by Lauran Paine
Gunman
Lauran Paine
LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover Page
Title Page
War at Broken Bow
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Taos Man
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Gunman
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About the Author
Other Leisure books by Lauran Paine
Copyright
War at Broken Bow
Chapter One
Buck Carrel looked down over the sweep of his land. There were half-wild whiteface cows, with impatiently bunting calves, wandering over the rich, wiry grassland. It was a good sight and Carrel had fought his way up to it for almost twenty years. It was a solace, a salve for the years gone by working for the big outfits, and a reward for any born and bred cowman. He smiled to himself and built a cigarette while the chunky bay horse stood head down, drowsing. A big, ragged old juniper tree whispered as a little lost zephyr searched through its tough old limbs. The Broken Bow Ranch was owned and operated by Carrel, graying a little over the ears, hard as flint and steady-eyed—as good a cowboy as ever forked another man’s string. Now he rode his own horses, for himself, watching over his own little herd and, best of all, on his own ranch. The cigarette tasted better than he could remember ever having one taste before.
Back at the squatty, crudely chinked log barn made of selected and peeled lodgepoles, Buck stalled the bay horse, forked some feed to him, and tossed a great wad of the fragrant timothy over the pole corral fence to four other horses that were nickering impatiently. He scooped up a bucket of water from the creek as he stomped into the log house he had built. It didn’t take long to kick up the charred ends of the mesquite roots in the fireplace of field-stone, and encourage a blaze with some dry wood.
The wind was howling when he stretched out on the rawhide couch he had made. It had come up slowly, surreptitiously, sneaking in under the low overhang of the cabin, prying at the shake roof, and then it had capriciously swooped away and tore down over the land with a malicious howl of unfettered glee. Buck lit an old pipe and stretched out in the firelight, the warmth of the fire and the chili beans he had eaten for dinner slackening every muscle and sinew in his body. The wind growled and laughed at him and the sigh of the old junipers standing off another onslaught with swaying grace and indifference made him drowsy. Buck Carrel was at peace with the world. He had what he wanted out of life—peace, his own spread, and his freedom.
A dull, unmistakable crash against the thick, hand-hewn cabin door almost startled Buck out of his wits. He put down the cold pipe, sat up warily, and listened. Only the wind shrieking in the eerie darkness. Slowly he put his feet to the floor, reached out, and slipped the worn old .45 out of its holster draped over the back of a chair, eased himself to his feet, and tiptoed forward. The yellowish light of the lantern flickered when he blew down the mantle. He blew again and the little flame died abruptly.
Standing in the total darkness, the wind sounded malevolent, not as free and friendly as it had when the cabin had been an island of light in the shrouded mystery of the night. He went forward again, listened at the door, heard nothing, and lifted the bar down with silent care. He eased the door open a little, looked out, and swore in surprise. Still holding the door with one hand, Buck pulled it farther open and a savage finger of cold tore into the room. He looked dartingly around, stuck the .45 in the waist-band of his Levi’s, and grabbed something warm and soft, and tugged.
Buck hesitated to light the lamp again, so he barred the door and dragged his burden over to the old couch and boosted it onto the soft Navajo rugs that covered the rawhide strips. He sat down heavily and mopped his forehead with a dark blue bandanna.
The wind was still trying to find a way into the cabin sometime later when Buck risked lighting the lantern. He sat for another half an hour in the shadows, his gun cocked and ready, but nothing came to make the most of his fears except the wailing, crying volume of the bitter night. He went over and looked at the still figure on the couch and gasped. It was a girl—a bedraggled, wind-blown, completely unconscious girl.
Moving like a man in a trance, slowly and methodically, Buck kicked the fire into life again, tossed some more wood on it, then turned back to the unevenly breathing girl on the couch. He reluctantly admitted that she was pretty, even after the wind had worked her over. Her hair was jet black to match the long, gracefully upcurving eyelashes and the delicate, arched eyebrows. Her flesh was golden tan and firm and her mouth was full with a generous underlip below a small, pert little nose that had a rash of small individual freckles across the saddle. He shook his head dazedly, went over to the lean-to kitchen, and stirred up the fire in the cook stove beneath the big porcelain coffee pot.
The last time a girl had visited the Broken Bow had been two months earlier when his sister and her husband, Black Jack Carlyle, the marshal of Colfax, had driven out in their new underslung carriage. The smell of coffee filled the warm little rooms and Buck methodically poured two cups, carried them in by the couch, and pulled up a chair with a perplexed frown wrinkling his broad forehead.
“Uh…sit up, lady, here’s some coffee.” There was no movement and the frown deepened. “Say, ma’am, I made you some coffee.” The eyelashes quivered and Buck’s frown disappeared. A look of mild annoyance flashed over his face and he persisted. “Look, ma’am, ya can’t sleep here forever. Sit up an’ drink a little coffee. It’s good for ya.”
The long, graceful eyelashes swung upward and a pair of deep purple eyes stared at Buck with an un-blinking glance that brought a quick mantle of blood to his face. “Coffee, ma’am?”
The girl’s large eyes gradually focused into a look of sardonic amusement. She pushed herself up with an effort, and swept the wealth of black hair behind her with a weak motion. “How did you know I wasn’t dying?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly.”
“Is coffee the only medicine you know of?” Buck’s face dropped to the cup in his hand. He looked like a very small boy caught with a snake in his hand. The girl smiled understandingly, and reached out impulsively, and took the cup. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
“How come you came to the Broken Bow?” “Broken Bow?”
“Yeah, that’s my ranch. I mean, this here is my ranch, the Broken Bow.”
“Clever name. What’s it mean?”
“The Broken Bow’s my brand. Made it up after I found an old Apache war bow broken in two down where I built the barn.” The wind crashed into the side of the cabin with stunning force, and the girl winced as it screamed on over the coarse roof. “How’d you happen to come here?”
“I didn’t know there was a house here until I opened my eyes and heard you blandly offering me coffee.”
“Well, then…?”
“I was riding the stage from Powder River to Colfax.” She sipped the hot coffee, and Buck thought of the winding road below his ranch about a mile where the stage rocketed through, twice a day, once in the forenoon, and once late in the afternoon. “We were making good time and I was hoping there’d be no slip u
p with my stage connections in Colfax, because I want to get home to Dallas, by the First. Anyway, four men suddenly came out of the shadows and shot the lead horse.” Her dark blue eyes looked beyond Buck’s frown and fear showed in their depths. “We were all ordered out in the wind, the horses were un-harnessed and turned loose, and the strongbox was taken. I ran off as soon as I dared.” She shrugged. “Between the walk over the dark range in the night and the awful wind I just barely made it up here. Must’ve fainted in your doorway.”
“What happened to the rest of the passengers?” “There was only one other passenger, a nice-looking young man about your size and build.” Her eyes ran approvingly over Buck. “I suppose he’s still down there with the coach, or maybe the driver and he started out walking.”
Buck downed the rest of his coffee, shrugged into a heavy buckskin coat, and yanked his hat low over his eyes. “Just take it easy, ma’am. I’ll be back in a little while.” He motioned toward the couch and the fire. “Throw a little wood on the fire if you get cold, an’ bed down on the sofa there.”
Her oval, golden tan face came up to him. “Where are you going?”
“To Colfax an’ start out a search party for the two men, an’ also let the marshal know what happened. I’ll be back directly.”
Her eyes were large and worried when she stood up and watched him go toward the door. “Please. Do you have to go? Won’t the passenger and driver get to Colfax safely? I’d rather not be alone for a while.”
Buck’s slow smile came up. His teeth flashed in the mellow light of the single lantern. “Ma’am, you’re safer here than in your own home. Hardly anybody even knows this cabin is here. I only built it last fall. Don’t worry.” His hand was opening the door and a quick tongue of cold wind whipped past. “I’ll be back before you know it.” The door slammed behind him and he was gone. The girl looked after him for a helpless moment, then went over and lifted the door bar and dropped it into place. She moved slowly to the lamp, turned it up so high it began to smoke, went over and stirred up the fire, throwing more wood on, then went back and sat on the rawhide couch and pulled a thick, heavy Navajo robe over her legs. The night was cold with a brittle sky where every star was winking down on the subdued range. The girl looked up apprehensively every time the dying wind would throw a gust against the cabin.
Buck had to force the bay horse out of the stall. He pulled back when the wind hit him and humped up ominously when Buck swung aboard. It wasn’t far to Colfax—a matter of six miles—but the lessening forces of the wild night made it an uncomfortable journey; the bay horse plodded sulkily along, thinking thoughts about a man who’d ride him out on a night as raw as this one.
Marshal Carlyle was surprised at his brother-in-law at the door. “Come in, Buck. What the devil broke you out of your diggin’s to night? Pardner, I thought sure you, of all people, would be snug as a bug, to-night. What’s up?”
Buck smiled at his sister’s worried look. “Calm down, Tess. Nothin’s wrong on the Broken Bow. It’s just that some outlaws held up the stage from Powder River, shot the lead horse, an’ turned the others loose after lootin’ the thing, then set the driver an’ a male passenger afoot.” He heaved out of his coat and was careful not to look at his sister as he spoke the next time. “There was a girl passenger, too. She stumbled through the night until she landed at my front door. She’s back at the cabin now.”
Black Jack Carlyle was a strapping big man with a stubborn, unyielding jaw and a dark complexion that matched his obsidian-colored eyes. He ran an annoyed hand through his hair and looked at his wife. “Wouldn’t ya know it? On a night like this. Buck, how about you showin’ me where the coach is?”
“Sure.” Buck drank the hot coffee his sister brought him, and got up again. “But this here’s the sheriff’s job, isn’t it? You’re town marshal, Jack, an’ this hold-up happened just below my place on the county road.”
Carlyle was tugging at a fleece-lined duck coat. “Yeah. But when Wentworth went over to Gladden, he asked me to sort o’ stand by for him until he gets back.” He took the big gray hat his wife handed him. “If the damned county’d spend a little money on a deputy, I wouldn’t have to do this. Ready?”
Buck blinked owlishly at his sister, and yanked on his hat and coat. “Say, Tess, did ya ever hear of a woman faintin’ from only walkin’ a mile or so in the wind?”
Tess Carlyle laughed shortly. “Buck, why don’t you get married? Those old cows will never teach you anything about women.” She shrugged as her brother moved toward the door. “Besides, your Broken Bow won’t ever be a home until there’s a woman to put curtains in the windows and cook you something besides chili beans three times a day.”
Buck shouldered out of the house behind Jack. He winked solemnly at Tess. “What’s wrong with chili beans?”
Chapter Two
Buck waited thoughtfully beside his bay horse until Jack grumpily came riding down the lane from his small barn in back of the house, then he swung up and wordlessly the two men rode through Colfax’s deserted, windswept lone street, lined on both sides with wooden stores, weathered and still in the fitful bursts of wind that still tore at the corners of things intermittently.
“She’s dyin’ down.”
The marshal shivered under his big coat. “It’s about time. Damn! Don’t recollect when I ever saw such a blow in May.”
The road was deserted as they rode silently, ploddingly along. The stagecoach was standing awkwardly in the center of the lane, harness sprawled carelessly over the ground; one leather roll-up curtain was flapping forlornly under the final streamers of the windstorm. Carlyle grunted as he led his horse and poked among the effects left behind. “Nothin’ here. Buck, how about tracks?”
“Not a chance. The girl said there were four robbers a-horseback, but since this wind’s been blowin’, they have to have been ridin’ two-ton critters to punch tracks in the ground this here wind wouldn’t cover up.”
“I reckon.” Carlyle mounted his horse. “Let’s go on up to the Broken Bow an’ talk to that there girl.”
Buck nodded and led the way over the narrow cow trail that was a short cut to his cabin. “Jack, ever been in Dallas?”
“Once, why?”
“Just wonderin’.”
The cabin was dark when they rode up and left their horses in the log barn and walked over to it. “Probably went to sleep an’ let the fire burn out.” The door opened easily and Buck frowned. “Figgered she’d know enough to bar the door.”
The marshal pushed into the room and swore wonderingly. Buck’s cabin looked as if a whirlwind had struck it. The furniture was overturned, the lamp was smashed on the puncheon floor, Navajo blankets off the rawhide couch were scattered among the coarser weave Navajo rugs on the floor.
“What in hell!” Jack stood thunderstruck in the middle of the wreckage. Suddenly he started slightly, walked into the kitchen lean-to, fumbled with another lantern, lit it, and brought it back to the combination living and bedroom.
“That there lady you saved must ‘a’ throwed a fit.”
Still dazed as he looked over the wreckage, Buck thumbed his Stetson to the back of his head and frowned. “Well, hell, I don’t mind her havin’ fits, but, damn it all, she didn’t have to tear up my house, too, did she?”
Black Jack burst out laughing. The sight of his brother-in-law shaking his head forlornly over the devastation of his cabin was hilarious—especially Buck’s perplexed look. “No, I don’t reckon she had to, Buck, but she shore as hell did.” The laughter died in his throat and he swooped forward and picked something off the floor. “What’s this?” Buck sidled up and looked down on a small white handkerchief with fancy English initials embroidered across one corner.
“Handkerchief with….”
The night was dead still. The last of the wind had scurried south, and clear stars were shimmering over the deathly quiet range when the violent explosion of a .45 roared out of the darkness. Jack staggered under the impact of the
slug and sank to the floor. Buck’s gun was out and belching before the first echo had died away. The first shot shattered the lamp into a thousand oily fragments; the second shot went blindly out the open door after the orange slab of flame from the ambusher’s gun. Buck was on the floor beside his brother-in-law, facing the door.
“Jack? Where’d ya get it?”
Mumbled profanity, brittle with pain, answered him. “In the gizzard, I reckon. Can’t feel a damned thing but blood under my hand.”
Buck explored the marshal in the darkness. His hand came away from the ribs, sticky and warm. “Side, Jack. Lie still a minute an’ I’ll set up the sofa.” He closed and barred the door, set up the sofa, and tossed a wadding of blankets on it, lifted Jack as gently as he could, and rolled him out full length on the couch. “What in hell d’ya reckon’s up, anyway?”
“Buck, I’ll lay ya two to one that there mysterious girl o’ yours didn’t leave your cabin willingly. Fer some danged reason those renegades tracked her over here some way, an’ kidnapped her after you left to come to Colfax.”
“It’s possible but don’t make sense, a girl tearin’ up my house like that.” He cast an apprehensive look around the eerie room, went over and hung a rug over the single window in the front of the house, and rolled a cigarette. “Well, we’re bottled up in here till mornin’, Jack, so I might as well boil some water an’ tie up your gizzard.”
Dawn wasn’t far off, it turned out. Buck located the ragged wound, cleansed it, and wrapped it securely with a clean feed sack dishtowel. “That’ll hold you till you can get to Colfax. Lucky shot, at that. Plowed through a lot of blubber but didn’t go on into your innards.”
“What d’ya mean, blubber? Why….”
“All you married men got it. It seems like it sort o’ goes with gettin’ mashed potatoes every day fer dinner. Now, us single men stick to nonfattenin’ chili beans an’ never dig our graves with our teeth.”
