Galloway (1970)

by L'amour, Louis - Sackett's 16

  After that we shut up and rode on, and pretty soon we noticed our horses ears go up like they saw something or smelled something, and sure enough there was a fire, and a half dozen men around it, and one young feller had that cat hide in his hands and he was laughing at the way the herd took off. The rest of them must have been off following the herd. I figured Powder Face and Nick Shadow would take care of them.

  “Charlie,” I said, “you shoot the first one that moves.”

  When I spoke I spoke loud and you never saw a bunch of men come to stillness any swifter. Then I stepped down there and I looked at the tall blond ranny with the hide in his hands and I said, “You killed a good man tonight, a better man than you’ll ever be. So you drop that hide and go for your gun.”

  “Can I put the hide down first?”

  “Any way you like,” I said, “but have at it.”

  Me, I was mad clear through. They’d tried to wipe out our camp and kill us all.

  It was pure-darn luck that they hadn’t done it.

  “You’re a Sackett,” this tall ranny said. “Well, Sackett, I’m Abel Dunn, and I’m going to save Rocker his job.”

  He let go the hide and his hand swept down and closed over that six-shooter and my gun stabbed flame at him twice, so close together they looked and sounded like one. And he folded and went down.

  “That’s for Tyler,” I said. “Now old Bull Dunn warned me out of the country. You take Abel back to him wrapped in that cougar hide, and you tell Bull Dunn he can leave the country or stay, it don’t make me no mind, but if he stays he better start goin’ to Sunday School and actin’ like it.”

  “You talk big,” one of them said. “Wait until Rocker hears about this.”

  “You tell him,” I said. “You just ride fast and tell him.”

  “You’re the one better leave. You got no more herd than nothing.”

  “You wasted your time,” I said. “My herd’s down at the Mancos right now, and its all in one piece and my boys are with it. You started your victory party a mite too soon.”

  I could see several bottles around camp so I put bullets in them, and when one of them thinking my gun was empty started to reach, Charlie Farnum put a bullet through his arm.

  Right there in front of them I shoved the shells out of that old Dance & Park pistol and loaded up again. And then I went in there and emptied their guns, dropping the shells into the fire and throwing their guns into the brush. Then I taken off.

  In about a minute shells began to pop and those Dunn people scrambled for shelter.

  Charlie Farnum and me we started east for the herd, riding together. When we were a few miles off we started to sing, and we sang a dozen songs before we shut up and left it to the coyotes.

  That Charlie Farnum had a better voice than me.

  For that matter, so did the coyotes.

  Chapter XIV

  On the second morning after the stampede, and knowing nothing whatever about it, Galloway Sackett headed for town.

  He chose a new route, avoiding the trail they had used, and crossing the La Plata well above Shalako. He stayed in the trees and brush, keeping out of sight until close to town, then he emerged from the woods behind the livery stable and rode around in front of Berglund’s place.

  Crossing the street to the store he swung down and tied his horses. Inside he ordered rice, beans, flour, and whatever it seemed likely they would need. He sacked it up and loaded it on the packhorse.

  The town was empty and still. Occasionally the music box from the saloon would brighten the day with tin-panny music. In the distance there was snow on the mountains. Galloway paused in tying his pack and stared at it, thinking he’d like to go up there. He’d never been that high up in the mountains. It was then he remembered Nick Shadow’s story about the gold and diamonds.

  He glanced thoughtfully toward the peaks. Now if he could just take a little trip up there…

  The rope came snaking from the shadows beside the store and the loop dropped over his head, pinning his arms to his sides. He swore at himself for daydreaming at such a time and made a desperate attempt to reach his gun. A jerk from the rope sprawled him on the boardwalk, and then another loop fell over his legs. He heard a laugh boom out and another rider rode out from behind the store leading three horses.

  He started to speak and they jerked him into the dust, dragging him a few feet.

  Then one of them walked over and drew Galloway’s gun from its scabbard and thrust it behind his own waistband.

  Curly Dunn still wore the fading blue marks left from the bruises Flagan had given him, and there was a scarcely healed cut over his eye.

  “We got us a Sackett, boys. Let’s take him over into the tree and give him the Injun treatment.”

  Arms and legs held tight by the nooses, there was not a thing he could do. If he made a move they would jerk him and drag him, so he waited. Inwardly, he was desperate.

  Flagan was miles away with Nick Shadow and Parmalee. He could expect no help from the townspeople who were trying to stay out of the trouble, and for which he did not blame them. They could do nothing against the Dunns, who could simply burn them out and ride on. Nor had he any reason to believe they even knew of his situation. In any event the total population of Shalako at this moment numbered just five people.

  There was nobody to help him. He must not struggle, but must bide his time, hoping to catch them off guard. If he struggled they would only jerk the ropes tighter, making escape more difficult.

  Curly swung his horse and started for the trees, the others following. Suddenly one of them pulled up.

  “Curly, we should ought to have us a bottle. This here may take some time, and his sweatin’ may make us thirsty.”

  “All right, go get it then. You got money?”

  “I have,” the other one broke in.

  “You two go an’ get the liquor, but hurry back. You don’t want to miss the fun.

  Alf, you loosen that rope around his legs. I want him to walk to it.”

  Galloway made no move as Alf loosened the ropes. The two turned then and went toward the saloon. Curly grinned at Galloway. “Here’s where I get a little of my own back. We’re goin’ to see how loud a Sackett can yell.”

  “You’ll wait a long time,” Galloway said quietly.

  Curly laughed and started for the trees. Galloway had to trot to keep up. Once he fell and Curly dragged him several yards before he stopped and allowed him to rise. And then just as he was on his feet, Curly jerked him sharply so that he hit the ground hard. Curly laughed. “How’s it feel, Sackett? That ain’t nothin’ to what’s comin’. How do your toes stand up to fire? Pa tried that on a Yankee one time who wouldn’t tell us where he’d hidden his proud-ofs. He told us soon enough, but pa let the fire burn for awhile just to teach him a lesson.”

  They were well into the trees before Galloway saw his chance. Suddenly he darted to one side and ducked around a tree, taking a quick turn of the rope around the bole. The move was so sudden that Curly, who only had dallied the rope around the saddle horn was caught unawares. Curly was no cowhand, although he had worked cattle to some extent, and he was careless by nature. Galloway’s quick move in snubbing the rope around the tree not only brought his horse up short, but gave Galloway the instant he needed. Holding the snub tight with one hand he hastily kicked and shook the rope loose.

  Curly wheeled his horse with a yell, but Galloway had ducked around a tree with others growing close beside it and it took Curly just a minute to find a hole through which he could guide his horse.

  Curly grabbed for his pistol but a branch interfered. Galloway shook off the rope and ducking around the tree, jumped for Curly. Trying to pull back from the tangle in which he found himself, Curly felt a sudden heave on his stirrup as his leg was thrown up. He started to fall and tried to grab a secure hold on the pommel, but Galloway hacked at the fingers and Curly lost his grip.

  He hit the ground with one foot caught in a stirrup and the frightened h
orse, backing and rearing, swung out of the trees and broke into a run.

  Galloway staggered back, caught himself against a tree and slowly recovered himself. The horse went racing back toward the town, with Curly bouncing at every jump.

  Glancing quickly around, he found Curly’s pistol where it had fallen among the leaves. Hastily he checked the cylinder. Only three cartridges. Damn a man who didn’t reload!

  Holding the pistol in his hand Galloway started back for Shalako, only some two hundred yards away. He limped as he walked for his leg had been badly bruised when he had been dragged over the edge of the boardwalk.

  He came into the head of the street and saw Curly’s horse stopped in front of the saloon. Alf and the other Dunn were unfastening the rope. Berglund was kneeling beside Curly.

  Galloway was within forty yards of them before Alf looked up. “I want my gun, Alf. Take it out mighty careful and put it down on the boardwalk.”

  Alf Dunn looked at Galloway. Hatred burned within him. At his feet lay Curly, dragged, torn and battered, injured badly, possibly dying. Always before the Dunns had had it their own way, and his hatred was filled with frustration and disbelief. This had never happened to the Dunns, it could not be happening.

  Success corrodes, and the Dunns—always brutal, always cruel, always fighting a hit-and-run battle—had enjoyed success. Before their enemies could gird against them they were gone, miles away and with no idea of returning. In those swift strikes at unprepared ranches or communities they had been swaggering, triumphant and confident. Then Curly had been whipped by Flagan Sackett, a man who had just gone through a punishing ordeal, Jobe had been wounded, and the old Bull himself ignored. Now Curly had been terribly hurt in their moment of triumph, and here came the man who had done it, ordering him to throw down his pistol. It was more than he could take. Alf said, “Pete, let’s take him.”

  Berglund left the ground in a long dive that carried him across the body of Curly and into the sparse grass beyond.

  Alf and Pete with one accord had gone for their guns. Galloway’s gun came up and fired. Alf turned halfway around and Galloway fired a second tune. Alf Dunn backed up and sat down and Galloway’s gun covered Pete even as Pete’s gun came up. “Don’t do it,” Galloway said. “I’ll kill you.”

  “And if he don’t,” a new voice said, “I will!” Berglund, sitting up now that he was out of gun range, looked at the shaggy-haired big man in the faded red shirt and the black vest. A sheepskin coat was tied back of the saddle and there was a Winchester in the boot. The big man looked unkempt and almost unreal, for there was about him a wild savagery that was somehow shocking.

  Galloway backed off a few steps to where he could see the newcomer. “Howdy, Logan! Nice to see you!”

  He swung his eyes back to Pete. “You’d better take Curly home,” he said, “and you tell Bull Dunn we want no more trouble. You brought it to us and by now you ought to have your belly full.”

  Pete snorted. “You think the old Bull will take this? He’ll come in here a-foggin’ it, mind you.”

  “His funeral. You tell him what I said. ‘There’s no need for all this shootin’ and shoutin’.”

  Berglund got up slowly from the ground. “You two come in and I’ll buy you a drink.” He glanced at Logan. “I take it you’re a Sackett?”

  “Logan Sackett, from Clinch Mountain.” He jerked his thumb toward Galloway.

  “He’s a Cumberland Sackett. They’re good people, too.”

  At the bar Berglund poured the drinks. “I think you boys are going to straighten out that Dunn outfit. They were riding roughshod over everybody.”

  “We want to ranch,” Galloway said. “All we want is to make a home. If we get settled in, Tyrel and Orrin are coming up here. We’ll have the whole family together.”

  Bull Dunn sat at the table in the long house and poured his tin cup half-full of whiskey, then replaced the jug on the table. “Stir up that fire,” he said, speaking to no one in particular. “I want my coffee hot!”

  An hour before, Pete Dunn had come in with the battered, half-alive body of Curly Dunn, and the body of Alf in which no life remained. And then, just a few minutes ago, Rocker had ridden in, leading the crew Bull had sent down to scatter the Sacketts’ cattle.

  Bull didn’t need anyone to tell him they had failed. His eyes swept over the group of men wordlessly leading their horses into the corral.

  “Where’s Abel?” he asked, as Rocker swung off his horse in front of him.

  “Dead. I wasn’t there when it happened.”

  Bull turned on his heel and walked into the house. Now he was sitting at the head of the table, looking at what was left of his family and the few others he could trust.

  The old Bull was shaken. For the first time in years things were going against him, and he was sure he knew why … because he had elected to stop.

  Why stop? Was he getting tired? He tasted the raw whiskey, then turned the glass in his fingers.

  That Curly … he couldn’t do anything right. He goes into the woods with a tied-up man and comes out with his horse draggin’ him.

  “Vern,” he glanced. Down the table at the sallow-faced young man, “you got it to do. Cut ‘em down, one after the other.”

  Vern Huddy batted his eyes and looked sour, but offered no immediate comment. He had been studying out the country and he knew what he could do.

  “That big man,” he suggested, “the one Pete told of. That’ll be Logan Sackett.

  He’s an outlaw gunfighter. You all lay off him. He’s a tiger.”

  “Let’s have it,” Bull said suddenly, “how did they get through with those cattle? I want to know.”

  “They had more men than we expected,” Rocker spoke quietly. He was a young man of medium height, medium build, who carried himself with pride. “One of them, at least, was an Indian.”

  “There were several Indians,” Ollie Hammer said. “They seemed to come right out of the ground and they kept those cattle running straight right down to the river. We never had a chance to scatter them.”

  “What happened to Abel?”

  “He tried to draw against a Sackett. It was Flagan, the one who whupped Curly.

  Tin-Cup and me was with Rocker going after the cattle. There was no one else there who could take on Sackett.”

  Rocker had been toying with his cup. Now he lifted his eyes to his father. “Pa, we lost Abel. Curly is done up. If he lives he won’t be any use to us until this here fight is all over. Jobe has got him a crippled arm. Alf is dead … I figure we’d better rattle our hocks out of here.”

  For a moment there was dead silence. Several stole looks at Bull, all were shocked. It was the first time any of them had dared suggest such a thing, and Rocker was the only one who could say it without a blow.

  “You’re talkin’ crazy. When did we ever run from a fight?”

  “Never. But nobody but a fool bucks a stacked deck. Pa, you don’t know these Sacketts. There’s a good many of them around the country, and when one of them is in trouble, they’ll all come. We haven’t seen anything yet.”

  “Vern will whittle ‘em down.”

  “Maybe.”

  Vern’s eyes came up sharply at the implied doubt. He started to speak, then held his silence.

  “The Sacketts aren’t nesters,” Rocker continued. “They aren’t just cow ranchers.

  Every one of them is a woodsman. They grew up feuding and fighting and they know all the tricks. I’ve heard about them for years. Tyrel and Tell are probably the best hands with guns, although Logan may be as fast.

  “Flagan, Galloway, and Orlando are all good. I don’t know about Parm Sackett, the one who bought those cattle they are bringing in.”

  “Rocker,” Bull said impatiently, “that’s fool talk.”

  “Maybe. But why buck a stacked deck? I think our luck’s run out.”

  Bull glared at Rocker, but he made no reply. He gulped whiskey, took the coffee chaser, and waited. Something would come
to him. It always had.

  This country was too good to leave. He had hated the flat plains of Kansas, although he knew it was great cattle and wheat country. He liked eastern Colorado and Texas no better. He had wanted to stop nowhere until he rode into the valley of the La Plata.

  It had looked easy. The country was wide open to settlement. The town of Shalako was small enough to be comfortable, and there weren’t too many people around.

  They could move in, take what they wanted, and settle down to raise cattle and families. Controlling the largest number of voters he would be able to elect his own sheriff or marshal.

  In just a few years they’d have some herds built up, stealing them down in New Mexico or Arizona if necessary, and they could hold this valley like a private place.

  Then the Sacketts came in. They were warned, only they did not go. Curly had gone and picked himself a fight and gotten whipped, and that had been a blow.

  Bull Dunn knew how important is the reputation for invincibility, and the defeat of Curly by a man in bad physical condition threw a shadow over that reputation.

  Suddenly everything had gone wrong.

  Worst of all, Rocker was failing him, and Rocker had always been the smartest in the lot, the smartest and the quietest. The rest of them, well they were a wild lot, obeying nobody but him, listening to nobody but him. And until now they had believed nothing could whip them. Bull Dunn was not that kind of a fool. It was good for them to believe that as long as he, who was the boss, knew better. Bull Dunn had seen quiet communities suddenly rise up in anger, and suddenly the trees began blossoming with hanged men.

  He knew all about that. He had left Virginia City, up in Montana Territory, just before the hanging started. Just a hunch that he had, a sudden waking up in the morning with an urge to ride … and he had ridden.

  When the news reached him that Henry Plummer and the rest of them were left dancing at the end of a rope he had known he was right.