily Stag glanced up.

  A buzzard…

  He felt a faint chill, then his eyes came to focus on the man before him. He stopped dead still. There was something odd about … Why, that wasn’t—

  “Stag!”

  Clay Bell’s voice rang clear and unmistakable in the empty, sunlit street.

  “You looking for me?”

  The voice was behind on his right. Stag Harvey wheeled, drawing as he turned, but even as he drew he realized he had been outmaneuvered. Jack Kilburn was now behind him and out of the play!

  Clay had stepped from between the buildings, and as Stag turned, Clay Bell palmed his guns.

  He stood very straight in the street and his right-hand gun came up. Looking across the distance into the blazing gray eyes of the killer, he began to fire.

  The sound of his gun was like a roll of drums in the narrow street, the sound rolling back from the false-fronted buildings. Flame spouted at him from Harvey’s guns, but Stag jerked suddenly as if by a hidden wire and on his shoulder there was a blotch of blood that had not been there before.

  Clay walked forward, the acrid smell of gunsmoke and street dust in his nostrils. The hammers slipped under his thumbs as he fired. He saw Stag back up through a blur of smoke and he fired again, then shifted guns as Harvey went to his knees.

  But Harvey came up and started on a stumbling run toward the Homestake, feeding shells into his gun. In the silence following the roll of guns, Clay Bell could
hear the gunman panting hoarsely.

  He felt cold and steady. The instant was sharp with clarity. He fired again, but the man turned and Clay knew it was a clean miss. Spreading his feet apart he heard a sound of firing from up the street, but he did not turn his eyes from the weaving figure of Harvey.

  Before shifting guns he had fired twice from his left-hand gun. Two shells left…

  Feet apart, he lifted the gun. Stag was blood to the waist, his face haggard, but his eyes seemed blazing with an unholy fire. Stag’s gun came up and Clay fired. His bullet struck Stag under his uplifted arm and came out his back.

  Stag’s gun slipped from his fingers, and using his right hand he reached over and took the left-hand gun from an arm that would no longer support it.

  One bullet left, Clay Bell waited, not wanting to shoot again.

  “Drop it, Stag! You’re done!”

  The man was dying on his feet, but reason no longer lived behind his eyes. The last thought within that brain was the thought to kill. The brain willed the hand and the gun lifted. Through the gunsmoke and the fog that was beginning to cloud his eyes, Stag Harvey attempted to fire one more time.

  Grim and bloody, weaving on his feet, blood darkening his jeans, he painstakingly got the gun into position.

  “Drop it, Stag! You’re too good a man to die doing another man’s dirty work!”

  He held his fire, knowing he could place the bullet where he wanted it now.

  There was no need. The gun slipped suddenly, too heavy for the gunman’s hand. Teetering, with all the slowness and patience of a man very drunk, Stag Harvey stooped to reach for the gun. And when he stooped he fell headlong.

  Clay crossed to him and kicked the gun away. Harvey’s eyes were glazing, but as Clay stepped into his line of vision they seemed to clear.

  “Clay”—he gasped the words hoarsely—“this here’s a—hell of a way to make—to make a—a livin’!”

  People crowded forward. Bell looked around. “Get Doc McClean!”

  “He’s with Montana,” Shorty Jones said. “He caught a slug. Not too bad.”

  “Kilburn?”

  “Shot to doll rags.”

  Hank Rooney had knelt beside Harvey. He got to his feet. “You won’t need a doctor here,” he said. “He’s gone.”

  Clay Bell turned away. Surprisingly, he was unhurt. His first shot had turned Harvey, and the gunman had never got lined up again. Men waited, listening for the word they expected. Finally Coffin put it into words. “What about Devitt? He hired these killers.”

  The train whistled.

  Sam Tinker glanced up the street. On the platform Noble Wheeler would be waiting, ticket in hand.

  “Let Devitt alone,” Bell said. “I’ll talk to him, myself.”

  “Schwabe came to town,” Tinker said. “He saw what was happening an’ he turned right around and rode out.”

  “He was encouraged,” Rooney said. “Rush Jackson an’ me—we sort of showed him the error of his ways. We figured he had him a choice … He didn’t like it much.”

  Clay Bell unbuckled his gun belts. He handed them to Coffin.

  “Without a gun?” Shorty was unbelieving.

  “His way,” Clay said quietly. “Fists are his style. He made his brag.”

  He turned abruptly, lifting his eyes over the heads of the crowd to the girl on the walk. Their eyes met.

  “I’ll be waiting,” she said, and over the babble of voices he heard the words as if no others were spoken.

  He lifted his hand to his hat, and then he turned and walked up the street.

  Chapter 20

  Alone in his office, Jud Devitt heard the sound of guns, the sound of the guns with which he bought death. It was a strange sensation. Despite his arrogance and brutality of method, Jud Devitt might be called a civilized man. A month before, had it been suggested that he would have paid men to kill, he would have regarded the speaker as insane. Yet now, when he heard the sound of the guns, he felt a curious sensation of power, of triumph. He had won! His fingers trembled as they rubbed his unshaven jaws.

  It was over then … And the man who had fought him, who had dared to fight him, that man was dead.

  There was no place in the thinking of Jud Devitt for the possibility of one man defeating two, or of Clay Bell’s escape. He possessed that curious respect for guns often owned by men who have not used them against other men. He did not know how easy it is for even an expert marksman to miss. Nor did he guess what an amazing amount of lead a human body can absorb without dying, or even falling.

  He had been resisted. One of his men—no, more than one—had been killed. His wagons had been upset, his donkey engine and sawmill burned. But he had won. Defeat was behind him then.

  He got out the remaining twenty-five hundred dollars and placed it upon the desk.

  So little money! Twice that pile, and a man was dead. Wiped out—and all he stood for.

  Jud Devitt was not a psychologist. He was a brusque and, he believed, an efficient man. He was a practical man, with no thought for the evolution or the degeneration of character. He thought, in this moment of triumph, only of victory. It was not in him to think back over the steps that had brought him to buying a man’s death. Nor did he think of what that implied. Had he thought of it at all, he would have believed that he was as he had always been.

  It was quiet in the little office. Sweat trickled along his jaws. His hair was rumpled from the hundred and more times that he had run nervous fingers through it. His face was unshaven, but he did not think of that. His shirt was sweat-stained and should be changed, but he, the carefully dressed and groomed, gave it no thought.

  He had won—and if the death of one man might be bought, another might.

  He would pay Harvey and Kilbum. He would put them on salary. He would retain them. Such men were valuable.

  The world was made for the strong, the ruthless. It was made for kings—these others, they were peasants. Little men standing in the way of progress. Jud Devitt did not think that progress is built upon the efforts of many men, all working toward a goal.

  He was not a drinking man, but now he got out the bottle and poured a drink into his water glass. He tossed it off, but the whiskey scarcely touched him. He was drinking the wine of victory, so intoxicating that mere alcohol could not affect him.

  He put down the glass and sat back in his chair. He would get a new office. The logging would take months. Then he would make plans. East was the place he should go, but before that there would be other battles to win out here.

  He got to his feet again and thrust his hands into his pockets. Outside there was a distant muffle of sound, but it did not cut into his consciousness. No more than did the train whistle that had sounded a few minutes ago. The whistle had escaped his ears, lost somewhere in the welter of thoughts forcing themselves upon him in his moment of victory.

  Jud Devitt walked to the window and looked out toward Deep Creek. He would wait three—no, two days. That would be sufficient. If the B-Bar riders had not packed and gone then, he would drive them off.

  Dropping into his chair, he began to figure. Suppose he doubled his crew? Suppose he moved in a hundred men?

  He could clear that piece off rapidly, fulfill his contract and go on to something else.

  Wait…

  Wheeler had something on his mind … find out. He wrote that down. Find out about Wheeler.

  First, to get Bob Tripp … For the first time then Jud Devitt began to wonder. Where was Bob Tripp?

  Tripp should be here, enjoying this moment. Come to think of it, he had not seen him in hours. No matter … Tripp was probably already making plans. He was probably wiring for a new and bigger crew.

  The mutter of voices forced itself upon him. Someone coming—a crowd, a mob.

  Suddenly, he was frightened. Suppose … People in this jerkwater town had liked Bell. Suppose they were coming to hang him?

  Impossible! Or was it?

  He stepped to the window and,
standing to one side, peered out.

  A crowd of people, both men and women, were coming around the corner, coming toward his office. And in the van was … was…

  He stepped back from the window and felt his heart begin to pound, with slow, heavy, impossibly loud beats. That man walking ahead of the crowd was Clay Bell. Alive … not dead.

  Wheeling, with an almost animal grant, he jerked open a desk drawer, then another … another. He had no gun. He had left it in his room. He had left it at the hotel.

  The shock passed. He straightened and faced the door.

  “Devitt!”

  That was Bell, damn him! Bell, yelling to him.

  He stepped quickly to the door and jerked it open. The shock was gone but it had left something behind, something he had never known before—a deep, burning, driving lust to smash, to maim, to kill…

  “You wanted me?”

  His voice was icy cold, yet his body was trembling. There was the hated face, the man he wanted to destroy.

  Clay Bell had never wanted to kill a man. He had never even wanted to fight a man. Yet, despite that, he had to admit in all honesty that once the battle was joined, he liked to fight.

  Now, for the first time, remembering that Devitt had ordered the attack that had killed Bert Garry, that he had hired killers to shoot him, he found that he did want to fight. Jud Devitt was a man who only understood strength. Clay had handed over his guns with one idea in mind. He was going to meet Devitt on his own grounds, on his own terms.

  Wat Williams had said what a fighting man Devitt was. All right…

  The door burst open in response to his call and Jud Devitt stood there.

  Clay felt a curious shock of surprise. The man was disheveled, almost dirty. But he was a big man, and in that moment, standing alone, Devitt showed that he was not afraid.

  He was big, both taller and heavier than Clay, and the expression in his eyes was murderous. He started to speak, and then with a whining cry of inexpressible fury, he hurled himself from the door.